They woke choking on dust and breath that did not belong to any place that knew mercy.
Stone pressed cold against bare skin. Thousands of bodies lay scattered across an endless floor of cracked obsidian, its surface faintly warm, as though something beneath it was breathing. The ceiling—if it could be called that—was too high to see, swallowed by darkness that pulsed faintly, like a bruise refusing to fade.
Screams came in waves.
People staggered upright, clutching their heads, gasping, crying, vomiting. Some prayed. Others cursed. A few laughed—the sharp, brittle sound of minds already splintering.
Caelum rose slower than most.
His palms scraped against the stone as he pushed himself up, fingers shaking. His heart hammered not from pain, but from something worse—recognition. Not of the place, but of the feeling. The weight in the air. The pressure behind the eyes. Like being watched by something vast enough to ignore time.
Then the sound came.
Not a voice at first—a force.
The air itself screamed.
It hit like a hammer through the skull. People dropped instantly, hands clamped over their ears, blood leaking from noses, mouths, eyes. Caelum felt it tear through him, vibrating his bones, rattling his teeth. His vision blurred. His knees buckled.
And above them—
The darkness smiled.
A face began to emerge, impossibly large, filling the sky. Not a full face. Never a full face. Only the front of it—cheeks stretched tight, lips peeled back, teeth packed too closely together. Rows of them. Human in shape, wrong in number.
The rest of the head vanished into shadow.
The mouth opened wider than anatomy allowed.
"WAKE UP."
The word shattered across the floor. Several people screamed themselves hoarse. One man laughed until he began choking on his own blood.
"Wake up, you worthless shits," the Speaker continued, voice dripping amusement. "You've slept long enough pretending you were decent."
The teeth glistened wetly as the mouth stretched into something like joy.
"All of you have sinned," it said. "Some of you so profoundly that Hell itself was offended it didn't get you sooner."
A woman sobbed loudly somewhere near the front. Someone else screamed for their mother.
"You should be dead," the Speaker went on pleasantly. "You should be torn apart and fed back into the dark piece by piece."
The smile widened.
"But."
That single word landed heavier than the rest.
"We are generous."
A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd.
"If you can make it out of Hell," the voice said, "you will be granted a wish."
A pause. Long enough to let hope crawl in.
"Anything," the Speaker continued. "Godhood. Immortality. Another world. Time undone. A life rewritten."
The teeth clicked together softly.
"You are at the very top of Hell," it said. "Most of you belong at the bottom."
A murmur spread—panic, disbelief, rage.
"Descend," the Speaker commanded. "Six hundred and sixty-six floors. Trials. Hunts. Puzzles. At the end of each floor—something that decides whether you fall further."
Someone laughed hysterically.
"You will need strength," the voice said. "Mental. Physical. Moral."
Another pause.
Then—
"Or you will die screaming."
A man near the center staggered forward.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his face red with fury. "This is bullshit!" he shouted, voice cracking. "You think you can just—this isn't real! You're not real!"
The crowd froze.
Even the screams faded.
The Speaker's mouth stopped moving.
Slowly—almost tenderly—it tilted its head.
"Oh," it said. "You spoke."
The darkness reached down.
There was no arm at first. No hand. Just shadow condensing, thickening, stretching until it formed fingers longer than buildings, joints bending wrong, skin like stretched night.
The man didn't even have time to run.
The hand closed around him.
He screamed once—high and thin—before the grip tightened.
The Speaker lifted him into the air. The body dangled, legs kicking, arms flailing uselessly.
"Let's make this educational," the Speaker said.
The fingers pulled.
Not fast. Not merciful.
Skin tore with a sound like wet cloth. The man's scream became something else—an animal noise, broken, bubbling. His ribcage split open as the shadow pried him apart, flesh stretching impossibly before giving way.
His insides spilled out.
Organs fell in slow, obscene arcs—lungs collapsing as they hit the ground, intestines slapping wetly against the stone. Blood poured like rain, pattering across the floor, splashing shoes, soaking hair.
Some people vomited.
Others fainted.
A woman near Caelum screamed until her voice shredded itself raw.
The Speaker held the two halves of the man apart, displaying the ruin.
"This," it said calmly, "is interruption."
The pieces dropped.
They hit the ground with a final, wet sound.
Silence followed—thick, suffocating.
Caelum stood frozen, heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst through his ribs. His hands trembled at his sides. His stomach churned. His mind screamed to run—but there was nowhere to go.
The Speaker leaned closer, teeth filling the sky.
"You will earn the right to descend," it said. "You will earn the right to steel."
The mouth curled upward.
"No weapons," it continued. "Not yet."
A ripple of fear tore through the crowd.
"Kill," the Speaker said softly. "With your hands. With desperation. With hate."
The darkness pulsed.
"When you do," it said, "Hell will recognize you."
The mouth closed slowly, smile lingering in the air even as the face began to fade back into shadow.
"Then," the Speaker finished, "your weapon will fall."
The sound vanished.
The sky went still.
And three thousand people stood in Hell—
Unarmed.
Watching blood pool around the remains of a man who had asked the wrong question.
Caelum swallowed.
Somewhere nearby, someone began to cry.
And somewhere else—
Someone smiled.