The chains tightened, and Lennon was dragged out of the darkness. His feet struck the ground heavy, iron scraping against bone. He looked down and realized his body no longer wore the gala clothes from the show. Now he was covered in a coarse, rough prisoner's uniform – hooded, with a faded dark pattern, filthy, as if it had been worn by dozens before him.
The being ahead pulled the chain effortlessly. At the sound of the word prisoner again, Lennon felt his heart pound so hard it seemed it would explode in his throat. He didn't dare speak, didn't dare even breathe too loud. Every instinct screamed that the cloaked, masked creature could be something worse than any nightmare his mind could invent.
And then, his vision opened.
The ground was dry, dark earth split with cracks. Ahead loomed a colossal fortress, built of skyscrapers stacked as if they were towers of bone and iron. The windows were nothing but slits, glowing with a dim light, and the entire structure seemed to breathe like a living monster.
But it wasn't the fortress that froze his spine. It was what lay between him and it.
Lines.
Endless lines. Rows of people stretching for miles, all wearing the same prisoner rags. Emaciated bodies, faces hollowed out by despair, eyes stripped of all light. Some walked like sleepwalkers, without resistance.
Others, who dared to cry or scream, were lashed violently by other beings – guardians – like the one dragging Lennon.
The sound of screams was constant, slicing the air like blades. There was no solidarity, no exchange of glances. Each one was alone in their own despair.
Lennon swallowed hard, his mouth dry as stone. Terror soaked every thought.
"So… this is the price of fame?" he muttered, barely audible. "The famous hell…"
Ahead, the broad back of his guardian was all he saw. The cloak dragged across the ground, and the bizarre mask never turned back. Lennon didn't dare question. Didn't dare even hesitate in his steps. He knew, from glimpsing the other lines, what happened to those who stopped. Guardians pulled chains until bodies collapsed, and whips rained down in bursts until flesh split.
Lennon wanted to scream that he was different, that he was Lennon Park, that the whole world mourned for him out there. But here, in this procession of chained souls, there were no idols, no fans, no spotlights.
Only chains.
And in that moment, he understood the irony: for the first time since accepting the pact, he was exactly on the same level as everyone else.
Suddenly, a man in the line beside him stumbled, almost colliding into Lennon. His look was the portrait of panic: wide eyes, trembling body, urine streaming down his leg.
"You can't do this to me!" he shouted, his voice shrill with pure desperation. "I'm a politician! A senator! Millions voted for me! I had deals, I had power! The pact never said anything about this… they never said that after death I'd be thrown into this sewer!"
His cry sliced through the air like a knife. Even the most shattered prisoners lifted their heads, alarmed. For an instant, it seemed like there was a spark of collective hope: if someone powerful complained, maybe there was room for resistance.
But the guardians did not react like humans would. No words, no acknowledgment. The being in front of the man simply raised its hand. A black scythe materialized as if born from shadow itself.
And before anyone could blink, the blade pierced through the politician's back.
The scream that followed was not just pain – it was existential betrayal. He writhed, eyes rolling back, blood staining the cracked earth.
Lennon froze. The image seared into his mind like burning iron.
The guardian hoisted the man up by the chain, its voice echoing, without a trace of emotion:
"Useless prisoner. You are nothing here. Beneath a dead dog."
Another strike. The scythe came down again, splitting flesh, spraying blood across the ground. The man collapsed to his knees, howling in agony, but did not die. He only writhed, alive, condemned to feel every second.
Lennon swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the scene. His chest tightened, breath short. His mind screamed: This can't be real… this can't be happening…
Then a cold voice behind him cut through the air like ice:
"Slow one… seems you want to feel pain too."
The chain tugged lightly, a warning. Lennon snapped from his trance, his body reacting before his mind. He straightened and walked again, each step heavier than the last.
The supervisor in front didn't even turn, but its voice reverberated through the air:
"Death does not exist here. You are already dead, remember? So keep going… exactly as you are."
Lennon's stomach churned. His body trembled all over, but he kept his eyes fixed on the ground, unable to look anywhere else. The stench of blood still invaded his nostrils, and the sight of the politician torn apart etched itself into his mind like a tattoo that would never fade.
In that instant, he truly understood: there was no escape. No bargaining. And maybe, just maybe… not even repentance would be accepted.
The line felt eternal, dragging steps with no destination. The dry earth beneath, the heavy air, and the distant screams formed a grotesque symphony. Until finally, Lennon was brought before a colossal door.
The black gate rose like a monument to damnation itself, covered in incomprehensible symbols pulsing with dark energy. Each stroke seemed alive, breathing, as if the carved lines were made of veins.
The guardian did not hesitate. It flung the door open with a rough gesture and, without giving Lennon time to react, shoved him inside.
The impact threw him to the ground. Pain ripped through his body like an electric shock, though it had only been a push. Lennon felt the difference in power: that being could crush him with a single move.
When he raised his eyes, he froze.
In front of him, behind a desk of polished stone, sat a female figure. Legs crossed, a calm expression far too serene for this setting, a dark stylus twirling between her fingers, and a massive book open before her.
She bore the features of a woman, but only at a glance. Her eyes were abysses of darkness without iris, without light. Her ears, long and pointed, resembled those of a twisted elf. And the presence she emanated… was crushing. Lennon felt the air thin, his chest tighten, as if simply existing before her was an offense.
Without looking at him, the woman began speaking aloud, her tone mechanical, as if reading something already written:
"Prisoner of series 101046221. Lennon Park. Human who impacted the world with his voice and performances, becoming a living legend. Even fifteen years after his death, the human world still venerates him. His songs remain at the top, and some exalt him as an idol… or even as an incarnate god."
Her voice paused, heavy with boredom. Then she let out a short, mocking laugh:
"Pathetic. You humans, always eager to worship rotting flesh as if it were divinity. Nothing more pathetic than that."
The words cut through Lennon like blades.
"Fifteen… years?" he whispered, almost voiceless. His mind spun in shock. It made no sense. For him, the helicopter had crashed… just moments ago.
Only then did the woman raise her gaze. Her black eyes fixed on him, and Lennon felt a chill race down his spine.
"I am the Demonic Warden responsible for your registration and regularity before you are sent to the Prison of the Forgotten World."
The words echoed like a sentence.
Registration? Prison? Demonic Warden?
None of it fit in his mind, yet everything inside him screamed that it was real.