Earlier this evening during his CNN special, Joaquin was asked if opting in to End Day notifications was doing a disservice to how life should be experienced without warning of when it’s all over.

“If people want mystery, perhaps they should pick up a detective novel,” Joaquin had answered with a crooked smile. “If these lives are truly our only ones, we’re better off living them without the mystery of when it will all be over. You know what you can’t do once you’re pronounced dead? You can’t make sure your finances are in order for your family. You can’t finally do the thing you’ve been scared to do your entire life. You can’t tell someone you’re sorry. You can’t tell someone you love them.” Joaquin had uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, closer to the interviewer, like he was about to share the universe’s biggest secret. “Death-Cast won’t just tell people when they’ll die. We’ll make sure their lives don’t go unlived.”

Joaquin knows the devastations of losing someone unexpectedly.

It’s midnight, but no one is celebrating.

All eyes are on him, sitting at a computer in the heart of Death-Cast’s headquarters.

The call center has colorful walls, happy and healthy plants, and stone fountains with water cascading onto white rocks. It’s a beautiful backdrop for photo shoots, yes, but this was designed by his wife to be a soothing environment for the operators—known as heralds, since they’re the ultimate messengers—during their harrowing shifts. This job can mentally scar someone, Joaquin knows this. That’s why instead of psychics and assassins and time-travelers, the world will find therapists and crisis counselors and social workers operating the phones to console the Deckers while being mindful of protecting themselves.

He casts a quick glance at his wife, Naya, and their nine-year-old son, Alano, who are waiting with the same bated breath as everyone else. His family has been put through the wringer since Death-Cast was announced on July 1, but they’re finally going to see the fruits of Joaquin’s labor.

He’ll make it up to them one day.

Joaquin picks up the phone.

The sounds of camera shutters clicking drown out the soothing fountains. This is the only time Joaquin will allow photographers inside the facility. They’re all here to capture history. He’s already wondering which photograph will be used on all the front pages later and if it will be iconic enough to act as the cover of his inevitable memoir too.

More pictures are taken as Joaquin switches on the computer, the monitor angled away from everyone so only his eyes are on the screen. One of Joaquin’s many promises to the public has been that privacy will always be protected, and he will never betray that trust.

He reads the name at the top of the list and dials their phone number.