Maybe that's why I'm in hell.
Or something like it.
"Hurry up!"
The slave driver's whip bites into my back for what feels like the eightieth time. I'm quite sure he has a personal grudge. This one in particular gives me a nasty look every time I grimace in pain.
It's been… what, months? Since I woke up in rags, covered in mud and bruises. I wasn't a very spiritual person in my former life, but me? A slave? What century even is this place?
This is divine retribution, I suppose.
Though really, I never did anything wrong!
I didn't kill anyone. I didn't hurt anyone—
…not directly, anyway.
If my actions in my last life were measured properly, I'd probably score as a saint or at least a decent human being.
The wooden cart creaks as I push it forward, filled with cubes of limestone. Ahead, a long line of slaves trudges toward the temple—a monument to some god who clearly enjoys irony. The women's carts trail behind, always slower, always whipped harder. It seems in this world being a woman doesn't excuse you from manual labor.
"Hurry up, ugly!" Another crack. Another sting. As if this makes the supplies move faster.
I learned quickly that snarling, glaring, or baring my teeth earns nothing but more lashing. So I smile instead. Obedient.
I'm not even human here.
Lower than cattle.
Grinning and baring with it is so stupid.
"Usha, you should just shut up, you know?"
It takes me a second to recall that's my name here. I'm no longer the CEO of a company, and I no longer had personal assistants who would run around like headless chickens at my beck and call. I'm just Usha the slave here.
My ears trace the voice to Erbos. He's at the opposite side of the river, handing a pail to another slave and helping them wash off. He never helps me, of course.
"What are you talking about?" I don't bother looking at him, washing the dirt stuck to my skin as best as I can. I can already picture his face—that self-righteous expression like he's the model slave. Does he think he'll get a raise by picking on me? He can keep it.
"They hit you harder because they know you talk strange."
I chuckle, and can't help but taste the bitterness. "You talk too, and I don't see you getting whipped any harder."
He exhales sharply. "See? That's exactly the kind of talk that'll get you killed. Get us all killed."
"He's right. Just shut up, Usha."
That's Mino, younger, smaller, and twice as obedient. He parrots whatever Erbos says.
Around us, the other slaves move quietly, murmuring to each other as they wash in the muddy river under the dim torchlight. The night is our only rest—the one mercy the drivers allow. Rather, they know that we'll be harder to track down in the cover of darkness should one of us escape.
They let us bathe once a week to stave off disease, then feed us twice a day: hard bread, thin stew, and whatever scrap of bone counts as meat.
Healthy enough to haul stone. Too weak for anything else.
After washing off, it's time to sleep.
Even here at the bottom of the social ladder, there's a hierarchy.
I make my way to the little dug-out den I've carved for myself. It's barely big enough to lie in, but it keeps the worst of the wind away. The desert grows cold at night—cruelly so—and the smarter ones sleep in groups. Bigger clusters mean more warmth, more influence, more safety.
Erbos and Mino share a spot with three others, curled together beneath a tree. Its spiny branches offer no real shelter, but to them it is luxury. I can't help but thinking of the condo I purchased in my previous life, with automatic window shaders and a projection screen to unwind in the night. Now I am here, lying in a nest of my own making like a dog.
Whether it is that world or this world: Being alone makes you a loser.
That's just the way it is.
Back in my old world, being a "lone wolf" sounded impressive to the kind of people who didn't have friends. Here, it's just a slower form of death.
Still… I'm not the only loser.
Just beyond the main group, there's another den—larger, better dug out. A man stays there, maybe in his thirties. Broad-shouldered. Quiet. I've seen him talk with the others, but he sleeps alone.
Interesting.
"What's that guy's name?" I asked Erbos the next day. He's the only one who ever bothers replying to me. "His self-given name."
"Why are you asking?" Erbos shrugs, refusing to meet my eyes.
I watch the unknown man help an even older slave up. That's when I notice something about him—his back. Old scars, but no fresh lashes. The drivers don't touch him.
Even the next day, they keep their distance. I don't usually pay attention to others, but lately… I've been watching him.
"If you're so curious, why don't you ask him?" Erbos said to me while we were resting. He has this stupid look on his face like someone asking me to put my hand in a box where he knows a snake is inside. Fine. Challenge accepted.
That night, when the slaves gather by the river again, I approached him. He's washing himself like a ritual, carefully, like he was injured before and was worried he might open a wound.
"Allow me to help you," I say softly.
He glances at me, then at the pail in my hands. "No need." He crouches, scooping water with his hands and pouring it over his head.
"You're a big man," I press on. "I can help wash the hard-to-reach places." I smile—gentle, harmless.
He stays silent for a while. Long enough that most would walk away. I don't.
Finally, he looks up, eyes narrowing. "What do you want, Strange One?"
"Strange One?" I repeat.
"That's what the others call you." He nods toward the camp, where others are settling to sleep. "What do you want from me?"
I grin. "What could I possibly want? I'm just a slave."
He doesn't move when I pour water down his back, my fingers rubbing through the dirt and sweat. Carefully. Slowly. Testing.
"You shouldn't talk like that," he grunts at last.
I couldn't help myself but whisper. "Many people keep telling me what to do and what not to, these days." As if hearing my own voice could separate me from this reality.
The whole exchange was awkward, to say the least. "Are you finished?" he snaps, glancing at the empty pail.
Difficult man. The type who doesn't bend easily.
I nod, murmur a soft "Goodnight. Sweet dreams," and make my way back to my den.
There's no use forcing it. In my previous life, I never had to push—things came naturally. Reputation, looks, charm, intelligence. People fell into orbit around me without knowing why.
But here… I'm stripped bare. I literally have nothing. They didn't even notice an extra slave in their ranks. I used to think this was reincarnation, but it seems I was wrong.
The murky reflection in the river staring back at me was definitely my face, but more haggard and dirty. But I'm going to make it out of this hell. I need to use that man.
Each week, I offer to wash him again. He never accepts, but he never refuses either. If he doesn't tell me to stop, I continue.
So far, so good.
By the tenth night, I notice it: he looks my way before I approach, almost expectant. Maybe I should stop. Maybe that would make him come to me.
"If you hate it so much," I say lightly, "you can ask me to stop."
He doesn't respond.
We're side by side under the moonlight, silver pouring over the river's surface. The night is still except for our breath.
"Do whatever you want," he finally says, standing up slowly.
Leaving already? I almost speak—to keep him there, to keep him with me.
Then, without a word, he cups water in his large hands and lets it fall gently over my head.
The shock of it catches me off guard.
Cool water seeps through my hair, runs down my neck.
I close my eyes. It feels cleaner, crisper—different somehow.
I've always washed myself.
But this… this feels almost luxurious.
Is this what I've been missing?
Is this why they wash each other—why they look so appeased after?
A shiver runs up my spine as he douses more water over me, and I hurriedly scrub away the sweat and grime of the week. He repeats the motion until I'm fully clean. He never touches me—not once—but somehow that makes it more unnerving.
"Go sleep now," he says.
Not gently, not the way I half-hoped.
Still… this is progress.
Back in my den, I twist restlessly, the dried reed mat beneath me whispering with every small movement. The desert air is thin and cold; even the moonlight feels brittle as it spills across the ground. I close my eyes, but the memory of water trickling down my skin lingers like a phantom.
For some reason, I can't sleep. Maybe it's the cold. Or maybe it's because, for the first time since I woke up in this miserable place, someone saw me.
Thankfully, I'm not a heavy sleeper. Even if I were, being dragged out by the ankles would wake anyone up.