The Annual Performance Review

Death straightened his tie in the break room mirror, obsessively adjusting the black silk until it hung as precisely as the sword of Damocles. Today was his annual performance review, and HR had been particularly insistent about "business casual" this year. The tie felt like overkill, but Sharon from Accounting had given him a stern look last time he'd shown up in just the traditional hood.

"You've got something on your..." Linda from Pestilence gestured vaguely at her own face. Death patted his skeletal cheeks, finding a sticky note that read "COLLECT MR. JENKINS - TUESDAY 3PM" stuck to his zygomatic arch.

"Thanks," he muttered, crumpling the note into his pocket. "These things multiply like Instagram influencers during fashion week."

The break room coffee maker – a relic that had witnessed the fall of civilizations and survived three office renovations – gurgled ominously. Death grabbed his mug, a novelty item his sister had given him that read "LITERALLY DEAD BEFORE MY COFFEE." The coffee inside was black as a tax auditor's heart and probably just as bitter.

"So," Linda said, stirring her green smoothie that writhed like living things, "ready for your review with the big guy?"

"As ready as a millennial with student debt is for retirement." Death slumped into a chair that creaked like the gates of the underworld. "Apparently, my 'collecting metrics' are down 2% from last quarter."

"Mercury retrograde," Linda nodded sagely. "Gets everyone eventually."

"That's not even a real thing," Death grumbled, then checked his phone – the latest iPhone, because even immortal manifestations of human mortality had to keep up with the times. "Besides, try explaining that to Management. They're still using Excel 97 to track the apocalypse."

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a printer jammed with the wails of the damned. Just another Tuesday at Cosmic Forces Inc.

"At least you're not Fate," Linda offered. "Poor thing's been in meetings all week trying to explain why free will keeps messing up the quarterly projections."

Death snorted, a sound like autumn leaves skittering across a parking lot. "Yeah, well, maybe if they'd upgrade from that ancient prophecy system. I mean, who still uses stone tablets? We have cloud storage now."

His phone buzzed: "PERFORMANCE REVIEW - 5 MINUTES - CONFERENCE ROOM C (THE ONE WITH THE VOID)"

Death stood, straightening his tie one last time. "Well, time to face the music. And by music, I mean the endless droning of KPIs and target acquisitions."

"Break a leg!" Linda called after him. "Or you know, someone else's. Whatever works for your department."

As Death walked down the hallway, past cubicles where various cosmic forces pushed papers and updated spreadsheets, he couldn't help but wonder if other anthropomorphic personifications had to deal with this level of corporate bureaucracy. Perhaps somewhere, in another office, Father Time was trying to explain why daylight savings time kept messing with his time sheets.

The door to Conference Room C loomed before him, its ancient wood carved with runes that spelled out "PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING" and "NO FOOD OR BEVERAGES IN THE VOID."

Death took a deep breath he didn't technically need, clutched his performance metrics folder, and knocked.

Just another day at the office, really.