Kevin worked in Cubicle 42 of the Department of Cosmic Finality (DCF). His job was the most prestigious and tedious in New York: he processed the "Final Request" forms.

The universe was ending—a slow, bureaucratic dissolution known as the "Grand Filing." According to the cosmic laws, any sentient species wishing to be erased with dignity had to submit a Form 12-B, specifying their preferred method of extinction and providing three references to prove they had contributed nothing of value to the galaxy.

"I can't believe the audacity of this one," Kevin sighed, looking at a form from a civilization in the Andromeda sector. "They're requesting a 'Symphonic Dissolution' but they only provided two references. Rejected."

The DCF was a masterpiece of inefficiency. The hallways were lined with beige wallpaper, and the air smelled of stale coffee and ozone. The Chairman of the Department, a man whose ambition was larger than the collapsing universe, used the extinction process as a way to climb the corporate ladder. He would delay the erasure of certain planets to extract "administrative fees" from their desperate leaders.

Kevin had spent ten years in the DCF. He was a master of the loophole. He knew how to expedite a death wish and how to bury a plea for mercy under a mountain of paperwork.

One afternoon, Kevin discovered a discrepancy. He found a file indicating that the DCF had actually lost contact with the "Eraser"—the cosmic entity responsible for the actual dissolution—thousands of years ago. The entire Department was a ghost ship, processing forms for a service that was no longer being provided.

The "Grand Filing" was a lie. The universe wasn't being erased by a higher power; it was simply rotting away from neglect.

Kevin didn't report the finding. Instead, he started a small, private business. He began selling "Priority Erasure" vouchers to the wealthy elite of New York, promising them a quick, painless exit. He lived in a luxury penthouse, bought with the money of people who were paying him to help them die.

He felt a smug satisfaction in the irony. He was the only one who knew that the exit door was locked.

Then, on a Tuesday at 3:14 PM, Kevin's coffee cup suddenly vanished. Then his desk. Then his computer.

He looked up and saw the beige wallpaper of the office peeling away to reveal a void of absolute, screaming blackness. The "Eraser" hadn't been gone; it had just been waiting for the paperwork to be perfectly completed.

Kevin reached for his stamp to mark his own file as "Processed," but his hand dissolved into pixels before he could touch the paper.

He died as he had lived: amidst a mountain of useless forms, waiting for a signature that would never come.

***

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