J P Rowan

So. This is the part where I introduce the world of Designer Death—but honestly, I’d rather just let you walk into it the way Celeste does: tired, underpaid, and one minor moral crisis away from rebellion.

This book started as a thought experiment: what if death became optional—but only for the powerful? The result is a story full of undead administrators, quiet resistance, and questions about what we’re really worth when the system no longer needs us alive.

Here’s a short excerpt from Chapter 1. No context needed—just step through the doors of the Hastings Resurrection Clinic and breathe in the ozone.

Chapter 1: A Flawless Existence

At the threshold of dusk, the cold glass spire of the Hastings Resurrection Clinic loomed over the city’s brown haze, throwing off no reflection. It was said that the dead had a particular genius for architecture—preferring materials and shapes that did not so much resist decay as dismiss its relevance. From the lobby, one could look straight up the obsidian shaft and see nothing but layers of mirrored infinity, like being trapped in an esophagus of a mechanical beast.

Inside, the air hummed with the gentle terror of anticipation. Evening shift, always the hardest, because the new arrivals liked to schedule their rebirths at dusk. Some ancient superstition about the crossing over of thresholds, the hour when the sun’s dying light split the world into shadow and afterlife.

The staff on duty had already prepared the procedure room, polished every instrument, and run the diagnostic sequences. The living among them—the fleshers, as the admin staff called them—took special care not to leave stray fingerprints on the synthetic bone-white surfaces, lest they draw a reprimand from their undead supervisors. It was not enough to be present; one had to be invisible.

Celeste Beaumont, assigned to night sanitation, lingered in the staff lounge longer than was strictly necessary. She hated the way the place smelled: not of bleach and plastic, as one might expect, but of ozone and some faint, metallic sweetness she could never pin down. It was the scent of high-tension wires or perhaps spilled blood on cold stone. The undead had their own biochemistry.

She checked her reflection in the screen of a deactivated info terminal. Shadows pooled beneath her eyes; her hair, only recently freed from its net, bristled with static. The badge on her collar—blue for living, a color she despised—felt like a small bruise against her throat. Outside, she heard the click of measured footsteps on tile.

Leona Hastings, owner and namesake of the clinic, entered precisely on schedule. Leona never arrived a minute early or late. She wore a suit the color of rain, cut so sharply it seemed to slice the air as she moved. Her skin was marble—porcelain, Celeste corrected herself, because even marble hinted at the organic, and Leona had long since surpassed all reminders of flesh. Her eyes, cold and perfect as two fragments of glacial ice, scanned the room, pausing on Celeste.

More of this world is coming soon, but for now I’d love to know—what stuck with you from this snippet? The glass tower? The color-coded badges? That subtle dread that says, “you’re not supposed to be here”? Drop your thoughts in the comments.