In Manhattan, on a dark, rain-slick night, a man died.
He died in an abandoned construction site—concrete pillars half-finished, shadows swallowing the empty husk of a building. Surrounded by over twenty men, each one aiming a loaded gun at him, Rafael stood with his back against the cold wall. No backup. No escape. Nothing but a single pistol in his grip… and only one bullet left.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice trembling. "We can talk about this."
His plea was met with silence, then the deafening crack of gunfire. One bullet. Straight to the head.
And then—darkness.
When Rafael opened his eyes again, he was drifting in a void so black it felt endless. Weightless. Silent.
"Where… am I?" he thought, his voice swallowed by the emptiness. "Heaven? Ha… as if I'd ever make it to heaven. With the kind of life I've lived, even hell would be a blessing."
Suddenly, a brilliant light pierced the darkness, searing his vision. He raised an arm to shield his eyes, blinking against the glow.
When the radiance faded, a figure stood before him—human in shape, draped in a flowing white robe. Long golden hair cascaded over its shoulders, and its face shimmered with a beauty so unreal it almost hurt to look at.
"Who… who is that?" Rafael whispered to himself.
The figure's lips curved faintly, and in a voice that echoed through the void, it spoke:
"Rafael."
His breath caught.
It knows my name.
"Is this… God?" Rafael thought.
The figure's radiant eyes bore into Rafael, and though it smiled faintly, there was no warmth in it.
"Rafael," it said again, voice calm, unyielding. "Your name is written in a ledger inked with blood. The sins you've committed… they are too many to count."
Rafael's stomach sank.
"S-Sins? I… look, I didn't have a choice. It was survival! I did what I had to!"
The figure tilted its head slightly, as if examining an insect.
"Your choices led you here. Every bullet you fired. Every life you took. Every betrayal you embraced. Did you think there would be no cost?"
"Wait—no, please, I can change! Give me another chance!" Rafael's voice cracked, desperation clawing at his throat.
The figure stepped closer, its glow intensifying. "Actions," it said coldly, "have consequences. You ran your empire on fear. You burned bridges and bodies alike. You reveled in power, knowing the price, and yet you never stopped. Now that the debt has come due, you beg for mercy?"
Its voice deepened, echoing in the endless void.
"Mercy is not given. It is earned. And you… Rafael… have earned only one thing."
With a chilling finality, the figure raised its hand and snapped its fingers.
Rafael fell.
He slammed against the ground with a sickening thud. Gasping, he looked around—an endless wheat field stretched in every direction under a crimson sky. In the distance, twisted black spires jutted toward the heavens. He was chained to a massive stone pillar, wrists locked in cold iron.
A rattling sound sent shivers up his spine. From the golden stalks emerged skeletal figures, their bones creaking as they advanced, each clutching rusted blades.
"Wait—no, no, NO!" Rafael screamed, thrashing against the chains.
They ignored him. The first plunged its sword deep into his gut. Fire exploded in his stomach, his scream tearing through the empty sky. The second drove a blade into his ribs, then another, and another. Pain like molten steel coursed through his veins.
He bled out quickly, vision fading… but then, to his horror, his wounds sealed. His body knit itself back together, forcing him whole again.
And then the skeletons returned.
The stabbing began anew.
Rafael screamed until his voice was raw, but there was no one to hear him. Over and over, blade after blade, he died and revived, died and revived.
Time blurred. Minutes became hours, hours bled into days. The cycle never stopped.
"Eternity," the figure's voice echoed faintly in his head. "This is what you chose."
The skeletons raised their swords once more.
Time lost meaning in the endless hell. Rafael screamed until his voice was nothing but a rasp, until even screaming became instinctive, mechanical. Each stab, each death, each resurrection chipped away at his sanity.
And then, somewhere in the blur of eternity, he broke.
"Please…" His voice was weak, trembling as another blade pierced his chest. "Please, God… if you're out there… save me."
He prayed. Through sobs, through shrieks, through ragged breaths, he prayed. He begged for forgiveness. For salvation. For release. But there was no answer. Only the endless crimson sky and the grinning skeletons tearing him apart again and again.
Hours—or perhaps centuries—passed in that torment. And as his prayers went unheard, Rafael's regret hollowed him out.
"I… I wish… I'd lived better…" he choked. "If I could… do it over…"
He didn't finish. Another blade silenced him.
And then, during yet another cycle of stabbing and resurrection, someone walked into the field.
An old man. Bent-backed, cloaked in rags, leaning on a crooked cane. His eyes were dull and gray, his face a map of wrinkles. He walked with slow, deliberate steps through the wheat, untouched by the skeletons.
Rafael, delirious and bleeding, blinked in disbelief. "H… help…" he croaked.
The old man stopped in front of him, gazing at him with calm disinterest. "Tell me, boy," he rasped, his voice dry as dead leaves. "Do you know why you are here?"
Rafael's head hung low, his lips trembling. "B… because… I was a… sinner." His words slurred, his mind barely holding together.
The old man chuckled faintly—a hollow, chilling sound. "Wrong."
Rafael raised his head weakly, confusion flickering in his eyes. "W… what…?"
Without another word, the old man's body crumbled. His skin cracked and peeled away like burnt paper, drifting into ash on the wind. His empty robe collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
"Wait!" Rafael screamed hoarsely. "What do you mean?! COME BACK!"
But there was no answer. The ash was swept away by a phantom breeze. The skeletons closed in again, their swords gleaming dully in the red light.
And the torment resumed.