NO REFUNDS

Rain lashed the windshield like the sky was trying to shred the earth apart. Nathan Cole sat in his rusted Hyundai, parked near the edge of Monroe Bridge—a steel-boned beast infamous for attracting the hopeless. The engine was off. The only sound was the rain and the hum of his thoughts, louder and more poisonous than the storm outside. It was supposed to be Charlotte’s birthday. The phone screen lit up one last time: October 7 – Charlotte's Birthday. The calendar notification blinked twice, then disappeared into the dark. Just like she had. Nathan clenched the phone so tightly it could have cracked. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful, it was thick. Suffocating. She was the glue. The reason Amanda and Nathan hadn’t completely fallen apart years ago. Charlotte, with her sunflower eyes and giggle that turned strangers into family. A ten-year-old war survivor who had fought cancer with more courage than he could ever muster. And still, death had found her. Three months had passed since she’d been lowered into the earth in a casket too small for someone who held his entire world. The pain hadn’t lessened. It had mutated. Amanda left two weeks later, eyes empty. Grief turned them into ghosts living in the same apartment. One morning, she took what was left of the savings, the dog, and a note that just read: I can't do this anymore. Neither could he. Then the job went, he truly had lost everything. The startup he’d given six years to announced they were “pivoting” to AI. “Nothing personal,” they said. “Efficiency.” That word haunted him more than any ghost. Now here he was, twenty-nine years old, with a crusty mattress in a one-room dump, a drinking problem, and exactly $18,400 to his name. He had thought about jumping. Stared over the edge of the bridge more times than he could count. But every time he tried to climb, his body froze. Like his brain wouldn’t let him end it—even though his soul had checked out months ago. Cowardice had saved him. But now, it would damn him. He flipped open the laptop on the passenger seat, the screen glowing like a warning flare in the dark. The tab was already open: The Black Ledger. Rumors called it the internet’s ghost town. A shadow marketplace for impossible things—organs, weapons, secrets, and, buried deep beneath layers of encryption… death. Under Services, he clicked Permanent Solutions. A chat box popped up immediately. AGENT_42: You are not here by accident. Who do you want gone? His fingers hovered over the keys. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. He typed: Me. There was a pause. AGENT_42: Elaborate. Nathan hesitated. Then he wrote with the clarity of someone already dead: I don’t have the strength to do it myself. But I don’t want to live anymore. I want it done. No pain. No drama. Just… gone. Another pause. He imagined someone on the other end reading this with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. AGENT_42: Unusual. But not unheard of. Payment? Nathan opened his banking app. All that remained after bills and Amanda’s legal onslaught: $18,400. All I’ve got. I’ll wire it immediately. No tricks. No games. Long pause this time. He started to think it wasn’t enough. Maybe they’d ignore him. Maybe it was all a scam. And then: AGENT_42: Accepted. A rare courtesy. We appreciate clients like you. Clean. Quiet. No cleanup. Nathan’s chest tightened. This was real. AGENT_42: You must choose a date. Once set, it cannot be changed. We do not notify. You won't see it coming. When it happens, it happens. He took a shaky breath. How long did he want to wait? How many more nights in that disgusting apartment, counting the stains on the ceiling? He glanced at the crumpled paper on his dashboard—his so-called bucket list. Just ten things. Some stupid. Some sacred. He wanted to do something before the end. Tie up a few loose threads. Pretend he had control. April 30th. Midnight. AGENT_42: Confirmed. A PDF appeared instantly, downloading itself. Contract. Three pages long. Nathan didn’t read a single word. His eyes scanned only for a signature box. He clicked Agree. Another message flashed. AGENT_42: Final note: NO REFUNDS. And then the tab closed on its own. Back in his apartment, the world seemed quieter. Almost peaceful. Death was on the calendar now. A guaranteed release. He was no longer living—just waiting. He looked at the bucket list again. # Get drunk and not care. # Eat lobster. # Go to a strip club. # Sing karaoke. # Call Amanda. # Enter the lottery. # Leave a note for Charlotte. # Sleep for 24 hours. # Confess a secret to a stranger. Watch the sunrise. It felt absurd. But so was life. He figured completing the bucket list might make death feel less like a surrender and more like a full stop. The next few days blurred together in a haze of cheap whiskey, neon lights, and strangers' faces. He ticked off three items. Karaoke night: His voice cracked like a haunted violin on stage. But for three minutes, singing “Creep” by Radiohead, people actually cheered. He wasn’t invisible. He wasn’t pitied. He was seen. Lobster: Disgusting. Overpriced. Chewy. He laughed so hard mid-bite, the couple beside him thought he was on something. Strip club: Sadder than he expected. Glitter and empty eyes. One dancer said he had kind hands. He tipped her his last fifty and left. On April 10th, he bought a lottery ticket. It was a whim, another box to tick. He gave the clerk Charlotte’s birthday: October 7th. The man smiled. “Lucky number, huh?” Nathan said nothing. He stuffed the ticket into his wallet, under a faded photo of Charlotte in a pumpkin costume. She’d loved Halloween. The scariest things never scared her. But Nathan was terrified now. Because on April 14th, he noticed something. He returned to his apartment around 2 a.m. after walking alone for hours. The city never truly slept, but something was off. Too quiet. Too still. As he approached the building, a black car was parked across the street. Clean. Polished. The windows were tinted pitch black. No plates. It wasn’t there the night before. He fumbled with his keys, nerves dancing. As he unlocked the door, he glanced back. The car’s headlights flashed once. Brief. Like an eye blink. He slammed the door behind him, heart in his throat.