u/urgoofyahh

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

Part 2: I Work for Hell's Retrieval Department. Apparently, I'm Already Underperforming.

Lucy was sitting at the motel's tiny table, a mug in one hand, watching me.

"We're leaving tonight."

I glanced at the clock.

6:00 A.M.

I hadn't slept. Not because I needed it.

Ever since I died, sleep had become optional. I didn't dream anymore. Closing my eyes was just darkness until I decided to open them again.

Usually, that was enough.

Not after last night.

I'd spent hours chasing the Spine Taker through the woods, fighting it, then dragging it back to Hell in chains. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same thing: hundreds of faces staring at me, asking a single question.

Who am I?

By afternoon, I'd stopped pretending sleep was coming. I didn't need food anymore. Or water. Or even rest. But I stayed in bed anyway. Lying there with my eyes closed was the closest thing I had left to feeling human.

When I finally opened my eyes, the clock read 5:00 P.M.

Lucy hadn't moved. She was still sitting at the table reading a book, as though waiting eleven hours for someone to wake up was completely normal.

"About time," she said, setting the book aside. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to hibernate."

"Very funny."

"We leave in ten minutes."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My briefcase was already packed, and the dried mud had been cleaned from the leather.

"...You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

That was her entire explanation.

"...Thanks."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You're welcome."

I grabbed my jacket from the chair. It smelled clean.

"...You washed this too?"

"It had demon blood on it."

"So?"

"So I washed it."

I stared at her.

"...You're the Prime Minister of Hell."

"I am."

"And you did my laundry."

"You were occupied."

I wasn't sure which part of that conversation disturbed me more.

Ten minutes later, we climbed into a black sedan waiting beneath one of the motel's flickering lights. Lucy started the engine, and we pulled onto the highway.

"So," I asked, fastening my seatbelt, "what's the mission?"

"The angel has already killed three retrieval teams."

That immediately got my attention.

"But I found something interesting," she continued. "Every team attacked the angel first."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Angels are creatures defined by peace. Under Heaven's laws, they're forbidden from harming humans unless those humans attack first."

"So every team provoked it."

She nodded.

"They never gave it another choice."

I watched the city drift past outside my window.

"What if it refuses to come with us?"

"Then we'll have to force it."

She paused before adding quietly, "...Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Something in her voice unsettled me. She didn't sound worried we'd fail to arrest the angel.

She sounded uncertain if we'd actually succeed. 

"Do we know which angel it is?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

Lucy shook her head. "No team survived long enough to identify it. Heaven also hasn't answered our requests."

"They're ignoring Hell?"

"There are only two possibilities. Either the angel no longer belongs to Heaven..." She glanced at me briefly. "...or they're choosing not to respond."

"On purpose?"

She didn't answer.

"I don't hurt innocent people," I said.

"I know."

"Then why are we trying to capture an angel that isn't slaughtering civilians?"

"Because one angel walking freely on Earth is enough to destabilize the balance between Heaven and Hell."

"So where is it?"

"An abandoned elementary school."

A navigation marker appeared on the dashboard.

Estimated Arrival: 3 Hours.

"Damn."

I leaned back in my seat, expecting a long drive.

The next thing I knew, Lucy was nudging my shoulder.

"We're here."

I blinked and looked outside.

The highway had vanished.

In its place stood an abandoned elementary school behind rusted fencing and waist-high weeds. The playground was barely visible beneath the overgrowth.

I frowned at the dashboard.

"...Twenty minutes?"

"The car belongs to Hell."

She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn't bother asking for an explanation.

The school looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Broken classroom windows reflected the fading sunlight, and a lone swing creaked lazily back and forth.

There wasn't any wind.

Neither of us moved.

For the first time since I'd met Lucy, she looked genuinely uneasy.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

I followed her gaze to the entrance.

The front doors were already standing open.

As if someone inside had been expecting us.

The moment we stepped across the threshold, every speaker in the building crackled to life. A calm, emotionless voice echoed through the empty halls.

"All agents wishing to speak with the angel may proceed to the fifth floor."

The voice fell silent for a moment.

"Good luck."

The speakers clicked off. I frowned.

"...Good luck?"

Lucy didn't answer.

"Isn't it just a matter of taking the stairs to the fifth floor?"

"It would be," she said quietly, "if reality still worked."

We reached the first stairwell, only to find that the staircase ended at a single hallway. There was no second flight, no way to continue upward. Instead, another staircase waited at the opposite end of the floor.

"So we have to cross every floor just to reach the next staircase?"

"Yes."

I stared at the building's layout.

"Who designed this place? This is the worst school I've ever seen."

Lucy glanced at the walls.

"They didn't."

"What?"

She rested a hand against the cold concrete.

"The building wasn't always like this. Angels distort reality simply by existing. Space bends around them. Hallways move. Rooms change places. Distances stop making sense."

"So..."

"This school is trying to become something else."

I looked down the endless corridor as the lights overhead buzzed weakly and the air carried a faint smell of sulfur. Lucy's expression had changed into something I hadn't seen before.

"The first floor."

I blinked.

"What?"

She pointed ahead.

The first floor was silent.

Not empty—silent.

The kind of silence that made every footstep feel like a mistake. Rows of rusted lockers stretched far beyond where they should have, vanishing into darkness that swallowed the ends of the hallway, while every classroom door hung open just enough to reveal nothing but blackness inside.

I counted my breathing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Something else breathed back.

Lucy raised a hand, silently telling me to stop.

"You hear it?" I whispered.

She nodded.

"Don't run."

The lights flickered.

When they came back, someone was standing at the far end of the corridor.

No.

Something.

From a distance she looked like a woman, but she was impossibly tall, her head nearly brushing the ceiling. Gray skin stretched tightly over unnaturally long limbs, and both arms extended straight out to either side, forming a grotesque cross that reached from wall to wall. Her elbows bent the wrong way, and her fingers scraped against the lockers with a metallic screech.

Then I noticed the uniform—a black tactical jacket just like Lucy's.

Across the chest was a faded patch:

HELL RETRIEVAL TEAM 1.

"...That was a person," I whispered.

Lucy never took her eyes off it. "Was."

The Long Lady's neck twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees until she was staring directly at us. Crack. Crack. Crack. Every joint in her body snapped into place.

Then she smiled.

She didn't run. She unfolded. Her arms slammed into the walls as she lurched forward, dragging herself down the hallway with horrifying speed while lockers crumpled inward beneath those impossibly long limbs.

"Move!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted as metal screamed behind us. I looked over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

One of her hands stretched impossibly far, fingers lengthening like spider legs as they reached for my back.

Lucy fired once.

The infernal round punched through the creature's shoulder. Instead of blood, dozens of human mouths opened inside the wound. They all screamed at once.

The Long Lady collapsed, convulsing violently.

"Keep running!" Lucy shouted.

We reached the stairwell and slammed the door shut behind us. The screaming stopped so abruptly that the silence felt heavier than the noise had.

Lucy didn't even wait to catch her breath before climbing.

"That won't hold it."

The second floor smelled rotten—not like decay, but wet meat. The hallway floor squished beneath our boots.

Then we heard crying.

Not one person.

Hundreds.

The sound echoed from around the corner.

Slowly, something stepped into view.

It was nearly twelve feet tall, not because it had grown, but because bodies had been fused together.

Dozens of torsos twisted into one towering pillar of flesh. Arms protruded in every direction, grabbing blindly through the air. Faces were embedded throughout its body, each frozen in absolute terror. Some begged. Some laughed. Some were still screaming.

Every face wore a HELL badge.

Every face belonged to someone who had come here before us.

"Oh..."

My stomach lurched.

"They're still alive."

Lucy didn't answer.

The body totem took one enormous step. The hallway shook. A dozen arms slammed into the walls, crushing concrete like paper.

Then every face looked at us simultaneously.

"Help us."

"Please."

"It hurts."

"Kill me."

"Don't leave us."

The voices overlapped until they became one deafening roar.

The creature charged.

Its dozens of arms reached forward like a tidal wave. One grabbed a locker and ripped it from the wall. Another punched straight through concrete. A third nearly caught my shoulder.

We ducked beneath a sweeping arm as it shattered the ceiling behind us. Chunks of concrete rained down.

"Stairs!" Lucy yelled.

The totem slammed both arms into the hallway. The impact split the floor behind us.

We threw ourselves through the stairwell door just before another arm punched through it, fingers clawing wildly for us.

By the time we reached the third floor, neither of us was speaking anymore.

The hallway was filled with students.

At least...

They looked like students.

Heads hung low. School uniforms. Backpacks.

Every one of them stood perfectly still, facing away from us.

I counted nearly fifty.

None of them moved.

"They aren't real..." I whispered.

Lucy slowly shook her head.

"No."

One of them turned.

Its jaw was gone. Its eyes were milky white.

Then another turned.

And another.

Every face was rotting. Every uniform had dried blood covering it. Every chest carried the insignia of a different retrieval team beneath torn clothing.

Not students.

Agents.

All of them.

Their mouths opened together.

Then they began walking toward us.

Slowly.

Hundreds of footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Then they started running.

The entire hallway erupted. Dozens of rotting agents charged at us, their boots pounding against the tile with enough force to shake the floor. Their bodies were broken, jaws hanging loose, bones jutting through torn uniforms, yet they moved with terrifying speed.

"The stairs!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted.

Something cold wrapped around my ankle.

I hit the ground hard.

A decomposed agent had crawled out from beneath a row of lockers, its fingers digging into my leg with impossible strength. Half its face had been ripped away, revealing yellowed teeth beneath rotting flesh. The faded patch on its chest read RETRIEVAL TEAM 3.

Its mouth opened.

"Don't... leave..."

I drove my boot into its face. The skull caved in with a sickening crack, and its grip loosened just enough for me to scramble free.

Lucy spun, raising her revolver.

Three deafening shots echoed through the hallway.

Each blessed round punched through a zombie's forehead, reducing the creature to ash before it even hit the ground.

I emptied five rounds of my own into the horde, buying us a few precious seconds.

We dove through the stairwell door.

Lucy slammed it shut.

Something heavy crashed into the other side.

Then another.

The metal door bent inward with every impact.

We didn't wait to see if it would hold.

Halfway up the stairs, Lucy stumbled.

A violent cough escaped her lips.

Dark red blood splattered across the concrete steps.

I grabbed her before she could fall.

"What the hell is happening to you?"

She wiped the blood from her mouth like it was nothing.

"The blessed rounds."

Another cough escaped her.

"They're blessed by Heaven."

Realization hit me.

"And you're..."

She gave a weak smile.

"A demon."

"You've been shooting yourself with Heaven's power this entire time."

"They hurt," she admitted. She pushed herself upright. "But they hurt angels more."

I stared back down the staircase.

"Those things..."

"They were the retrieval teams."

Lucy nodded.

Every failed team. Every soul trapped here.

She turned and started climbing again.

"We need to keep moving."

I followed her up the stairs.

The fourth-floor door creaked open.

Darkness greeted us. Not ordinary darkness. This floor had no light at all. Outside, the sun was still setting.

Inside... night had already fallen.

Even our flashlights struggled. Their beams reached only a few feet before being swallowed whole. Every sound seemed muffled—our footsteps, our breathing, even the clicking of Lucy's revolver sounded distant.

"This isn't normal," I whispered.

"No," Lucy replied quietly.

We moved slowly, staying close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Then I saw someone standing at the end of the hallway.

"...Lucy."

"I see them."

As we approached, my heart stopped.

It was me.

Almost.

My face. My clothes. My height. But wrong.

Far too many eyes covered my face, blinking independently. Some were stitched into my cheeks. Others lined my neck. They all stared at me.

Beside it stood another figure.

Lucy.

Except her mouth stretched from ear to ear, packed with row after row of jagged teeth that clicked together like broken glass.

More figures stepped from the darkness. Dozens. Each one looked like us, each one twisted differently. Some had extra limbs. Others bent backward. Some had no skin at all.

They weren't monsters pretending to be us. They looked like versions of us that had been assembled from someone else's nightmares.

My double took a shaky step forward. Its countless eyes filled with tears.

When it spoke, it sounded exactly like my voice.

"Please..."

Another step.

"...Please kill me."

Behind it, Lucy's double smiled with hundreds of teeth.

Then every copy looked up in perfect unison.

And then we started running.

By the time we reached the stairwell landing, I was breathing harder than I should have been. I glanced back through the stairwell window.

The fourth floor was gone.

Not hidden.

Gone.

Beyond the glass wasn't another hallway anymore, but an endless stretch of pale sky filled with slow-moving clouds. For a split second, I thought I saw wings drifting somewhere inside them.

Then the view snapped back to cracked concrete.

"...Lucy."

"I know."

She didn't even look.

"The angel's presence is getting stronger," she said as we kept climbing. "Reality is starting to lose the argument."

"What does that mean?"

"It means this building is forgetting it's a building."

The stairwell groaned around us. A door we had just come through was suddenly twenty feet farther away. The steps beneath my boots shifted with a grinding sound, rearranging themselves as if the school was quietly rebuilding itself around us.

"We need to reach the fifth floor before there isn't a fifth floor anymore."

We ran.

The staircase groaned beneath our feet as the steps behind us began to crumble away, swallowed by an endless black void. Every landing we crossed stretched farther than the last, the distance warping as if the school itself was trying to keep us from reaching the top.

Just as the final flight started to collapse, Lucy slammed into the fifth-floor door and threw it open.

We stumbled through.

Silence.

The screaming was gone. The shaking stopped. The air was still.

After everything we'd fought through, the fifth floor felt impossibly... normal.

Rows of clean lockers lined the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Not a single drop of blood stained the floor.

It was the calm that bothered me most.

Then, somewhere down the hall—

A classroom door creaked open. Inside, it was late afternoon. Warm sunlight drifted through the windows, dust floating lazily in its glow. Outside the classroom, the hallway remained trapped in the dead of night. 

Someone stood alone beside the window.

For a moment, my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.

A girl.

Red hair.

Freckles.

Hazel eyes.

She couldn't have been older than sixteen.

White feathers drifted lazily through the silent classroom.

Eight enormous wings rested behind her, each one so vast they should have torn through the walls, yet reality simply bent around them. Smaller wings blossomed from her shoulders, elbows, wrists, even the backs of her hands, as though Heaven itself had forgotten how many she was meant to have.

She looked...

Beautiful.

Then I noticed the scars.

Thin silver rings circled both wrists.

Another encircled her neck.

Two more rested above her knees.

Perfect.

Unbroken.

Not scars left by wounds...

But by absence.

The exact places...

The Florida River Monster had torn her apart.

My lungs forgot how to breathe.

The reason I'd spent years hunting monsters.

The reason Hell had found me worthy of becoming one of its agents.

The reason I'd crossed lines no human being should ever cross.

Was standing only a few feet away.

Looking at me.

The world dissolved into a dull ringing as my fingers went numb. The revolver slipped from my hand, crashing against the classroom floor with a deafening clang.

She didn't flinch at the sound.

She simply turned toward me.

Then...

She smiled.

Not the serene smile I'd imagined angels wore.

Not some divine expression beyond human understanding. 

Just... Her smile.

The one that used to make me laugh when we skipped class together. 

The one I'd spent years trying to remember.

The one she'd worn on the walk to school that morning.

Before she was taken from me.

"...Hey, Sister."

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

Part 2: I Work for Hell's Retrieval Department. Apparently, I'm Already Underperforming.

Lucy was sitting at the motel's tiny table, a mug in one hand, watching me.

"We're leaving tonight."

I glanced at the clock.

6:00 A.M.

I hadn't slept. Not because I needed it.

Ever since I died, sleep had become optional. I didn't dream anymore. Closing my eyes was just darkness until I decided to open them again.

Usually, that was enough.

Not after last night.

I'd spent hours chasing the Spine Taker through the woods, fighting it, then dragging it back to Hell in chains. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same thing: hundreds of faces staring at me, asking a single question.

Who am I?

By afternoon, I'd stopped pretending sleep was coming. I didn't need food anymore. Or water. Or even rest. But I stayed in bed anyway. Lying there with my eyes closed was the closest thing I had left to feeling human.

When I finally opened my eyes, the clock read 5:00 P.M.

Lucy hadn't moved. She was still sitting at the table reading a book, as though waiting eleven hours for someone to wake up was completely normal.

"About time," she said, setting the book aside. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to hibernate."

"Very funny."

"We leave in ten minutes."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My briefcase was already packed, and the dried mud had been cleaned from the leather.

"...You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

That was her entire explanation.

"...Thanks."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You're welcome."

I grabbed my jacket from the chair. It smelled clean.

"...You washed this too?"

"It had demon blood on it."

"So?"

"So I washed it."

I stared at her.

"...You're the Prime Minister of Hell."

"I am."

"And you did my laundry."

"You were occupied."

I wasn't sure which part of that conversation disturbed me more.

Ten minutes later, we climbed into a black sedan waiting beneath one of the motel's flickering lights. Lucy started the engine, and we pulled onto the highway.

"So," I asked, fastening my seatbelt, "what's the mission?"

"The angel has already killed three retrieval teams."

That immediately got my attention.

"But I found something interesting," she continued. "Every team attacked the angel first."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Angels are creatures defined by peace. Under Heaven's laws, they're forbidden from harming humans unless those humans attack first."

"So every team provoked it."

She nodded.

"They never gave it another choice."

I watched the city drift past outside my window.

"What if it refuses to come with us?"

"Then we'll have to force it."

She paused before adding quietly, "...Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Something in her voice unsettled me. She didn't sound worried we'd fail to arrest the angel.

She sounded uncertain if we'd actually succeed. 

"Do we know which angel it is?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

Lucy shook her head. "No team survived long enough to identify it. Heaven also hasn't answered our requests."

"They're ignoring Hell?"

"There are only two possibilities. Either the angel no longer belongs to Heaven..." She glanced at me briefly. "...or they're choosing not to respond."

"On purpose?"

She didn't answer.

"I don't hurt innocent people," I said.

"I know."

"Then why are we trying to capture an angel that isn't slaughtering civilians?"

"Because one angel walking freely on Earth is enough to destabilize the balance between Heaven and Hell."

"So where is it?"

"An abandoned elementary school."

A navigation marker appeared on the dashboard.

Estimated Arrival: 3 Hours.

"Damn."

I leaned back in my seat, expecting a long drive.

The next thing I knew, Lucy was nudging my shoulder.

"We're here."

I blinked and looked outside.

The highway had vanished.

In its place stood an abandoned elementary school behind rusted fencing and waist-high weeds. The playground was barely visible beneath the overgrowth.

I frowned at the dashboard.

"...Twenty minutes?"

"The car belongs to Hell."

She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn't bother asking for an explanation.

The school looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Broken classroom windows reflected the fading sunlight, and a lone swing creaked lazily back and forth.

There wasn't any wind.

Neither of us moved.

For the first time since I'd met Lucy, she looked genuinely uneasy.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

I followed her gaze to the entrance.

The front doors were already standing open.

As if someone inside had been expecting us.

The moment we stepped across the threshold, every speaker in the building crackled to life. A calm, emotionless voice echoed through the empty halls.

"All agents wishing to speak with the angel may proceed to the fifth floor."

The voice fell silent for a moment.

"Good luck."

The speakers clicked off. I frowned.

"...Good luck?"

Lucy didn't answer.

"Isn't it just a matter of taking the stairs to the fifth floor?"

"It would be," she said quietly, "if reality still worked."

We reached the first stairwell, only to find that the staircase ended at a single hallway. There was no second flight, no way to continue upward. Instead, another staircase waited at the opposite end of the floor.

"So we have to cross every floor just to reach the next staircase?"

"Yes."

I stared at the building's layout.

"Who designed this place? This is the worst school I've ever seen."

Lucy glanced at the walls.

"They didn't."

"What?"

She rested a hand against the cold concrete.

"The building wasn't always like this. Angels distort reality simply by existing. Space bends around them. Hallways move. Rooms change places. Distances stop making sense."

"So..."

"This school is trying to become something else."

I looked down the endless corridor as the lights overhead buzzed weakly and the air carried a faint smell of sulfur. Lucy's expression had changed into something I hadn't seen before.

"The first floor."

I blinked.

"What?"

She pointed ahead.

The first floor was silent.

Not empty—silent.

The kind of silence that made every footstep feel like a mistake. Rows of rusted lockers stretched far beyond where they should have, vanishing into darkness that swallowed the ends of the hallway, while every classroom door hung open just enough to reveal nothing but blackness inside.

I counted my breathing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Something else breathed back.

Lucy raised a hand, silently telling me to stop.

"You hear it?" I whispered.

She nodded.

"Don't run."

The lights flickered.

When they came back, someone was standing at the far end of the corridor.

No.

Something.

From a distance she looked like a woman, but she was impossibly tall, her head nearly brushing the ceiling. Gray skin stretched tightly over unnaturally long limbs, and both arms extended straight out to either side, forming a grotesque cross that reached from wall to wall. Her elbows bent the wrong way, and her fingers scraped against the lockers with a metallic screech.

Then I noticed the uniform—a black tactical jacket just like Lucy's.

Across the chest was a faded patch:

HELL RETRIEVAL TEAM 1.

"...That was a person," I whispered.

Lucy never took her eyes off it. "Was."

The Long Lady's neck twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees until she was staring directly at us. Crack. Crack. Crack. Every joint in her body snapped into place.

Then she smiled.

She didn't run. She unfolded. Her arms slammed into the walls as she lurched forward, dragging herself down the hallway with horrifying speed while lockers crumpled inward beneath those impossibly long limbs.

"Move!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted as metal screamed behind us. I looked over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

One of her hands stretched impossibly far, fingers lengthening like spider legs as they reached for my back.

Lucy fired once.

The infernal round punched through the creature's shoulder. Instead of blood, dozens of human mouths opened inside the wound. They all screamed at once.

The Long Lady collapsed, convulsing violently.

"Keep running!" Lucy shouted.

We reached the stairwell and slammed the door shut behind us. The screaming stopped so abruptly that the silence felt heavier than the noise had.

Lucy didn't even wait to catch her breath before climbing.

"That won't hold it."

The second floor smelled rotten—not like decay, but wet meat. The hallway floor squished beneath our boots.

Then we heard crying.

Not one person.

Hundreds.

The sound echoed from around the corner.

Slowly, something stepped into view.

It was nearly twelve feet tall, not because it had grown, but because bodies had been fused together.

Dozens of torsos twisted into one towering pillar of flesh. Arms protruded in every direction, grabbing blindly through the air. Faces were embedded throughout its body, each frozen in absolute terror. Some begged. Some laughed. Some were still screaming.

Every face wore a HELL badge.

Every face belonged to someone who had come here before us.

"Oh..."

My stomach lurched.

"They're still alive."

Lucy didn't answer.

The body totem took one enormous step. The hallway shook. A dozen arms slammed into the walls, crushing concrete like paper.

Then every face looked at us simultaneously.

"Help us."

"Please."

"It hurts."

"Kill me."

"Don't leave us."

The voices overlapped until they became one deafening roar.

The creature charged.

Its dozens of arms reached forward like a tidal wave. One grabbed a locker and ripped it from the wall. Another punched straight through concrete. A third nearly caught my shoulder.

We ducked beneath a sweeping arm as it shattered the ceiling behind us. Chunks of concrete rained down.

"Stairs!" Lucy yelled.

The totem slammed both arms into the hallway. The impact split the floor behind us.

We threw ourselves through the stairwell door just before another arm punched through it, fingers clawing wildly for us.

By the time we reached the third floor, neither of us was speaking anymore.

The hallway was filled with students.

At least...

They looked like students.

Heads hung low. School uniforms. Backpacks.

Every one of them stood perfectly still, facing away from us.

I counted nearly fifty.

None of them moved.

"They aren't real..." I whispered.

Lucy slowly shook her head.

"No."

One of them turned.

Its jaw was gone. Its eyes were milky white.

Then another turned.

And another.

Every face was rotting. Every uniform had dried blood covering it. Every chest carried the insignia of a different retrieval team beneath torn clothing.

Not students.

Agents.

All of them.

Their mouths opened together.

Then they began walking toward us.

Slowly.

Hundreds of footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Then they started running.

The entire hallway erupted. Dozens of rotting agents charged at us, their boots pounding against the tile with enough force to shake the floor. Their bodies were broken, jaws hanging loose, bones jutting through torn uniforms, yet they moved with terrifying speed.

"The stairs!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted.

Something cold wrapped around my ankle.

I hit the ground hard.

A decomposed agent had crawled out from beneath a row of lockers, its fingers digging into my leg with impossible strength. Half its face had been ripped away, revealing yellowed teeth beneath rotting flesh. The faded patch on its chest read RETRIEVAL TEAM 3.

Its mouth opened.

"Don't... leave..."

I drove my boot into its face. The skull caved in with a sickening crack, and its grip loosened just enough for me to scramble free.

Lucy spun, raising her revolver.

Three deafening shots echoed through the hallway.

Each blessed round punched through a zombie's forehead, reducing the creature to ash before it even hit the ground.

I emptied five rounds of my own into the horde, buying us a few precious seconds.

We dove through the stairwell door.

Lucy slammed it shut.

Something heavy crashed into the other side.

Then another.

The metal door bent inward with every impact.

We didn't wait to see if it would hold.

Halfway up the stairs, Lucy stumbled.

A violent cough escaped her lips.

Dark red blood splattered across the concrete steps.

I grabbed her before she could fall.

"What the hell is happening to you?"

She wiped the blood from her mouth like it was nothing.

"The blessed rounds."

Another cough escaped her.

"They're blessed by Heaven."

Realization hit me.

"And you're..."

She gave a weak smile.

"A demon."

"You've been shooting yourself with Heaven's power this entire time."

"They hurt," she admitted. She pushed herself upright. "But they hurt angels more."

I stared back down the staircase.

"Those things..."

"They were the retrieval teams."

Lucy nodded.

Every failed team. Every soul trapped here.

She turned and started climbing again.

"We need to keep moving."

I followed her up the stairs.

The fourth-floor door creaked open.

Darkness greeted us. Not ordinary darkness. This floor had no light at all. Outside, the sun was still setting.

Inside... night had already fallen.

Even our flashlights struggled. Their beams reached only a few feet before being swallowed whole. Every sound seemed muffled—our footsteps, our breathing, even the clicking of Lucy's revolver sounded distant.

"This isn't normal," I whispered.

"No," Lucy replied quietly.

We moved slowly, staying close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Then I saw someone standing at the end of the hallway.

"...Lucy."

"I see them."

As we approached, my heart stopped.

It was me.

Almost.

My face. My clothes. My height. But wrong.

Far too many eyes covered my face, blinking independently. Some were stitched into my cheeks. Others lined my neck. They all stared at me.

Beside it stood another figure.

Lucy.

Except her mouth stretched from ear to ear, packed with row after row of jagged teeth that clicked together like broken glass.

More figures stepped from the darkness. Dozens. Each one looked like us, each one twisted differently. Some had extra limbs. Others bent backward. Some had no skin at all.

They weren't monsters pretending to be us. They looked like versions of us that had been assembled from someone else's nightmares.

My double took a shaky step forward. Its countless eyes filled with tears.

When it spoke, it sounded exactly like my voice.

"Please..."

Another step.

"...Please kill me."

Behind it, Lucy's double smiled with hundreds of teeth.

Then every copy looked up in perfect unison.

And then we started running.

By the time we reached the stairwell landing, I was breathing harder than I should have been. I glanced back through the stairwell window.

The fourth floor was gone.

Not hidden.

Gone.

Beyond the glass wasn't another hallway anymore, but an endless stretch of pale sky filled with slow-moving clouds. For a split second, I thought I saw wings drifting somewhere inside them.

Then the view snapped back to cracked concrete.

"...Lucy."

"I know."

She didn't even look.

"The angel's presence is getting stronger," she said as we kept climbing. "Reality is starting to lose the argument."

"What does that mean?"

"It means this building is forgetting it's a building."

The stairwell groaned around us. A door we had just come through was suddenly twenty feet farther away. The steps beneath my boots shifted with a grinding sound, rearranging themselves as if the school was quietly rebuilding itself around us.

"We need to reach the fifth floor before there isn't a fifth floor anymore."

We ran.

The staircase groaned beneath our feet as the steps behind us began to crumble away, swallowed by an endless black void. Every landing we crossed stretched farther than the last, the distance warping as if the school itself was trying to keep us from reaching the top.

Just as the final flight started to collapse, Lucy slammed into the fifth-floor door and threw it open.

We stumbled through.

Silence.

The screaming was gone. The shaking stopped. The air was still.

After everything we'd fought through, the fifth floor felt impossibly... normal.

Rows of clean lockers lined the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Not a single drop of blood stained the floor.

It was the calm that bothered me most.

Then, somewhere down the hall—

A classroom door creaked open. Inside, it was late afternoon. Warm sunlight drifted through the windows, dust floating lazily in its glow. Outside the classroom, the hallway remained trapped in the dead of night. 

Someone stood alone beside the window.

For a moment, my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.

A girl.

Red hair.

Freckles.

Hazel eyes.

She couldn't have been older than sixteen.

White feathers drifted lazily through the silent classroom.

Eight enormous wings rested behind her, each one so vast they should have torn through the walls, yet reality simply bent around them. Smaller wings blossomed from her shoulders, elbows, wrists, even the backs of her hands, as though Heaven itself had forgotten how many she was meant to have.

She looked...

Beautiful.

Then I noticed the scars.

Thin silver rings circled both wrists.

Another encircled her neck.

Two more rested above her knees.

Perfect.

Unbroken.

Not scars left by wounds...

But by absence.

The exact places...

The Florida River Monster had torn her apart.

My lungs forgot how to breathe.

The reason I'd spent years hunting monsters.

The reason Hell had found me worthy of becoming one of its agents.

The reason I'd crossed lines no human being should ever cross.

Was standing only a few feet away.

Looking at me.

The world dissolved into a dull ringing as my fingers went numb. The revolver slipped from my hand, crashing against the classroom floor with a deafening clang.

She didn't flinch at the sound.

She simply turned toward me.

Then...

She smiled.

Not the serene smile I'd imagined angels wore.

Not some divine expression beyond human understanding. 

Just... Her smile.

The one that used to make me laugh when we skipped class together. 

The one I'd spent years trying to remember.

The one she'd worn on the walk to school that morning.

Before she was taken from me.

"...Hey, Sister."

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

Part 2: I Work for Hell's Retrieval Department. Apparently, I'm Already Underperforming.

Lucy was sitting at the motel's tiny table, a mug in one hand, watching me.

"We're leaving tonight."

I glanced at the clock.

6:00 A.M.

I hadn't slept. Not because I needed it.

Ever since I died, sleep had become optional. I didn't dream anymore. Closing my eyes was just darkness until I decided to open them again.

Usually, that was enough.

Not after last night.

I'd spent hours chasing the Spine Taker through the woods, fighting it, then dragging it back to Hell in chains. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same thing: hundreds of faces staring at me, asking a single question.

Who am I?

By afternoon, I'd stopped pretending sleep was coming. I didn't need food anymore. Or water. Or even rest. But I stayed in bed anyway. Lying there with my eyes closed was the closest thing I had left to feeling human.

When I finally opened my eyes, the clock read 5:00 P.M.

Lucy hadn't moved. She was still sitting at the table reading a book, as though waiting eleven hours for someone to wake up was completely normal.

"About time," she said, setting the book aside. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to hibernate."

"Very funny."

"We leave in ten minutes."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My briefcase was already packed, and the dried mud had been cleaned from the leather.

"...You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

That was her entire explanation.

"...Thanks."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You're welcome."

I grabbed my jacket from the chair. It smelled clean.

"...You washed this too?"

"It had demon blood on it."

"So?"

"So I washed it."

I stared at her.

"...You're the Prime Minister of Hell."

"I am."

"And you did my laundry."

"You were occupied."

I wasn't sure which part of that conversation disturbed me more.

Ten minutes later, we climbed into a black sedan waiting beneath one of the motel's flickering lights. Lucy started the engine, and we pulled onto the highway.

"So," I asked, fastening my seatbelt, "what's the mission?"

"The angel has already killed three retrieval teams."

That immediately got my attention.

"But I found something interesting," she continued. "Every team attacked the angel first."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Angels are creatures defined by peace. Under Heaven's laws, they're forbidden from harming humans unless those humans attack first."

"So every team provoked it."

She nodded.

"They never gave it another choice."

I watched the city drift past outside my window.

"What if it refuses to come with us?"

"Then we'll have to force it."

She paused before adding quietly, "...Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Something in her voice unsettled me. She didn't sound worried we'd fail to arrest the angel.

She sounded uncertain if we'd actually succeed. 

"Do we know which angel it is?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

Lucy shook her head. "No team survived long enough to identify it. Heaven also hasn't answered our requests."

"They're ignoring Hell?"

"There are only two possibilities. Either the angel no longer belongs to Heaven..." She glanced at me briefly. "...or they're choosing not to respond."

"On purpose?"

She didn't answer.

"I don't hurt innocent people," I said.

"I know."

"Then why are we trying to capture an angel that isn't slaughtering civilians?"

"Because one angel walking freely on Earth is enough to destabilize the balance between Heaven and Hell."

"So where is it?"

"An abandoned elementary school."

A navigation marker appeared on the dashboard.

Estimated Arrival: 3 Hours.

"Damn."

I leaned back in my seat, expecting a long drive.

The next thing I knew, Lucy was nudging my shoulder.

"We're here."

I blinked and looked outside.

The highway had vanished.

In its place stood an abandoned elementary school behind rusted fencing and waist-high weeds. The playground was barely visible beneath the overgrowth.

I frowned at the dashboard.

"...Twenty minutes?"

"The car belongs to Hell."

She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn't bother asking for an explanation.

The school looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Broken classroom windows reflected the fading sunlight, and a lone swing creaked lazily back and forth.

There wasn't any wind.

Neither of us moved.

For the first time since I'd met Lucy, she looked genuinely uneasy.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

I followed her gaze to the entrance.

The front doors were already standing open.

As if someone inside had been expecting us.

The moment we stepped across the threshold, every speaker in the building crackled to life. A calm, emotionless voice echoed through the empty halls.

"All agents wishing to speak with the angel may proceed to the fifth floor."

The voice fell silent for a moment.

"Good luck."

The speakers clicked off. I frowned.

"...Good luck?"

Lucy didn't answer.

"Isn't it just a matter of taking the stairs to the fifth floor?"

"It would be," she said quietly, "if reality still worked."

We reached the first stairwell, only to find that the staircase ended at a single hallway. There was no second flight, no way to continue upward. Instead, another staircase waited at the opposite end of the floor.

"So we have to cross every floor just to reach the next staircase?"

"Yes."

I stared at the building's layout.

"Who designed this place? This is the worst school I've ever seen."

Lucy glanced at the walls.

"They didn't."

"What?"

She rested a hand against the cold concrete.

"The building wasn't always like this. Angels distort reality simply by existing. Space bends around them. Hallways move. Rooms change places. Distances stop making sense."

"So..."

"This school is trying to become something else."

I looked down the endless corridor as the lights overhead buzzed weakly and the air carried a faint smell of sulfur. Lucy's expression had changed into something I hadn't seen before.

"The first floor."

I blinked.

"What?"

She pointed ahead.

The first floor was silent.

Not empty—silent.

The kind of silence that made every footstep feel like a mistake. Rows of rusted lockers stretched far beyond where they should have, vanishing into darkness that swallowed the ends of the hallway, while every classroom door hung open just enough to reveal nothing but blackness inside.

I counted my breathing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Something else breathed back.

Lucy raised a hand, silently telling me to stop.

"You hear it?" I whispered.

She nodded.

"Don't run."

The lights flickered.

When they came back, someone was standing at the far end of the corridor.

No.

Something.

From a distance she looked like a woman, but she was impossibly tall, her head nearly brushing the ceiling. Gray skin stretched tightly over unnaturally long limbs, and both arms extended straight out to either side, forming a grotesque cross that reached from wall to wall. Her elbows bent the wrong way, and her fingers scraped against the lockers with a metallic screech.

Then I noticed the uniform—a black tactical jacket just like Lucy's.

Across the chest was a faded patch:

HELL RETRIEVAL TEAM 1.

"...That was a person," I whispered.

Lucy never took her eyes off it. "Was."

The Long Lady's neck twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees until she was staring directly at us. Crack. Crack. Crack. Every joint in her body snapped into place.

Then she smiled.

She didn't run. She unfolded. Her arms slammed into the walls as she lurched forward, dragging herself down the hallway with horrifying speed while lockers crumpled inward beneath those impossibly long limbs.

"Move!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted as metal screamed behind us. I looked over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

One of her hands stretched impossibly far, fingers lengthening like spider legs as they reached for my back.

Lucy fired once.

The infernal round punched through the creature's shoulder. Instead of blood, dozens of human mouths opened inside the wound. They all screamed at once.

The Long Lady collapsed, convulsing violently.

"Keep running!" Lucy shouted.

We reached the stairwell and slammed the door shut behind us. The screaming stopped so abruptly that the silence felt heavier than the noise had.

Lucy didn't even wait to catch her breath before climbing.

"That won't hold it."

The second floor smelled rotten—not like decay, but wet meat. The hallway floor squished beneath our boots.

Then we heard crying.

Not one person.

Hundreds.

The sound echoed from around the corner.

Slowly, something stepped into view.

It was nearly twelve feet tall, not because it had grown, but because bodies had been fused together.

Dozens of torsos twisted into one towering pillar of flesh. Arms protruded in every direction, grabbing blindly through the air. Faces were embedded throughout its body, each frozen in absolute terror. Some begged. Some laughed. Some were still screaming.

Every face wore a HELL badge.

Every face belonged to someone who had come here before us.

"Oh..."

My stomach lurched.

"They're still alive."

Lucy didn't answer.

The body totem took one enormous step. The hallway shook. A dozen arms slammed into the walls, crushing concrete like paper.

Then every face looked at us simultaneously.

"Help us."

"Please."

"It hurts."

"Kill me."

"Don't leave us."

The voices overlapped until they became one deafening roar.

The creature charged.

Its dozens of arms reached forward like a tidal wave. One grabbed a locker and ripped it from the wall. Another punched straight through concrete. A third nearly caught my shoulder.

We ducked beneath a sweeping arm as it shattered the ceiling behind us. Chunks of concrete rained down.

"Stairs!" Lucy yelled.

The totem slammed both arms into the hallway. The impact split the floor behind us.

We threw ourselves through the stairwell door just before another arm punched through it, fingers clawing wildly for us.

By the time we reached the third floor, neither of us was speaking anymore.

The hallway was filled with students.

At least...

They looked like students.

Heads hung low. School uniforms. Backpacks.

Every one of them stood perfectly still, facing away from us.

I counted nearly fifty.

None of them moved.

"They aren't real..." I whispered.

Lucy slowly shook her head.

"No."

One of them turned.

Its jaw was gone. Its eyes were milky white.

Then another turned.

And another.

Every face was rotting. Every uniform had dried blood covering it. Every chest carried the insignia of a different retrieval team beneath torn clothing.

Not students.

Agents.

All of them.

Their mouths opened together.

Then they began walking toward us.

Slowly.

Hundreds of footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Then they started running.

The entire hallway erupted. Dozens of rotting agents charged at us, their boots pounding against the tile with enough force to shake the floor. Their bodies were broken, jaws hanging loose, bones jutting through torn uniforms, yet they moved with terrifying speed.

"The stairs!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted.

Something cold wrapped around my ankle.

I hit the ground hard.

A decomposed agent had crawled out from beneath a row of lockers, its fingers digging into my leg with impossible strength. Half its face had been ripped away, revealing yellowed teeth beneath rotting flesh. The faded patch on its chest read RETRIEVAL TEAM 3.

Its mouth opened.

"Don't... leave..."

I drove my boot into its face. The skull caved in with a sickening crack, and its grip loosened just enough for me to scramble free.

Lucy spun, raising her revolver.

Three deafening shots echoed through the hallway.

Each blessed round punched through a zombie's forehead, reducing the creature to ash before it even hit the ground.

I emptied five rounds of my own into the horde, buying us a few precious seconds.

We dove through the stairwell door.

Lucy slammed it shut.

Something heavy crashed into the other side.

Then another.

The metal door bent inward with every impact.

We didn't wait to see if it would hold.

Halfway up the stairs, Lucy stumbled.

A violent cough escaped her lips.

Dark red blood splattered across the concrete steps.

I grabbed her before she could fall.

"What the hell is happening to you?"

She wiped the blood from her mouth like it was nothing.

"The blessed rounds."

Another cough escaped her.

"They're blessed by Heaven."

Realization hit me.

"And you're..."

She gave a weak smile.

"A demon."

"You've been shooting yourself with Heaven's power this entire time."

"They hurt," she admitted. She pushed herself upright. "But they hurt angels more."

I stared back down the staircase.

"Those things..."

"They were the retrieval teams."

Lucy nodded.

Every failed team. Every soul trapped here.

She turned and started climbing again.

"We need to keep moving."

I followed her up the stairs.

The fourth-floor door creaked open.

Darkness greeted us. Not ordinary darkness. This floor had no light at all. Outside, the sun was still setting.

Inside... night had already fallen.

Even our flashlights struggled. Their beams reached only a few feet before being swallowed whole. Every sound seemed muffled—our footsteps, our breathing, even the clicking of Lucy's revolver sounded distant.

"This isn't normal," I whispered.

"No," Lucy replied quietly.

We moved slowly, staying close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Then I saw someone standing at the end of the hallway.

"...Lucy."

"I see them."

As we approached, my heart stopped.

It was me.

Almost.

My face. My clothes. My height. But wrong.

Far too many eyes covered my face, blinking independently. Some were stitched into my cheeks. Others lined my neck. They all stared at me.

Beside it stood another figure.

Lucy.

Except her mouth stretched from ear to ear, packed with row after row of jagged teeth that clicked together like broken glass.

More figures stepped from the darkness. Dozens. Each one looked like us, each one twisted differently. Some had extra limbs. Others bent backward. Some had no skin at all.

They weren't monsters pretending to be us. They looked like versions of us that had been assembled from someone else's nightmares.

My double took a shaky step forward. Its countless eyes filled with tears.

When it spoke, it sounded exactly like my voice.

"Please..."

Another step.

"...Please kill me."

Behind it, Lucy's double smiled with hundreds of teeth.

Then every copy looked up in perfect unison.

And then we started running.

By the time we reached the stairwell landing, I was breathing harder than I should have been. I glanced back through the stairwell window.

The fourth floor was gone.

Not hidden.

Gone.

Beyond the glass wasn't another hallway anymore, but an endless stretch of pale sky filled with slow-moving clouds. For a split second, I thought I saw wings drifting somewhere inside them.

Then the view snapped back to cracked concrete.

"...Lucy."

"I know."

She didn't even look.

"The angel's presence is getting stronger," she said as we kept climbing. "Reality is starting to lose the argument."

"What does that mean?"

"It means this building is forgetting it's a building."

The stairwell groaned around us. A door we had just come through was suddenly twenty feet farther away. The steps beneath my boots shifted with a grinding sound, rearranging themselves as if the school was quietly rebuilding itself around us.

"We need to reach the fifth floor before there isn't a fifth floor anymore."

We ran.

The staircase groaned beneath our feet as the steps behind us began to crumble away, swallowed by an endless black void. Every landing we crossed stretched farther than the last, the distance warping as if the school itself was trying to keep us from reaching the top.

Just as the final flight started to collapse, Lucy slammed into the fifth-floor door and threw it open.

We stumbled through.

Silence.

The screaming was gone. The shaking stopped. The air was still.

After everything we'd fought through, the fifth floor felt impossibly... normal.

Rows of clean lockers lined the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Not a single drop of blood stained the floor.

It was the calm that bothered me most.

Then, somewhere down the hall—

A classroom door creaked open. Inside, it was late afternoon. Warm sunlight drifted through the windows, dust floating lazily in its glow. Outside the classroom, the hallway remained trapped in the dead of night. 

Someone stood alone beside the window.

For a moment, my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.

A girl.

Red hair.

Freckles.

Hazel eyes.

She couldn't have been older than sixteen.

White feathers drifted lazily through the silent classroom.

Eight enormous wings rested behind her, each one so vast they should have torn through the walls, yet reality simply bent around them. Smaller wings blossomed from her shoulders, elbows, wrists, even the backs of her hands, as though Heaven itself had forgotten how many she was meant to have.

She looked...

Beautiful.

Then I noticed the scars.

Thin silver rings circled both wrists.

Another encircled her neck.

Two more rested above her knees.

Perfect.

Unbroken.

Not scars left by wounds...

But by absence.

The exact places...

The Florida River Monster had torn her apart.

My lungs forgot how to breathe.

The reason I'd spent years hunting monsters.

The reason Hell had found me worthy of becoming one of its agents.

The reason I'd crossed lines no human being should ever cross.

Was standing only a few feet away.

Looking at me.

The world dissolved into a dull ringing as my fingers went numb. The revolver slipped from my hand, crashing against the classroom floor with a deafening clang.

She didn't flinch at the sound.

She simply turned toward me.

Then...

She smiled.

Not the serene smile I'd imagined angels wore.

Not some divine expression beyond human understanding. 

Just... Her smile.

The one that used to make me laugh when we skipped class together. 

The one I'd spent years trying to remember.

The one she'd worn on the walk to school that morning.

Before she was taken from me.

"...Hey, Sister."

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

Part 2: I Work for Hell's Retrieval Department. Apparently, I'm Already Underperforming.

Lucy was sitting at the motel's tiny table, a mug in one hand, watching me.

"We're leaving tonight."

I glanced at the clock.

6:00 A.M.

I hadn't slept. Not because I needed it.

Ever since I died, sleep had become optional. I didn't dream anymore. Closing my eyes was just darkness until I decided to open them again.

Usually, that was enough.

Not after last night.

I'd spent hours chasing the Spine Taker through the woods, fighting it, then dragging it back to Hell in chains. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same thing: hundreds of faces staring at me, asking a single question.

Who am I?

By afternoon, I'd stopped pretending sleep was coming. I didn't need food anymore. Or water. Or even rest. But I stayed in bed anyway. Lying there with my eyes closed was the closest thing I had left to feeling human.

When I finally opened my eyes, the clock read 5:00 P.M.

Lucy hadn't moved. She was still sitting at the table reading a book, as though waiting eleven hours for someone to wake up was completely normal.

"About time," she said, setting the book aside. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to hibernate."

"Very funny."

"We leave in ten minutes."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My briefcase was already packed, and the dried mud had been cleaned from the leather.

"...You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

That was her entire explanation.

"...Thanks."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You're welcome."

I grabbed my jacket from the chair. It smelled clean.

"...You washed this too?"

"It had demon blood on it."

"So?"

"So I washed it."

I stared at her.

"...You're the Prime Minister of Hell."

"I am."

"And you did my laundry."

"You were occupied."

I wasn't sure which part of that conversation disturbed me more.

Ten minutes later, we climbed into a black sedan waiting beneath one of the motel's flickering lights. Lucy started the engine, and we pulled onto the highway.

"So," I asked, fastening my seatbelt, "what's the mission?"

"The angel has already killed three retrieval teams."

That immediately got my attention.

"But I found something interesting," she continued. "Every team attacked the angel first."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Angels are creatures defined by peace. Under Heaven's laws, they're forbidden from harming humans unless those humans attack first."

"So every team provoked it."

She nodded.

"They never gave it another choice."

I watched the city drift past outside my window.

"What if it refuses to come with us?"

"Then we'll have to force it."

She paused before adding quietly, "...Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Something in her voice unsettled me. She didn't sound worried we'd fail to arrest the angel.

She sounded uncertain if we'd actually succeed. 

"Do we know which angel it is?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

Lucy shook her head. "No team survived long enough to identify it. Heaven also hasn't answered our requests."

"They're ignoring Hell?"

"There are only two possibilities. Either the angel no longer belongs to Heaven..." She glanced at me briefly. "...or they're choosing not to respond."

"On purpose?"

She didn't answer.

"I don't hurt innocent people," I said.

"I know."

"Then why are we trying to capture an angel that isn't slaughtering civilians?"

"Because one angel walking freely on Earth is enough to destabilize the balance between Heaven and Hell."

"So where is it?"

"An abandoned elementary school."

A navigation marker appeared on the dashboard.

Estimated Arrival: 3 Hours.

"Damn."

I leaned back in my seat, expecting a long drive.

The next thing I knew, Lucy was nudging my shoulder.

"We're here."

I blinked and looked outside.

The highway had vanished.

In its place stood an abandoned elementary school behind rusted fencing and waist-high weeds. The playground was barely visible beneath the overgrowth.

I frowned at the dashboard.

"...Twenty minutes?"

"The car belongs to Hell."

She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn't bother asking for an explanation.

The school looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Broken classroom windows reflected the fading sunlight, and a lone swing creaked lazily back and forth.

There wasn't any wind.

Neither of us moved.

For the first time since I'd met Lucy, she looked genuinely uneasy.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

I followed her gaze to the entrance.

The front doors were already standing open.

As if someone inside had been expecting us.

The moment we stepped across the threshold, every speaker in the building crackled to life. A calm, emotionless voice echoed through the empty halls.

"All agents wishing to speak with the angel may proceed to the fifth floor."

The voice fell silent for a moment.

"Good luck."

The speakers clicked off. I frowned.

"...Good luck?"

Lucy didn't answer.

"Isn't it just a matter of taking the stairs to the fifth floor?"

"It would be," she said quietly, "if reality still worked."

We reached the first stairwell, only to find that the staircase ended at a single hallway. There was no second flight, no way to continue upward. Instead, another staircase waited at the opposite end of the floor.

"So we have to cross every floor just to reach the next staircase?"

"Yes."

I stared at the building's layout.

"Who designed this place? This is the worst school I've ever seen."

Lucy glanced at the walls.

"They didn't."

"What?"

She rested a hand against the cold concrete.

"The building wasn't always like this. Angels distort reality simply by existing. Space bends around them. Hallways move. Rooms change places. Distances stop making sense."

"So..."

"This school is trying to become something else."

I looked down the endless corridor as the lights overhead buzzed weakly and the air carried a faint smell of sulfur. Lucy's expression had changed into something I hadn't seen before.

"The first floor."

I blinked.

"What?"

She pointed ahead.

The first floor was silent.

Not empty—silent.

The kind of silence that made every footstep feel like a mistake. Rows of rusted lockers stretched far beyond where they should have, vanishing into darkness that swallowed the ends of the hallway, while every classroom door hung open just enough to reveal nothing but blackness inside.

I counted my breathing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Something else breathed back.

Lucy raised a hand, silently telling me to stop.

"You hear it?" I whispered.

She nodded.

"Don't run."

The lights flickered.

When they came back, someone was standing at the far end of the corridor.

No.

Something.

From a distance she looked like a woman, but she was impossibly tall, her head nearly brushing the ceiling. Gray skin stretched tightly over unnaturally long limbs, and both arms extended straight out to either side, forming a grotesque cross that reached from wall to wall. Her elbows bent the wrong way, and her fingers scraped against the lockers with a metallic screech.

Then I noticed the uniform—a black tactical jacket just like Lucy's.

Across the chest was a faded patch:

HELL RETRIEVAL TEAM 1.

"...That was a person," I whispered.

Lucy never took her eyes off it. "Was."

The Long Lady's neck twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees until she was staring directly at us. Crack. Crack. Crack. Every joint in her body snapped into place.

Then she smiled.

She didn't run. She unfolded. Her arms slammed into the walls as she lurched forward, dragging herself down the hallway with horrifying speed while lockers crumpled inward beneath those impossibly long limbs.

"Move!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted as metal screamed behind us. I looked over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

One of her hands stretched impossibly far, fingers lengthening like spider legs as they reached for my back.

Lucy fired once.

The infernal round punched through the creature's shoulder. Instead of blood, dozens of human mouths opened inside the wound. They all screamed at once.

The Long Lady collapsed, convulsing violently.

"Keep running!" Lucy shouted.

We reached the stairwell and slammed the door shut behind us. The screaming stopped so abruptly that the silence felt heavier than the noise had.

Lucy didn't even wait to catch her breath before climbing.

"That won't hold it."

The second floor smelled rotten—not like decay, but wet meat. The hallway floor squished beneath our boots.

Then we heard crying.

Not one person.

Hundreds.

The sound echoed from around the corner.

Slowly, something stepped into view.

It was nearly twelve feet tall, not because it had grown, but because bodies had been fused together.

Dozens of torsos twisted into one towering pillar of flesh. Arms protruded in every direction, grabbing blindly through the air. Faces were embedded throughout its body, each frozen in absolute terror. Some begged. Some laughed. Some were still screaming.

Every face wore a HELL badge.

Every face belonged to someone who had come here before us.

"Oh..."

My stomach lurched.

"They're still alive."

Lucy didn't answer.

The body totem took one enormous step. The hallway shook. A dozen arms slammed into the walls, crushing concrete like paper.

Then every face looked at us simultaneously.

"Help us."

"Please."

"It hurts."

"Kill me."

"Don't leave us."

The voices overlapped until they became one deafening roar.

The creature charged.

Its dozens of arms reached forward like a tidal wave. One grabbed a locker and ripped it from the wall. Another punched straight through concrete. A third nearly caught my shoulder.

We ducked beneath a sweeping arm as it shattered the ceiling behind us. Chunks of concrete rained down.

"Stairs!" Lucy yelled.

The totem slammed both arms into the hallway. The impact split the floor behind us.

We threw ourselves through the stairwell door just before another arm punched through it, fingers clawing wildly for us.

By the time we reached the third floor, neither of us was speaking anymore.

The hallway was filled with students.

At least...

They looked like students.

Heads hung low. School uniforms. Backpacks.

Every one of them stood perfectly still, facing away from us.

I counted nearly fifty.

None of them moved.

"They aren't real..." I whispered.

Lucy slowly shook her head.

"No."

One of them turned.

Its jaw was gone. Its eyes were milky white.

Then another turned.

And another.

Every face was rotting. Every uniform had dried blood covering it. Every chest carried the insignia of a different retrieval team beneath torn clothing.

Not students.

Agents.

All of them.

Their mouths opened together.

Then they began walking toward us.

Slowly.

Hundreds of footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Then they started running.

The entire hallway erupted. Dozens of rotting agents charged at us, their boots pounding against the tile with enough force to shake the floor. Their bodies were broken, jaws hanging loose, bones jutting through torn uniforms, yet they moved with terrifying speed.

"The stairs!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted.

Something cold wrapped around my ankle.

I hit the ground hard.

A decomposed agent had crawled out from beneath a row of lockers, its fingers digging into my leg with impossible strength. Half its face had been ripped away, revealing yellowed teeth beneath rotting flesh. The faded patch on its chest read RETRIEVAL TEAM 3.

Its mouth opened.

"Don't... leave..."

I drove my boot into its face. The skull caved in with a sickening crack, and its grip loosened just enough for me to scramble free.

Lucy spun, raising her revolver.

Three deafening shots echoed through the hallway.

Each blessed round punched through a zombie's forehead, reducing the creature to ash before it even hit the ground.

I emptied five rounds of my own into the horde, buying us a few precious seconds.

We dove through the stairwell door.

Lucy slammed it shut.

Something heavy crashed into the other side.

Then another.

The metal door bent inward with every impact.

We didn't wait to see if it would hold.

Halfway up the stairs, Lucy stumbled.

A violent cough escaped her lips.

Dark red blood splattered across the concrete steps.

I grabbed her before she could fall.

"What the hell is happening to you?"

She wiped the blood from her mouth like it was nothing.

"The blessed rounds."

Another cough escaped her.

"They're blessed by Heaven."

Realization hit me.

"And you're..."

She gave a weak smile.

"A demon."

"You've been shooting yourself with Heaven's power this entire time."

"They hurt," she admitted. She pushed herself upright. "But they hurt angels more."

I stared back down the staircase.

"Those things..."

"They were the retrieval teams."

Lucy nodded.

Every failed team. Every soul trapped here.

She turned and started climbing again.

"We need to keep moving."

I followed her up the stairs.

The fourth-floor door creaked open.

Darkness greeted us. Not ordinary darkness. This floor had no light at all. Outside, the sun was still setting.

Inside... night had already fallen.

Even our flashlights struggled. Their beams reached only a few feet before being swallowed whole. Every sound seemed muffled—our footsteps, our breathing, even the clicking of Lucy's revolver sounded distant.

"This isn't normal," I whispered.

"No," Lucy replied quietly.

We moved slowly, staying close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Then I saw someone standing at the end of the hallway.

"...Lucy."

"I see them."

As we approached, my heart stopped.

It was me.

Almost.

My face. My clothes. My height. But wrong.

Far too many eyes covered my face, blinking independently. Some were stitched into my cheeks. Others lined my neck. They all stared at me.

Beside it stood another figure.

Lucy.

Except her mouth stretched from ear to ear, packed with row after row of jagged teeth that clicked together like broken glass.

More figures stepped from the darkness. Dozens. Each one looked like us, each one twisted differently. Some had extra limbs. Others bent backward. Some had no skin at all.

They weren't monsters pretending to be us. They looked like versions of us that had been assembled from someone else's nightmares.

My double took a shaky step forward. Its countless eyes filled with tears.

When it spoke, it sounded exactly like my voice.

"Please..."

Another step.

"...Please kill me."

Behind it, Lucy's double smiled with hundreds of teeth.

Then every copy looked up in perfect unison.

And then we started running.

By the time we reached the stairwell landing, I was breathing harder than I should have been. I glanced back through the stairwell window.

The fourth floor was gone.

Not hidden.

Gone.

Beyond the glass wasn't another hallway anymore, but an endless stretch of pale sky filled with slow-moving clouds. For a split second, I thought I saw wings drifting somewhere inside them.

Then the view snapped back to cracked concrete.

"...Lucy."

"I know."

She didn't even look.

"The angel's presence is getting stronger," she said as we kept climbing. "Reality is starting to lose the argument."

"What does that mean?"

"It means this building is forgetting it's a building."

The stairwell groaned around us. A door we had just come through was suddenly twenty feet farther away. The steps beneath my boots shifted with a grinding sound, rearranging themselves as if the school was quietly rebuilding itself around us.

"We need to reach the fifth floor before there isn't a fifth floor anymore."

We ran.

The staircase groaned beneath our feet as the steps behind us began to crumble away, swallowed by an endless black void. Every landing we crossed stretched farther than the last, the distance warping as if the school itself was trying to keep us from reaching the top.

Just as the final flight started to collapse, Lucy slammed into the fifth-floor door and threw it open.

We stumbled through.

Silence.

The screaming was gone. The shaking stopped. The air was still.

After everything we'd fought through, the fifth floor felt impossibly... normal.

Rows of clean lockers lined the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Not a single drop of blood stained the floor.

It was the calm that bothered me most.

Then, somewhere down the hall—

A classroom door creaked open. Inside, it was late afternoon. Warm sunlight drifted through the windows, dust floating lazily in its glow. Outside the classroom, the hallway remained trapped in the dead of night. 

Someone stood alone beside the window.

For a moment, my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.

A girl.

Red hair.

Freckles.

Hazel eyes.

She couldn't have been older than sixteen.

White feathers drifted lazily through the silent classroom.

Eight enormous wings rested behind her, each one so vast they should have torn through the walls, yet reality simply bent around them. Smaller wings blossomed from her shoulders, elbows, wrists, even the backs of her hands, as though Heaven itself had forgotten how many she was meant to have.

She looked...

Beautiful.

Then I noticed the scars.

Thin silver rings circled both wrists.

Another encircled her neck.

Two more rested above her knees.

Perfect.

Unbroken.

Not scars left by wounds...

But by absence.

The exact places...

The Florida River Monster had torn her apart.

My lungs forgot how to breathe.

The reason I'd spent years hunting monsters.

The reason Hell had found me worthy of becoming one of its agents.

The reason I'd crossed lines no human being should ever cross.

Was standing only a few feet away.

Looking at me.

The world dissolved into a dull ringing as my fingers went numb. The revolver slipped from my hand, crashing against the classroom floor with a deafening clang.

She didn't flinch at the sound.

She simply turned toward me.

Then...

She smiled.

Not the serene smile I'd imagined angels wore.

Not some divine expression beyond human understanding. 

Just... Her smile.

The one that used to make me laugh when we skipped class together. 

The one I'd spent years trying to remember.

The one she'd worn on the walk to school that morning.

Before she was taken from me.

"...Hey, Sister."

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

Part 2: I Work for Hell's Retrieval Department. Apparently, I'm Already Underperforming.

Lucy was sitting at the motel's tiny table, a mug in one hand, watching me.

"We're leaving tonight."

I glanced at the clock.

6:00 A.M.

I hadn't slept. Not because I needed it.

Ever since I died, sleep had become optional. I didn't dream anymore. Closing my eyes was just darkness until I decided to open them again.

Usually, that was enough.

Not after last night.

I'd spent hours chasing the Spine Taker through the woods, fighting it, then dragging it back to Hell in chains. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same thing: hundreds of faces staring at me, asking a single question.

Who am I?

By afternoon, I'd stopped pretending sleep was coming. I didn't need food anymore. Or water. Or even rest. But I stayed in bed anyway. Lying there with my eyes closed was the closest thing I had left to feeling human.

When I finally opened my eyes, the clock read 5:00 P.M.

Lucy hadn't moved. She was still sitting at the table reading a book, as though waiting eleven hours for someone to wake up was completely normal.

"About time," she said, setting the book aside. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to hibernate."

"Very funny."

"We leave in ten minutes."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My briefcase was already packed, and the dried mud had been cleaned from the leather.

"...You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

That was her entire explanation.

"...Thanks."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You're welcome."

I grabbed my jacket from the chair. It smelled clean.

"...You washed this too?"

"It had demon blood on it."

"So?"

"So I washed it."

I stared at her.

"...You're the Prime Minister of Hell."

"I am."

"And you did my laundry."

"You were occupied."

I wasn't sure which part of that conversation disturbed me more.

Ten minutes later, we climbed into a black sedan waiting beneath one of the motel's flickering lights. Lucy started the engine, and we pulled onto the highway.

"So," I asked, fastening my seatbelt, "what's the mission?"

"The angel has already killed three retrieval teams."

That immediately got my attention.

"But I found something interesting," she continued. "Every team attacked the angel first."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Angels are creatures defined by peace. Under Heaven's laws, they're forbidden from harming humans unless those humans attack first."

"So every team provoked it."

She nodded.

"They never gave it another choice."

I watched the city drift past outside my window.

"What if it refuses to come with us?"

"Then we'll have to force it."

She paused before adding quietly, "...Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Something in her voice unsettled me. She didn't sound worried we'd fail to arrest the angel.

She sounded uncertain if we'd actually succeed. 

"Do we know which angel it is?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

Lucy shook her head. "No team survived long enough to identify it. Heaven also hasn't answered our requests."

"They're ignoring Hell?"

"There are only two possibilities. Either the angel no longer belongs to Heaven..." She glanced at me briefly. "...or they're choosing not to respond."

"On purpose?"

She didn't answer.

"I don't hurt innocent people," I said.

"I know."

"Then why are we trying to capture an angel that isn't slaughtering civilians?"

"Because one angel walking freely on Earth is enough to destabilize the balance between Heaven and Hell."

"So where is it?"

"An abandoned elementary school."

A navigation marker appeared on the dashboard.

Estimated Arrival: 3 Hours.

"Damn."

I leaned back in my seat, expecting a long drive.

The next thing I knew, Lucy was nudging my shoulder.

"We're here."

I blinked and looked outside.

The highway had vanished.

In its place stood an abandoned elementary school behind rusted fencing and waist-high weeds. The playground was barely visible beneath the overgrowth.

I frowned at the dashboard.

"...Twenty minutes?"

"The car belongs to Hell."

She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn't bother asking for an explanation.

The school looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Broken classroom windows reflected the fading sunlight, and a lone swing creaked lazily back and forth.

There wasn't any wind.

Neither of us moved.

For the first time since I'd met Lucy, she looked genuinely uneasy.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

I followed her gaze to the entrance.

The front doors were already standing open.

As if someone inside had been expecting us.

The moment we stepped across the threshold, every speaker in the building crackled to life. A calm, emotionless voice echoed through the empty halls.

"All agents wishing to speak with the angel may proceed to the fifth floor."

The voice fell silent for a moment.

"Good luck."

The speakers clicked off. I frowned.

"...Good luck?"

Lucy didn't answer.

"Isn't it just a matter of taking the stairs to the fifth floor?"

"It would be," she said quietly, "if reality still worked."

We reached the first stairwell, only to find that the staircase ended at a single hallway. There was no second flight, no way to continue upward. Instead, another staircase waited at the opposite end of the floor.

"So we have to cross every floor just to reach the next staircase?"

"Yes."

I stared at the building's layout.

"Who designed this place? This is the worst school I've ever seen."

Lucy glanced at the walls.

"They didn't."

"What?"

She rested a hand against the cold concrete.

"The building wasn't always like this. Angels distort reality simply by existing. Space bends around them. Hallways move. Rooms change places. Distances stop making sense."

"So..."

"This school is trying to become something else."

I looked down the endless corridor as the lights overhead buzzed weakly and the air carried a faint smell of sulfur. Lucy's expression had changed into something I hadn't seen before.

"The first floor."

I blinked.

"What?"

She pointed ahead.

The first floor was silent.

Not empty—silent.

The kind of silence that made every footstep feel like a mistake. Rows of rusted lockers stretched far beyond where they should have, vanishing into darkness that swallowed the ends of the hallway, while every classroom door hung open just enough to reveal nothing but blackness inside.

I counted my breathing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Something else breathed back.

Lucy raised a hand, silently telling me to stop.

"You hear it?" I whispered.

She nodded.

"Don't run."

The lights flickered.

When they came back, someone was standing at the far end of the corridor.

No.

Something.

From a distance she looked like a woman, but she was impossibly tall, her head nearly brushing the ceiling. Gray skin stretched tightly over unnaturally long limbs, and both arms extended straight out to either side, forming a grotesque cross that reached from wall to wall. Her elbows bent the wrong way, and her fingers scraped against the lockers with a metallic screech.

Then I noticed the uniform—a black tactical jacket just like Lucy's.

Across the chest was a faded patch:

HELL RETRIEVAL TEAM 1.

"...That was a person," I whispered.

Lucy never took her eyes off it. "Was."

The Long Lady's neck twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees until she was staring directly at us. Crack. Crack. Crack. Every joint in her body snapped into place.

Then she smiled.

She didn't run. She unfolded. Her arms slammed into the walls as she lurched forward, dragging herself down the hallway with horrifying speed while lockers crumpled inward beneath those impossibly long limbs.

"Move!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted as metal screamed behind us. I looked over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

One of her hands stretched impossibly far, fingers lengthening like spider legs as they reached for my back.

Lucy fired once.

The infernal round punched through the creature's shoulder. Instead of blood, dozens of human mouths opened inside the wound. They all screamed at once.

The Long Lady collapsed, convulsing violently.

"Keep running!" Lucy shouted.

We reached the stairwell and slammed the door shut behind us. The screaming stopped so abruptly that the silence felt heavier than the noise had.

Lucy didn't even wait to catch her breath before climbing.

"That won't hold it."

The second floor smelled rotten—not like decay, but wet meat. The hallway floor squished beneath our boots.

Then we heard crying.

Not one person.

Hundreds.

The sound echoed from around the corner.

Slowly, something stepped into view.

It was nearly twelve feet tall, not because it had grown, but because bodies had been fused together.

Dozens of torsos twisted into one towering pillar of flesh. Arms protruded in every direction, grabbing blindly through the air. Faces were embedded throughout its body, each frozen in absolute terror. Some begged. Some laughed. Some were still screaming.

Every face wore a HELL badge.

Every face belonged to someone who had come here before us.

"Oh..."

My stomach lurched.

"They're still alive."

Lucy didn't answer.

The body totem took one enormous step. The hallway shook. A dozen arms slammed into the walls, crushing concrete like paper.

Then every face looked at us simultaneously.

"Help us."

"Please."

"It hurts."

"Kill me."

"Don't leave us."

The voices overlapped until they became one deafening roar.

The creature charged.

Its dozens of arms reached forward like a tidal wave. One grabbed a locker and ripped it from the wall. Another punched straight through concrete. A third nearly caught my shoulder.

We ducked beneath a sweeping arm as it shattered the ceiling behind us. Chunks of concrete rained down.

"Stairs!" Lucy yelled.

The totem slammed both arms into the hallway. The impact split the floor behind us.

We threw ourselves through the stairwell door just before another arm punched through it, fingers clawing wildly for us.

By the time we reached the third floor, neither of us was speaking anymore.

The hallway was filled with students.

At least...

They looked like students.

Heads hung low. School uniforms. Backpacks.

Every one of them stood perfectly still, facing away from us.

I counted nearly fifty.

None of them moved.

"They aren't real..." I whispered.

Lucy slowly shook her head.

"No."

One of them turned.

Its jaw was gone. Its eyes were milky white.

Then another turned.

And another.

Every face was rotting. Every uniform had dried blood covering it. Every chest carried the insignia of a different retrieval team beneath torn clothing.

Not students.

Agents.

All of them.

Their mouths opened together.

Then they began walking toward us.

Slowly.

Hundreds of footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Then they started running.

The entire hallway erupted. Dozens of rotting agents charged at us, their boots pounding against the tile with enough force to shake the floor. Their bodies were broken, jaws hanging loose, bones jutting through torn uniforms, yet they moved with terrifying speed.

"The stairs!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted.

Something cold wrapped around my ankle.

I hit the ground hard.

A decomposed agent had crawled out from beneath a row of lockers, its fingers digging into my leg with impossible strength. Half its face had been ripped away, revealing yellowed teeth beneath rotting flesh. The faded patch on its chest read RETRIEVAL TEAM 3.

Its mouth opened.

"Don't... leave..."

I drove my boot into its face. The skull caved in with a sickening crack, and its grip loosened just enough for me to scramble free.

Lucy spun, raising her revolver.

Three deafening shots echoed through the hallway.

Each blessed round punched through a zombie's forehead, reducing the creature to ash before it even hit the ground.

I emptied five rounds of my own into the horde, buying us a few precious seconds.

We dove through the stairwell door.

Lucy slammed it shut.

Something heavy crashed into the other side.

Then another.

The metal door bent inward with every impact.

We didn't wait to see if it would hold.

Halfway up the stairs, Lucy stumbled.

A violent cough escaped her lips.

Dark red blood splattered across the concrete steps.

I grabbed her before she could fall.

"What the hell is happening to you?"

She wiped the blood from her mouth like it was nothing.

"The blessed rounds."

Another cough escaped her.

"They're blessed by Heaven."

Realization hit me.

"And you're..."

She gave a weak smile.

"A demon."

"You've been shooting yourself with Heaven's power this entire time."

"They hurt," she admitted. She pushed herself upright. "But they hurt angels more."

I stared back down the staircase.

"Those things..."

"They were the retrieval teams."

Lucy nodded.

Every failed team. Every soul trapped here.

She turned and started climbing again.

"We need to keep moving."

I followed her up the stairs.

The fourth-floor door creaked open.

Darkness greeted us. Not ordinary darkness. This floor had no light at all. Outside, the sun was still setting.

Inside... night had already fallen.

Even our flashlights struggled. Their beams reached only a few feet before being swallowed whole. Every sound seemed muffled—our footsteps, our breathing, even the clicking of Lucy's revolver sounded distant.

"This isn't normal," I whispered.

"No," Lucy replied quietly.

We moved slowly, staying close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Then I saw someone standing at the end of the hallway.

"...Lucy."

"I see them."

As we approached, my heart stopped.

It was me.

Almost.

My face. My clothes. My height. But wrong.

Far too many eyes covered my face, blinking independently. Some were stitched into my cheeks. Others lined my neck. They all stared at me.

Beside it stood another figure.

Lucy.

Except her mouth stretched from ear to ear, packed with row after row of jagged teeth that clicked together like broken glass.

More figures stepped from the darkness. Dozens. Each one looked like us, each one twisted differently. Some had extra limbs. Others bent backward. Some had no skin at all.

They weren't monsters pretending to be us. They looked like versions of us that had been assembled from someone else's nightmares.

My double took a shaky step forward. Its countless eyes filled with tears.

When it spoke, it sounded exactly like my voice.

"Please..."

Another step.

"...Please kill me."

Behind it, Lucy's double smiled with hundreds of teeth.

Then every copy looked up in perfect unison.

And then we started running.

By the time we reached the stairwell landing, I was breathing harder than I should have been. I glanced back through the stairwell window.

The fourth floor was gone.

Not hidden.

Gone.

Beyond the glass wasn't another hallway anymore, but an endless stretch of pale sky filled with slow-moving clouds. For a split second, I thought I saw wings drifting somewhere inside them.

Then the view snapped back to cracked concrete.

"...Lucy."

"I know."

She didn't even look.

"The angel's presence is getting stronger," she said as we kept climbing. "Reality is starting to lose the argument."

"What does that mean?"

"It means this building is forgetting it's a building."

The stairwell groaned around us. A door we had just come through was suddenly twenty feet farther away. The steps beneath my boots shifted with a grinding sound, rearranging themselves as if the school was quietly rebuilding itself around us.

"We need to reach the fifth floor before there isn't a fifth floor anymore."

We ran.

The staircase groaned beneath our feet as the steps behind us began to crumble away, swallowed by an endless black void. Every landing we crossed stretched farther than the last, the distance warping as if the school itself was trying to keep us from reaching the top.

Just as the final flight started to collapse, Lucy slammed into the fifth-floor door and threw it open.

We stumbled through.

Silence.

The screaming was gone. The shaking stopped. The air was still.

After everything we'd fought through, the fifth floor felt impossibly... normal.

Rows of clean lockers lined the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Not a single drop of blood stained the floor.

It was the calm that bothered me most.

Then, somewhere down the hall—

A classroom door creaked open. Inside, it was late afternoon. Warm sunlight drifted through the windows, dust floating lazily in its glow. Outside the classroom, the hallway remained trapped in the dead of night. 

Someone stood alone beside the window.

For a moment, my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.

A girl.

Red hair.

Freckles.

Hazel eyes.

She couldn't have been older than sixteen.

White feathers drifted lazily through the silent classroom.

Eight enormous wings rested behind her, each one so vast they should have torn through the walls, yet reality simply bent around them. Smaller wings blossomed from her shoulders, elbows, wrists, even the backs of her hands, as though Heaven itself had forgotten how many she was meant to have.

She looked...

Beautiful.

Then I noticed the scars.

Thin silver rings circled both wrists.

Another encircled her neck.

Two more rested above her knees.

Perfect.

Unbroken.

Not scars left by wounds...

But by absence.

The exact places...

The Florida River Monster had torn her apart.

My lungs forgot how to breathe.

The reason I'd spent years hunting monsters.

The reason Hell had found me worthy of becoming one of its agents.

The reason I'd crossed lines no human being should ever cross.

Was standing only a few feet away.

Looking at me.

The world dissolved into a dull ringing as my fingers went numb. The revolver slipped from my hand, crashing against the classroom floor with a deafening clang.

She didn't flinch at the sound.

She simply turned toward me.

Then...

She smiled.

Not the serene smile I'd imagined angels wore.

Not some divine expression beyond human understanding. 

Just... Her smile.

The one that used to make me laugh when we skipped class together. 

The one I'd spent years trying to remember.

The one she'd worn on the walk to school that morning.

Before she was taken from me.

"...Hey, Sister."

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

Part 2: I Work for Hell's Retrieval Department. Apparently, I'm Already Underperforming.

Lucy was sitting at the motel's tiny table, a mug in one hand, watching me.

"We're leaving tonight."

I glanced at the clock.

6:00 A.M.

I hadn't slept. Not because I needed it.

Ever since I died, sleep had become optional. I didn't dream anymore. Closing my eyes was just darkness until I decided to open them again.

Usually, that was enough.

Not after last night.

I'd spent hours chasing the Spine Taker through the woods, fighting it, then dragging it back to Hell in chains. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same thing: hundreds of faces staring at me, asking a single question.

Who am I?

By afternoon, I'd stopped pretending sleep was coming. I didn't need food anymore. Or water. Or even rest. But I stayed in bed anyway. Lying there with my eyes closed was the closest thing I had left to feeling human.

When I finally opened my eyes, the clock read 5:00 P.M.

Lucy hadn't moved. She was still sitting at the table reading a book, as though waiting eleven hours for someone to wake up was completely normal.

"About time," she said, setting the book aside. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to hibernate."

"Very funny."

"We leave in ten minutes."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My briefcase was already packed, and the dried mud had been cleaned from the leather.

"...You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

That was her entire explanation.

"...Thanks."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"You're welcome."

I grabbed my jacket from the chair. It smelled clean.

"...You washed this too?"

"It had demon blood on it."

"So?"

"So I washed it."

I stared at her.

"...You're the Prime Minister of Hell."

"I am."

"And you did my laundry."

"You were occupied."

I wasn't sure which part of that conversation disturbed me more.

Ten minutes later, we climbed into a black sedan waiting beneath one of the motel's flickering lights. Lucy started the engine, and we pulled onto the highway.

"So," I asked, fastening my seatbelt, "what's the mission?"

"The angel has already killed three retrieval teams."

That immediately got my attention.

"But I found something interesting," she continued. "Every team attacked the angel first."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Angels are creatures defined by peace. Under Heaven's laws, they're forbidden from harming humans unless those humans attack first."

"So every team provoked it."

She nodded.

"They never gave it another choice."

I watched the city drift past outside my window.

"What if it refuses to come with us?"

"Then we'll have to force it."

She paused before adding quietly, "...Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Something in her voice unsettled me. She didn't sound worried we'd fail to arrest the angel.

She sounded uncertain if we'd actually succeed. 

"Do we know which angel it is?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

Lucy shook her head. "No team survived long enough to identify it. Heaven also hasn't answered our requests."

"They're ignoring Hell?"

"There are only two possibilities. Either the angel no longer belongs to Heaven..." She glanced at me briefly. "...or they're choosing not to respond."

"On purpose?"

She didn't answer.

"I don't hurt innocent people," I said.

"I know."

"Then why are we trying to capture an angel that isn't slaughtering civilians?"

"Because one angel walking freely on Earth is enough to destabilize the balance between Heaven and Hell."

"So where is it?"

"An abandoned elementary school."

A navigation marker appeared on the dashboard.

Estimated Arrival: 3 Hours.

"Damn."

I leaned back in my seat, expecting a long drive.

The next thing I knew, Lucy was nudging my shoulder.

"We're here."

I blinked and looked outside.

The highway had vanished.

In its place stood an abandoned elementary school behind rusted fencing and waist-high weeds. The playground was barely visible beneath the overgrowth.

I frowned at the dashboard.

"...Twenty minutes?"

"The car belongs to Hell."

She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn't bother asking for an explanation.

The school looked like it had been abandoned for decades. Broken classroom windows reflected the fading sunlight, and a lone swing creaked lazily back and forth.

There wasn't any wind.

Neither of us moved.

For the first time since I'd met Lucy, she looked genuinely uneasy.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

I followed her gaze to the entrance.

The front doors were already standing open.

As if someone inside had been expecting us.

The moment we stepped across the threshold, every speaker in the building crackled to life. A calm, emotionless voice echoed through the empty halls.

"All agents wishing to speak with the angel may proceed to the fifth floor."

The voice fell silent for a moment.

"Good luck."

The speakers clicked off. I frowned.

"...Good luck?"

Lucy didn't answer.

"Isn't it just a matter of taking the stairs to the fifth floor?"

"It would be," she said quietly, "if reality still worked."

We reached the first stairwell, only to find that the staircase ended at a single hallway. There was no second flight, no way to continue upward. Instead, another staircase waited at the opposite end of the floor.

"So we have to cross every floor just to reach the next staircase?"

"Yes."

I stared at the building's layout.

"Who designed this place? This is the worst school I've ever seen."

Lucy glanced at the walls.

"They didn't."

"What?"

She rested a hand against the cold concrete.

"The building wasn't always like this. Angels distort reality simply by existing. Space bends around them. Hallways move. Rooms change places. Distances stop making sense."

"So..."

"This school is trying to become something else."

I looked down the endless corridor as the lights overhead buzzed weakly and the air carried a faint smell of sulfur. Lucy's expression had changed into something I hadn't seen before.

"The first floor."

I blinked.

"What?"

She pointed ahead.

The first floor was silent.

Not empty—silent.

The kind of silence that made every footstep feel like a mistake. Rows of rusted lockers stretched far beyond where they should have, vanishing into darkness that swallowed the ends of the hallway, while every classroom door hung open just enough to reveal nothing but blackness inside.

I counted my breathing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Something else breathed back.

Lucy raised a hand, silently telling me to stop.

"You hear it?" I whispered.

She nodded.

"Don't run."

The lights flickered.

When they came back, someone was standing at the far end of the corridor.

No.

Something.

From a distance she looked like a woman, but she was impossibly tall, her head nearly brushing the ceiling. Gray skin stretched tightly over unnaturally long limbs, and both arms extended straight out to either side, forming a grotesque cross that reached from wall to wall. Her elbows bent the wrong way, and her fingers scraped against the lockers with a metallic screech.

Then I noticed the uniform—a black tactical jacket just like Lucy's.

Across the chest was a faded patch:

HELL RETRIEVAL TEAM 1.

"...That was a person," I whispered.

Lucy never took her eyes off it. "Was."

The Long Lady's neck twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees until she was staring directly at us. Crack. Crack. Crack. Every joint in her body snapped into place.

Then she smiled.

She didn't run. She unfolded. Her arms slammed into the walls as she lurched forward, dragging herself down the hallway with horrifying speed while lockers crumpled inward beneath those impossibly long limbs.

"Move!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted as metal screamed behind us. I looked over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

One of her hands stretched impossibly far, fingers lengthening like spider legs as they reached for my back.

Lucy fired once.

The infernal round punched through the creature's shoulder. Instead of blood, dozens of human mouths opened inside the wound. They all screamed at once.

The Long Lady collapsed, convulsing violently.

"Keep running!" Lucy shouted.

We reached the stairwell and slammed the door shut behind us. The screaming stopped so abruptly that the silence felt heavier than the noise had.

Lucy didn't even wait to catch her breath before climbing.

"That won't hold it."

The second floor smelled rotten—not like decay, but wet meat. The hallway floor squished beneath our boots.

Then we heard crying.

Not one person.

Hundreds.

The sound echoed from around the corner.

Slowly, something stepped into view.

It was nearly twelve feet tall, not because it had grown, but because bodies had been fused together.

Dozens of torsos twisted into one towering pillar of flesh. Arms protruded in every direction, grabbing blindly through the air. Faces were embedded throughout its body, each frozen in absolute terror. Some begged. Some laughed. Some were still screaming.

Every face wore a HELL badge.

Every face belonged to someone who had come here before us.

"Oh..."

My stomach lurched.

"They're still alive."

Lucy didn't answer.

The body totem took one enormous step. The hallway shook. A dozen arms slammed into the walls, crushing concrete like paper.

Then every face looked at us simultaneously.

"Help us."

"Please."

"It hurts."

"Kill me."

"Don't leave us."

The voices overlapped until they became one deafening roar.

The creature charged.

Its dozens of arms reached forward like a tidal wave. One grabbed a locker and ripped it from the wall. Another punched straight through concrete. A third nearly caught my shoulder.

We ducked beneath a sweeping arm as it shattered the ceiling behind us. Chunks of concrete rained down.

"Stairs!" Lucy yelled.

The totem slammed both arms into the hallway. The impact split the floor behind us.

We threw ourselves through the stairwell door just before another arm punched through it, fingers clawing wildly for us.

By the time we reached the third floor, neither of us was speaking anymore.

The hallway was filled with students.

At least...

They looked like students.

Heads hung low. School uniforms. Backpacks.

Every one of them stood perfectly still, facing away from us.

I counted nearly fifty.

None of them moved.

"They aren't real..." I whispered.

Lucy slowly shook her head.

"No."

One of them turned.

Its jaw was gone. Its eyes were milky white.

Then another turned.

And another.

Every face was rotting. Every uniform had dried blood covering it. Every chest carried the insignia of a different retrieval team beneath torn clothing.

Not students.

Agents.

All of them.

Their mouths opened together.

Then they began walking toward us.

Slowly.

Hundreds of footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Then they started running.

The entire hallway erupted. Dozens of rotting agents charged at us, their boots pounding against the tile with enough force to shake the floor. Their bodies were broken, jaws hanging loose, bones jutting through torn uniforms, yet they moved with terrifying speed.

"The stairs!" Lucy shouted.

We sprinted.

Something cold wrapped around my ankle.

I hit the ground hard.

A decomposed agent had crawled out from beneath a row of lockers, its fingers digging into my leg with impossible strength. Half its face had been ripped away, revealing yellowed teeth beneath rotting flesh. The faded patch on its chest read RETRIEVAL TEAM 3.

Its mouth opened.

"Don't... leave..."

I drove my boot into its face. The skull caved in with a sickening crack, and its grip loosened just enough for me to scramble free.

Lucy spun, raising her revolver.

Three deafening shots echoed through the hallway.

Each blessed round punched through a zombie's forehead, reducing the creature to ash before it even hit the ground.

I emptied five rounds of my own into the horde, buying us a few precious seconds.

We dove through the stairwell door.

Lucy slammed it shut.

Something heavy crashed into the other side.

Then another.

The metal door bent inward with every impact.

We didn't wait to see if it would hold.

Halfway up the stairs, Lucy stumbled.

A violent cough escaped her lips.

Dark red blood splattered across the concrete steps.

I grabbed her before she could fall.

"What the hell is happening to you?"

She wiped the blood from her mouth like it was nothing.

"The blessed rounds."

Another cough escaped her.

"They're blessed by Heaven."

Realization hit me.

"And you're..."

She gave a weak smile.

"A demon."

"You've been shooting yourself with Heaven's power this entire time."

"They hurt," she admitted. She pushed herself upright. "But they hurt angels more."

I stared back down the staircase.

"Those things..."

"They were the retrieval teams."

Lucy nodded.

Every failed team. Every soul trapped here.

She turned and started climbing again.

"We need to keep moving."

I followed her up the stairs.

The fourth-floor door creaked open.

Darkness greeted us. Not ordinary darkness. This floor had no light at all. Outside, the sun was still setting.

Inside... night had already fallen.

Even our flashlights struggled. Their beams reached only a few feet before being swallowed whole. Every sound seemed muffled—our footsteps, our breathing, even the clicking of Lucy's revolver sounded distant.

"This isn't normal," I whispered.

"No," Lucy replied quietly.

We moved slowly, staying close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Then I saw someone standing at the end of the hallway.

"...Lucy."

"I see them."

As we approached, my heart stopped.

It was me.

Almost.

My face. My clothes. My height. But wrong.

Far too many eyes covered my face, blinking independently. Some were stitched into my cheeks. Others lined my neck. They all stared at me.

Beside it stood another figure.

Lucy.

Except her mouth stretched from ear to ear, packed with row after row of jagged teeth that clicked together like broken glass.

More figures stepped from the darkness. Dozens. Each one looked like us, each one twisted differently. Some had extra limbs. Others bent backward. Some had no skin at all.

They weren't monsters pretending to be us. They looked like versions of us that had been assembled from someone else's nightmares.

My double took a shaky step forward. Its countless eyes filled with tears.

When it spoke, it sounded exactly like my voice.

"Please..."

Another step.

"...Please kill me."

Behind it, Lucy's double smiled with hundreds of teeth.

Then every copy looked up in perfect unison.

And then we started running.

By the time we reached the stairwell landing, I was breathing harder than I should have been. I glanced back through the stairwell window.

The fourth floor was gone.

Not hidden.

Gone.

Beyond the glass wasn't another hallway anymore, but an endless stretch of pale sky filled with slow-moving clouds. For a split second, I thought I saw wings drifting somewhere inside them.

Then the view snapped back to cracked concrete.

"...Lucy."

"I know."

She didn't even look.

"The angel's presence is getting stronger," she said as we kept climbing. "Reality is starting to lose the argument."

"What does that mean?"

"It means this building is forgetting it's a building."

The stairwell groaned around us. A door we had just come through was suddenly twenty feet farther away. The steps beneath my boots shifted with a grinding sound, rearranging themselves as if the school was quietly rebuilding itself around us.

"We need to reach the fifth floor before there isn't a fifth floor anymore."

We ran.

The staircase groaned beneath our feet as the steps behind us began to crumble away, swallowed by an endless black void. Every landing we crossed stretched farther than the last, the distance warping as if the school itself was trying to keep us from reaching the top.

Just as the final flight started to collapse, Lucy slammed into the fifth-floor door and threw it open.

We stumbled through.

Silence.

The screaming was gone. The shaking stopped. The air was still.

After everything we'd fought through, the fifth floor felt impossibly... normal.

Rows of clean lockers lined the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Not a single drop of blood stained the floor.

It was the calm that bothered me most.

Then, somewhere down the hall—

A classroom door creaked open. Inside, it was late afternoon. Warm sunlight drifted through the windows, dust floating lazily in its glow. Outside the classroom, the hallway remained trapped in the dead of night. 

Someone stood alone beside the window.

For a moment, my mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.

A girl.

Red hair.

Freckles.

Hazel eyes.

She couldn't have been older than sixteen.

White feathers drifted lazily through the silent classroom.

Eight enormous wings rested behind her, each one so vast they should have torn through the walls, yet reality simply bent around them. Smaller wings blossomed from her shoulders, elbows, wrists, even the backs of her hands, as though Heaven itself had forgotten how many she was meant to have.

She looked...

Beautiful.

Then I noticed the scars.

Thin silver rings circled both wrists.

Another encircled her neck.

Two more rested above her knees.

Perfect.

Unbroken.

Not scars left by wounds...

But by absence.

The exact places...

The Florida River Monster had torn her apart.

My lungs forgot how to breathe.

The reason I'd spent years hunting monsters.

The reason Hell had found me worthy of becoming one of its agents.

The reason I'd crossed lines no human being should ever cross.

Was standing only a few feet away.

Looking at me.

The world dissolved into a dull ringing as my fingers went numb. The revolver slipped from my hand, crashing against the classroom floor with a deafening clang.

She didn't flinch at the sound.

She simply turned toward me.

Then...

She smiled.

Not the serene smile I'd imagined angels wore.

Not some divine expression beyond human understanding. 

Just... Her smile.

The one that used to make me laugh when we skipped class together. 

The one I'd spent years trying to remember.

The one she'd worn on the walk to school that morning.

Before she was taken from me.

"...Hey, Sister."

Part 1: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. We Had to Make a Sacrifice This Time.

Part 2: I Went to Antarctica Looking for 10,000 Missing People. I Came Back With a New Boss.

Part 3: Apparently Using Assistants as Sacrifices Violates Company Policy

Part 4: I Work for an Organization That Hunts Gods. One of Them Warned Me About the Angel Following Me.

Part 5: My Boss Asked Me If I Thought He Was a Monster. Now I Know Why.

Part 6: The Most Powerful Being in the CSP Is Studying Humans. Unfortunately, I'm His Favorite Lab Rat.

I woke to the quiet vibration of my phone against the nightstand. Not ringing. Vibrating. Whoever was calling knew better than to wake an entire apartment building before dawn. My hand fumbled across the table until I found it. The screen showed a single name.

Jacob.

I answered immediately.

"...What's wrong?"

There was no greeting.

"Nayeri."

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

"Sean is gone."

Sleep vanished instantly. I sat upright.

"What do you mean, gone?"

"His absence was discovered during this morning's scheduled worship session with the Egyptian god."

For a moment, I simply stared into the darkness.

"...How?"

"We do not know."

That answer didn't make sense.

Sean wasn't a god.

He wasn't an angel.

He was just...

A human. Even under the Egyptian god's control, he was still just a human. Someone like him escaping CSP Headquarters should have been impossible.

"...Has someone helped him?"

"We are investigating."

"A portal?"

"No evidence."

"A breach?"

"No."

Each answer only made Sean's disappearance stranger. Jacob let out an almost imperceptible sigh before saying, "I will call you with further updates."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone for another few seconds before climbing out of bed. When I stepped into the living room, Angelo was already awake. He sat quietly on the couch with his hands folded in his lap, watching the sunrise spill through the apartment window.

Without looking away from the glass, he asked, "...You could not sleep?"

"Jacob called."

That got his attention.

He turned toward me.

"I see."

"Sean's gone."

For the first time since I'd met him, Angelo didn't answer immediately. He tilted his head slightly, as though trying to fit those words into a version of reality where they made sense.

"...Gone?"

"They didn't find him at the Egyptian god's worship session this morning."

He was silent for several long seconds, his expression unchanged. If anything, that worried me more.

Finally, he spoke.

"That should be physically impossible for a human."

Neither of us said anything after that.

A minute later, we left the apartment. I'd just locked the door when a bright flash lit up the hallway.

Click.

A camera shutter.

I looked at Angelo, then at the woman already bolting down the stairs. The phone in her hand told me everything I needed to know.

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"One of your stalkers."

Angelo tilted his head.

"...I have stalkers?"

"Your fan club."

He blinked once.

I took off after her. It didn't take long to catch up. She was sprinting down the stairs, taking three or four steps at a time like an overcaffeinated monkey.

Unfortunately for her, so was I.

I caught the back of her jacket before she'd even reached the next landing.

She yelped.

"Wait! I can explain!"

Before she could react, I took the phone from her hand. I looked down the center of the stairwell, then let go.

The phone bounced off one landing. Then another, before disappearing into the shaft.

A second later, a satisfying CRACK echoed up from fifteen floors below.

I looked back at her.

She stared at me in horror.

"Now," I said, brushing off my hands, "you don't need to explain."

Her expression cycled through horror, surprise, and anger in the span of about ten seconds.

"How long has he been living with you?"

I raised an eyebrow.

"How long have you been camping outside my apartment?"

Her mouth opened, then quietly closed again.

I took a step closer.

"You're aware you can be disciplined for stalking a senior officer, right?"

The color drained from her face.

"R-Right..."

"Good."

That was enough to kill the rest of her questions. Which was for the best.

Because who Angelo lived with was none of her business.

As if on cue, Angelo materialized beside me without so much as a sound and continued toward the next flight of stairs. He didn't even spare the woman a glance, looking at me instead, he said in the same calm voice as always,

"We are going to be late."

I guess his priorities were straight.

Even after watching me interrogate one of his stalkers, Angelo seemed far more concerned about arriving on time than anything else.

By the time we reached Jacob's office, only a handful of people were inside. Madame Leni stood beside the conference table, along with several division chiefs and the heads of Security and Intelligence. Every person in the room held the highest level of clearance. The doors sealed behind us with a heavy metallic click.

A holographic recording hovered above the table.

Jacob didn't waste time.

"The Egyptian god remains in custody."

A small relief.

"But we've recovered security footage."

The recording began.

Sean walked calmly through Wing Six.

No guards chasing him.

No signs of panic.

He simply rounded a corner...

...and disappeared.

The recording froze.

"That's it?" I asked.

Jacob nodded.

"Every camera beyond that point was erased. This is the final ten seconds we possess."

I frowned.

Wing Six.

Why Wing Six?

That section only housed archives, administrative offices, and enough paperwork to make gods confess out of boredom. Sean had no reason to be there. Then my mind connected two corridors. Wing Six bordered Wing Seven.

My stomach dropped.

Wing Seven housed the Angelic Armory. Only a handful of people in the entire CSP even knew it existed.

Sean shouldn't have known.

Jacob must have reached the same conclusion because he slowly turned toward the Security Chief.

"The armory."

The room fell deathly silent.

The Security Chief's face drained of color before he rushed for the exit without another word.

Jacob didn't wait.

"I'm going myself."

He turned toward me.

"Nayeri. Interrogate the Egyptian god."

I nodded.

Neither of us said what everyone in that room was thinking.

If Sean had reached the Angelic Armory...

...then the only thing more dangerous than a god on the loose was a man carrying a weapon built to kill one.

We reached the forty-fifth floor only minutes later.

The Egyptian god hadn't changed much since our last visit. It was still in the form of the massive stone statue, still surrounded by thousands of silent worshippers shuffling in endless circles as they whispered prayers beneath their breath.

Although...

It looked smaller.

Not by much.

Just enough to make me wonder if I was imagining it.

The statue smiled the moment I stepped inside.

"We meet again, agent."

"I was hoping we wouldn't."

"I, however, wished to thank you."

I frowned.

"For what?"

"Your gift."

"What gift?"

Its stone lips curled into something almost resembling amusement.

"Your assistant. He is a remarkably devoted worshipper. My favorite among the thousands who now serve me."

The chanting around us faltered for a single heartbeat before settling back into its endless rhythm.

"Do you know where your favorite worshiper is?" I asked.

"No."

"Don't lie."

The statue laughed, the sound rolling through the chamber like distant thunder.

"Agent... how does it feel to command an angel?"

"We don't command him."

"Humans were never meant to possess such power."

I said nothing.

It continued anyway.

"Did Heaven never teach you what angelic blood can do?"

A knot formed in my stomach.

"A single drop," it whispered, "is enough to let a god become more than it was ever meant to be."

Before I could ask another question, the elevator doors slid open behind me.

Jacob stormed inside with half the Security Division at his back, and one look at his face told me everything. "The armory's been breached."

My stomach dropped as he continued.

"The angelic rifle is missing."

The room fell silent.

Then everything clicked into place. Sean had gone to Wing Seven. He'd stolen the angelic rifle, and all of it had been for a single purpose.

Angelo's blood.

The Egyptian god had never been trying to escape.

It was trying to obtain the blood.

The statue laughed.

"This rifle?"

A figure stepped out from behind the massive stone statue.

Sean. 
His eyes were vacant, stripped of anything human, and the angelic rifle rested comfortably in his hands as though he'd carried it his entire life. Without a word, he slowly raised the barrel.

For one impossible moment, I thought he was aiming at Angelo.

He wasn't.

He was aiming at me, and all I felt was an unexpected sense of calm. Funny enough, I'd made peace with dying a long time ago. If someone had to be standing in front of that rifle, I'd rather it be me than him.

Sean pulled the trigger.

BANG.

A violent rush of air swept across my face. I blinked, expecting pain, but instead all I could see was the back of a black shirt.

I slowly looked up.

Angelo.

He was standing between me and the rifle. At my height, his body completely obscured everything in front of me. I hadn't even seen him move. One moment he had been on the opposite side of the room, and the next he was shielding me from a rifle he had forged with his own power, a weapon created for one purpose.

To kill gods.

Then Jacob screamed.

"ANGELO!"

A crimson droplet floated past my field of vision.

Drip.

The Egyptian god moved.

No.

It lunged.

Angelo grabbed me and pulled me sideways just as the massive stone statue crossed the chamber with impossible speed, its enormous hand crashing into the floor as it reached for the crimson droplet. Its finger brushed the angelic blood midair, and for one long heartbeat, the entire room fell silent.

Then the statue began to laugh.

"At last..."

The laughter died almost as quickly as it had begun.

A sharp crack echoed through the chamber.

The god looked down at its hand as thin black fractures spread across the stone where Angelo's blood had touched it. The cracks multiplied with terrifying speed. First the fingers crumbled into dust, then the hand, then the wrist. The Egyptian god let out a scream unlike anything I'd ever heard. It wasn't the scream of something in pain.

It was the scream of pure panic.

The corruption raced up its arm, reducing ancient stone to ash that scattered across the floor. Around us, the endless chanting dissolved into screams as thousands of worshippers staggered backward or collapsed to their knees while identical cracks spread across their bodies.

"You don't understand!" the god shrieked. "I have worshippers! I have power! I have—"

The sentence ended in a cough of gray dust.

A jagged fracture split across its chest, followed by another, and then another, until the entire statue collapsed. Not into rubble, but into ash, a mountain of gray dust crashing onto the floor where an ancient god had stood only moments before, leaving silence to settle over the chamber. 

The chanting had already stopped, and the worshippers were gone as well, reduced to ash alongside their god, while Sean lay motionless on the floor, his body cracked like weathered stone as gray dust drifted from the fractures.

I looked at Jacob.

His eyes widened.

"No!"

He sprinted past me and dropped to Sean's side, his hands shaking as he searched desperately for any sign of life. I ran to Angelo instead, my eyes immediately finding the neat, circular hole burned straight through the front of his black shirt where the round had struck.

My stomach dropped.

Slowly, I reached forward and pulled the torn fabric aside.

Pale skin.

Unbroken.

Not even a mark.

“We are going to the nurse now,” I demanded.

“I am fine,” Angelo replied, already turning away as though an angelic rifle hadn't just been fired at him.

“No, you’re not.”

He paused.

That, more than anything, told me I was right.

Around us, ash drifted through the chamber like snow where a god had ceased to exist, while somewhere behind me Jacob shouted orders over what remained of Sean.

Angelo finally looked back at me.

“I sustained no injury.”

“There’s a hole in your shirt.”

He glanced down at the neat circular burn and said, “It did not penetrate,” 

“That’s not the point,” 

“It is the only relevant point.”

I grabbed his wrist before he could walk off again, and for once he didn’t resist, which somehow made my stomach tighten more than if he had.

“We are going to medical. Now.” 

I watched his gaze flick to my hand before he answered, “…Very well,” while ash continued to fall behind us.

The nurse looked at me the moment we walked in like she’d already decided this was above her pay grade, her eyes flicking from Angelo to me and back again as if trying to determine whether this counted as a medical emergency or a diplomatic incident.

“…Right,” she said slowly, sinking back into her chair. “Okay.”

She leaned forward, squinting at the hole in his shirt and then at the skin beneath it, before exhaling through her nose and asking, “…It didn’t go through?”

“No.”

She paused again, then looked between us and said carefully, “Then just get some rest.”

I blinked. “…What?”

“For both of you,” she added quickly. “Preferably for a long time. At least eight hours. Minimum.”

Angelo tilted his head slightly. “I am not fatigued.” 

“That’s not my concern,” she said immediately. 

She stood up, already moving toward the door, clearly done with this conversation.

“Now please leave my office.” 

Madame Leni called an emergency board meeting within the hour, and no one spoke as the holographic table flickered to life, projecting every senior staff member into a cold blue circle around us.

“The Angelic Weapons are no longer secure,” she said flatly. “We are dealing with an active breach involving the most dangerous assets in CSP custody.”

A murmur rippled through the room the moment Madame Leni finished speaking.

"Those weapons were designed to kill gods," one of the directors said. "If even one of them leaves our custody—"

"We need to notify every regional branch."

"No," another interrupted. "We lock headquarters down first."

Voices began overlapping until the room dissolved into controlled chaos.

"We should move the remaining artifacts."

"Where?"

"They're safer here than in transit."

"They clearly aren't."

Someone slammed a hand onto the table.

"We're arguing about logistics while whoever did this still remains unknown."

Angelo interrupted.

"This is not a weapons issue."

The room fell silent.

He looked around the table with the same unreadable expression he'd worn since entering.

"This is a security issue. We have a mole."

Nobody argued.

Nobody could.

Only a handful of people even knew Wing Seven existed. Fewer still knew how to access it, and the security footage hadn't simply been disabled….it had been erased with surgical precision.

One of the division chiefs finally spoke.

"You're suggesting someone on this board—"

"I am stating a fact," Angelo replied. "Someone with sufficient clearance disclosed the location of the Angelic Armory."

Another director leaned forward.

"Then everyone in this room becomes a suspect."

"So be it."

The simplicity of his answer somehow made it worse.

Madame Leni folded her hands.

"If we have a mole, our first priority is securing the remaining Angelic Weapons."

Angelo shook his head.

"Until the source of the breach is identified, they cannot be secured."

The Security Chief frowned.

"We've already doubled the guard."

"The previous guards were bypassed."

"We'll triple them."

"They will fail."

The room fell silent again.

Angelo wasn't arguing.

He was stating an inevitability.

After a long pause, he spoke once more.

"I will retrieve them myself."

No one objected.

Not because they agreed.

Because they realized it wasn't a request.

Angelo slowly raised one hand toward the holographic map. Without alarms, without warnings, Wing Seven simply disappeared from the display, its corridors, elevators, and security routes erased as though they had never existed.

Several board members instinctively stood.

"...What did you just do?" someone whispered.

"I removed access."

The map stabilized.

Wing Seven was gone.

No one spoke after that.

We made it back to my apartment just before night fully settled, the silence from the boardroom following us in like something physical. 

Angelo stood in the middle of the living room like he wasn’t entirely sure what the space was for.

“You need rest,” I said.

“I do not require—”

“You’ve been shot at, helped erase a wing of a secured facility, destabilized a god, and terrified an entire boardroom. You’re sleeping.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Just blinked once, as if running the statement through something internal and discarding it as irrelevant.

A long silence followed.

Eventually, he walked to the couch and sat down. He didn’t lie back right away, just stayed there, upright, still, like resting was something he had to remember how to do.

Ten minutes passed like that.

I finally broke the quiet. “Angelo.”

“…Yes.”

“Sleep.”

Another pause.

Then, as if conceding purely because further resistance served no purpose, he reclined. His eyes closed almost immediately, like a switch being turned off rather than a person falling asleep.

“Five hours,” he said.

“Eight.”

“Unnecessary.”

“Eight.”

“…Very well.”

I watched him for a while longer until his breathing settled into something steady, and only then did I move to the kitchen, start the coffee machine, and lean against the counter as everything began to catch up with me. Sean, Wing Six, Wing Seven vanishing from every system, the god dissolving into ash, and Angelo’s blood doing what no weapon in CSP history was ever meant to be capable of.

The coffee had gone cold beside me as I nodded off at the kitchen table without realizing it.

Three knocks at the door snapped me awake, and for a moment I just sat there, listening, before I got up and opened it to find Jacob standing outside.

His suit was immaculate as always.

His eyes weren’t.

The skin around them was red, like he’d spent hours trying not to cry.

“…How did Sean’s funeral go?” I asked quietly, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug.

My brain stalled.

“…Jacob?”

His arms tightened like he was making sure I was real, and for several long seconds he didn’t say anything at all before I felt his shoulders shake.

“…I thought…” His voice broke halfway through. “…I thought I was going to lose you too.”

I froze.

Jacob… crying.

Of everyone I knew, he was the last person I ever expected to break like this.

I awkwardly stood there for a second before patting his back.

It felt... strange.

We argued more than we agreed. Half the time we couldn't stand being in the same room without competing over something.

But before any of that...

Before we became rivals.

Before headquarters turned everything into a competition.

Jacob had been the first real friend I'd ever made in this hell hole.

"...I'm okay," I said softly.

His grip tightened for just another second.

“I know,” he whispered immediately. “But when Sean pulled that trigger…” He swallowed hard. “I couldn’t do anything.”

A few seconds later he finally let go and stepped back, wiping his eyes with a short, embarrassed laugh.

“…Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

I hesitated.

“…I’m sorry about Sean.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t think either of us is to blame.”

Then, like he was forcing himself back into work mode, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“I did come here for another reason.”

He turned the screen toward me.

It was a photo of Angelo and me leaving my apartment that morning.

My stomach dropped.

“…How do you have this?”

“My fan club president… and stalker.”

“Your stalker stalks Angelo too…?”

Jacob sighed. “Yeah she's a mess….I put her on mandatory probation and community service… front-line duty.”

At least she wouldn’t be bothering me now.

Before I could respond, he deleted the photo in front of me.

“There. Problem solved.”

“Thanks.”

He nodded, but the seriousness didn’t leave his face.

“…Nayeri. I know Angelo is living here.”

“I figured.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

“You can’t be with an angel.”

“…Jacob.”

“I’m serious,” he said, quieter now.

“I know…” I said, not meeting his hazel eyes.

Another silence settled between us.

He turned to leave, then stopped at the stairwell door.

Without looking back, he asked,

“…Are you sure…”

“…he doesn’t like you?”

Before I could answer, he walked out.

I closed the door and turned around only to find Angelo standing in the hallway, completely motionless.

“AHHHHHHH!”

I clutched my chest.

“Can you please stop materializing out of nowhere?”

“I did not materialize.”

“Then explain how someone your size is quieter than a ghost”

His dark eyes lingered on the closed door for a moment before shifting back to me.

“…I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Earlier, Jacob expressed opposition to our cohabitation.”

“Yeah…”

He frowned ever so slightly.

“Yesterday, I watched a human documentary.”

“…That never ends well.”

He ignored the comment.

“It stated that humans attempt to drive away competing males.”

I blinked.

“…What?”

“The narrator referred to the behavior as ‘mate guarding.’”

He looked at the closed front door again.

"Was Jacob exhibiting comparable behavior?"

For a second...

My brain simply stopped.

Then I laughed.

Not a polite laugh.

Not an amused laugh.

The kind of laugh that escaped before I could stop it.

I doubled over, clutching my stomach as another fit of laughter hit me.

"Jacob?" I wheezed. "Mate guarding?"

I laughed even harder.

Tears stung the corners of my eyes.

"Oh... oh my God..."

I had to lean against the wall just to stay upright.

"That's..." I gasped between breaths. "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard."

Angelo watched me in silence.

"...I appear to have reached an incorrect conclusion."

I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye.

"No."

I shook my head.

"Not even close."

His head tilted.

"Then why did he object to our cohabitation?"

I opened my mouth.

Then remembered exactly how Jacob had reacted five minutes earlier.

"...Because he's worried."

"About?"

"Me."

I smiled to myself.

"Jacob's... kind of like my older brother."

I shrugged.

"I still have a family. I just left them because they're assholes, so Jacob sort of adopted the job."

I laughed softly.

"He nags me, tells me I'm an idiot, sticks his nose in my business...and somehow always shows up when I need him."

"That's not mate guarding. That's just Jacob being an overprotective big brother." 

Angelo considered that for a moment.

"...I see."

Silence settled between us.

Then he looked at me.

"...Then what are we?"

My brain stopped.

"...What?"

"If Jacob is your older brother."

He spoke with the same calm tone he used to discuss mission reports.

"What is our relationship?"

I felt my face grow warm.

"I..."

"We currently reside together."

"We consume meals together."

"You have repeatedly expressed concern for my wellbeing."

"You also instructed me to sleep despite my lack of physiological need."

He paused, clearly organizing the data.

"...Humans generally assign names to interpersonal relationships."

"Which designation applies to us?"

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"...That's..."

"...A complicated question."

"I see."

Without another word, Angelo took the TV remote.

"What are you doing?"

"Research."

Before I could stop him, a documentary began playing.

"Human social bonds can generally be categorized into familial, platonic, professional, and romantic relationships..."

"...Angelo."

He raised a finger without looking away from the screen.

"Please wait."

"Romantic attraction is often accompanied by increased concern for another individual's safety, prolonged eye contact, voluntary physical proximity..."

"Angelo."

"Many couples begin their relationships as close friends before eventually cohabiting..."

Angelo nodded thoughtfully.

"We satisfy that criterion."

"Angelo!"

He finally paused the TV and looked at me.

"...Yes?"

My entire face felt like it was on fire.

"...Turn it off."

"...Have you reached a conclusion?"

"No!"

"...Then the documentary should continue."

Before I could grab the TV remote, he pressed play.

"Partners often begin sharing meals as a method of strengthening emotional bonds."

"We also satisfy that criterion."

I buried my face in my hands.

"Can we not do this?"

"Humans experiencing romantic attachment frequently display elevated concern for the other's safety and well-being."

Angelo looked away from the screen.

"You demonstrated this behavior after I was struck by the bullet."

"Because you got shot by a weapon that can kill gods!"

He ignored me and continued looking back at the documentary.

"Humans in romantic relationships often struggle to define the relationship in its early stages."

I slowly lowered my head until it rested completely against my hands.

"...You've got to be kidding me."

Angelo glanced at me.

"...This appears relevant."

"It really doesn't."

"When asked directly, individuals may avoid answering due to embarrassment or uncertainty."

Angelo paused the TV again.

He looked at me.

Then at the screen.

Then back at me.

"...You avoided answering."

"...Coincidence."

"...You also appear embarrassed."

"It's hot in here."

He looked toward the thermostat.

"...The apartment is twenty-one degrees Celsius."

"...Shut up."

He resumed the documentary.

"A common misconception is that romantic attraction is always obvious. In reality, friends and family often recognize it before the individuals themselves."

My eye twitched.

"...Friends and family..."

Jacob.

The documentary had to be wrong.

Right?

Angelo paused the video again.

"The documentary stated that family members frequently identify romantic relationships before the individuals involved."

He frowned in concentration.

"Since Jacob is your older brother, he may possess information that we do not."

I stared at him.

"...Please don't tell me you're going to ask him."

"...That would be the most efficient method of verification."

"Absolutely not!"

"...Why?"

"Because..."

I pointed at him.

"Because you're not allowed to ask Jacob if we're dating!"

“What's dating?”

I immediately looked anywhere but at him.

I had never been this embarrassed in my life.

"...Romantic courtship."

The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

Yep.

The cat was officially out of the bag.

Angelo now knew what dating was.

“So why am I not allowed to ask Jacob?” 

"Because we're not dating!" 

I lunged for the television and ripped the power cord from the wall. 

That was enough documentaries and definitely enough questions for now.

Angelo watched me expectantly, clearly prepared to ask another question.

“I. AM. GOING. TO. SLEEP.”

I yelled as I made a tactical retreat to my bedroom.

"...Nayeri."

I paused, my hand resting on the doorknob.

"...What?"

Silence lingered for a moment.

"...If the documentary's conclusion is accurate..."

Angelo met my eyes with the same calm, unreadable expression he always wore.

"...I would like to participate in this... dating."

"...With you."

...

...

My brain crashed.

"Good night."

I turned on my heel, walked into my room, and shut the door.

Click.

Silence.

I leaned against the door, staring at the ceiling.

Then slowly slid down until I was sitting on the floor.

"...Well..."

I covered my face with both hands.

"...To everyone at headquarters who's been shipping us..."

I let out a long, defeated sigh.

"...Congratulations."

"...Your manifestations have came true."

I sincerely hope every single one of you stubs your toe every morning for the rest of your lives.

Part 1: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. We Had to Make a Sacrifice This Time.

Part 2: I Went to Antarctica Looking for 10,000 Missing People. I Came Back With a New Boss.

Part 3: Apparently Using Assistants as Sacrifices Violates Company Policy

Part 4: I Work for an Organization That Hunts Gods. One of Them Warned Me About the Angel Following Me.

Part 5: My Boss Asked Me If I Thought He Was a Monster. Now I Know Why.

After the call from Madame Leni, I went back to sleep. I don't remember actually falling asleep, but I definitely remember what woke me up: the smell of smoke. Not the comforting smell of breakfast cooking. The "your landlord is about to become involved" kind of smoke.

I shot upright.

"...Angelo?"

No answer.

By the time I reached the kitchen, the smoke detector had already given up trying to be ignored. The frying pan sat on the stove completely engulfed in flames. Actual flames. Angelo stood in front of it with his hands folded behind his back, calmly watching the burning eggs with the same expression he'd worn while erasing an SS-class god.

"...What happened?"

"I attempted breakfast."

"The eggs are on fire."

"Yes."

"...Are you going to do something?"

"I am observing."

"The kitchen is filling with smoke."

"I have observed that as well."

"Then turn the stove off!"

He looked at me.

"I wished to determine whether this was a normal stage of breakfast preparation."

"It isn't!"

"I have reached the same conclusion."

I yanked the fire extinguisher from beneath the sink and buried the stove beneath a cloud of white foam. The flames disappeared instantly, and silence settled over the apartment.

Angelo looked down at the ruined eggs.

"...Unfortunate."

I stared at him.

"You defeated an SS-class god yesterday."

"Correct."

"You became one of the most important people in the CSP overnight."

"Correct."

"But you can't make breakfast?"

He considered that.

"The interval between cooked and incinerated appears unnecessarily narrow."

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"...We're ordering takeout."

"I believe that is the optimal solution."

The walk to headquarters was unusually quiet, not because Angelo had nothing to say, but because headquarters no longer resembled the place I'd worked in for the last two years.

Entire departments had been relocated. Containment divisions had been dissolved. Retrieval teams had been reorganized. Emergency protocols lined every hallway. Every evacuation map had been replaced, and even the security checkpoints had been redesigned overnight.

I stopped in front of one of the new mission boards. The old motto was gone.

CONTAIN THE UNKNOWN.

Someone had replaced it.

UNDERSTAND THE UNKNOWN.

One of the guards noticed me staring.

"Executive Board Member Angelo."

That was all the explanation he offered. Apparently it explained everything.

Madame Leni was already waiting outside the Executive Board conference room, and she looked exhausted.

"You look terrible."

"I've attended fourteen meetings in the last twelve hours."

"...That'll do it."

"They were all called by Angelo."

She rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"I've worked for the CSP for thirty-two years," she said with a long sigh. "I have never witnessed someone dismantle and rebuild an international organization in a single night."

"What exactly did he change?"

"What didn't he change?"

She handed me a binder thick enough to stop a bullet.

"The retrieval doctrine."

I opened it. The first page displayed the old directive.

OLD PROTOCOL

Locate.

Contain.

Retrieve.

Below it, in crisp black print, was Angelo's revision.

NEW PROTOCOL

Observe.

Understand.

Negotiate.

Retrieve only if necessary.

Neutralize only if reality itself is threatened.

I slowly turned the page.

Large-scale assault teams had been abolished. Mass casualty contingencies had been rewritten. Every operation involving intelligent entities now required a psychologist, historian, linguist, and exorcist before tactical authorization could even be requested.

"He also added something new to the god classification system," Madame Leni said.

"So no more only A-Class. S-Class. SS-Class."

"What's with it?"

She glanced toward the conference room.

"...Risk to reality."

I blinked.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

After another pause, she added, "He also approved the development of angelic weapons."

I looked up.

"He... what?"

"They're being infused with fragments of his own power. They're capable of killing gods."

My stomach tightened.

"He actually agreed to arm humanity?"

She checked her notes.

"His exact words were..."

She looked up.

"'Humanity has demonstrated sufficient compassion to be trusted with responsibility.'"

That sounded exactly like Angelo. Terrifying, but exactly like Angelo.

Angelo sat alone at the head of the Executive Board table. Everyone else remained standing despite the meeting having already started.

"Nayeri."

"Morning."

"I have reached a decision."

"...Those words have never improved my day."

"I require an executive assistant."

"...Congratulations?"

"I have selected you."

The room fell completely silent as every Board member looked at me.

"...No."

Angelo blinked.

"...No?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I enjoy field work."

"This position offers a substantially lower probability of death."

"I know."

"Then why decline?"

"Because I'd rather not spend every day trapped in meetings."

"I can reduce the meetings."

"That's still a no."

He was silent for several seconds before giving a single nod.

"I accept your decision."

I relaxed.

"However..."

Of course there was a however.

"The position shall remain vacant."

"...Okay?"

"Until you accept."

I just stared at him.

Somewhere to my left, Jacob let out a disbelieving laugh.

"I think this is the first time I've ever seen someone reject a promotion and still end up promoted."

"...Excuse me?" I asked, staring at Angelo in disbelief.

"I have determined that no other candidate satisfies the necessary requirements."

The silence stretched until Jacob spoke again.

"...Why is it her?"

Angelo answered matter-of-factly.

"Because she is an ideal human."

The room went completely silent.

I blinked.

"...I'm definitely not."

Jacob burst out laughing.

"Her?" He pointed directly at me. "She shoved her own assistant toward a god."

Every eye turned toward Angelo.

I opened my mouth.

"I can expl—"

"There is nothing to explain," Angelo interrupted.

Jacob frowned.

Angelo regarded him with the same calm expression he always wore.

"Agent Nayeri calculated that at least one life would likely be lost regardless of her decision. The alternative resulted in the deaths of fifty-six personnel. She selected the course of action with the highest probability of preserving human life."

Jacob's smile slowly disappeared.

"So you're saying pushing Sean was... the right decision?"

"No," Angelo replied without hesitation. "It was the necessary decision. The distinction is significant."

His eyes drifted toward me for only a moment. 

Joke's on both of you. I shoved Sean because I didn't want to die. Pretty sure the whole saving fifty-six people thing was just a bonus. 

I'd known the guy for, what, six hours? I barely even knew his last name. If Jacob had been standing there instead, I'd probably have shoved him too. 

Actually...I definitely would have.

Jacob suddenly narrowed his eyes.

"...Why are you smiling?"

"I wasn't aware I was."

"You absolutely were."

Thankfully, Angelo moved on before Jacob could question me any further.

"The remaining agenda concerns the restructuring of the CSP."

A holographic display bloomed to life above the conference table, revealing the CSP's entire organizational structure. Every department was connected by hundreds of glowing lines that pulsed like veins through a living body.

Angelo studied it for a moment before raising a hand.

"The previous retrieval doctrine has been retired."

With a single motion, nearly half the organizational chart dissolved into particles of light.

"Large-scale deployments against hostile gods are no longer necessary. Most deities will not engage humanity while I remain within the CSP."

A hesitant voice broke the silence.

"Executive Board Member Angelo... are you certain this protocol is safe?"

He answered without the slightest pause.

"No."

The room went still.

"The previous protocol carried a projected casualty rate of thirty-two percent."

The display shifted again.

A new set of numbers appeared.

"This one projects eleven."

No one spoke.

"So, therefore it is preferable."

The discussion ended there.

Not because everyone agreed.

But because Angelo had looked at two unacceptable outcomes, chosen the one that killed fewer people, and concluded before anyone else had even finished weighing the question. That was what made him terrifying. Not his power, not the fact that he could erase gods, but the speed with which he made impossible decisions. There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. 

Another gesture caused a black weapons case to materialize within the hologram. Resting inside were weapons unlike anything I'd ever seen: a white spear, a sword shimmering with faint golden light, and several magazines loaded with silver-colored rounds.

"The Angelic Armory," Angelo said. "These weapons have been infused with fragments of my authority. They are capable of permanently killing hostile gods."

Nobody spoke.

"They will be strictly regulated. They are not instruments of conquest. They exist solely to preserve humanity when diplomacy is no longer possible."

For the first time since the meeting began, I noticed something that would've been impossible a week ago. No one argued. No one objected. No one questioned a single decision.

A week ago, every proposal would've sparked hours of debate.

Now everyone simply listened, and after everything we'd witnessed, I couldn't really blame them.

Maybe Angelo really was the leader the CSP needed.

The meeting lasted three hours.

Madame Leni hadn't been exaggerating when she said Angelo had changed everything. Centuries of doctrine, command structure, containment policy, retrieval procedures, and international agreements had all been rewritten in a single night. No committees. No months of debate. No endless revisions. Just decisions.

Watching it unfold reminded me of something I'd nearly forgotten.

Angelo wasn't human.

Humans argued. They compromised. They second-guessed themselves. Angelo simply looked at a problem, found the optimal solution, and implemented it without hesitation. To him, restructuring the largest supernatural organization on Earth probably required about as much effort as reorganizing a bookshelf.

After the meeting finally adjourned, I made my way back to my office with approximately two million pieces of paperwork balanced in my arms.

Okay, maybe not two million.

It just felt that way.

Every department Angelo had reorganized apparently generated another stack of forms that somehow ended up on my desk.

I shoved the door open with my shoulder, staggered inside, and let the entire stack collapse across my desk. The papers spread everywhere.

I stared at them.

They stared back.

"...I miss fieldwork already."

By the time I finished the paperwork, my eyes felt like they'd been sandblasted.

I glanced at the clock.

11:00 p.m.

Yep.

Time to go home.

I staggered into my apartment and found Angelo exactly where I expected him to be, sitting on the couch as if he'd been manufactured there. The television was playing another documentary. This one was about human behavior. At the moment, the narrator was explaining why humans sleep.

Angelo watched with complete concentration.

By now, I'd gotten used to him.

He was like a houseplant.

Always there. Quiet. Somehow constantly occupying my personal space.

I kicked off my shoes and started toward my room before something on the dining table caught my eye.

A thick folder.

A psychological evaluation.

I picked it up.

"What's this?"

"I have begun therapy."

I stared at him.

"...You started counseling?"

"Correct."

I tried not to laugh.

I really did.

I failed.

He looked away from the television.

"What is amusing?"

"You."

"...Clarify."

"You. In therapy."

He tilted his head.

"Do you not also attend therapy?"

"Unfortunately, I don't exactly go willingly, you know."

"I was informed that therapy is beneficial."

"It is."

I opened the folder and flipped through the first few pages. 

Psychologist's Note. This is the most unusual patient I have evaluated in twenty-three years. 

...That checks out. 

Then I reached the psychologist's preliminary impressions. I had to read the first line twice.

Patient demonstrates traits consistent with psychopathy.

"...What?"

Angelo looked over from the couch.

"Is there an issue?"

I kept reading.

Patient displays an apparent inability to experience or identify emotions in a conventionally human manner. Emotional responses appear to be intellectual rather than instinctive. Patient routinely analyzes emotional states as abstract concepts instead of personally experiencing them. 

"...Well..."

I couldn't exactly argue with that.

The next section was highlighted.

Patient possesses an unusually rigid moral framework and consistently prioritizes preservation of life. This appears to originate from logical reasoning rather than emotional empathy.

"...That's... actually pretty accurate."

I turned the page.

There was another highlighted section.

My eyes froze.

Patient exhibits an unhealthy attachment to one individual: Agent Nayeri.

I blinked.

"...Excuse me?"

I slowly looked up.

Angelo was still watching the documentary.

"...Angelo."

"Yes?"

"Why does your therapist think you're... attached to me?"

"I answered the questions truthfully."

"What questions?"

He muted the television.

"The therapist asked which human I trusted most."

"...Okay."

"I answered Agent Nayeri."

"They asked whose opinion I considered most reliable."

"I answered Agent Nayeri."

"They asked who I would seek if confronted with uncertainty regarding human behavior."

"I answered Agent Nayeri."

I stared at him.

"...Did every answer involve me?"

"No."

I waited.

"...Approximately eighty-seven percent."

I rubbed my temples.

"Angelo…"

I let the folder fall onto the table.

The psychologist had scribbled a handwritten note in the margin.

Patient does not appear to understand the distinction between trust, dependence, and emotional attachment. Recommend continued observation.

"...Yeah," I muttered. "That sounds about right."

Angelo unmuted the documentary.

The narrator calmly announced, "Humans often form emotional bonds with individuals they consider safe."

Angelo looked at the television.

"...That appears relevant."

I buried my face in my hands.

"Please don't learn psychology from documentaries."

"I am learning it from both documentaries and a licensed therapist."

"...That's somehow worse."

The documentary continued in the background.

"Sleeping near a trusted partner or individual generally lowers levels of stress hormones such as cortisol while increasing oxytocin, a hormone associated with safety, trust, and social bonding."

I slowly lowered my hands from my face.

Angelo's eyes remained fixed on the television.

"I have a question."

Of course he did.

"What?"

"If proximity to a trusted individual improves neurological recovery during unconsciousness..."

I already didn't like where this was going.

"...then would sleeping in the same room increase operational efficiency?"

I stared at him.

"No."

He blinked.

"The documentary suggests otherwise."

"The documentary also assumes the other person actually wants you sleeping in their room."

He paused.

"...I had not considered that."

"I noticed."

He nodded once.

"Then I shall not enter your room."

"...Thank you."

He returned his attention to the documentary.

"...I shall revisit the subject after additional research."

I groaned.

"That's somehow even more terrifying."

"I am attempting to make you a healthier human."

I leaned back against the kitchen counter, already dreading whatever documentary he'd decide to watch tomorrow.

Last week he'd been studying breakfast.

Today it was psychology and sleep.

At this rate, next week he'd probably discover dating.

My eyes drifted down the hallway toward my bedroom.

The apartment wasn't exactly spacious.

One tiny bedroom.

One couch.

One increasingly concerning angel.

A thought suddenly occurred to me.

I looked back at him.

"...Wait."

"Yes?"

"You're on the Executive Board now."

"Correct."

"Don't you have your own executive suite on the top floor of headquarters?"

"I do."

I blinked.

"...Then why are you still living here?"

"Because this location is preferable."

"...Preferable how?"

"It is closer to you."

I sighed.

"If anyone at headquarters finds out about this, I'm finished."

"Why?"

"There's already a civil war going on between the Jacob fan club and your fan club."

He looked at me.

"...Fan clubs?"

"You've seriously never noticed?"

"No."

"Every time you and Jacob walk through headquarters, there's suddenly a waiting list for overtime.”

"I was unaware."

"...You don't think that's strange?"

"I assumed the employees had become more industrious."

I stared at him.

"...Sure."

He considered that for a moment.

"Are there additional examples?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yes."

Angelo reached for a small notebook on the coffee table and uncapped a pen.

"...You're taking notes?"

"Correct."

I sighed.

"Fine."

"People compare your mission reports."

Write.

"They compare your photos."

Write.

"They argue in the cafeteria."

Write.

"I even overheard two interns nearly start a fistfight because one of them said Jacob had better hair than you."

Angelo paused, made another note, then looked up.

"Interesting."

"...Interesting?"

"The correlation between hairstyles and workplace aggression was previously unknown to me."

I blinked.

"...That's what you took away from this?"

"Yes."

I sighed as I dropped onto the couch across from him.

"Anyway...as I was saying, if headquarters finds out their favorite angel voluntarily chose my apartment over the executive penthouse... "

I shook my head.

"...People are going to make a lot of assumptions."

"What assumptions?"

I opened my mouth.

Then remembered who I was talking to.

Right.

Angelo still didn't know the concept of dating yet.

I closed my mouth again.

"...Never mind."

He accepted that surprisingly quickly.

"I see."

I exhaled.

"You know what? Let's keep the living arrangement between us."

"I have no objection."

"Good."

He returned his attention to the documentary.

"...Humans are remarkably complicated."

"You have no idea."

The documentary continued playing, and I leaned back against the couch.

I still didn't really get it.

Romance had never been something I took seriously.

When I was younger, I genuinely didn't think I'd make it to sixteen. Growing up expecting to die had a funny way of changing your priorities. You spent your time figuring out how to survive tomorrow, not wondering who you'd fall in love with twenty years from now.

Even now, dating has never been high on my list.

The fan clubs weren't really about romance anyway. They were just two very loud groups of women at headquarters who had collectively decided to split themselves between Team Angelo and Team Jacob. Personally, I didn't understand it.

If I actually stopped to think about it, Jacob was probably the one who looked more angelic. Blond hair. Hazel eyes. The kind of smile magazines probably paid people to photograph.

Which was incredibly misleading.

Because underneath that face was an asshole I'd happily trade for a family-sized bag of barbecue chips.

Angelo, on the other hand, had black hair, black eyes, and the permanent expression of someone trying to calculate the trajectory of a falling asteroid. Objectively, he looked far more intimidating. Apparently, that hadn't stopped half the female staff from losing their minds every time he walked into a room.

Humans were strange.

Then again...

I glanced toward Angelo. He was still completely absorbed in the documentary, taking notes on human sleeping habits with the seriousness of someone studying quantum physics.

...Maybe the fan club had a point.

Ew. No.

They definitely needed therapy.

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

I pressed two fingers against my neck.

Nothing.

I tried my wrist.

Still nothing.

Then my chest.

Silence.

No rhythm.

No pulse.

No beating.

I checked again.

And again.

Three hundred and twelve times, according to the tally I'd started scratching into the motel notepad. The first thing Hell forgot to mention was that being dead is incredibly inconvenient.

For example, nobody tells you that your heart doesn't start beating again.

You'd think after the first hundred I'd accept it, but denial is a surprisingly stubborn survival instinct for someone who's technically no longer alive.

The second thing Hell forgot to mention is that corpses don't get hungry.

I'm not saying I didn't want food. I spent twenty dollars on pancakes that looked amazing. I just couldn't taste a single bite. The syrup had the consistency of motor oil, the bacon might as well have been cardboard, and the coffee... actually, the coffee tasted exactly the same. Which says more about motel coffee than it does about death.

By the time I'd finished breakfast, I'd reached a medically concerning conclusion.

I hadn't blinked once.

Not because I was trying not to. I'd simply forgotten people were supposed to. That realization bothered me far more than the whole "dying and waking up in Hell" thing. Normal people don't have to consciously remind themselves to blink. Yet there I was, standing in front of a motel bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection while forcing my eyelids shut every few seconds like I was relearning a basic human function.

Then someone knocked on my motel door.

Three slow knocks. Not the impatient pounding of a police officer. Not the nervous tapping of housekeeping.

Just...

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I glanced at the clock.

6:66 A.M.

Nobody with good intentions knocks at 6:66 in the morning.

I slid my pistol from beneath the pillow and quietly approached the door.

"Who is it?"

Silence.

I waited a few seconds before checking the peephole.

No one.

Wonderful.

Ghosts had apparently learned how to prank people.

Keeping the pistol raised, I unlocked the door. The hallway beyond was empty. No footsteps. No elevator. No retreating figure. Just a long stretch of stained carpet beneath flickering fluorescent lights.

Then I looked down.

A black leather briefcase sat neatly on the welcome mat.

Attached to the handle was a cream-colored envelope.

My real name was written across the front of it in elegant handwriting.

That caught me off guard. Only a handful of people still knew my real name, and none of them had called me by it in years. To everyone else, I was Mara Graves.

Apparently Hell preferred legal names.

Beneath my name, embossed in neat gold lettering, were two words.

EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION.

I stared at the envelope for several seconds before picking it up.

It was heavier than it looked. The paper felt expensive, thick, almost velvety beneath my fingertips. The kind of stationery usually reserved for law firms, weddings, or organizations with enough money that they never had to remind anyone they had it. Considering it had apparently been delivered by Hell, I supposed they could afford quality office supplies.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a single folded sheet of black paper. Not dark gray. Not charcoal. Black. The kind of black that seemed to swallow the motel's fluorescent light instead of reflecting it. Across the top, written in silver lettering, were the words:

WELCOME TO THE INFERNAL RETRIEVAL DEPARTMENT.

Beneath that was a much smaller sentence.

Congratulations on accepting our offer of employment.

"I don't remember signing anything," I muttered.

The page turned itself.

I instinctively reached for my pistol, but the paper ignored me. The second page contained only three lines.

Your employment officially began three days ago.

Employee Status: Deceased.

Orientation materials enclosed.

I slowly looked back at the briefcase.

"Nope."

The briefcase clicked open by itself.

I immediately took three more steps backward and leveled my pistol at it. Nothing happened. No smoke. No screaming souls. No tiny demons wearing business suits. The lid simply swung open and waited.

"You're either surprisingly polite," I said to the briefcase, "or this is exactly how horror movies start."

Curiosity has killed a lot of people.

Technically, I'd already checked that one off my list.

I lowered the pistol and walked over. The inside of the briefcase was immaculate. Everything had its own compartment, arranged with obsessive precision. A matte-black revolver rested in the center. Beside it sat a pair of silver handcuffs engraved with symbols that seemed to move whenever I looked directly at them. There was a leather notebook, a small metal badge bearing the same goat skull I'd seen behind the desk in Hell, and a stack of neatly labeled folders tied together with black ribbon.

At the very bottom rested a small white card.

It contained exactly one sentence.

Please report to your first assignment immediately. Management is already disappointed in you.

I frowned.

"I've only been dead for three days."

I set the card aside and picked up the first folder.

COMPANY POLICIES.

Of course Hell had paperwork.

The first page contained exactly one sentence.

Please read all policies before beginning your first retrieval. Failure to comply may result in additional punishment.

There were three hundred and seventy-eight pages.

I closed the folder.

"I'm willing to risk it."

The paper immediately burst into black flames. I jumped backward, reaching for my pistol, but the fire didn't spread. It simply consumed the pages before reforming into a single sheet.

Apparently Hell had anticipated that reaction.

The new page contained only four rules.

Rule 1: Do not talk to any demons other than management.

Reasonable.

Rule 2: Escaped prisoners are to be returned, not executed.

Less reasonable.

Rule 3: Prisoners may lie, bargain, threaten, plead, impersonate, manipulate, or otherwise attempt to avoid capture. Please do not believe them.

I frowned at that one.

Rule 4: Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I blinked.

"...Why the hell would I ever need to hunt an angel?"

The motel television crackled to life before I could read any further. Static swallowed the screen before dissolving into the familiar image of a massive goat skull.

"You read the rules."

"I skimmed them."

"I noticed."

The voice hadn't changed. Calm. Professional. Like an accountant discussing tax deductions instead of eternal damnation.

I folded my arms. The glowing red eyes remained fixed on me.

"Your first assignment has already begun."

The television changed.

A photograph filled the screen.

The young woman from yesterday.

The one the escaped demon intended to kill next.

Only she looked different now.

Her smile was vacant.

Her eyes seemed unfocused.

Beneath the photograph appeared a short report.

Subject has begun Stage One identity degradation.

I stared at the words.

"What exactly does that mean?"

The Goat Lady was silent for several seconds before answering.

"It has started erasing her."

A chill crawled up my spine.

"Erasing... her memories?"

"No."

Another photograph appeared. It had been taken only hours later. The same woman. The same clothes. The same face.

But somehow...

She looked like a completely different person.

"It is erasing her existence."

The Goat Lady's voice remained unnervingly calm.

"When it finishes, the body will still be alive."

"It simply won't belong to her anymore."

The television went black.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, letting everything sink in. Then I grabbed the briefcase, holstered my pistol, and headed for the parking lot. I'd figure out whatever Hell had packed inside that suitcase later. Right now, all I had was an address, the name of a woman I'd never met, and a demon that had already killed six people, survived being shot, worn human beings like Halloween costumes, and murdered me. Somehow, I doubted a strongly worded conversation was going to solve this one.

The motel parking lot was almost empty. I tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel, and floored the accelerator. The address was the same one I'd been given yesterday. I could only hope the target hadn't moved. Traffic was surprisingly light for a weekday morning, giving me far too much time alone with my thoughts. There had to be better candidates than me. Soldiers. Police officers. Paramedics. Actual good people. Instead, Hell had hired a serial killer. Either their recruitment standards were embarrassingly low, or they knew something about me that I didn't. I wasn't sure which possibility bothered me more.

About halfway there, the briefcase gave a soft metallic click. I glanced over just in time to see the latches pop open on their own.

"I am absolutely not dealing with a haunted suitcase while driving."

The briefcase ignored me. One of the folders slowly slid out before coming to rest neatly on the passenger seat. Across the tab, stamped in crimson ink, were two words.

CASE FILE.

I sighed.

"Fine."

The next traffic light turned red, so I picked up the folder and opened it. The first page contained a photograph of the young woman. The second was a timeline documenting her condition. Every few hours, another piece of her identity disappeared. First her childhood memories. Then the names of her closest friends. Then her parents. Then her own birthday. I turned the page.

Only one entry remained.

Tomorrow — 3:00 A.M.

Subject no longer recognizes herself.

Vessel acquisition imminent.

I looked up at the dashboard clock.

8:00 A.M.

Nineteen hours.

That was all she had left.

The light turned green.

I slammed the folder shut, threw it back onto the passenger seat, and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled onto a narrow gravel road.

The house sat at the very end, tucked beside a dense stretch of forest. It was small. Cozy. The kind of cottage that belonged on a postcard rather than in the middle of a supernatural homicide investigation. Wind chimes swayed gently on the porch, flower boxes lined the windows, and a faded bicycle lay on its side near the driveway.

Nothing about it screamed demon.

I killed the engine but didn't get out.

Old habits die hard.

Well...

Apparently I didn't.

I spent another minute watching the house through the windshield. No movement behind the curtains. No shadowy figures lurking in the trees. No impossible creatures crawling across the roof.

Just an ordinary home.

Which somehow made me even more nervous.

I grabbed my pistol and tucked it into the back of my waistband. Then I opened the suitcase and picked up the revolver.

I thumbed open the cylinder.

Six rounds.

Good.

That was all I had, so every shot would have to count.

I snapped the cylinder shut, tucked the briefcase under one arm, and walked toward the front door.

Three knocks.

A few seconds later, footsteps approached from inside.

The door opened.

A girl, maybe seventeen, blinked at me.

"Hi," she said politely. "Can I help you?"

Her smile looked genuine.

Her eyes didn't.

They were unfocused, almost distant, as if part of her attention was somewhere else entirely.

"I'm looking for..." I glanced at the file.

"...Emily Carter."

The girl frowned.

For several long seconds, she just stared at me.

Then she quietly asked,

"Who's Emily?"  

I looked at her.

Then I looked down at the photograph in the case file.

Then back at her again.

Same chestnut hair.

Same freckles scattered across her nose.

Same green eyes.

There wasn't a doubt in my mind.

I slowly lowered the folder.

"You... are Emily Carter."

She frowned.

"...Am I?"

She didn't sound scared.

She sounded genuinely uncertain.

"I thought so," she said after a moment. "At least... I think I am."

She gave an embarrassed laugh.

"Sorry. I've been really forgetful lately."

The laugh didn't reach her eyes.

"I keep walking into rooms and forgetting why I'm there. Yesterday I couldn't remember where I worked for almost an hour." She rubbed her temple. "My doctor says it's probably stress."

Stress…

"Can I come in?" I asked.

She hesitated for a second before stepping aside.

The cottage was immaculate. Everything had a place. Books lined the shelves, a half-finished mug of coffee sat on the kitchen counter, and a planner lay open on the dining table.

Every page was covered in notes.

Buy groceries.

Water plants.

Take medication.

You live alone.

I stopped.

The last note had been written three times.

You live alone.

You live alone.

YOU LIVE ALONE.

Emily noticed me staring.

"Oh..." She looked away, embarrassed. "I started leaving myself reminders."

"What kind of reminders?"

"The important ones."

She walked over to the refrigerator.

Sticky notes covered almost every inch of it.

Your name is Emily.

You are twenty-four years old.

Your parents are dead.

You don't have a sister.

You adopted the cat. Don't panic if you don't recognize him.

I felt my stomach knot.

This wasn't Stage One anymore.

Emily hadn't just been forgetting memories.

She'd realized she was forgetting herself... and had been trying to fight it.

"Sorry," she said with an awkward smile. "I know this probably looks insane."

"Actually," I replied, "it's one of the more reasonable things I've seen this week."

She laughed.

It was brief.

Forced.

Like she'd forgotten how.

"So..." she said. "Who exactly are you?"

That was a fantastic question.

I couldn't exactly tell her I worked for Hell.

So I lied.

"Your doctor asked me to stop by and see how you're doing. He said you've been having some memory issues."

Emily's shoulders relaxed.

"Oh."

She blinked.

"Right."

The way she said it made my stomach sink.

It wasn't relief.

It was recognition without understanding, like she'd convinced herself my explanation made sense simply because she couldn't remember whether it did.

"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" I said.

She nodded and stepped aside.

"Sure."

"When did all this start?"

Emily stared at the floor for several seconds.

"I..."

She frowned.

"I don't remember."

A weak, embarrassed smile crossed her face.

"I guess that's kind of the problem."

I opened the case file.

"Have you noticed anything unusual? Anyone following you? Strange phone calls? Missing time?"

She thought for a moment.

"...Dreams."

I looked up.

"Every night."

"What kind of dreams?"

"The woods."

Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen window overlooking the tree line.

"Someone keeps calling me."

"Do you recognize the voice?"

She slowly shook her head.

"No."

"Have you ever gone outside because of it?"

She hesitated.

"I... don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Every morning I wake up with mud on my shoes."

I stopped writing.

"Anything else?"

She nodded toward the front door.

"The deadbolt is always unlocked."

"Do you lock it before bed?"

"Every night."

"And when you wake up?"

"It's unlocked."

Silence settled over the room.

Three quick knocks broke the silence, making both of us jump.

Emily frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone."

Before I could stop her, she opened the door.

Two paramedics stood on the porch.

"Emily Carter?"

She nodded.

"We're responding to a wellness check. One of your neighbors was concerned after not seeing you for a few days."

One of the paramedics glanced past her into the cottage, and his expression immediately changed. Every wall was covered in notes. The refrigerator, the cabinets, the mirrors, and even the front door were plastered with reminders.

"Emily," he said gently, "we'd like to bring you in for a quick evaluation." 

Part of me expected her to argue.

To refuse.

Instead, she simply nodded.

"...Okay."

Then she looked at me for several long seconds before quietly asking, "...Who are you again?"

My stomach dropped.

She'd forgotten me.

Not after hours.

After minutes.

One of the paramedics noticed the look on my face.

"Are you family?"

"No."

"A friend?"

I hesitated.

"...Something like that."

Emily looked between us with growing confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I feel like I should know you."

"I know."

She lowered her eyes.

"I keep doing this."

The older paramedic stepped inside and spoke gently.

"Emily, have you been eating?"

"I think so."

"When was your last meal?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Nearly ten seconds passed before she looked at him helplessly.

"...I don't remember."

He exchanged a worried glance with his partner.

"Have you been sleeping?"

"I have dreams."

"That's not what I asked."

She hesitated again before quietly admitting, "...I don't know."

That was enough.

The paramedics didn't need demons to know something was seriously wrong. They convinced Emily to come willingly while I quietly slipped the case file back into the briefcase. As she zipped an overnight bag closed, another sticky note drifted off the refrigerator and landed at my feet.

I picked it up.

If someone says they're here to help... let them.

I looked up.

"Did you write this?"

Emily stared at it for several seconds before frowning.

"I..."

She shook her head.

"I don't remember."

Neither of us spoke again as we followed the paramedics outside.

The emergency department smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Emily answered the same questions over and over again—her name, her birthday, the date, and her address. Some answers came immediately. Others took longer.

"What year is it?"

Emily frowned and closed her eyes.

"...I know this."

Several seconds passed before she whispered,

"I knew this."

The attending physician exchanged another concerned look with the neurologist before turning to me.

"We're admitting her overnight."

I wanted to argue. Hospital walls weren't going to stop whatever was hunting her, but I couldn't exactly tell them a demon was slowly erasing her existence, so I stayed.

Hours passed. The waiting room emptied, and the conversations outside faded until only the occasional nurse walked the hallway. Emily eventually fell asleep—or at least her eyes were closed.

I sat in the corner of the room with the privacy curtain drawn around her bed, the case file resting open on my lap. The final page stared back at me.

Tomorrow. 3:00 A.M.

I checked my watch.

12:01 A.M.

Three hours.

The lights flickered once, then again, before every monitor in the room shut off at the exact same moment. There was no alarm and no power surge. They simply stopped.

The room became unnaturally quiet. No footsteps echoed through the hallway, no voices drifted in from the nurses' station, and even the constant hum of the air conditioner had vanished.

I stood as a cold draft brushed across the back of my neck. The hospital window stood open, even though I was certain it had been locked. When I pulled back the privacy curtain, Emily's bed was empty. The restraints still lay neatly across the mattress, buckled exactly as the nurses had left them. She hadn't escaped them.

Someone had taken her.

I rushed to the window. Fresh mud stained the windowsill, and a trail of wet footprints stretched across the parking lot toward the tree line beyond the hospital. I checked my watch again.

12:04 A.M.

Less than three hours remained.

Then I remembered what Emily had told me earlier that day. Every night she dreamed about the woods, and someone kept calling her name. I didn't waste another second. I sprinted out of the room and was already running toward my car before my brain had fully caught up with what had happened.

I reached the woods behind Emily's neighborhood just minutes later.

The moment I stepped beneath the trees, I knew something was wrong. The forest hadn't simply grown darker. It felt... rearranged. Trees stood where there hadn't been trees before, and trails twisted back on themselves, forming impossible circles that led nowhere. Every few yards I found names carved into the bark, but as I watched, the letters slowly faded until the trunks became smooth again, as though those people had never existed.

I tightened my grip on the revolver and reached into the briefcase for the silver handcuffs. They felt unnaturally cold against my palms. The case file hadn't been exaggerating. This thing didn't just erase people. It erased every trace that they had ever been here.

Then a scream tore through the silence.

"Help!"

Emily.

I broke into a sprint. Branches clawed at my jacket as I pushed deeper into the woods, my flashlight bouncing wildly between the trees and catching movement that vanished whenever I tried to focus on it. Every few seconds I caught glimpses of people standing motionless between the trunks: a little girl, an elderly woman, a woman in a business suit. Each of them slowly turned toward me with vacant expressions before dissolving back into the darkness. Hallucinations, I told myself. They had to be.

Then Emily screamed again.

This time it was closer.

I burst through a wall of undergrowth into a small clearing and froze.

Emily was on her knees in the center of the clearing, clutching her head as though trying to hold her own thoughts together. Standing behind her was a figure that looked human until it smiled. Its jaw split impossibly wide, stretching from ear to ear, and behind that smile another face stared back at me. Then another. Then another. Hundreds of human faces shifted beneath its skin like people drowning beneath thin ice, each one silently mouthing the same question.

Who am I?

I raised the revolver and fired.

The first blessed round struck it square in the chest.

The creature didn't bleed.

Instead, it changed.

The thing standing over Emily vanished, replaced by a terrified teenage girl. The bullet had torn through her shoulder, and she let out a scream that made my stomach turn before disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared. An elderly woman took her place. The next bullet punched through her chest. Her frightened eyes locked onto mine for a single heartbeat before she vanished too. Then came a little girl. A young mother clutching an infant. A police officer.

Every shot passed through a different person.

Every victim the Spine Taker had ever stolen.

Each one looked real.

Each one screamed.

Each one stared directly at me.

I stopped firing. I only had one round left.

The creature smiled as its body rippled through dozens of stolen faces every second until they blurred together into something that barely resembled a human being.

"Do you see?" it asked, speaking with all of their voices at once. "If you cannot tell us apart... how can you be certain you're not killing them instead of me?"

My finger tightened around the trigger, but I couldn't pull it. Maybe it was another illusion. Maybe every face I was seeing belonged to someone who had died years ago. Or maybe they were still trapped inside that thing somehow. I didn't know, and that uncertainty was enough to stop me.

The creature smiled wider.

It had figured me out.

I'd spent my life hunting monsters who preyed on innocent people. That didn't erase what I'd become, but there had always been one line I refused to cross. I never killed the innocent. If I started pulling the trigger without knowing who stood in front of me, then I wasn't any different from the people I'd spent years hunting.

The Spine Taker laughed as its body rippled through another dozen stolen faces.

"I don't need to defeat you," it whispered. "I only need you to hesitate."

It lunged.

I threw myself aside just as its claws carved through the tree behind me, splintering the trunk like dry wood. My revolver flew from my hand and disappeared somewhere into the darkness.

Behind the creature, Emily had collapsed to her knees. She clutched her head with both hands, rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her face.

"My name is Emily," she whispered.

She repeated it again, louder this time.

"My name is Emily."

Again.

"My name is Emily."

She wasn't reminding me.

She was desperately trying to remind herself.

While the creature's attention remained fixed on Emily, I slowly reached the revolver and slid it into my sleeve, keeping my movements as small as possible. The Spine Taker suddenly lunged. Before I could react, one of its impossibly long arms wrapped around my torso and lifted me effortlessly off the ground until we were face to face. Hanging upside down, I found myself staring into a body made of shifting identities. The faces beneath its skin rippled faster and faster before finally settling on one I'd seen only a few days earlier.

Mine.

It tilted its head with unmistakable curiosity.

"You..." it hissed. "You're the one who died in the river."

For the first time since the fight began, it hesitated.

That was all I needed.

I slipped the revolver from my sleeve and fired a single blessed round straight into the center of its face. The clearing erupted with a scream unlike anything I'd ever heard. Every stolen face opened its mouth at once as the creature recoiled, dropping me onto the forest floor. Before it could recover, I threw myself forward and snapped one of the silver handcuffs around its wrist.

The reaction was immediate. The runes carved into the metal ignited with blinding white light, and the second cuff shot across the remaining distance on its own before locking around the creature's other wrist with a metallic snap. The Spine Taker collapsed, convulsing violently as the hundreds of faces beneath its skin dissolved one by one. Within seconds, the towering monster had shrunk into something almost human. Smaller. Frailer. Afraid.

Emily crumpled to the ground behind it, unconscious.

At the same moment, my briefcase clicked open. The folders inside vanished, replaced by an impossibly deep crimson abyss that stretched far beyond what should have fit inside a suitcase. Black chains disappeared into the darkness below, and a calm, emotionless voice echoed from somewhere inside.

"Prisoner retrieval confirmed."

I grabbed the demon by the handcuffs and dragged it toward the opening. It fought harder than I expected, clawing desperately at the dirt and roots as deep grooves carved through the forest floor.

"No!" it screamed. "Please! Don't send me back!"

I didn't slow down.

"You think Hell is what they told you?" it shrieked. "You think they're the jailers?"

Its terrified eyes locked onto mine.

"They lied to you."

My grip tightened, but I paused for the briefest fraction of a second.

The creature smiled.

Then it laughed.

"You'll learn," it whispered, its panic suddenly replaced by pity. "When you discover the truth..."

Before it could finish, an invisible force seized it. The demon was ripped forward, disappearing into the abyss feet first as its screams echoed through the darkness until they were swallowed completely. The portal folded shut with a quiet click, and silence settled over the clearing once more.

A small white card slid from the briefcase.

MISSION COMPLETE.

I looked over at Emily. Her breathing had steadied, and the tension had finally left her face. Carefully, I lifted her into my arms and carried her back through the forest to her cottage. The back door was still unlocked, just as she'd said it always was. I laid her gently in bed, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and watched as a faint smile crossed her face in her sleep.

I quietly left the cottage, climbed into my car, and placed the briefcase on the passenger seat. The latches clicked open by themselves, and a familiar voice drifted from inside.

"Congratulations on your first successful retrieval."

The Goat Lady sounded almost...

Pleased. 
The briefcase clicked softly.

Another folder slid onto the passenger seat.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't black.

It was white.

Across the front, in elegant gold lettering, were four words.

PRIORITY RETRIEVAL — LEVEL OMEGA

"...That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't."

I opened the folder.

It was empty.

No photograph.

No case history.

No victim list.

Just a single sentence.

Management escort required.

A cold feeling settled in my stomach.

Then I remembered the fourth rule.

Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I slowly looked at the briefcase.

"...You've got to be kidding."

"No."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"My next assignment is an angel?"

"Correct."

"I thought angels were supposed to be..."

I searched for the right word.

"...the good guys."

"They were."

That answer bothered me more than if she'd said yes.

I flipped through the folder again.

"There isn't any information."

"There doesn't need to be."

"That's reassuring."

"You will not be conducting this retrieval alone."

"Well, yeah," I said. "Rule Four. Angels require authorized management personnel."

A brief silence followed.

"So who's the authorized management?"

The Goat Lady answered without hesitation.

"I am."

The words hung in the air.

For the first time since waking up in Hell...

I felt genuinely nervous.

The woman who ran Hell's Retrieval Department, the one who treated escaped horrors like overdue paperwork, was leaving her office.

"...How dangerous is this angel?"

The silence that followed lasted long enough for me to wonder if the connection had died.

When she finally spoke, the calm professionalism she'd worn until now had faded.

"It has already killed three retrieval teams."

The line went dead.

I drove back to the motel in complete silence.

The Spine Taker's final words kept replaying in my head.

They lied to you.

When you discover the truth...

I shook the thought away.

One existential crisis at a time.

By the time I reached the motel, dawn had begun creeping over the horizon. I carried the briefcase upstairs, unlocked my room, and immediately reached for my pistol.

Someone was inside.

A woman sat behind the small desk by the window with her boots resting comfortably on its surface, slowly stirring a mug of coffee she'd apparently helped herself to. She looked about my age, maybe her late twenties. She stood around five-foot-eleven with the kind of lean, athletic build that looked earned rather than trained for. Kings had probably gone to war over a face like hers, yet despite the effortless beauty, there was something quietly unsettling about her. She looked completely relaxed, but she reminded me of a wolf pretending to be asleep.

She glanced up as I entered.

"Oh."

A small smile crossed her face.

"There you are."

My pistol was in my hand before she'd finished speaking.

She didn't even blink.

Instead, she took another sip of coffee.

"Good trigger discipline."

Then I remembered the Goat Lady's last words.

I will accompany you personally.

I slowly lowered the pistol.

"...No way."

The woman smiled a little wider.

"I assume you've figured it out."

She closed the folder she'd been reading, set the coffee mug aside, and stood.

"I should introduce myself properly."

She offered me a hand. "Lucifuge," she said.

I stared.

"As in..."

"Yes."

"Lucifuge Rofocale?"

“Prime Minister of Hell,” she said, sounding mildly annoyed. “The title is my father’s name, but nobody ever remembers it.”

She took another sip of my coffee.

“Most demons just call me Lucy.”

I’ll update this journal if I make it through the night.

And if I don’t..and Terry is reading this…yes, I am still dead. Currently.

I don’t know how else to phrase that so it makes sense, but I also don’t think it’s supposed to.

The demon is sitting in my chair right now.

She is looking at me as I write this.

Wish me luck.

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

I pressed two fingers against my neck.

Nothing.

I tried my wrist.

Still nothing.

Then my chest.

Silence.

No rhythm.

No pulse.

No beating.

I checked again.

And again.

Three hundred and twelve times, according to the tally I'd started scratching into the motel notepad. The first thing Hell forgot to mention was that being dead is incredibly inconvenient.

For example, nobody tells you that your heart doesn't start beating again.

You'd think after the first hundred I'd accept it, but denial is a surprisingly stubborn survival instinct for someone who's technically no longer alive.

The second thing Hell forgot to mention is that corpses don't get hungry.

I'm not saying I didn't want food. I spent twenty dollars on pancakes that looked amazing. I just couldn't taste a single bite. The syrup had the consistency of motor oil, the bacon might as well have been cardboard, and the coffee... actually, the coffee tasted exactly the same. Which says more about motel coffee than it does about death.

By the time I'd finished breakfast, I'd reached a medically concerning conclusion.

I hadn't blinked once.

Not because I was trying not to. I'd simply forgotten people were supposed to. That realization bothered me far more than the whole "dying and waking up in Hell" thing. Normal people don't have to consciously remind themselves to blink. Yet there I was, standing in front of a motel bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection while forcing my eyelids shut every few seconds like I was relearning a basic human function.

Then someone knocked on my motel door.

Three slow knocks. Not the impatient pounding of a police officer. Not the nervous tapping of housekeeping.

Just...

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I glanced at the clock.

6:66 A.M.

Nobody with good intentions knocks at 6:66 in the morning.

I slid my pistol from beneath the pillow and quietly approached the door.

"Who is it?"

Silence.

I waited a few seconds before checking the peephole.

No one.

Wonderful.

Ghosts had apparently learned how to prank people.

Keeping the pistol raised, I unlocked the door. The hallway beyond was empty. No footsteps. No elevator. No retreating figure. Just a long stretch of stained carpet beneath flickering fluorescent lights.

Then I looked down.

A black leather briefcase sat neatly on the welcome mat.

Attached to the handle was a cream-colored envelope.

My real name was written across the front of it in elegant handwriting.

That caught me off guard. Only a handful of people still knew my real name, and none of them had called me by it in years. To everyone else, I was Mara Graves.

Apparently Hell preferred legal names.

Beneath my name, embossed in neat gold lettering, were two words.

EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION.

I stared at the envelope for several seconds before picking it up.

It was heavier than it looked. The paper felt expensive, thick, almost velvety beneath my fingertips. The kind of stationery usually reserved for law firms, weddings, or organizations with enough money that they never had to remind anyone they had it. Considering it had apparently been delivered by Hell, I supposed they could afford quality office supplies.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a single folded sheet of black paper. Not dark gray. Not charcoal. Black. The kind of black that seemed to swallow the motel's fluorescent light instead of reflecting it. Across the top, written in silver lettering, were the words:

WELCOME TO THE INFERNAL RETRIEVAL DEPARTMENT.

Beneath that was a much smaller sentence.

Congratulations on accepting our offer of employment.

"I don't remember signing anything," I muttered.

The page turned itself.

I instinctively reached for my pistol, but the paper ignored me. The second page contained only three lines.

Your employment officially began three days ago.

Employee Status: Deceased.

Orientation materials enclosed.

I slowly looked back at the briefcase.

"Nope."

The briefcase clicked open by itself.

I immediately took three more steps backward and leveled my pistol at it. Nothing happened. No smoke. No screaming souls. No tiny demons wearing business suits. The lid simply swung open and waited.

"You're either surprisingly polite," I said to the briefcase, "or this is exactly how horror movies start."

Curiosity has killed a lot of people.

Technically, I'd already checked that one off my list.

I lowered the pistol and walked over. The inside of the briefcase was immaculate. Everything had its own compartment, arranged with obsessive precision. A matte-black revolver rested in the center. Beside it sat a pair of silver handcuffs engraved with symbols that seemed to move whenever I looked directly at them. There was a leather notebook, a small metal badge bearing the same goat skull I'd seen behind the desk in Hell, and a stack of neatly labeled folders tied together with black ribbon.

At the very bottom rested a small white card.

It contained exactly one sentence.

Please report to your first assignment immediately. Management is already disappointed in you.

I frowned.

"I've only been dead for three days."

I set the card aside and picked up the first folder.

COMPANY POLICIES.

Of course Hell had paperwork.

The first page contained exactly one sentence.

Please read all policies before beginning your first retrieval. Failure to comply may result in additional punishment.

There were three hundred and seventy-eight pages.

I closed the folder.

"I'm willing to risk it."

The paper immediately burst into black flames. I jumped backward, reaching for my pistol, but the fire didn't spread. It simply consumed the pages before reforming into a single sheet.

Apparently Hell had anticipated that reaction.

The new page contained only four rules.

Rule 1: Do not talk to any demons other than management.

Reasonable.

Rule 2: Escaped prisoners are to be returned, not executed.

Less reasonable.

Rule 3: Prisoners may lie, bargain, threaten, plead, impersonate, manipulate, or otherwise attempt to avoid capture. Please do not believe them.

I frowned at that one.

Rule 4: Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I blinked.

"...Why the hell would I ever need to hunt an angel?"

The motel television crackled to life before I could read any further. Static swallowed the screen before dissolving into the familiar image of a massive goat skull.

"You read the rules."

"I skimmed them."

"I noticed."

The voice hadn't changed. Calm. Professional. Like an accountant discussing tax deductions instead of eternal damnation.

I folded my arms. The glowing red eyes remained fixed on me.

"Your first assignment has already begun."

The television changed.

A photograph filled the screen.

The young woman from yesterday.

The one the escaped demon intended to kill next.

Only she looked different now.

Her smile was vacant.

Her eyes seemed unfocused.

Beneath the photograph appeared a short report.

Subject has begun Stage One identity degradation.

I stared at the words.

"What exactly does that mean?"

The Goat Lady was silent for several seconds before answering.

"It has started erasing her."

A chill crawled up my spine.

"Erasing... her memories?"

"No."

Another photograph appeared. It had been taken only hours later. The same woman. The same clothes. The same face.

But somehow...

She looked like a completely different person.

"It is erasing her existence."

The Goat Lady's voice remained unnervingly calm.

"When it finishes, the body will still be alive."

"It simply won't belong to her anymore."

The television went black.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, letting everything sink in. Then I grabbed the briefcase, holstered my pistol, and headed for the parking lot. I'd figure out whatever Hell had packed inside that suitcase later. Right now, all I had was an address, the name of a woman I'd never met, and a demon that had already killed six people, survived being shot, worn human beings like Halloween costumes, and murdered me. Somehow, I doubted a strongly worded conversation was going to solve this one.

The motel parking lot was almost empty. I tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel, and floored the accelerator. The address was the same one I'd been given yesterday. I could only hope the target hadn't moved. Traffic was surprisingly light for a weekday morning, giving me far too much time alone with my thoughts. There had to be better candidates than me. Soldiers. Police officers. Paramedics. Actual good people. Instead, Hell had hired a serial killer. Either their recruitment standards were embarrassingly low, or they knew something about me that I didn't. I wasn't sure which possibility bothered me more.

About halfway there, the briefcase gave a soft metallic click. I glanced over just in time to see the latches pop open on their own.

"I am absolutely not dealing with a haunted suitcase while driving."

The briefcase ignored me. One of the folders slowly slid out before coming to rest neatly on the passenger seat. Across the tab, stamped in crimson ink, were two words.

CASE FILE.

I sighed.

"Fine."

The next traffic light turned red, so I picked up the folder and opened it. The first page contained a photograph of the young woman. The second was a timeline documenting her condition. Every few hours, another piece of her identity disappeared. First her childhood memories. Then the names of her closest friends. Then her parents. Then her own birthday. I turned the page.

Only one entry remained.

Tomorrow — 3:00 A.M.

Subject no longer recognizes herself.

Vessel acquisition imminent.

I looked up at the dashboard clock.

8:00 A.M.

Nineteen hours.

That was all she had left.

The light turned green.

I slammed the folder shut, threw it back onto the passenger seat, and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled onto a narrow gravel road.

The house sat at the very end, tucked beside a dense stretch of forest. It was small. Cozy. The kind of cottage that belonged on a postcard rather than in the middle of a supernatural homicide investigation. Wind chimes swayed gently on the porch, flower boxes lined the windows, and a faded bicycle lay on its side near the driveway.

Nothing about it screamed demon.

I killed the engine but didn't get out.

Old habits die hard.

Well...

Apparently I didn't.

I spent another minute watching the house through the windshield. No movement behind the curtains. No shadowy figures lurking in the trees. No impossible creatures crawling across the roof.

Just an ordinary home.

Which somehow made me even more nervous.

I grabbed my pistol and tucked it into the back of my waistband. Then I opened the suitcase and picked up the revolver.

I thumbed open the cylinder.

Six rounds.

Good.

That was all I had, so every shot would have to count.

I snapped the cylinder shut, tucked the briefcase under one arm, and walked toward the front door.

Three knocks.

A few seconds later, footsteps approached from inside.

The door opened.

A girl, maybe seventeen, blinked at me.

"Hi," she said politely. "Can I help you?"

Her smile looked genuine.

Her eyes didn't.

They were unfocused, almost distant, as if part of her attention was somewhere else entirely.

"I'm looking for..." I glanced at the file.

"...Emily Carter."

The girl frowned.

For several long seconds, she just stared at me.

Then she quietly asked,

"Who's Emily?"  

I looked at her.

Then I looked down at the photograph in the case file.

Then back at her again.

Same chestnut hair.

Same freckles scattered across her nose.

Same green eyes.

There wasn't a doubt in my mind.

I slowly lowered the folder.

"You... are Emily Carter."

She frowned.

"...Am I?"

She didn't sound scared.

She sounded genuinely uncertain.

"I thought so," she said after a moment. "At least... I think I am."

She gave an embarrassed laugh.

"Sorry. I've been really forgetful lately."

The laugh didn't reach her eyes.

"I keep walking into rooms and forgetting why I'm there. Yesterday I couldn't remember where I worked for almost an hour." She rubbed her temple. "My doctor says it's probably stress."

Stress…

"Can I come in?" I asked.

She hesitated for a second before stepping aside.

The cottage was immaculate. Everything had a place. Books lined the shelves, a half-finished mug of coffee sat on the kitchen counter, and a planner lay open on the dining table.

Every page was covered in notes.

Buy groceries.

Water plants.

Take medication.

You live alone.

I stopped.

The last note had been written three times.

You live alone.

You live alone.

YOU LIVE ALONE.

Emily noticed me staring.

"Oh..." She looked away, embarrassed. "I started leaving myself reminders."

"What kind of reminders?"

"The important ones."

She walked over to the refrigerator.

Sticky notes covered almost every inch of it.

Your name is Emily.

You are twenty-four years old.

Your parents are dead.

You don't have a sister.

You adopted the cat. Don't panic if you don't recognize him.

I felt my stomach knot.

This wasn't Stage One anymore.

Emily hadn't just been forgetting memories.

She'd realized she was forgetting herself... and had been trying to fight it.

"Sorry," she said with an awkward smile. "I know this probably looks insane."

"Actually," I replied, "it's one of the more reasonable things I've seen this week."

She laughed.

It was brief.

Forced.

Like she'd forgotten how.

"So..." she said. "Who exactly are you?"

That was a fantastic question.

I couldn't exactly tell her I worked for Hell.

So I lied.

"Your doctor asked me to stop by and see how you're doing. He said you've been having some memory issues."

Emily's shoulders relaxed.

"Oh."

She blinked.

"Right."

The way she said it made my stomach sink.

It wasn't relief.

It was recognition without understanding, like she'd convinced herself my explanation made sense simply because she couldn't remember whether it did.

"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" I said.

She nodded and stepped aside.

"Sure."

"When did all this start?"

Emily stared at the floor for several seconds.

"I..."

She frowned.

"I don't remember."

A weak, embarrassed smile crossed her face.

"I guess that's kind of the problem."

I opened the case file.

"Have you noticed anything unusual? Anyone following you? Strange phone calls? Missing time?"

She thought for a moment.

"...Dreams."

I looked up.

"Every night."

"What kind of dreams?"

"The woods."

Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen window overlooking the tree line.

"Someone keeps calling me."

"Do you recognize the voice?"

She slowly shook her head.

"No."

"Have you ever gone outside because of it?"

She hesitated.

"I... don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Every morning I wake up with mud on my shoes."

I stopped writing.

"Anything else?"

She nodded toward the front door.

"The deadbolt is always unlocked."

"Do you lock it before bed?"

"Every night."

"And when you wake up?"

"It's unlocked."

Silence settled over the room.

Three quick knocks broke the silence, making both of us jump.

Emily frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone."

Before I could stop her, she opened the door.

Two paramedics stood on the porch.

"Emily Carter?"

She nodded.

"We're responding to a wellness check. One of your neighbors was concerned after not seeing you for a few days."

One of the paramedics glanced past her into the cottage, and his expression immediately changed. Every wall was covered in notes. The refrigerator, the cabinets, the mirrors, and even the front door were plastered with reminders.

"Emily," he said gently, "we'd like to bring you in for a quick evaluation." 

Part of me expected her to argue.

To refuse.

Instead, she simply nodded.

"...Okay."

Then she looked at me for several long seconds before quietly asking, "...Who are you again?"

My stomach dropped.

She'd forgotten me.

Not after hours.

After minutes.

One of the paramedics noticed the look on my face.

"Are you family?"

"No."

"A friend?"

I hesitated.

"...Something like that."

Emily looked between us with growing confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I feel like I should know you."

"I know."

She lowered her eyes.

"I keep doing this."

The older paramedic stepped inside and spoke gently.

"Emily, have you been eating?"

"I think so."

"When was your last meal?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Nearly ten seconds passed before she looked at him helplessly.

"...I don't remember."

He exchanged a worried glance with his partner.

"Have you been sleeping?"

"I have dreams."

"That's not what I asked."

She hesitated again before quietly admitting, "...I don't know."

That was enough.

The paramedics didn't need demons to know something was seriously wrong. They convinced Emily to come willingly while I quietly slipped the case file back into the briefcase. As she zipped an overnight bag closed, another sticky note drifted off the refrigerator and landed at my feet.

I picked it up.

If someone says they're here to help... let them.

I looked up.

"Did you write this?"

Emily stared at it for several seconds before frowning.

"I..."

She shook her head.

"I don't remember."

Neither of us spoke again as we followed the paramedics outside.

The emergency department smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Emily answered the same questions over and over again—her name, her birthday, the date, and her address. Some answers came immediately. Others took longer.

"What year is it?"

Emily frowned and closed her eyes.

"...I know this."

Several seconds passed before she whispered,

"I knew this."

The attending physician exchanged another concerned look with the neurologist before turning to me.

"We're admitting her overnight."

I wanted to argue. Hospital walls weren't going to stop whatever was hunting her, but I couldn't exactly tell them a demon was slowly erasing her existence, so I stayed.

Hours passed. The waiting room emptied, and the conversations outside faded until only the occasional nurse walked the hallway. Emily eventually fell asleep—or at least her eyes were closed.

I sat in the corner of the room with the privacy curtain drawn around her bed, the case file resting open on my lap. The final page stared back at me.

Tomorrow. 3:00 A.M.

I checked my watch.

12:01 A.M.

Three hours.

The lights flickered once, then again, before every monitor in the room shut off at the exact same moment. There was no alarm and no power surge. They simply stopped.

The room became unnaturally quiet. No footsteps echoed through the hallway, no voices drifted in from the nurses' station, and even the constant hum of the air conditioner had vanished.

I stood as a cold draft brushed across the back of my neck. The hospital window stood open, even though I was certain it had been locked. When I pulled back the privacy curtain, Emily's bed was empty. The restraints still lay neatly across the mattress, buckled exactly as the nurses had left them. She hadn't escaped them.

Someone had taken her.

I rushed to the window. Fresh mud stained the windowsill, and a trail of wet footprints stretched across the parking lot toward the tree line beyond the hospital. I checked my watch again.

12:04 A.M.

Less than three hours remained.

Then I remembered what Emily had told me earlier that day. Every night she dreamed about the woods, and someone kept calling her name. I didn't waste another second. I sprinted out of the room and was already running toward my car before my brain had fully caught up with what had happened.

I reached the woods behind Emily's neighborhood just minutes later.

The moment I stepped beneath the trees, I knew something was wrong. The forest hadn't simply grown darker. It felt... rearranged. Trees stood where there hadn't been trees before, and trails twisted back on themselves, forming impossible circles that led nowhere. Every few yards I found names carved into the bark, but as I watched, the letters slowly faded until the trunks became smooth again, as though those people had never existed.

I tightened my grip on the revolver and reached into the briefcase for the silver handcuffs. They felt unnaturally cold against my palms. The case file hadn't been exaggerating. This thing didn't just erase people. It erased every trace that they had ever been here.

Then a scream tore through the silence.

"Help!"

Emily.

I broke into a sprint. Branches clawed at my jacket as I pushed deeper into the woods, my flashlight bouncing wildly between the trees and catching movement that vanished whenever I tried to focus on it. Every few seconds I caught glimpses of people standing motionless between the trunks: a little girl, an elderly woman, a woman in a business suit. Each of them slowly turned toward me with vacant expressions before dissolving back into the darkness. Hallucinations, I told myself. They had to be.

Then Emily screamed again.

This time it was closer.

I burst through a wall of undergrowth into a small clearing and froze.

Emily was on her knees in the center of the clearing, clutching her head as though trying to hold her own thoughts together. Standing behind her was a figure that looked human until it smiled. Its jaw split impossibly wide, stretching from ear to ear, and behind that smile another face stared back at me. Then another. Then another. Hundreds of human faces shifted beneath its skin like people drowning beneath thin ice, each one silently mouthing the same question.

Who am I?

I raised the revolver and fired.

The first blessed round struck it square in the chest.

The creature didn't bleed.

Instead, it changed.

The thing standing over Emily vanished, replaced by a terrified teenage girl. The bullet had torn through her shoulder, and she let out a scream that made my stomach turn before disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared. An elderly woman took her place. The next bullet punched through her chest. Her frightened eyes locked onto mine for a single heartbeat before she vanished too. Then came a little girl. A young mother clutching an infant. A police officer.

Every shot passed through a different person.

Every victim the Spine Taker had ever stolen.

Each one looked real.

Each one screamed.

Each one stared directly at me.

I stopped firing. I only had one round left.

The creature smiled as its body rippled through dozens of stolen faces every second until they blurred together into something that barely resembled a human being.

"Do you see?" it asked, speaking with all of their voices at once. "If you cannot tell us apart... how can you be certain you're not killing them instead of me?"

My finger tightened around the trigger, but I couldn't pull it. Maybe it was another illusion. Maybe every face I was seeing belonged to someone who had died years ago. Or maybe they were still trapped inside that thing somehow. I didn't know, and that uncertainty was enough to stop me.

The creature smiled wider.

It had figured me out.

I'd spent my life hunting monsters who preyed on innocent people. That didn't erase what I'd become, but there had always been one line I refused to cross. I never killed the innocent. If I started pulling the trigger without knowing who stood in front of me, then I wasn't any different from the people I'd spent years hunting.

The Spine Taker laughed as its body rippled through another dozen stolen faces.

"I don't need to defeat you," it whispered. "I only need you to hesitate."

It lunged.

I threw myself aside just as its claws carved through the tree behind me, splintering the trunk like dry wood. My revolver flew from my hand and disappeared somewhere into the darkness.

Behind the creature, Emily had collapsed to her knees. She clutched her head with both hands, rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her face.

"My name is Emily," she whispered.

She repeated it again, louder this time.

"My name is Emily."

Again.

"My name is Emily."

She wasn't reminding me.

She was desperately trying to remind herself.

While the creature's attention remained fixed on Emily, I slowly reached the revolver and slid it into my sleeve, keeping my movements as small as possible. The Spine Taker suddenly lunged. Before I could react, one of its impossibly long arms wrapped around my torso and lifted me effortlessly off the ground until we were face to face. Hanging upside down, I found myself staring into a body made of shifting identities. The faces beneath its skin rippled faster and faster before finally settling on one I'd seen only a few days earlier.

Mine.

It tilted its head with unmistakable curiosity.

"You..." it hissed. "You're the one who died in the river."

For the first time since the fight began, it hesitated.

That was all I needed.

I slipped the revolver from my sleeve and fired a single blessed round straight into the center of its face. The clearing erupted with a scream unlike anything I'd ever heard. Every stolen face opened its mouth at once as the creature recoiled, dropping me onto the forest floor. Before it could recover, I threw myself forward and snapped one of the silver handcuffs around its wrist.

The reaction was immediate. The runes carved into the metal ignited with blinding white light, and the second cuff shot across the remaining distance on its own before locking around the creature's other wrist with a metallic snap. The Spine Taker collapsed, convulsing violently as the hundreds of faces beneath its skin dissolved one by one. Within seconds, the towering monster had shrunk into something almost human. Smaller. Frailer. Afraid.

Emily crumpled to the ground behind it, unconscious.

At the same moment, my briefcase clicked open. The folders inside vanished, replaced by an impossibly deep crimson abyss that stretched far beyond what should have fit inside a suitcase. Black chains disappeared into the darkness below, and a calm, emotionless voice echoed from somewhere inside.

"Prisoner retrieval confirmed."

I grabbed the demon by the handcuffs and dragged it toward the opening. It fought harder than I expected, clawing desperately at the dirt and roots as deep grooves carved through the forest floor.

"No!" it screamed. "Please! Don't send me back!"

I didn't slow down.

"You think Hell is what they told you?" it shrieked. "You think they're the jailers?"

Its terrified eyes locked onto mine.

"They lied to you."

My grip tightened, but I paused for the briefest fraction of a second.

The creature smiled.

Then it laughed.

"You'll learn," it whispered, its panic suddenly replaced by pity. "When you discover the truth..."

Before it could finish, an invisible force seized it. The demon was ripped forward, disappearing into the abyss feet first as its screams echoed through the darkness until they were swallowed completely. The portal folded shut with a quiet click, and silence settled over the clearing once more.

A small white card slid from the briefcase.

MISSION COMPLETE.

I looked over at Emily. Her breathing had steadied, and the tension had finally left her face. Carefully, I lifted her into my arms and carried her back through the forest to her cottage. The back door was still unlocked, just as she'd said it always was. I laid her gently in bed, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and watched as a faint smile crossed her face in her sleep.

I quietly left the cottage, climbed into my car, and placed the briefcase on the passenger seat. The latches clicked open by themselves, and a familiar voice drifted from inside.

"Congratulations on your first successful retrieval."

The Goat Lady sounded almost...

Pleased. 
The briefcase clicked softly.

Another folder slid onto the passenger seat.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't black.

It was white.

Across the front, in elegant gold lettering, were four words.

PRIORITY RETRIEVAL — LEVEL OMEGA

"...That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't."

I opened the folder.

It was empty.

No photograph.

No case history.

No victim list.

Just a single sentence.

Management escort required.

A cold feeling settled in my stomach.

Then I remembered the fourth rule.

Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I slowly looked at the briefcase.

"...You've got to be kidding."

"No."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"My next assignment is an angel?"

"Correct."

"I thought angels were supposed to be..."

I searched for the right word.

"...the good guys."

"They were."

That answer bothered me more than if she'd said yes.

I flipped through the folder again.

"There isn't any information."

"There doesn't need to be."

"That's reassuring."

"You will not be conducting this retrieval alone."

"Well, yeah," I said. "Rule Four. Angels require authorized management personnel."

A brief silence followed.

"So who's the authorized management?"

The Goat Lady answered without hesitation.

"I am."

The words hung in the air.

For the first time since waking up in Hell...

I felt genuinely nervous.

The woman who ran Hell's Retrieval Department, the one who treated escaped horrors like overdue paperwork, was leaving her office.

"...How dangerous is this angel?"

The silence that followed lasted long enough for me to wonder if the connection had died.

When she finally spoke, the calm professionalism she'd worn until now had faded.

"It has already killed three retrieval teams."

The line went dead.

I drove back to the motel in complete silence.

The Spine Taker's final words kept replaying in my head.

They lied to you.

When you discover the truth...

I shook the thought away.

One existential crisis at a time.

By the time I reached the motel, dawn had begun creeping over the horizon. I carried the briefcase upstairs, unlocked my room, and immediately reached for my pistol.

Someone was inside.

A woman sat behind the small desk by the window with her boots resting comfortably on its surface, slowly stirring a mug of coffee she'd apparently helped herself to. She looked about my age, maybe her late twenties. She stood around five-foot-eleven with the kind of lean, athletic build that looked earned rather than trained for. Kings had probably gone to war over a face like hers, yet despite the effortless beauty, there was something quietly unsettling about her. She looked completely relaxed, but she reminded me of a wolf pretending to be asleep.

She glanced up as I entered.

"Oh."

A small smile crossed her face.

"There you are."

My pistol was in my hand before she'd finished speaking.

She didn't even blink.

Instead, she took another sip of coffee.

"Good trigger discipline."

Then I remembered the Goat Lady's last words.

I will accompany you personally.

I slowly lowered the pistol.

"...No way."

The woman smiled a little wider.

"I assume you've figured it out."

She closed the folder she'd been reading, set the coffee mug aside, and stood.

"I should introduce myself properly."

She offered me a hand. "Lucifuge," she said.

I stared.

"As in..."

"Yes."

"Lucifuge Rofocale?"

“Prime Minister of Hell,” she said, sounding mildly annoyed. “The title is my father’s name, but nobody ever remembers it.”

She took another sip of my coffee.

“Most demons just call me Lucy.”

I’ll update this journal if I make it through the night.

And if I don’t..and Terry is reading this…yes, I am still dead. Currently.

I don’t know how else to phrase that so it makes sense, but I also don’t think it’s supposed to.

The demon is sitting in my chair right now.

She is looking at me as I write this.

Wish me luck.

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

I pressed two fingers against my neck.

Nothing.

I tried my wrist.

Still nothing.

Then my chest.

Silence.

No rhythm.

No pulse.

No beating.

I checked again.

And again.

Three hundred and twelve times, according to the tally I'd started scratching into the motel notepad. The first thing Hell forgot to mention was that being dead is incredibly inconvenient.

For example, nobody tells you that your heart doesn't start beating again.

You'd think after the first hundred I'd accept it, but denial is a surprisingly stubborn survival instinct for someone who's technically no longer alive.

The second thing Hell forgot to mention is that corpses don't get hungry.

I'm not saying I didn't want food. I spent twenty dollars on pancakes that looked amazing. I just couldn't taste a single bite. The syrup had the consistency of motor oil, the bacon might as well have been cardboard, and the coffee... actually, the coffee tasted exactly the same. Which says more about motel coffee than it does about death.

By the time I'd finished breakfast, I'd reached a medically concerning conclusion.

I hadn't blinked once.

Not because I was trying not to. I'd simply forgotten people were supposed to. That realization bothered me far more than the whole "dying and waking up in Hell" thing. Normal people don't have to consciously remind themselves to blink. Yet there I was, standing in front of a motel bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection while forcing my eyelids shut every few seconds like I was relearning a basic human function.

Then someone knocked on my motel door.

Three slow knocks. Not the impatient pounding of a police officer. Not the nervous tapping of housekeeping.

Just...

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I glanced at the clock.

6:66 A.M.

Nobody with good intentions knocks at 6:66 in the morning.

I slid my pistol from beneath the pillow and quietly approached the door.

"Who is it?"

Silence.

I waited a few seconds before checking the peephole.

No one.

Wonderful.

Ghosts had apparently learned how to prank people.

Keeping the pistol raised, I unlocked the door. The hallway beyond was empty. No footsteps. No elevator. No retreating figure. Just a long stretch of stained carpet beneath flickering fluorescent lights.

Then I looked down.

A black leather briefcase sat neatly on the welcome mat.

Attached to the handle was a cream-colored envelope.

My real name was written across the front of it in elegant handwriting.

That caught me off guard. Only a handful of people still knew my real name, and none of them had called me by it in years. To everyone else, I was Mara Graves.

Apparently Hell preferred legal names.

Beneath my name, embossed in neat gold lettering, were two words.

EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION.

I stared at the envelope for several seconds before picking it up.

It was heavier than it looked. The paper felt expensive, thick, almost velvety beneath my fingertips. The kind of stationery usually reserved for law firms, weddings, or organizations with enough money that they never had to remind anyone they had it. Considering it had apparently been delivered by Hell, I supposed they could afford quality office supplies.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a single folded sheet of black paper. Not dark gray. Not charcoal. Black. The kind of black that seemed to swallow the motel's fluorescent light instead of reflecting it. Across the top, written in silver lettering, were the words:

WELCOME TO THE INFERNAL RETRIEVAL DEPARTMENT.

Beneath that was a much smaller sentence.

Congratulations on accepting our offer of employment.

"I don't remember signing anything," I muttered.

The page turned itself.

I instinctively reached for my pistol, but the paper ignored me. The second page contained only three lines.

Your employment officially began three days ago.

Employee Status: Deceased.

Orientation materials enclosed.

I slowly looked back at the briefcase.

"Nope."

The briefcase clicked open by itself.

I immediately took three more steps backward and leveled my pistol at it. Nothing happened. No smoke. No screaming souls. No tiny demons wearing business suits. The lid simply swung open and waited.

"You're either surprisingly polite," I said to the briefcase, "or this is exactly how horror movies start."

Curiosity has killed a lot of people.

Technically, I'd already checked that one off my list.

I lowered the pistol and walked over. The inside of the briefcase was immaculate. Everything had its own compartment, arranged with obsessive precision. A matte-black revolver rested in the center. Beside it sat a pair of silver handcuffs engraved with symbols that seemed to move whenever I looked directly at them. There was a leather notebook, a small metal badge bearing the same goat skull I'd seen behind the desk in Hell, and a stack of neatly labeled folders tied together with black ribbon.

At the very bottom rested a small white card.

It contained exactly one sentence.

Please report to your first assignment immediately. Management is already disappointed in you.

I frowned.

"I've only been dead for three days."

I set the card aside and picked up the first folder.

COMPANY POLICIES.

Of course Hell had paperwork.

The first page contained exactly one sentence.

Please read all policies before beginning your first retrieval. Failure to comply may result in additional punishment.

There were three hundred and seventy-eight pages.

I closed the folder.

"I'm willing to risk it."

The paper immediately burst into black flames. I jumped backward, reaching for my pistol, but the fire didn't spread. It simply consumed the pages before reforming into a single sheet.

Apparently Hell had anticipated that reaction.

The new page contained only four rules.

Rule 1: Do not talk to any demons other than management.

Reasonable.

Rule 2: Escaped prisoners are to be returned, not executed.

Less reasonable.

Rule 3: Prisoners may lie, bargain, threaten, plead, impersonate, manipulate, or otherwise attempt to avoid capture. Please do not believe them.

I frowned at that one.

Rule 4: Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I blinked.

"...Why the hell would I ever need to hunt an angel?"

The motel television crackled to life before I could read any further. Static swallowed the screen before dissolving into the familiar image of a massive goat skull.

"You read the rules."

"I skimmed them."

"I noticed."

The voice hadn't changed. Calm. Professional. Like an accountant discussing tax deductions instead of eternal damnation.

I folded my arms. The glowing red eyes remained fixed on me.

"Your first assignment has already begun."

The television changed.

A photograph filled the screen.

The young woman from yesterday.

The one the escaped demon intended to kill next.

Only she looked different now.

Her smile was vacant.

Her eyes seemed unfocused.

Beneath the photograph appeared a short report.

Subject has begun Stage One identity degradation.

I stared at the words.

"What exactly does that mean?"

The Goat Lady was silent for several seconds before answering.

"It has started erasing her."

A chill crawled up my spine.

"Erasing... her memories?"

"No."

Another photograph appeared. It had been taken only hours later. The same woman. The same clothes. The same face.

But somehow...

She looked like a completely different person.

"It is erasing her existence."

The Goat Lady's voice remained unnervingly calm.

"When it finishes, the body will still be alive."

"It simply won't belong to her anymore."

The television went black.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, letting everything sink in. Then I grabbed the briefcase, holstered my pistol, and headed for the parking lot. I'd figure out whatever Hell had packed inside that suitcase later. Right now, all I had was an address, the name of a woman I'd never met, and a demon that had already killed six people, survived being shot, worn human beings like Halloween costumes, and murdered me. Somehow, I doubted a strongly worded conversation was going to solve this one.

The motel parking lot was almost empty. I tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel, and floored the accelerator. The address was the same one I'd been given yesterday. I could only hope the target hadn't moved. Traffic was surprisingly light for a weekday morning, giving me far too much time alone with my thoughts. There had to be better candidates than me. Soldiers. Police officers. Paramedics. Actual good people. Instead, Hell had hired a serial killer. Either their recruitment standards were embarrassingly low, or they knew something about me that I didn't. I wasn't sure which possibility bothered me more.

About halfway there, the briefcase gave a soft metallic click. I glanced over just in time to see the latches pop open on their own.

"I am absolutely not dealing with a haunted suitcase while driving."

The briefcase ignored me. One of the folders slowly slid out before coming to rest neatly on the passenger seat. Across the tab, stamped in crimson ink, were two words.

CASE FILE.

I sighed.

"Fine."

The next traffic light turned red, so I picked up the folder and opened it. The first page contained a photograph of the young woman. The second was a timeline documenting her condition. Every few hours, another piece of her identity disappeared. First her childhood memories. Then the names of her closest friends. Then her parents. Then her own birthday. I turned the page.

Only one entry remained.

Tomorrow — 3:00 A.M.

Subject no longer recognizes herself.

Vessel acquisition imminent.

I looked up at the dashboard clock.

8:00 A.M.

Nineteen hours.

That was all she had left.

The light turned green.

I slammed the folder shut, threw it back onto the passenger seat, and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled onto a narrow gravel road.

The house sat at the very end, tucked beside a dense stretch of forest. It was small. Cozy. The kind of cottage that belonged on a postcard rather than in the middle of a supernatural homicide investigation. Wind chimes swayed gently on the porch, flower boxes lined the windows, and a faded bicycle lay on its side near the driveway.

Nothing about it screamed demon.

I killed the engine but didn't get out.

Old habits die hard.

Well...

Apparently I didn't.

I spent another minute watching the house through the windshield. No movement behind the curtains. No shadowy figures lurking in the trees. No impossible creatures crawling across the roof.

Just an ordinary home.

Which somehow made me even more nervous.

I grabbed my pistol and tucked it into the back of my waistband. Then I opened the suitcase and picked up the revolver.

I thumbed open the cylinder.

Six rounds.

Good.

That was all I had, so every shot would have to count.

I snapped the cylinder shut, tucked the briefcase under one arm, and walked toward the front door.

Three knocks.

A few seconds later, footsteps approached from inside.

The door opened.

A girl, maybe seventeen, blinked at me.

"Hi," she said politely. "Can I help you?"

Her smile looked genuine.

Her eyes didn't.

They were unfocused, almost distant, as if part of her attention was somewhere else entirely.

"I'm looking for..." I glanced at the file.

"...Emily Carter."

The girl frowned.

For several long seconds, she just stared at me.

Then she quietly asked,

"Who's Emily?"  

I looked at her.

Then I looked down at the photograph in the case file.

Then back at her again.

Same chestnut hair.

Same freckles scattered across her nose.

Same green eyes.

There wasn't a doubt in my mind.

I slowly lowered the folder.

"You... are Emily Carter."

She frowned.

"...Am I?"

She didn't sound scared.

She sounded genuinely uncertain.

"I thought so," she said after a moment. "At least... I think I am."

She gave an embarrassed laugh.

"Sorry. I've been really forgetful lately."

The laugh didn't reach her eyes.

"I keep walking into rooms and forgetting why I'm there. Yesterday I couldn't remember where I worked for almost an hour." She rubbed her temple. "My doctor says it's probably stress."

Stress…

"Can I come in?" I asked.

She hesitated for a second before stepping aside.

The cottage was immaculate. Everything had a place. Books lined the shelves, a half-finished mug of coffee sat on the kitchen counter, and a planner lay open on the dining table.

Every page was covered in notes.

Buy groceries.

Water plants.

Take medication.

You live alone.

I stopped.

The last note had been written three times.

You live alone.

You live alone.

YOU LIVE ALONE.

Emily noticed me staring.

"Oh..." She looked away, embarrassed. "I started leaving myself reminders."

"What kind of reminders?"

"The important ones."

She walked over to the refrigerator.

Sticky notes covered almost every inch of it.

Your name is Emily.

You are twenty-four years old.

Your parents are dead.

You don't have a sister.

You adopted the cat. Don't panic if you don't recognize him.

I felt my stomach knot.

This wasn't Stage One anymore.

Emily hadn't just been forgetting memories.

She'd realized she was forgetting herself... and had been trying to fight it.

"Sorry," she said with an awkward smile. "I know this probably looks insane."

"Actually," I replied, "it's one of the more reasonable things I've seen this week."

She laughed.

It was brief.

Forced.

Like she'd forgotten how.

"So..." she said. "Who exactly are you?"

That was a fantastic question.

I couldn't exactly tell her I worked for Hell.

So I lied.

"Your doctor asked me to stop by and see how you're doing. He said you've been having some memory issues."

Emily's shoulders relaxed.

"Oh."

She blinked.

"Right."

The way she said it made my stomach sink.

It wasn't relief.

It was recognition without understanding, like she'd convinced herself my explanation made sense simply because she couldn't remember whether it did.

"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" I said.

She nodded and stepped aside.

"Sure."

"When did all this start?"

Emily stared at the floor for several seconds.

"I..."

She frowned.

"I don't remember."

A weak, embarrassed smile crossed her face.

"I guess that's kind of the problem."

I opened the case file.

"Have you noticed anything unusual? Anyone following you? Strange phone calls? Missing time?"

She thought for a moment.

"...Dreams."

I looked up.

"Every night."

"What kind of dreams?"

"The woods."

Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen window overlooking the tree line.

"Someone keeps calling me."

"Do you recognize the voice?"

She slowly shook her head.

"No."

"Have you ever gone outside because of it?"

She hesitated.

"I... don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Every morning I wake up with mud on my shoes."

I stopped writing.

"Anything else?"

She nodded toward the front door.

"The deadbolt is always unlocked."

"Do you lock it before bed?"

"Every night."

"And when you wake up?"

"It's unlocked."

Silence settled over the room.

Three quick knocks broke the silence, making both of us jump.

Emily frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone."

Before I could stop her, she opened the door.

Two paramedics stood on the porch.

"Emily Carter?"

She nodded.

"We're responding to a wellness check. One of your neighbors was concerned after not seeing you for a few days."

One of the paramedics glanced past her into the cottage, and his expression immediately changed. Every wall was covered in notes. The refrigerator, the cabinets, the mirrors, and even the front door were plastered with reminders.

"Emily," he said gently, "we'd like to bring you in for a quick evaluation." 

Part of me expected her to argue.

To refuse.

Instead, she simply nodded.

"...Okay."

Then she looked at me for several long seconds before quietly asking, "...Who are you again?"

My stomach dropped.

She'd forgotten me.

Not after hours.

After minutes.

One of the paramedics noticed the look on my face.

"Are you family?"

"No."

"A friend?"

I hesitated.

"...Something like that."

Emily looked between us with growing confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I feel like I should know you."

"I know."

She lowered her eyes.

"I keep doing this."

The older paramedic stepped inside and spoke gently.

"Emily, have you been eating?"

"I think so."

"When was your last meal?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Nearly ten seconds passed before she looked at him helplessly.

"...I don't remember."

He exchanged a worried glance with his partner.

"Have you been sleeping?"

"I have dreams."

"That's not what I asked."

She hesitated again before quietly admitting, "...I don't know."

That was enough.

The paramedics didn't need demons to know something was seriously wrong. They convinced Emily to come willingly while I quietly slipped the case file back into the briefcase. As she zipped an overnight bag closed, another sticky note drifted off the refrigerator and landed at my feet.

I picked it up.

If someone says they're here to help... let them.

I looked up.

"Did you write this?"

Emily stared at it for several seconds before frowning.

"I..."

She shook her head.

"I don't remember."

Neither of us spoke again as we followed the paramedics outside.

The emergency department smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Emily answered the same questions over and over again—her name, her birthday, the date, and her address. Some answers came immediately. Others took longer.

"What year is it?"

Emily frowned and closed her eyes.

"...I know this."

Several seconds passed before she whispered,

"I knew this."

The attending physician exchanged another concerned look with the neurologist before turning to me.

"We're admitting her overnight."

I wanted to argue. Hospital walls weren't going to stop whatever was hunting her, but I couldn't exactly tell them a demon was slowly erasing her existence, so I stayed.

Hours passed. The waiting room emptied, and the conversations outside faded until only the occasional nurse walked the hallway. Emily eventually fell asleep—or at least her eyes were closed.

I sat in the corner of the room with the privacy curtain drawn around her bed, the case file resting open on my lap. The final page stared back at me.

Tomorrow. 3:00 A.M.

I checked my watch.

12:01 A.M.

Three hours.

The lights flickered once, then again, before every monitor in the room shut off at the exact same moment. There was no alarm and no power surge. They simply stopped.

The room became unnaturally quiet. No footsteps echoed through the hallway, no voices drifted in from the nurses' station, and even the constant hum of the air conditioner had vanished.

I stood as a cold draft brushed across the back of my neck. The hospital window stood open, even though I was certain it had been locked. When I pulled back the privacy curtain, Emily's bed was empty. The restraints still lay neatly across the mattress, buckled exactly as the nurses had left them. She hadn't escaped them.

Someone had taken her.

I rushed to the window. Fresh mud stained the windowsill, and a trail of wet footprints stretched across the parking lot toward the tree line beyond the hospital. I checked my watch again.

12:04 A.M.

Less than three hours remained.

Then I remembered what Emily had told me earlier that day. Every night she dreamed about the woods, and someone kept calling her name. I didn't waste another second. I sprinted out of the room and was already running toward my car before my brain had fully caught up with what had happened.

I reached the woods behind Emily's neighborhood just minutes later.

The moment I stepped beneath the trees, I knew something was wrong. The forest hadn't simply grown darker. It felt... rearranged. Trees stood where there hadn't been trees before, and trails twisted back on themselves, forming impossible circles that led nowhere. Every few yards I found names carved into the bark, but as I watched, the letters slowly faded until the trunks became smooth again, as though those people had never existed.

I tightened my grip on the revolver and reached into the briefcase for the silver handcuffs. They felt unnaturally cold against my palms. The case file hadn't been exaggerating. This thing didn't just erase people. It erased every trace that they had ever been here.

Then a scream tore through the silence.

"Help!"

Emily.

I broke into a sprint. Branches clawed at my jacket as I pushed deeper into the woods, my flashlight bouncing wildly between the trees and catching movement that vanished whenever I tried to focus on it. Every few seconds I caught glimpses of people standing motionless between the trunks: a little girl, an elderly woman, a woman in a business suit. Each of them slowly turned toward me with vacant expressions before dissolving back into the darkness. Hallucinations, I told myself. They had to be.

Then Emily screamed again.

This time it was closer.

I burst through a wall of undergrowth into a small clearing and froze.

Emily was on her knees in the center of the clearing, clutching her head as though trying to hold her own thoughts together. Standing behind her was a figure that looked human until it smiled. Its jaw split impossibly wide, stretching from ear to ear, and behind that smile another face stared back at me. Then another. Then another. Hundreds of human faces shifted beneath its skin like people drowning beneath thin ice, each one silently mouthing the same question.

Who am I?

I raised the revolver and fired.

The first blessed round struck it square in the chest.

The creature didn't bleed.

Instead, it changed.

The thing standing over Emily vanished, replaced by a terrified teenage girl. The bullet had torn through her shoulder, and she let out a scream that made my stomach turn before disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared. An elderly woman took her place. The next bullet punched through her chest. Her frightened eyes locked onto mine for a single heartbeat before she vanished too. Then came a little girl. A young mother clutching an infant. A police officer.

Every shot passed through a different person.

Every victim the Spine Taker had ever stolen.

Each one looked real.

Each one screamed.

Each one stared directly at me.

I stopped firing. I only had one round left.

The creature smiled as its body rippled through dozens of stolen faces every second until they blurred together into something that barely resembled a human being.

"Do you see?" it asked, speaking with all of their voices at once. "If you cannot tell us apart... how can you be certain you're not killing them instead of me?"

My finger tightened around the trigger, but I couldn't pull it. Maybe it was another illusion. Maybe every face I was seeing belonged to someone who had died years ago. Or maybe they were still trapped inside that thing somehow. I didn't know, and that uncertainty was enough to stop me.

The creature smiled wider.

It had figured me out.

I'd spent my life hunting monsters who preyed on innocent people. That didn't erase what I'd become, but there had always been one line I refused to cross. I never killed the innocent. If I started pulling the trigger without knowing who stood in front of me, then I wasn't any different from the people I'd spent years hunting.

The Spine Taker laughed as its body rippled through another dozen stolen faces.

"I don't need to defeat you," it whispered. "I only need you to hesitate."

It lunged.

I threw myself aside just as its claws carved through the tree behind me, splintering the trunk like dry wood. My revolver flew from my hand and disappeared somewhere into the darkness.

Behind the creature, Emily had collapsed to her knees. She clutched her head with both hands, rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her face.

"My name is Emily," she whispered.

She repeated it again, louder this time.

"My name is Emily."

Again.

"My name is Emily."

She wasn't reminding me.

She was desperately trying to remind herself.

While the creature's attention remained fixed on Emily, I slowly reached the revolver and slid it into my sleeve, keeping my movements as small as possible. The Spine Taker suddenly lunged. Before I could react, one of its impossibly long arms wrapped around my torso and lifted me effortlessly off the ground until we were face to face. Hanging upside down, I found myself staring into a body made of shifting identities. The faces beneath its skin rippled faster and faster before finally settling on one I'd seen only a few days earlier.

Mine.

It tilted its head with unmistakable curiosity.

"You..." it hissed. "You're the one who died in the river."

For the first time since the fight began, it hesitated.

That was all I needed.

I slipped the revolver from my sleeve and fired a single blessed round straight into the center of its face. The clearing erupted with a scream unlike anything I'd ever heard. Every stolen face opened its mouth at once as the creature recoiled, dropping me onto the forest floor. Before it could recover, I threw myself forward and snapped one of the silver handcuffs around its wrist.

The reaction was immediate. The runes carved into the metal ignited with blinding white light, and the second cuff shot across the remaining distance on its own before locking around the creature's other wrist with a metallic snap. The Spine Taker collapsed, convulsing violently as the hundreds of faces beneath its skin dissolved one by one. Within seconds, the towering monster had shrunk into something almost human. Smaller. Frailer. Afraid.

Emily crumpled to the ground behind it, unconscious.

At the same moment, my briefcase clicked open. The folders inside vanished, replaced by an impossibly deep crimson abyss that stretched far beyond what should have fit inside a suitcase. Black chains disappeared into the darkness below, and a calm, emotionless voice echoed from somewhere inside.

"Prisoner retrieval confirmed."

I grabbed the demon by the handcuffs and dragged it toward the opening. It fought harder than I expected, clawing desperately at the dirt and roots as deep grooves carved through the forest floor.

"No!" it screamed. "Please! Don't send me back!"

I didn't slow down.

"You think Hell is what they told you?" it shrieked. "You think they're the jailers?"

Its terrified eyes locked onto mine.

"They lied to you."

My grip tightened, but I paused for the briefest fraction of a second.

The creature smiled.

Then it laughed.

"You'll learn," it whispered, its panic suddenly replaced by pity. "When you discover the truth..."

Before it could finish, an invisible force seized it. The demon was ripped forward, disappearing into the abyss feet first as its screams echoed through the darkness until they were swallowed completely. The portal folded shut with a quiet click, and silence settled over the clearing once more.

A small white card slid from the briefcase.

MISSION COMPLETE.

I looked over at Emily. Her breathing had steadied, and the tension had finally left her face. Carefully, I lifted her into my arms and carried her back through the forest to her cottage. The back door was still unlocked, just as she'd said it always was. I laid her gently in bed, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and watched as a faint smile crossed her face in her sleep.

I quietly left the cottage, climbed into my car, and placed the briefcase on the passenger seat. The latches clicked open by themselves, and a familiar voice drifted from inside.

"Congratulations on your first successful retrieval."

The Goat Lady sounded almost...

Pleased. 
The briefcase clicked softly.

Another folder slid onto the passenger seat.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't black.

It was white.

Across the front, in elegant gold lettering, were four words.

PRIORITY RETRIEVAL — LEVEL OMEGA

"...That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't."

I opened the folder.

It was empty.

No photograph.

No case history.

No victim list.

Just a single sentence.

Management escort required.

A cold feeling settled in my stomach.

Then I remembered the fourth rule.

Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I slowly looked at the briefcase.

"...You've got to be kidding."

"No."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"My next assignment is an angel?"

"Correct."

"I thought angels were supposed to be..."

I searched for the right word.

"...the good guys."

"They were."

That answer bothered me more than if she'd said yes.

I flipped through the folder again.

"There isn't any information."

"There doesn't need to be."

"That's reassuring."

"You will not be conducting this retrieval alone."

"Well, yeah," I said. "Rule Four. Angels require authorized management personnel."

A brief silence followed.

"So who's the authorized management?"

The Goat Lady answered without hesitation.

"I am."

The words hung in the air.

For the first time since waking up in Hell...

I felt genuinely nervous.

The woman who ran Hell's Retrieval Department, the one who treated escaped horrors like overdue paperwork, was leaving her office.

"...How dangerous is this angel?"

The silence that followed lasted long enough for me to wonder if the connection had died.

When she finally spoke, the calm professionalism she'd worn until now had faded.

"It has already killed three retrieval teams."

The line went dead.

I drove back to the motel in complete silence.

The Spine Taker's final words kept replaying in my head.

They lied to you.

When you discover the truth...

I shook the thought away.

One existential crisis at a time.

By the time I reached the motel, dawn had begun creeping over the horizon. I carried the briefcase upstairs, unlocked my room, and immediately reached for my pistol.

Someone was inside.

A woman sat behind the small desk by the window with her boots resting comfortably on its surface, slowly stirring a mug of coffee she'd apparently helped herself to. She looked about my age, maybe her late twenties. She stood around five-foot-eleven with the kind of lean, athletic build that looked earned rather than trained for. Kings had probably gone to war over a face like hers, yet despite the effortless beauty, there was something quietly unsettling about her. She looked completely relaxed, but she reminded me of a wolf pretending to be asleep.

She glanced up as I entered.

"Oh."

A small smile crossed her face.

"There you are."

My pistol was in my hand before she'd finished speaking.

She didn't even blink.

Instead, she took another sip of coffee.

"Good trigger discipline."

Then I remembered the Goat Lady's last words.

I will accompany you personally.

I slowly lowered the pistol.

"...No way."

The woman smiled a little wider.

"I assume you've figured it out."

She closed the folder she'd been reading, set the coffee mug aside, and stood.

"I should introduce myself properly."

She offered me a hand. "Lucifuge," she said.

I stared.

"As in..."

"Yes."

"Lucifuge Rofocale?"

“Prime Minister of Hell,” she said, sounding mildly annoyed. “The title is my father’s name, but nobody ever remembers it.”

She took another sip of my coffee.

“Most demons just call me Lucy.”

I’ll update this journal if I make it through the night.

And if I don’t..and Terry is reading this…yes, I am still dead. Currently.

I don’t know how else to phrase that so it makes sense, but I also don’t think it’s supposed to.

The demon is sitting in my chair right now.

She is looking at me as I write this.

Wish me luck.

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

I pressed two fingers against my neck.

Nothing.

I tried my wrist.

Still nothing.

Then my chest.

Silence.

No rhythm.

No pulse.

No beating.

I checked again.

And again.

Three hundred and twelve times, according to the tally I'd started scratching into the motel notepad. The first thing Hell forgot to mention was that being dead is incredibly inconvenient.

For example, nobody tells you that your heart doesn't start beating again.

You'd think after the first hundred I'd accept it, but denial is a surprisingly stubborn survival instinct for someone who's technically no longer alive.

The second thing Hell forgot to mention is that corpses don't get hungry.

I'm not saying I didn't want food. I spent twenty dollars on pancakes that looked amazing. I just couldn't taste a single bite. The syrup had the consistency of motor oil, the bacon might as well have been cardboard, and the coffee... actually, the coffee tasted exactly the same. Which says more about motel coffee than it does about death.

By the time I'd finished breakfast, I'd reached a medically concerning conclusion.

I hadn't blinked once.

Not because I was trying not to. I'd simply forgotten people were supposed to. That realization bothered me far more than the whole "dying and waking up in Hell" thing. Normal people don't have to consciously remind themselves to blink. Yet there I was, standing in front of a motel bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection while forcing my eyelids shut every few seconds like I was relearning a basic human function.

Then someone knocked on my motel door.

Three slow knocks. Not the impatient pounding of a police officer. Not the nervous tapping of housekeeping.

Just...

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I glanced at the clock.

6:66 A.M.

Nobody with good intentions knocks at 6:66 in the morning.

I slid my pistol from beneath the pillow and quietly approached the door.

"Who is it?"

Silence.

I waited a few seconds before checking the peephole.

No one.

Wonderful.

Ghosts had apparently learned how to prank people.

Keeping the pistol raised, I unlocked the door. The hallway beyond was empty. No footsteps. No elevator. No retreating figure. Just a long stretch of stained carpet beneath flickering fluorescent lights.

Then I looked down.

A black leather briefcase sat neatly on the welcome mat.

Attached to the handle was a cream-colored envelope.

My real name was written across the front of it in elegant handwriting.

That caught me off guard. Only a handful of people still knew my real name, and none of them had called me by it in years. To everyone else, I was Mara Graves.

Apparently Hell preferred legal names.

Beneath my name, embossed in neat gold lettering, were two words.

EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION.

I stared at the envelope for several seconds before picking it up.

It was heavier than it looked. The paper felt expensive, thick, almost velvety beneath my fingertips. The kind of stationery usually reserved for law firms, weddings, or organizations with enough money that they never had to remind anyone they had it. Considering it had apparently been delivered by Hell, I supposed they could afford quality office supplies.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a single folded sheet of black paper. Not dark gray. Not charcoal. Black. The kind of black that seemed to swallow the motel's fluorescent light instead of reflecting it. Across the top, written in silver lettering, were the words:

WELCOME TO THE INFERNAL RETRIEVAL DEPARTMENT.

Beneath that was a much smaller sentence.

Congratulations on accepting our offer of employment.

"I don't remember signing anything," I muttered.

The page turned itself.

I instinctively reached for my pistol, but the paper ignored me. The second page contained only three lines.

Your employment officially began three days ago.

Employee Status: Deceased.

Orientation materials enclosed.

I slowly looked back at the briefcase.

"Nope."

The briefcase clicked open by itself.

I immediately took three more steps backward and leveled my pistol at it. Nothing happened. No smoke. No screaming souls. No tiny demons wearing business suits. The lid simply swung open and waited.

"You're either surprisingly polite," I said to the briefcase, "or this is exactly how horror movies start."

Curiosity has killed a lot of people.

Technically, I'd already checked that one off my list.

I lowered the pistol and walked over. The inside of the briefcase was immaculate. Everything had its own compartment, arranged with obsessive precision. A matte-black revolver rested in the center. Beside it sat a pair of silver handcuffs engraved with symbols that seemed to move whenever I looked directly at them. There was a leather notebook, a small metal badge bearing the same goat skull I'd seen behind the desk in Hell, and a stack of neatly labeled folders tied together with black ribbon.

At the very bottom rested a small white card.

It contained exactly one sentence.

Please report to your first assignment immediately. Management is already disappointed in you.

I frowned.

"I've only been dead for three days."

I set the card aside and picked up the first folder.

COMPANY POLICIES.

Of course Hell had paperwork.

The first page contained exactly one sentence.

Please read all policies before beginning your first retrieval. Failure to comply may result in additional punishment.

There were three hundred and seventy-eight pages.

I closed the folder.

"I'm willing to risk it."

The paper immediately burst into black flames. I jumped backward, reaching for my pistol, but the fire didn't spread. It simply consumed the pages before reforming into a single sheet.

Apparently Hell had anticipated that reaction.

The new page contained only four rules.

Rule 1: Do not talk to any demons other than management.

Reasonable.

Rule 2: Escaped prisoners are to be returned, not executed.

Less reasonable.

Rule 3: Prisoners may lie, bargain, threaten, plead, impersonate, manipulate, or otherwise attempt to avoid capture. Please do not believe them.

I frowned at that one.

Rule 4: Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I blinked.

"...Why the hell would I ever need to hunt an angel?"

The motel television crackled to life before I could read any further. Static swallowed the screen before dissolving into the familiar image of a massive goat skull.

"You read the rules."

"I skimmed them."

"I noticed."

The voice hadn't changed. Calm. Professional. Like an accountant discussing tax deductions instead of eternal damnation.

I folded my arms. The glowing red eyes remained fixed on me.

"Your first assignment has already begun."

The television changed.

A photograph filled the screen.

The young woman from yesterday.

The one the escaped demon intended to kill next.

Only she looked different now.

Her smile was vacant.

Her eyes seemed unfocused.

Beneath the photograph appeared a short report.

Subject has begun Stage One identity degradation.

I stared at the words.

"What exactly does that mean?"

The Goat Lady was silent for several seconds before answering.

"It has started erasing her."

A chill crawled up my spine.

"Erasing... her memories?"

"No."

Another photograph appeared. It had been taken only hours later. The same woman. The same clothes. The same face.

But somehow...

She looked like a completely different person.

"It is erasing her existence."

The Goat Lady's voice remained unnervingly calm.

"When it finishes, the body will still be alive."

"It simply won't belong to her anymore."

The television went black.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, letting everything sink in. Then I grabbed the briefcase, holstered my pistol, and headed for the parking lot. I'd figure out whatever Hell had packed inside that suitcase later. Right now, all I had was an address, the name of a woman I'd never met, and a demon that had already killed six people, survived being shot, worn human beings like Halloween costumes, and murdered me. Somehow, I doubted a strongly worded conversation was going to solve this one.

The motel parking lot was almost empty. I tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel, and floored the accelerator. The address was the same one I'd been given yesterday. I could only hope the target hadn't moved. Traffic was surprisingly light for a weekday morning, giving me far too much time alone with my thoughts. There had to be better candidates than me. Soldiers. Police officers. Paramedics. Actual good people. Instead, Hell had hired a serial killer. Either their recruitment standards were embarrassingly low, or they knew something about me that I didn't. I wasn't sure which possibility bothered me more.

About halfway there, the briefcase gave a soft metallic click. I glanced over just in time to see the latches pop open on their own.

"I am absolutely not dealing with a haunted suitcase while driving."

The briefcase ignored me. One of the folders slowly slid out before coming to rest neatly on the passenger seat. Across the tab, stamped in crimson ink, were two words.

CASE FILE.

I sighed.

"Fine."

The next traffic light turned red, so I picked up the folder and opened it. The first page contained a photograph of the young woman. The second was a timeline documenting her condition. Every few hours, another piece of her identity disappeared. First her childhood memories. Then the names of her closest friends. Then her parents. Then her own birthday. I turned the page.

Only one entry remained.

Tomorrow — 3:00 A.M.

Subject no longer recognizes herself.

Vessel acquisition imminent.

I looked up at the dashboard clock.

8:00 A.M.

Nineteen hours.

That was all she had left.

The light turned green.

I slammed the folder shut, threw it back onto the passenger seat, and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled onto a narrow gravel road.

The house sat at the very end, tucked beside a dense stretch of forest. It was small. Cozy. The kind of cottage that belonged on a postcard rather than in the middle of a supernatural homicide investigation. Wind chimes swayed gently on the porch, flower boxes lined the windows, and a faded bicycle lay on its side near the driveway.

Nothing about it screamed demon.

I killed the engine but didn't get out.

Old habits die hard.

Well...

Apparently I didn't.

I spent another minute watching the house through the windshield. No movement behind the curtains. No shadowy figures lurking in the trees. No impossible creatures crawling across the roof.

Just an ordinary home.

Which somehow made me even more nervous.

I grabbed my pistol and tucked it into the back of my waistband. Then I opened the suitcase and picked up the revolver.

I thumbed open the cylinder.

Six rounds.

Good.

That was all I had, so every shot would have to count.

I snapped the cylinder shut, tucked the briefcase under one arm, and walked toward the front door.

Three knocks.

A few seconds later, footsteps approached from inside.

The door opened.

A girl, maybe seventeen, blinked at me.

"Hi," she said politely. "Can I help you?"

Her smile looked genuine.

Her eyes didn't.

They were unfocused, almost distant, as if part of her attention was somewhere else entirely.

"I'm looking for..." I glanced at the file.

"...Emily Carter."

The girl frowned.

For several long seconds, she just stared at me.

Then she quietly asked,

"Who's Emily?"  

I looked at her.

Then I looked down at the photograph in the case file.

Then back at her again.

Same chestnut hair.

Same freckles scattered across her nose.

Same green eyes.

There wasn't a doubt in my mind.

I slowly lowered the folder.

"You... are Emily Carter."

She frowned.

"...Am I?"

She didn't sound scared.

She sounded genuinely uncertain.

"I thought so," she said after a moment. "At least... I think I am."

She gave an embarrassed laugh.

"Sorry. I've been really forgetful lately."

The laugh didn't reach her eyes.

"I keep walking into rooms and forgetting why I'm there. Yesterday I couldn't remember where I worked for almost an hour." She rubbed her temple. "My doctor says it's probably stress."

Stress…

"Can I come in?" I asked.

She hesitated for a second before stepping aside.

The cottage was immaculate. Everything had a place. Books lined the shelves, a half-finished mug of coffee sat on the kitchen counter, and a planner lay open on the dining table.

Every page was covered in notes.

Buy groceries.

Water plants.

Take medication.

You live alone.

I stopped.

The last note had been written three times.

You live alone.

You live alone.

YOU LIVE ALONE.

Emily noticed me staring.

"Oh..." She looked away, embarrassed. "I started leaving myself reminders."

"What kind of reminders?"

"The important ones."

She walked over to the refrigerator.

Sticky notes covered almost every inch of it.

Your name is Emily.

You are twenty-four years old.

Your parents are dead.

You don't have a sister.

You adopted the cat. Don't panic if you don't recognize him.

I felt my stomach knot.

This wasn't Stage One anymore.

Emily hadn't just been forgetting memories.

She'd realized she was forgetting herself... and had been trying to fight it.

"Sorry," she said with an awkward smile. "I know this probably looks insane."

"Actually," I replied, "it's one of the more reasonable things I've seen this week."

She laughed.

It was brief.

Forced.

Like she'd forgotten how.

"So..." she said. "Who exactly are you?"

That was a fantastic question.

I couldn't exactly tell her I worked for Hell.

So I lied.

"Your doctor asked me to stop by and see how you're doing. He said you've been having some memory issues."

Emily's shoulders relaxed.

"Oh."

She blinked.

"Right."

The way she said it made my stomach sink.

It wasn't relief.

It was recognition without understanding, like she'd convinced herself my explanation made sense simply because she couldn't remember whether it did.

"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" I said.

She nodded and stepped aside.

"Sure."

"When did all this start?"

Emily stared at the floor for several seconds.

"I..."

She frowned.

"I don't remember."

A weak, embarrassed smile crossed her face.

"I guess that's kind of the problem."

I opened the case file.

"Have you noticed anything unusual? Anyone following you? Strange phone calls? Missing time?"

She thought for a moment.

"...Dreams."

I looked up.

"Every night."

"What kind of dreams?"

"The woods."

Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen window overlooking the tree line.

"Someone keeps calling me."

"Do you recognize the voice?"

She slowly shook her head.

"No."

"Have you ever gone outside because of it?"

She hesitated.

"I... don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Every morning I wake up with mud on my shoes."

I stopped writing.

"Anything else?"

She nodded toward the front door.

"The deadbolt is always unlocked."

"Do you lock it before bed?"

"Every night."

"And when you wake up?"

"It's unlocked."

Silence settled over the room.

Three quick knocks broke the silence, making both of us jump.

Emily frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone."

Before I could stop her, she opened the door.

Two paramedics stood on the porch.

"Emily Carter?"

She nodded.

"We're responding to a wellness check. One of your neighbors was concerned after not seeing you for a few days."

One of the paramedics glanced past her into the cottage, and his expression immediately changed. Every wall was covered in notes. The refrigerator, the cabinets, the mirrors, and even the front door were plastered with reminders.

"Emily," he said gently, "we'd like to bring you in for a quick evaluation." 

Part of me expected her to argue.

To refuse.

Instead, she simply nodded.

"...Okay."

Then she looked at me for several long seconds before quietly asking, "...Who are you again?"

My stomach dropped.

She'd forgotten me.

Not after hours.

After minutes.

One of the paramedics noticed the look on my face.

"Are you family?"

"No."

"A friend?"

I hesitated.

"...Something like that."

Emily looked between us with growing confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I feel like I should know you."

"I know."

She lowered her eyes.

"I keep doing this."

The older paramedic stepped inside and spoke gently.

"Emily, have you been eating?"

"I think so."

"When was your last meal?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Nearly ten seconds passed before she looked at him helplessly.

"...I don't remember."

He exchanged a worried glance with his partner.

"Have you been sleeping?"

"I have dreams."

"That's not what I asked."

She hesitated again before quietly admitting, "...I don't know."

That was enough.

The paramedics didn't need demons to know something was seriously wrong. They convinced Emily to come willingly while I quietly slipped the case file back into the briefcase. As she zipped an overnight bag closed, another sticky note drifted off the refrigerator and landed at my feet.

I picked it up.

If someone says they're here to help... let them.

I looked up.

"Did you write this?"

Emily stared at it for several seconds before frowning.

"I..."

She shook her head.

"I don't remember."

Neither of us spoke again as we followed the paramedics outside.

The emergency department smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Emily answered the same questions over and over again—her name, her birthday, the date, and her address. Some answers came immediately. Others took longer.

"What year is it?"

Emily frowned and closed her eyes.

"...I know this."

Several seconds passed before she whispered,

"I knew this."

The attending physician exchanged another concerned look with the neurologist before turning to me.

"We're admitting her overnight."

I wanted to argue. Hospital walls weren't going to stop whatever was hunting her, but I couldn't exactly tell them a demon was slowly erasing her existence, so I stayed.

Hours passed. The waiting room emptied, and the conversations outside faded until only the occasional nurse walked the hallway. Emily eventually fell asleep—or at least her eyes were closed.

I sat in the corner of the room with the privacy curtain drawn around her bed, the case file resting open on my lap. The final page stared back at me.

Tomorrow. 3:00 A.M.

I checked my watch.

12:01 A.M.

Three hours.

The lights flickered once, then again, before every monitor in the room shut off at the exact same moment. There was no alarm and no power surge. They simply stopped.

The room became unnaturally quiet. No footsteps echoed through the hallway, no voices drifted in from the nurses' station, and even the constant hum of the air conditioner had vanished.

I stood as a cold draft brushed across the back of my neck. The hospital window stood open, even though I was certain it had been locked. When I pulled back the privacy curtain, Emily's bed was empty. The restraints still lay neatly across the mattress, buckled exactly as the nurses had left them. She hadn't escaped them.

Someone had taken her.

I rushed to the window. Fresh mud stained the windowsill, and a trail of wet footprints stretched across the parking lot toward the tree line beyond the hospital. I checked my watch again.

12:04 A.M.

Less than three hours remained.

Then I remembered what Emily had told me earlier that day. Every night she dreamed about the woods, and someone kept calling her name. I didn't waste another second. I sprinted out of the room and was already running toward my car before my brain had fully caught up with what had happened.

I reached the woods behind Emily's neighborhood just minutes later.

The moment I stepped beneath the trees, I knew something was wrong. The forest hadn't simply grown darker. It felt... rearranged. Trees stood where there hadn't been trees before, and trails twisted back on themselves, forming impossible circles that led nowhere. Every few yards I found names carved into the bark, but as I watched, the letters slowly faded until the trunks became smooth again, as though those people had never existed.

I tightened my grip on the revolver and reached into the briefcase for the silver handcuffs. They felt unnaturally cold against my palms. The case file hadn't been exaggerating. This thing didn't just erase people. It erased every trace that they had ever been here.

Then a scream tore through the silence.

"Help!"

Emily.

I broke into a sprint. Branches clawed at my jacket as I pushed deeper into the woods, my flashlight bouncing wildly between the trees and catching movement that vanished whenever I tried to focus on it. Every few seconds I caught glimpses of people standing motionless between the trunks: a little girl, an elderly woman, a woman in a business suit. Each of them slowly turned toward me with vacant expressions before dissolving back into the darkness. Hallucinations, I told myself. They had to be.

Then Emily screamed again.

This time it was closer.

I burst through a wall of undergrowth into a small clearing and froze.

Emily was on her knees in the center of the clearing, clutching her head as though trying to hold her own thoughts together. Standing behind her was a figure that looked human until it smiled. Its jaw split impossibly wide, stretching from ear to ear, and behind that smile another face stared back at me. Then another. Then another. Hundreds of human faces shifted beneath its skin like people drowning beneath thin ice, each one silently mouthing the same question.

Who am I?

I raised the revolver and fired.

The first blessed round struck it square in the chest.

The creature didn't bleed.

Instead, it changed.

The thing standing over Emily vanished, replaced by a terrified teenage girl. The bullet had torn through her shoulder, and she let out a scream that made my stomach turn before disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared. An elderly woman took her place. The next bullet punched through her chest. Her frightened eyes locked onto mine for a single heartbeat before she vanished too. Then came a little girl. A young mother clutching an infant. A police officer.

Every shot passed through a different person.

Every victim the Spine Taker had ever stolen.

Each one looked real.

Each one screamed.

Each one stared directly at me.

I stopped firing. I only had one round left.

The creature smiled as its body rippled through dozens of stolen faces every second until they blurred together into something that barely resembled a human being.

"Do you see?" it asked, speaking with all of their voices at once. "If you cannot tell us apart... how can you be certain you're not killing them instead of me?"

My finger tightened around the trigger, but I couldn't pull it. Maybe it was another illusion. Maybe every face I was seeing belonged to someone who had died years ago. Or maybe they were still trapped inside that thing somehow. I didn't know, and that uncertainty was enough to stop me.

The creature smiled wider.

It had figured me out.

I'd spent my life hunting monsters who preyed on innocent people. That didn't erase what I'd become, but there had always been one line I refused to cross. I never killed the innocent. If I started pulling the trigger without knowing who stood in front of me, then I wasn't any different from the people I'd spent years hunting.

The Spine Taker laughed as its body rippled through another dozen stolen faces.

"I don't need to defeat you," it whispered. "I only need you to hesitate."

It lunged.

I threw myself aside just as its claws carved through the tree behind me, splintering the trunk like dry wood. My revolver flew from my hand and disappeared somewhere into the darkness.

Behind the creature, Emily had collapsed to her knees. She clutched her head with both hands, rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her face.

"My name is Emily," she whispered.

She repeated it again, louder this time.

"My name is Emily."

Again.

"My name is Emily."

She wasn't reminding me.

She was desperately trying to remind herself.

While the creature's attention remained fixed on Emily, I slowly reached the revolver and slid it into my sleeve, keeping my movements as small as possible. The Spine Taker suddenly lunged. Before I could react, one of its impossibly long arms wrapped around my torso and lifted me effortlessly off the ground until we were face to face. Hanging upside down, I found myself staring into a body made of shifting identities. The faces beneath its skin rippled faster and faster before finally settling on one I'd seen only a few days earlier.

Mine.

It tilted its head with unmistakable curiosity.

"You..." it hissed. "You're the one who died in the river."

For the first time since the fight began, it hesitated.

That was all I needed.

I slipped the revolver from my sleeve and fired a single blessed round straight into the center of its face. The clearing erupted with a scream unlike anything I'd ever heard. Every stolen face opened its mouth at once as the creature recoiled, dropping me onto the forest floor. Before it could recover, I threw myself forward and snapped one of the silver handcuffs around its wrist.

The reaction was immediate. The runes carved into the metal ignited with blinding white light, and the second cuff shot across the remaining distance on its own before locking around the creature's other wrist with a metallic snap. The Spine Taker collapsed, convulsing violently as the hundreds of faces beneath its skin dissolved one by one. Within seconds, the towering monster had shrunk into something almost human. Smaller. Frailer. Afraid.

Emily crumpled to the ground behind it, unconscious.

At the same moment, my briefcase clicked open. The folders inside vanished, replaced by an impossibly deep crimson abyss that stretched far beyond what should have fit inside a suitcase. Black chains disappeared into the darkness below, and a calm, emotionless voice echoed from somewhere inside.

"Prisoner retrieval confirmed."

I grabbed the demon by the handcuffs and dragged it toward the opening. It fought harder than I expected, clawing desperately at the dirt and roots as deep grooves carved through the forest floor.

"No!" it screamed. "Please! Don't send me back!"

I didn't slow down.

"You think Hell is what they told you?" it shrieked. "You think they're the jailers?"

Its terrified eyes locked onto mine.

"They lied to you."

My grip tightened, but I paused for the briefest fraction of a second.

The creature smiled.

Then it laughed.

"You'll learn," it whispered, its panic suddenly replaced by pity. "When you discover the truth..."

Before it could finish, an invisible force seized it. The demon was ripped forward, disappearing into the abyss feet first as its screams echoed through the darkness until they were swallowed completely. The portal folded shut with a quiet click, and silence settled over the clearing once more.

A small white card slid from the briefcase.

MISSION COMPLETE.

I looked over at Emily. Her breathing had steadied, and the tension had finally left her face. Carefully, I lifted her into my arms and carried her back through the forest to her cottage. The back door was still unlocked, just as she'd said it always was. I laid her gently in bed, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and watched as a faint smile crossed her face in her sleep.

I quietly left the cottage, climbed into my car, and placed the briefcase on the passenger seat. The latches clicked open by themselves, and a familiar voice drifted from inside.

"Congratulations on your first successful retrieval."

The Goat Lady sounded almost...

Pleased. 
The briefcase clicked softly.

Another folder slid onto the passenger seat.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't black.

It was white.

Across the front, in elegant gold lettering, were four words.

PRIORITY RETRIEVAL — LEVEL OMEGA

"...That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't."

I opened the folder.

It was empty.

No photograph.

No case history.

No victim list.

Just a single sentence.

Management escort required.

A cold feeling settled in my stomach.

Then I remembered the fourth rule.

Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I slowly looked at the briefcase.

"...You've got to be kidding."

"No."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"My next assignment is an angel?"

"Correct."

"I thought angels were supposed to be..."

I searched for the right word.

"...the good guys."

"They were."

That answer bothered me more than if she'd said yes.

I flipped through the folder again.

"There isn't any information."

"There doesn't need to be."

"That's reassuring."

"You will not be conducting this retrieval alone."

"Well, yeah," I said. "Rule Four. Angels require authorized management personnel."

A brief silence followed.

"So who's the authorized management?"

The Goat Lady answered without hesitation.

"I am."

The words hung in the air.

For the first time since waking up in Hell...

I felt genuinely nervous.

The woman who ran Hell's Retrieval Department, the one who treated escaped horrors like overdue paperwork, was leaving her office.

"...How dangerous is this angel?"

The silence that followed lasted long enough for me to wonder if the connection had died.

When she finally spoke, the calm professionalism she'd worn until now had faded.

"It has already killed three retrieval teams."

The line went dead.

I drove back to the motel in complete silence.

The Spine Taker's final words kept replaying in my head.

They lied to you.

When you discover the truth...

I shook the thought away.

One existential crisis at a time.

By the time I reached the motel, dawn had begun creeping over the horizon. I carried the briefcase upstairs, unlocked my room, and immediately reached for my pistol.

Someone was inside.

A woman sat behind the small desk by the window with her boots resting comfortably on its surface, slowly stirring a mug of coffee she'd apparently helped herself to. She looked about my age, maybe her late twenties. She stood around five-foot-eleven with the kind of lean, athletic build that looked earned rather than trained for. Kings had probably gone to war over a face like hers, yet despite the effortless beauty, there was something quietly unsettling about her. She looked completely relaxed, but she reminded me of a wolf pretending to be asleep.

She glanced up as I entered.

"Oh."

A small smile crossed her face.

"There you are."

My pistol was in my hand before she'd finished speaking.

She didn't even blink.

Instead, she took another sip of coffee.

"Good trigger discipline."

Then I remembered the Goat Lady's last words.

I will accompany you personally.

I slowly lowered the pistol.

"...No way."

The woman smiled a little wider.

"I assume you've figured it out."

She closed the folder she'd been reading, set the coffee mug aside, and stood.

"I should introduce myself properly."

She offered me a hand. "Lucifuge," she said.

I stared.

"As in..."

"Yes."

"Lucifuge Rofocale?"

“Prime Minister of Hell,” she said, sounding mildly annoyed. “The title is my father’s name, but nobody ever remembers it.”

She took another sip of my coffee.

“Most demons just call me Lucy.”

I’ll update this journal if I make it through the night.

And if I don’t..and Terry is reading this…yes, I am still dead. Currently.

I don’t know how else to phrase that so it makes sense, but I also don’t think it’s supposed to.

The demon is sitting in my chair right now.

She is looking at me as I write this.

Wish me luck.

Part 1: I'm a Serial Killer. Hell Just Offered Me a Job.

I pressed two fingers against my neck.

Nothing.

I tried my wrist.

Still nothing.

Then my chest.

Silence.

No rhythm.

No pulse.

No beating.

I checked again.

And again.

Three hundred and twelve times, according to the tally I'd started scratching into the motel notepad. The first thing Hell forgot to mention was that being dead is incredibly inconvenient.

For example, nobody tells you that your heart doesn't start beating again.

You'd think after the first hundred I'd accept it, but denial is a surprisingly stubborn survival instinct for someone who's technically no longer alive.

The second thing Hell forgot to mention is that corpses don't get hungry.

I'm not saying I didn't want food. I spent twenty dollars on pancakes that looked amazing. I just couldn't taste a single bite. The syrup had the consistency of motor oil, the bacon might as well have been cardboard, and the coffee... actually, the coffee tasted exactly the same. Which says more about motel coffee than it does about death.

By the time I'd finished breakfast, I'd reached a medically concerning conclusion.

I hadn't blinked once.

Not because I was trying not to. I'd simply forgotten people were supposed to. That realization bothered me far more than the whole "dying and waking up in Hell" thing. Normal people don't have to consciously remind themselves to blink. Yet there I was, standing in front of a motel bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection while forcing my eyelids shut every few seconds like I was relearning a basic human function.

Then someone knocked on my motel door.

Three slow knocks. Not the impatient pounding of a police officer. Not the nervous tapping of housekeeping.

Just...

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I glanced at the clock.

6:66 A.M.

Nobody with good intentions knocks at 6:66 in the morning.

I slid my pistol from beneath the pillow and quietly approached the door.

"Who is it?"

Silence.

I waited a few seconds before checking the peephole.

No one.

Wonderful.

Ghosts had apparently learned how to prank people.

Keeping the pistol raised, I unlocked the door. The hallway beyond was empty. No footsteps. No elevator. No retreating figure. Just a long stretch of stained carpet beneath flickering fluorescent lights.

Then I looked down.

A black leather briefcase sat neatly on the welcome mat.

Attached to the handle was a cream-colored envelope.

My real name was written across the front of it in elegant handwriting.

That caught me off guard. Only a handful of people still knew my real name, and none of them had called me by it in years. To everyone else, I was Mara Graves.

Apparently Hell preferred legal names.

Beneath my name, embossed in neat gold lettering, were two words.

EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION.

I stared at the envelope for several seconds before picking it up.

It was heavier than it looked. The paper felt expensive, thick, almost velvety beneath my fingertips. The kind of stationery usually reserved for law firms, weddings, or organizations with enough money that they never had to remind anyone they had it. Considering it had apparently been delivered by Hell, I supposed they could afford quality office supplies.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a single folded sheet of black paper. Not dark gray. Not charcoal. Black. The kind of black that seemed to swallow the motel's fluorescent light instead of reflecting it. Across the top, written in silver lettering, were the words:

WELCOME TO THE INFERNAL RETRIEVAL DEPARTMENT.

Beneath that was a much smaller sentence.

Congratulations on accepting our offer of employment.

"I don't remember signing anything," I muttered.

The page turned itself.

I instinctively reached for my pistol, but the paper ignored me. The second page contained only three lines.

Your employment officially began three days ago.

Employee Status: Deceased.

Orientation materials enclosed.

I slowly looked back at the briefcase.

"Nope."

The briefcase clicked open by itself.

I immediately took three more steps backward and leveled my pistol at it. Nothing happened. No smoke. No screaming souls. No tiny demons wearing business suits. The lid simply swung open and waited.

"You're either surprisingly polite," I said to the briefcase, "or this is exactly how horror movies start."

Curiosity has killed a lot of people.

Technically, I'd already checked that one off my list.

I lowered the pistol and walked over. The inside of the briefcase was immaculate. Everything had its own compartment, arranged with obsessive precision. A matte-black revolver rested in the center. Beside it sat a pair of silver handcuffs engraved with symbols that seemed to move whenever I looked directly at them. There was a leather notebook, a small metal badge bearing the same goat skull I'd seen behind the desk in Hell, and a stack of neatly labeled folders tied together with black ribbon.

At the very bottom rested a small white card.

It contained exactly one sentence.

Please report to your first assignment immediately. Management is already disappointed in you.

I frowned.

"I've only been dead for three days."

I set the card aside and picked up the first folder.

COMPANY POLICIES.

Of course Hell had paperwork.

The first page contained exactly one sentence.

Please read all policies before beginning your first retrieval. Failure to comply may result in additional punishment.

There were three hundred and seventy-eight pages.

I closed the folder.

"I'm willing to risk it."

The paper immediately burst into black flames. I jumped backward, reaching for my pistol, but the fire didn't spread. It simply consumed the pages before reforming into a single sheet.

Apparently Hell had anticipated that reaction.

The new page contained only four rules.

Rule 1: Do not talk to any demons other than management.

Reasonable.

Rule 2: Escaped prisoners are to be returned, not executed.

Less reasonable.

Rule 3: Prisoners may lie, bargain, threaten, plead, impersonate, manipulate, or otherwise attempt to avoid capture. Please do not believe them.

I frowned at that one.

Rule 4: Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I blinked.

"...Why the hell would I ever need to hunt an angel?"

The motel television crackled to life before I could read any further. Static swallowed the screen before dissolving into the familiar image of a massive goat skull.

"You read the rules."

"I skimmed them."

"I noticed."

The voice hadn't changed. Calm. Professional. Like an accountant discussing tax deductions instead of eternal damnation.

I folded my arms. The glowing red eyes remained fixed on me.

"Your first assignment has already begun."

The television changed.

A photograph filled the screen.

The young woman from yesterday.

The one the escaped demon intended to kill next.

Only she looked different now.

Her smile was vacant.

Her eyes seemed unfocused.

Beneath the photograph appeared a short report.

Subject has begun Stage One identity degradation.

I stared at the words.

"What exactly does that mean?"

The Goat Lady was silent for several seconds before answering.

"It has started erasing her."

A chill crawled up my spine.

"Erasing... her memories?"

"No."

Another photograph appeared. It had been taken only hours later. The same woman. The same clothes. The same face.

But somehow...

She looked like a completely different person.

"It is erasing her existence."

The Goat Lady's voice remained unnervingly calm.

"When it finishes, the body will still be alive."

"It simply won't belong to her anymore."

The television went black.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, letting everything sink in. Then I grabbed the briefcase, holstered my pistol, and headed for the parking lot. I'd figure out whatever Hell had packed inside that suitcase later. Right now, all I had was an address, the name of a woman I'd never met, and a demon that had already killed six people, survived being shot, worn human beings like Halloween costumes, and murdered me. Somehow, I doubted a strongly worded conversation was going to solve this one.

The motel parking lot was almost empty. I tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel, and floored the accelerator. The address was the same one I'd been given yesterday. I could only hope the target hadn't moved. Traffic was surprisingly light for a weekday morning, giving me far too much time alone with my thoughts. There had to be better candidates than me. Soldiers. Police officers. Paramedics. Actual good people. Instead, Hell had hired a serial killer. Either their recruitment standards were embarrassingly low, or they knew something about me that I didn't. I wasn't sure which possibility bothered me more.

About halfway there, the briefcase gave a soft metallic click. I glanced over just in time to see the latches pop open on their own.

"I am absolutely not dealing with a haunted suitcase while driving."

The briefcase ignored me. One of the folders slowly slid out before coming to rest neatly on the passenger seat. Across the tab, stamped in crimson ink, were two words.

CASE FILE.

I sighed.

"Fine."

The next traffic light turned red, so I picked up the folder and opened it. The first page contained a photograph of the young woman. The second was a timeline documenting her condition. Every few hours, another piece of her identity disappeared. First her childhood memories. Then the names of her closest friends. Then her parents. Then her own birthday. I turned the page.

Only one entry remained.

Tomorrow — 3:00 A.M.

Subject no longer recognizes herself.

Vessel acquisition imminent.

I looked up at the dashboard clock.

8:00 A.M.

Nineteen hours.

That was all she had left.

The light turned green.

I slammed the folder shut, threw it back onto the passenger seat, and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled onto a narrow gravel road.

The house sat at the very end, tucked beside a dense stretch of forest. It was small. Cozy. The kind of cottage that belonged on a postcard rather than in the middle of a supernatural homicide investigation. Wind chimes swayed gently on the porch, flower boxes lined the windows, and a faded bicycle lay on its side near the driveway.

Nothing about it screamed demon.

I killed the engine but didn't get out.

Old habits die hard.

Well...

Apparently I didn't.

I spent another minute watching the house through the windshield. No movement behind the curtains. No shadowy figures lurking in the trees. No impossible creatures crawling across the roof.

Just an ordinary home.

Which somehow made me even more nervous.

I grabbed my pistol and tucked it into the back of my waistband. Then I opened the suitcase and picked up the revolver.

I thumbed open the cylinder.

Six rounds.

Good.

That was all I had, so every shot would have to count.

I snapped the cylinder shut, tucked the briefcase under one arm, and walked toward the front door.

Three knocks.

A few seconds later, footsteps approached from inside.

The door opened.

A girl, maybe seventeen, blinked at me.

"Hi," she said politely. "Can I help you?"

Her smile looked genuine.

Her eyes didn't.

They were unfocused, almost distant, as if part of her attention was somewhere else entirely.

"I'm looking for..." I glanced at the file.

"...Emily Carter."

The girl frowned.

For several long seconds, she just stared at me.

Then she quietly asked,

"Who's Emily?"  

I looked at her.

Then I looked down at the photograph in the case file.

Then back at her again.

Same chestnut hair.

Same freckles scattered across her nose.

Same green eyes.

There wasn't a doubt in my mind.

I slowly lowered the folder.

"You... are Emily Carter."

She frowned.

"...Am I?"

She didn't sound scared.

She sounded genuinely uncertain.

"I thought so," she said after a moment. "At least... I think I am."

She gave an embarrassed laugh.

"Sorry. I've been really forgetful lately."

The laugh didn't reach her eyes.

"I keep walking into rooms and forgetting why I'm there. Yesterday I couldn't remember where I worked for almost an hour." She rubbed her temple. "My doctor says it's probably stress."

Stress…

"Can I come in?" I asked.

She hesitated for a second before stepping aside.

The cottage was immaculate. Everything had a place. Books lined the shelves, a half-finished mug of coffee sat on the kitchen counter, and a planner lay open on the dining table.

Every page was covered in notes.

Buy groceries.

Water plants.

Take medication.

You live alone.

I stopped.

The last note had been written three times.

You live alone.

You live alone.

YOU LIVE ALONE.

Emily noticed me staring.

"Oh..." She looked away, embarrassed. "I started leaving myself reminders."

"What kind of reminders?"

"The important ones."

She walked over to the refrigerator.

Sticky notes covered almost every inch of it.

Your name is Emily.

You are twenty-four years old.

Your parents are dead.

You don't have a sister.

You adopted the cat. Don't panic if you don't recognize him.

I felt my stomach knot.

This wasn't Stage One anymore.

Emily hadn't just been forgetting memories.

She'd realized she was forgetting herself... and had been trying to fight it.

"Sorry," she said with an awkward smile. "I know this probably looks insane."

"Actually," I replied, "it's one of the more reasonable things I've seen this week."

She laughed.

It was brief.

Forced.

Like she'd forgotten how.

"So..." she said. "Who exactly are you?"

That was a fantastic question.

I couldn't exactly tell her I worked for Hell.

So I lied.

"Your doctor asked me to stop by and see how you're doing. He said you've been having some memory issues."

Emily's shoulders relaxed.

"Oh."

She blinked.

"Right."

The way she said it made my stomach sink.

It wasn't relief.

It was recognition without understanding, like she'd convinced herself my explanation made sense simply because she couldn't remember whether it did.

"Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" I said.

She nodded and stepped aside.

"Sure."

"When did all this start?"

Emily stared at the floor for several seconds.

"I..."

She frowned.

"I don't remember."

A weak, embarrassed smile crossed her face.

"I guess that's kind of the problem."

I opened the case file.

"Have you noticed anything unusual? Anyone following you? Strange phone calls? Missing time?"

She thought for a moment.

"...Dreams."

I looked up.

"Every night."

"What kind of dreams?"

"The woods."

Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen window overlooking the tree line.

"Someone keeps calling me."

"Do you recognize the voice?"

She slowly shook her head.

"No."

"Have you ever gone outside because of it?"

She hesitated.

"I... don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Every morning I wake up with mud on my shoes."

I stopped writing.

"Anything else?"

She nodded toward the front door.

"The deadbolt is always unlocked."

"Do you lock it before bed?"

"Every night."

"And when you wake up?"

"It's unlocked."

Silence settled over the room.

Three quick knocks broke the silence, making both of us jump.

Emily frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone."

Before I could stop her, she opened the door.

Two paramedics stood on the porch.

"Emily Carter?"

She nodded.

"We're responding to a wellness check. One of your neighbors was concerned after not seeing you for a few days."

One of the paramedics glanced past her into the cottage, and his expression immediately changed. Every wall was covered in notes. The refrigerator, the cabinets, the mirrors, and even the front door were plastered with reminders.

"Emily," he said gently, "we'd like to bring you in for a quick evaluation." 

Part of me expected her to argue.

To refuse.

Instead, she simply nodded.

"...Okay."

Then she looked at me for several long seconds before quietly asking, "...Who are you again?"

My stomach dropped.

She'd forgotten me.

Not after hours.

After minutes.

One of the paramedics noticed the look on my face.

"Are you family?"

"No."

"A friend?"

I hesitated.

"...Something like that."

Emily looked between us with growing confusion.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I feel like I should know you."

"I know."

She lowered her eyes.

"I keep doing this."

The older paramedic stepped inside and spoke gently.

"Emily, have you been eating?"

"I think so."

"When was your last meal?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Nearly ten seconds passed before she looked at him helplessly.

"...I don't remember."

He exchanged a worried glance with his partner.

"Have you been sleeping?"

"I have dreams."

"That's not what I asked."

She hesitated again before quietly admitting, "...I don't know."

That was enough.

The paramedics didn't need demons to know something was seriously wrong. They convinced Emily to come willingly while I quietly slipped the case file back into the briefcase. As she zipped an overnight bag closed, another sticky note drifted off the refrigerator and landed at my feet.

I picked it up.

If someone says they're here to help... let them.

I looked up.

"Did you write this?"

Emily stared at it for several seconds before frowning.

"I..."

She shook her head.

"I don't remember."

Neither of us spoke again as we followed the paramedics outside.

The emergency department smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Emily answered the same questions over and over again—her name, her birthday, the date, and her address. Some answers came immediately. Others took longer.

"What year is it?"

Emily frowned and closed her eyes.

"...I know this."

Several seconds passed before she whispered,

"I knew this."

The attending physician exchanged another concerned look with the neurologist before turning to me.

"We're admitting her overnight."

I wanted to argue. Hospital walls weren't going to stop whatever was hunting her, but I couldn't exactly tell them a demon was slowly erasing her existence, so I stayed.

Hours passed. The waiting room emptied, and the conversations outside faded until only the occasional nurse walked the hallway. Emily eventually fell asleep—or at least her eyes were closed.

I sat in the corner of the room with the privacy curtain drawn around her bed, the case file resting open on my lap. The final page stared back at me.

Tomorrow. 3:00 A.M.

I checked my watch.

12:01 A.M.

Three hours.

The lights flickered once, then again, before every monitor in the room shut off at the exact same moment. There was no alarm and no power surge. They simply stopped.

The room became unnaturally quiet. No footsteps echoed through the hallway, no voices drifted in from the nurses' station, and even the constant hum of the air conditioner had vanished.

I stood as a cold draft brushed across the back of my neck. The hospital window stood open, even though I was certain it had been locked. When I pulled back the privacy curtain, Emily's bed was empty. The restraints still lay neatly across the mattress, buckled exactly as the nurses had left them. She hadn't escaped them.

Someone had taken her.

I rushed to the window. Fresh mud stained the windowsill, and a trail of wet footprints stretched across the parking lot toward the tree line beyond the hospital. I checked my watch again.

12:04 A.M.

Less than three hours remained.

Then I remembered what Emily had told me earlier that day. Every night she dreamed about the woods, and someone kept calling her name. I didn't waste another second. I sprinted out of the room and was already running toward my car before my brain had fully caught up with what had happened.

I reached the woods behind Emily's neighborhood just minutes later.

The moment I stepped beneath the trees, I knew something was wrong. The forest hadn't simply grown darker. It felt... rearranged. Trees stood where there hadn't been trees before, and trails twisted back on themselves, forming impossible circles that led nowhere. Every few yards I found names carved into the bark, but as I watched, the letters slowly faded until the trunks became smooth again, as though those people had never existed.

I tightened my grip on the revolver and reached into the briefcase for the silver handcuffs. They felt unnaturally cold against my palms. The case file hadn't been exaggerating. This thing didn't just erase people. It erased every trace that they had ever been here.

Then a scream tore through the silence.

"Help!"

Emily.

I broke into a sprint. Branches clawed at my jacket as I pushed deeper into the woods, my flashlight bouncing wildly between the trees and catching movement that vanished whenever I tried to focus on it. Every few seconds I caught glimpses of people standing motionless between the trunks: a little girl, an elderly woman, a woman in a business suit. Each of them slowly turned toward me with vacant expressions before dissolving back into the darkness. Hallucinations, I told myself. They had to be.

Then Emily screamed again.

This time it was closer.

I burst through a wall of undergrowth into a small clearing and froze.

Emily was on her knees in the center of the clearing, clutching her head as though trying to hold her own thoughts together. Standing behind her was a figure that looked human until it smiled. Its jaw split impossibly wide, stretching from ear to ear, and behind that smile another face stared back at me. Then another. Then another. Hundreds of human faces shifted beneath its skin like people drowning beneath thin ice, each one silently mouthing the same question.

Who am I?

I raised the revolver and fired.

The first blessed round struck it square in the chest.

The creature didn't bleed.

Instead, it changed.

The thing standing over Emily vanished, replaced by a terrified teenage girl. The bullet had torn through her shoulder, and she let out a scream that made my stomach turn before disappearing as quickly as she'd appeared. An elderly woman took her place. The next bullet punched through her chest. Her frightened eyes locked onto mine for a single heartbeat before she vanished too. Then came a little girl. A young mother clutching an infant. A police officer.

Every shot passed through a different person.

Every victim the Spine Taker had ever stolen.

Each one looked real.

Each one screamed.

Each one stared directly at me.

I stopped firing. I only had one round left.

The creature smiled as its body rippled through dozens of stolen faces every second until they blurred together into something that barely resembled a human being.

"Do you see?" it asked, speaking with all of their voices at once. "If you cannot tell us apart... how can you be certain you're not killing them instead of me?"

My finger tightened around the trigger, but I couldn't pull it. Maybe it was another illusion. Maybe every face I was seeing belonged to someone who had died years ago. Or maybe they were still trapped inside that thing somehow. I didn't know, and that uncertainty was enough to stop me.

The creature smiled wider.

It had figured me out.

I'd spent my life hunting monsters who preyed on innocent people. That didn't erase what I'd become, but there had always been one line I refused to cross. I never killed the innocent. If I started pulling the trigger without knowing who stood in front of me, then I wasn't any different from the people I'd spent years hunting.

The Spine Taker laughed as its body rippled through another dozen stolen faces.

"I don't need to defeat you," it whispered. "I only need you to hesitate."

It lunged.

I threw myself aside just as its claws carved through the tree behind me, splintering the trunk like dry wood. My revolver flew from my hand and disappeared somewhere into the darkness.

Behind the creature, Emily had collapsed to her knees. She clutched her head with both hands, rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her face.

"My name is Emily," she whispered.

She repeated it again, louder this time.

"My name is Emily."

Again.

"My name is Emily."

She wasn't reminding me.

She was desperately trying to remind herself.

While the creature's attention remained fixed on Emily, I slowly reached the revolver and slid it into my sleeve, keeping my movements as small as possible. The Spine Taker suddenly lunged. Before I could react, one of its impossibly long arms wrapped around my torso and lifted me effortlessly off the ground until we were face to face. Hanging upside down, I found myself staring into a body made of shifting identities. The faces beneath its skin rippled faster and faster before finally settling on one I'd seen only a few days earlier.

Mine.

It tilted its head with unmistakable curiosity.

"You..." it hissed. "You're the one who died in the river."

For the first time since the fight began, it hesitated.

That was all I needed.

I slipped the revolver from my sleeve and fired a single blessed round straight into the center of its face. The clearing erupted with a scream unlike anything I'd ever heard. Every stolen face opened its mouth at once as the creature recoiled, dropping me onto the forest floor. Before it could recover, I threw myself forward and snapped one of the silver handcuffs around its wrist.

The reaction was immediate. The runes carved into the metal ignited with blinding white light, and the second cuff shot across the remaining distance on its own before locking around the creature's other wrist with a metallic snap. The Spine Taker collapsed, convulsing violently as the hundreds of faces beneath its skin dissolved one by one. Within seconds, the towering monster had shrunk into something almost human. Smaller. Frailer. Afraid.

Emily crumpled to the ground behind it, unconscious.

At the same moment, my briefcase clicked open. The folders inside vanished, replaced by an impossibly deep crimson abyss that stretched far beyond what should have fit inside a suitcase. Black chains disappeared into the darkness below, and a calm, emotionless voice echoed from somewhere inside.

"Prisoner retrieval confirmed."

I grabbed the demon by the handcuffs and dragged it toward the opening. It fought harder than I expected, clawing desperately at the dirt and roots as deep grooves carved through the forest floor.

"No!" it screamed. "Please! Don't send me back!"

I didn't slow down.

"You think Hell is what they told you?" it shrieked. "You think they're the jailers?"

Its terrified eyes locked onto mine.

"They lied to you."

My grip tightened, but I paused for the briefest fraction of a second.

The creature smiled.

Then it laughed.

"You'll learn," it whispered, its panic suddenly replaced by pity. "When you discover the truth..."

Before it could finish, an invisible force seized it. The demon was ripped forward, disappearing into the abyss feet first as its screams echoed through the darkness until they were swallowed completely. The portal folded shut with a quiet click, and silence settled over the clearing once more.

A small white card slid from the briefcase.

MISSION COMPLETE.

I looked over at Emily. Her breathing had steadied, and the tension had finally left her face. Carefully, I lifted her into my arms and carried her back through the forest to her cottage. The back door was still unlocked, just as she'd said it always was. I laid her gently in bed, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and watched as a faint smile crossed her face in her sleep.

I quietly left the cottage, climbed into my car, and placed the briefcase on the passenger seat. The latches clicked open by themselves, and a familiar voice drifted from inside.

"Congratulations on your first successful retrieval."

The Goat Lady sounded almost...

Pleased. 
The briefcase clicked softly.

Another folder slid onto the passenger seat.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't black.

It was white.

Across the front, in elegant gold lettering, were four words.

PRIORITY RETRIEVAL — LEVEL OMEGA

"...That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't."

I opened the folder.

It was empty.

No photograph.

No case history.

No victim list.

Just a single sentence.

Management escort required.

A cold feeling settled in my stomach.

Then I remembered the fourth rule.

Angels are not classified as prisoners. Do not attempt apprehension unless accompanied by authorized management personnel.

I slowly looked at the briefcase.

"...You've got to be kidding."

"No."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"My next assignment is an angel?"

"Correct."

"I thought angels were supposed to be..."

I searched for the right word.

"...the good guys."

"They were."

That answer bothered me more than if she'd said yes.

I flipped through the folder again.

"There isn't any information."

"There doesn't need to be."

"That's reassuring."

"You will not be conducting this retrieval alone."

"Well, yeah," I said. "Rule Four. Angels require authorized management personnel."

A brief silence followed.

"So who's the authorized management?"

The Goat Lady answered without hesitation.

"I am."

The words hung in the air.

For the first time since waking up in Hell...

I felt genuinely nervous.

The woman who ran Hell's Retrieval Department, the one who treated escaped horrors like overdue paperwork, was leaving her office.

"...How dangerous is this angel?"

The silence that followed lasted long enough for me to wonder if the connection had died.

When she finally spoke, the calm professionalism she'd worn until now had faded.

"It has already killed three retrieval teams."

The line went dead.

I drove back to the motel in complete silence.

The Spine Taker's final words kept replaying in my head.

They lied to you.

When you discover the truth...

I shook the thought away.

One existential crisis at a time.

By the time I reached the motel, dawn had begun creeping over the horizon. I carried the briefcase upstairs, unlocked my room, and immediately reached for my pistol.

Someone was inside.

A woman sat behind the small desk by the window with her boots resting comfortably on its surface, slowly stirring a mug of coffee she'd apparently helped herself to. She looked about my age, maybe her late twenties. She stood around five-foot-eleven with the kind of lean, athletic build that looked earned rather than trained for. Kings had probably gone to war over a face like hers, yet despite the effortless beauty, there was something quietly unsettling about her. She looked completely relaxed, but she reminded me of a wolf pretending to be asleep.

She glanced up as I entered.

"Oh."

A small smile crossed her face.

"There you are."

My pistol was in my hand before she'd finished speaking.

She didn't even blink.

Instead, she took another sip of coffee.

"Good trigger discipline."

Then I remembered the Goat Lady's last words.

I will accompany you personally.

I slowly lowered the pistol.

"...No way."

The woman smiled a little wider.

"I assume you've figured it out."

She closed the folder she'd been reading, set the coffee mug aside, and stood.

"I should introduce myself properly."

She offered me a hand. "Lucifuge," she said.

I stared.

"As in..."

"Yes."

"Lucifuge Rofocale?"

“Prime Minister of Hell,” she said, sounding mildly annoyed. “The title is my father’s name, but nobody ever remembers it.”

She took another sip of my coffee.

“Most demons just call me Lucy.”

I’ll update this journal if I make it through the night.

And if I don’t..and Terry is reading this…yes, I am still dead. Currently.

I don’t know how else to phrase that so it makes sense, but I also don’t think it’s supposed to.

The demon is sitting in my chair right now.

She is looking at me as I write this.

Wish me luck.

Part 1: I Work for an Organization That Contains Gods. We Had to Make a Sacrifice This Time.

Part 2: I Went to Antarctica Looking for 10,000 Missing People. I Came Back With a New Boss.

Part 3: Apparently Using Assistants as Sacrifices Violates Company Policy

Part 4: I Work for an Organization That Hunts Gods. One of Them Warned Me About the Angel Following Me.

There are certain things you never want to learn about your coworkers: their browser history, whether they've committed tax fraud, and if one of your coworkers happens to be an angel older than civilization itself: what makes them angry.

Unfortunately, I learned the last one the hard way.

It all started with what should've been a routine retrieval mission.

I had been out of the hospital for three weeks. Physically, the doctors had cleared me for field work. According to Angelo, however, I still required supervision.

Which was a polite way of saying he'd moved into my apartment.

He never asked. One evening he walked through my front door carrying a single duffel bag, claimed my couch, and simply... never left. At first I tried hinting. Then I tried arguing. Eventually I accepted that arguing with an ancient celestial entity who viewed social norms as optional was about as productive as arguing with gravity.

Every morning I'd wake to the smell of fresh coffee. Angelo would already be sitting on the couch, reading another book he'd somehow acquired overnight. I never saw him buy them. They just simply... appeared.

He brewed my coffee without asking. Used my kitchen like he'd always lived there. Watched documentaries at three in the morning. Once I caught him watching ten straight hours of courtroom footage because, according to him, "Human conflict resolution is fascinating."

The strange part wasn't that he was living with me.

It was that he'd started sleeping.

Angels don't sleep.

Angelo did.

I'd worked with Angelo long enough to know he could stand perfectly still for days without blinking if the situation demanded it. Yet every night I'd find him asleep on my couch, a blanket draped over him like any ordinary person.

The first night, I assumed he was pretending.

The third night, I watched him have a nightmare.

Not discomfort.

Not irritation.

Fear.

Every day, Angelo seemed a little more human, and somehow that frightened me far more than the monsters we hunted. I tried not to think about it as I walked through CSP headquarters. By the time I reached my office, I'd almost convinced myself I was imagining things.

Then I saw the case file waiting on my desk.

RETRIEVAL REQUEST

I sighed and flipped it open.

Subject: Unknown

Classification: Active Divine Event

Containment: N/A

Objective: Locate the affected deity. Determine the nature of the incident. Recover any surviving evidence.

My eyes drifted to the final note.

Four investigative teams have already been deployed.

None have returned.

I read the sentence twice.

"...That's new."

Normally, when a team went missing, we sent a rescue team. This wasn't a rescue anymore. Four teams had already disappeared.

I picked up my radio. Jacob answered after a few seconds.

"What?"

No greeting. No "Good morning." Just irritation.

Apparently he was still mad about Sean.

Honestly, I didn't care.

"Why do you keep sending me reports with almost no information?" I asked. "I'm supposed to retrieve a missing god, but you didn't even tell me which one."

Silence.

It lasted long enough that I checked the radio to make sure the connection hadn't died.

When Jacob finally spoke, his voice sounded different.

"Do you really not understand?"

"...Understand what?"

"I sent four investigation teams." He paused. "I did everything I could."

Another pause.

"They never came back."

The annoyance drained out of me.

Jacob wasn't angry.

He was scared.

"Where's the god?"

"Serbia."

I frowned.

"Where in Serbia?"

"You'll have to ask Jeff."

"...Why?"

"Because he's the only one who came back."

“Came back?”

“Alive.”

I cut the line as I leaned back in my chair.

Jeff.

Another coworker who hated me.

In my defense, I'd once used his cargo plane as an improvised missile during a retrieval mission. He'd been holding a grudge ever since.

If there was anyone in CSP capable of surviving an extinction-level supernatural disaster, refusing to explain what happened, and somehow making it everyone else's problem, it was Jeff.

A second later, the line clicked.

"I see you survived Nevada," Jeff said. "Unfortunately."

"Good to hear your voice too."

"What do you want?"

"I need you to take my team to Serbia."

Silence.

"...Jeff?"

"What makes you think you'll retrieve the god when four teams have already failed?"

"Because CSP assigned the case to me."

Another long pause.

"...Fair enough."

I grabbed a pen.

"So where are we going?"

"I'm not discussing it over the radio."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Jeff—"

"I'm serious."

The sarcasm had disappeared from Jeff's voice.

"CSP gave me strict orders not to disclose the location..." He hesitated before letting out a quiet sigh.

"...Also, it doesn't exist on any map. Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn't."

I frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you'll understand when we get there."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting,"  he said.

"And if you die, I'm not filling out the paperwork."

"I wouldn't expect you to." I sighed.

The line went dead.

I immediately called an emergency briefing.

Two hours later, five hundred security personnel, thirty negotiators, and ten medical teams stood assembled in the operations room, waiting for instructions.

No one knew what we were walking into. We didn't know which god had appeared, what had happened to the four investigation teams, or even what we were supposed to retrieve. All we had was a destination that didn't exist on any map... and a guide who refused to explain how to get there. 

In other words, we were going in blind. Ten minutes later, I boarded the transport plane. Angelo was already inside, sitting exactly where I'd expected him to be, waiting.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Coming with you."

I didn't have the energy to argue.

"I didn't see you this morning."

"I was in a briefing."

"I see."

Jeff was leaning against the cockpit with his arms crossed. He shot me the same look he'd been giving me since the missile incident.

I ignored him. The flight passed quickly, mostly because I slept through most of it. About three hours later, I woke up with the unmistakable feeling that someone was watching me. I opened my eyes. Angelo was staring at me from the seat beside mine. He didn't even pretend to look away.

"Can I help you?"

"You appeared peaceful."

"...You were watching me sleep because I looked peaceful?"

"Yes."

I sighed.

Somehow, I had gotten used to his staring problem.

We finally arrived at the location.

Jeff led us into a narrow mountain tunnel. We walked for what felt like miles, descending through layer after layer of solid rock. Fifteen, maybe twenty levels. The deeper we went, the stranger it became. There were no shrines. No followers. No sign that a god had ever existed there. Only talismans. Thousands of them, nailed into the walls, hanging from cracks in the stone, or left in neat piles that had long since turned to dust.

Eventually, the tunnel opened into a cavern so vast the ceiling vanished into darkness. Thousands more talismans hung from rusted chains anchored high above us. Paper charms covered in prayers written in forgotten languages swayed beside shattered crucifixes, cracked Buddhist seals, broken stone tablets, rusted bells, and relics from religions I'd never even heard of. It looked as though every civilization in history had come to this place... and failed to destroy whatever was waiting inside...settling for imprisoning it instead.

A single stone bridge stretched across a bottomless chasm. At its center stood the god.

Calling it a god feels wrong now. Truthfully, I don't remember what it looked like. I remember thinking it was impossibly tall. I remember strips of something hanging from its body, skin, maybe, or cloth. I remember six arms. Or seven. Maybe none. I don't know anymore. I remember the eyes. Too many eyes. The rest is gone. Every time I try to picture it, the memory changes. The worst part wasn't its appearance. It was the certainty that my mind refused to process what I was seeing. Every blink rearranged it. One moment, it stood perfectly still. The next its neck seemed twisted backward. Then it was facing us despite never moving. My eyes couldn't agree on where its limbs ended, or even how many limbs it had.

Only then did I notice the silence. No wind. No footsteps. No breathing.

"My lord," I called.

Nothing.

I stepped onto the bridge.

"We've come to make a proposition."

Still nothing. No priests. No worshippers. No followers. Every god had followers.

Then I heard it...a groan. I looked behind me, but no one on my team had made a sound. Slowly, I raised my flashlight. The beam climbed higher... and reached the ceiling.

I froze. Hundreds of eyes stared back. The ceiling wasn't rock. It was people.

Their bodies had fused into a living carpet stretching across the cavern. They crawled over one another without making a sound, their necks bent impossibly backward so every face remained fixed on us. Arms and legs protruded at impossible angles, fingers digging into flesh instead of stone as though gravity no longer mattered. None of them blinked. None of them spoke. They just watched.

Then I understood what we'd been walking beneath.

Every layer we'd descended through hadn't been empty.

The ceilings.

Every single one had been covered with people.

Not hundreds.

Not thousands.

Hundreds of thousands.

The mountain wasn't hollow. The mountain was built with them. We had descended nearly twenty levels, each one packed with fused human bodies stretching farther than my flashlight could reach. There had to be over half a million of them.

That's when I realized this wasn't a normal class god.

This was something far worse.

An SS-class god.

A medic behind me gasped.

The sound echoed through the cavern.

Every face turned toward him at once.

Then the god moved.

Slowly...

Impossibly slowly...

It raised its head.

The eyes beneath the rotting wrappings opened together.

When it spoke, it wasn't a voice.

It was pressure.

"How dare..."

The talismans throughout the cavern began to tremble.

"...mere humans..."

Dust rained from the ceiling.

"...enter this sanctuary?"

The final word shook the cavern. Above us, the mass of human bodies began to crawl. Bones cracked. Limbs twisted. Hundreds of fused mouths opened in perfect silence as they dragged themselves across the ceiling, moving like insects beneath skin that should never have been alive. Then everything stopped. The creatures froze mid-crawl. The talismans hanging throughout the cavern fell still. Even the dust suspended in the air seemed to stop falling.

The god wasn't looking at me anymore. It was staring at Angelo. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then the god laughed. Not with amusement. With disbelief. A deep, broken laugh that echoed through the mountain until the walls themselves began to tremble. Angelo frowned.

"...Do I know you?"

The god's laughter grew louder, almost desperate.

 "You..." it managed between broken fits of laughter. 

"You truly don't remember." It took a slow step onto the bridge, and stone groaned beneath its weight. 

"Look at me." Angelo didn't respond. 

"LOOK AT ME!" The bridge exploded beneath our feet. A crack raced toward us as the roar slammed into my chest hard enough to steal my breath.

Then I saw it. Recognition. I almost missed it.

Angelo's expression shifted by less than an inch.

"...You." The god smiled.

"There you are, uncle."

Uncle?

Its grin widened beyond anything a face should be capable of.

"I wondered if guilt had finally devoured your memories."

Its eyes drifted to me.

"So... this is what you've become." It looked me up and down like a scientist studying an insect.

"A human." Then it laughed again.

"Tell me, child. Has he told you?" he said his eyes locked onto mine.

"Told me what?" I asked, forcing far more confidence into my voice than I actually felt.

"Nayeri," Angelo said quietly. "Don't answer another word."

The god ignored him.

"Has he told you about his kin?" My stomach tightened.

That book in the library.

Three angels descended into Antarctica. Three angels created the first gods.

Slowly, I turned toward Angelo.

The god's smile became predatory. "Did he tell you... that he murdered them?"

The cavern shook.

"He BUTCHERED his brother." Talismans burst into green fire.

"He SLAUGHTERED his sister." The bridge groaned beneath our feet.

"He TORE Heaven apart with his own hands." Every fused human hanging from the ceiling screamed, not one after another, but all at once. The sound didn't echo. It became the cave.

"And now..." The god raised one trembling finger toward Angelo.

"...you dare stand before me wearing that face?"

Angelo lowered his eyes. "You know why I did it."

"No." The god's voice turned cold enough to hurt.

"I know what you have became. You abandoned your own blood. You abandoned Heaven. You abandoned Mother."

Its voice fractured into something between grief and hatred.

"You chose humans." It pointed at me.

"Over us."

"I chose reality," Angelo replied.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The words echoed through the cavern anyway—quiet, certain.

The god screamed. 

"LIAR!" The ceiling burst apart. 

Thousands of twisted bodies dropped at once. It sounded like rain. Rain made of flesh.

"CONTACT!" someone behind me shouted.

Gunfire erupted.

Muzzle flashes lit the cavern like lightning, tearing through the darkness in rapid bursts. It made no difference. The creatures never slowed. One landed on a negotiator, folding his spine backward until it snapped. Another tore through an exorcist's protective seals as though they were wet paper.

A medic disappeared beneath a writhing pile of bodies. He only screamed once.

I emptied my rifle into the first three creatures that reached the bridge. One collapsed. The other two didn't even slow down. Something slammed into my chest, throwing me onto the stone hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. Before I could recover, one of the creatures landed on top of me. It looked almost human. Almost. Its jaw split impossibly wide, revealing row after row of human teeth. Hot saliva dripped onto my face as it lunged for my throat.

Then everything became white.

Not bright.

White.

The light didn't fill the cavern, it erased it. Darkness ceased to exist. Shadows disappeared. Even the screaming stopped. The creature above me convulsed as smoke poured from its skin. It didn't burn. It simply came apart.

I looked up.

Angelo was gone.

Something else stood where he'd been.

Even now, I can't tell you what I saw. Every time I remember it, the memory changes. I remember wings. Sixteen of them. Or maybe more. I remember thousands of eyes opening across white feathers. Or were the eyes inside the light itself? I don't know. I only remember that reality stopped making sense around him. The air bent. The stone beneath his feet cracked without breaking. Space folded in ways my eyes refused to follow. Looking directly at him felt like trying to remember a dream while it was still happening.

The god looked up, and for the first time in my life, I saw fear on the face of an SS-class god.

"How..."

It stumbled backward.

"No..."

Its voice trembled.

"Please..."

Angelo raised one hand.

No chant.

No sigil.

No effort.

He simply opened his palm.

The universe obeyed.

There was no beam.

No explosion.

No impact.

The god simply...

Stopped existing.

Its body unraveled into drifting ash.

Its bones became glowing dust.

Only its voice lingered.

"You'll always be the monster who destroyed Heav—"

The sentence vanished.

Not interrupted.

Erased.

Across the cavern, every twisted human collapsed at once. Thousands of bodies dissolved before they touched the ground. The flames died. The screaming ended. Silence returned as gray ash drifted through the air like snow. Then it was over. The wings were gone. The eyes vanished. Reality settled back into place. Angelo stood exactly where he'd been before. He brushed ash from his sleeve, straightened his tie, and adjusted his jacket as though he'd done nothing more exhausting than finish paperwork.

No one moved. Five hundred armed agents, thirty negotiators, and ten medical teams stood frozen, staring at him without a word. For the first time since I'd met Angelo, I understood why gods feared angels. We walked back to the transport in complete silence, and no one spoke during the five-hour flight home. Not Jeff. Not the negotiators. Not even the security teams. 

After seeing an angel's true form, none of us were entirely sure we still remembered what one looked like.

I didn't sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the god's voice.

"Has he told you about his kin?"

"He butchered his brother."

"He slaughtered his sister."

I kept catching myself looking over at Angelo.

He sat alone near the front of the aircraft, staring out the window.

Just yesterday, I'd thought of him as a strange stray cat who'd wandered into my apartment, stolen my coffee, claimed my couch, and somehow convinced himself he lived there.

Now...

He looked like someone I'd never met.

When we landed, I lost sight of him almost immediately. Several senior CSP officials quietly escorted him away while I was sent straight to Madam Leni's office for an emergency debriefing.

She didn't even let me sit down.

"You took five hundred personnel into an uncharted divine zone?" she asked, skimming through my report. "Jacob approved this?"

I nodded.

Her jaw tightened.

"I'm going to have a word with Jacob."

She kept reading.

As she reached the section describing the cave, her expression hardened.

Then she reached the final pages.

The room fell silent.

"...He saved all of you," she murmured.

"He did."

She closed the file slowly.

"We owe him more than we'll ever be able to repay."

She didn't say anything else for a long time.

Then she looked up at me.

For the first time since I'd known Madam Leni...

I saw absolute fear in her eyes.

Before today, Angelo had been a dangerous ally.

Now...

He had become something far worse.

A being the CSP had no way to contain if he ever decided to stand against us.

By the time I got home, exhaustion had finally caught up with me. I barely made it to my bedroom before collapsing onto the mattress, still wearing my bloodstained uniform.

When I woke a few hours later, the apartment was dark. Angelo sat exactly where he always did on the couch, but something was different. There was no book in his hands. No mug of coffee on the table. No documentary playing quietly in the background. 

He was just... sitting.

"Angelo?"

He didn't look at me.

"Nayeri..."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Do you think I'm a monster?"

The question hit me harder than any god ever had.

I stood frozen in my bedroom doorway.

A few hours ago, I'd watched him erase an ancient god from existence.

Now he sounded like someone terrified of the answer to a simple question.

"I..." I began.

Nothing came out.

The room fell silent.

"My mother disappeared," he said quietly.

He paused.

"She entrusted reality to us."

"Your mother..." I said slowly. "You mean... the Creator?"

He nodded.

"She named every star. Every creature. Every law that governs existence."

The Church God's words echoed through my mind.

When the First Voice shaped existence, every star, every god, and every living thing was given a name.

Angelo had gone quiet for a moment before speaking again.

"She named me too."

My mind snapped back to the page I'd found in the library.

The Creator of the universe fashioned three angels to preserve reality.

Three angels.

And the First Voice had named them herself.

"You were supposed to keep order," I murmured.

"We did."

His eyes never left the wall.

"For a very long time."

"What happened?"

"My siblings believed Mother had abandoned us."

His voice remained perfectly calm.

"They decided that they could replace her."

I felt my stomach tighten.

"They created the gods. Beings that were never supposed to exist."

He finally looked at me.

"They created life Mother never intended."

"The god today..."

"My sister's first creation."

His expression softened for the first time.

"She named him Aram."

A painful smile crossed his face.

"I taught him how to speak."

The realization made me sick.

"So... he really was your nephew."

"Yes."

Silence settled over the apartment.

"So why?" I asked quietly.

"Why kill them?"

His answer came immediately.

"Because I had to."

He didn't raise his voice.

He didn't try to justify himself.

"It is the first law Mother gave us."

He closed his eyes.

'Protect reality. No matter the cost.'

"My siblings broke that law."

"They tried to remake creation."

"They would've destroyed everything Mother made."

"So you stopped them."

"I obeyed."

The words were almost empty. Not proud. Not defensive. Just... tired. That was the only word that fit.

The god's accusation echoed through my mind.

You chose humanity.

No.

He hadn't.

Humanity had simply survived because reality had. He hadn't killed his siblings to save us. He'd killed them because, if he hadn't, there wouldn't have been a universe left to save.

I walked over and sat beside him on the couch. The cushions sank beneath our weight, but neither of us said anything.

"For what it's worth..." I said quietly.

He looked at me.

"I don't think you're a monster."

He didn't react.

His expression stayed as unreadable as ever.

"You did exactly what the Creator asked you to do."

"You protected reality."

"You protected every living thing that has ever existed."

I hesitated.

"You've been carrying that responsibility for... what?"

"Millions of years?"

His gaze drifted toward the floor.

"...Longer."

The room fell silent again.

"So you've been doing all of this...Alone?"

He gave a small nod.

No self-pity.

No complaint.

Just a simple acknowledgment of fact.

I smiled sadly.

"Then..."

"Thank you."

For the first time that evening, he looked confused.

"...For what?"

"For protecting reality."

"For saving humanity, even if that was never your intention."

"For carrying a burden no one else could."

I swallowed.

"And for carrying it alone."

He simply stared at me. I don't think anyone had ever thanked him before. Not his siblings. Not the gods. Not humanity. Not in all the countless years he'd existed. The ancient angel who had stood unmoved before monsters, gods, and the end of worlds was completely speechless. For the first time since I'd met Angelo, he didn't know what to say.

"...Thank you," he repeated, as though testing the words for the first time.

He frowned.

"They feel..."

He searched for the right word.

"...unfamiliar."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It is."

Silence settled over the apartment.

Then, unexpectedly, he spoke again.

"I should be thanking you."

I blinked.

"...Me?"

"You."

A pause.

"And the CSP."

That caught me completely off guard.

"For what?"

"For trying."

He folded his hands neatly in his lap.

“You are insignificant compared to the beings you pursue, you lack the strength to oppose them, the knowledge to understand them, and you know that most retrieval missions will likely end in your deaths. “

His eyes met mine.

"And yet..."

"You still go."

I didn't have an answer for that.

After a long silence, he said quietly,

"Mother believed humanity possessed something my siblings never understood."

"What?"

"Compassion."

He glanced toward me.

"I have spent an eternity protecting reality."

His gaze drifted to the CSP badge lying on my kitchen counter.

"But today..."

"I realized I have neglected those who protect it."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"The fractures between realities are increasing."

"The gods have become reckless."

"The things beyond creation have begun to move again."

He said it with the same calm tone someone might use to comment on the weather.

"The CSP is humanity's greatest attempt to preserve reality."

Another pause.

"But it does so blindly. It does not understand what it faces, repeating mistakes because no one remains to teach it."

A knot formed in my stomach.

"What are you saying?"

He stood.

For just a moment...

...he stopped looking like the awkward angel who stole my couch and my coffee.

Instead, I saw the being who had stood above an ancient god with sixteen wings spread across the cavern.

"I believed observing was enough."

He picked up the CSP identification badge and turned it over in his hand.

"I was mistaken."

I stared at him.

He looked at the badge for a long moment before clipping it neatly to his jacket.

"My first duty was to preserve reality."

He adjusted his tie.

"So I will no longer remain a spectator."

Another pause.

"I will lead."

The words weren't spoken with ambition.

Or pride.

They were spoken like someone accepting an obligation that should have been fulfilled long ago.

For some reason...

Those four words frightened me far more than the sixteen wings ever had.

I didn't ask any more questions.

Something told me I wouldn't like the answers.

Neither of us spoke again that night.

The apartment fell silent.

My phone rang at 6:12 the next morning.

The caller ID read:

Madam Leni.

I answered immediately.

"Morning, ma'am."

"Nayeri."

Her voice sounded... off.

Not scared.

Stunned.

"I need you at headquarters immediately."

I sat up.

"What happened?"

There was a long pause.

Then she sighed.

"...Angelo happened."

My stomach dropped.

"What did he do?"

"He requested a meeting with the Executive Board at five this morning."

I was already getting dressed.

"What are you talking about?"

Madam Leni let out a slow breath.

"The Board voted."

My hand froze on the doorknob.

"...Voted?"

"They've appointed Angelo as one of the Executive Board members of the CSP."

Silence.

"He starts today."

I couldn't find the words.

"They actually... agreed?"

"They didn't have much of a choice."

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"When the first angel tells you he's going to help preserve reality..."

Another pause.

"...you don't tell him no."

The line went dead. 

I turned toward the living room.

Angelo was exactly where I'd left him the night before.

Curled up on the couch with a book in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other, and an open pack of sour gummies balanced on his knee.

As though, he hadn't just become one of the most powerful people in the CSP.

Part 6: The Most Powerful Being in the CSP Is Studying Humans. Unfortunately, I'm His Favorite Lab Rat.

I am a serial killer.

Not the typical kind, as serial killers go.

I don't kill innocent people. Well, innocent in the eyes of the law, maybe. The kind of innocent that comes from a lack of evidence, incompetent investigations, or expensive lawyers. If you looked at their actual victim lists, most of them should have been buried beneath prisons.

Instead, I buried them.

Officially, I'm a private investigator. Most of my clients hire me for the usual reasons: cheating spouses, missing persons, deadbeat fathers, or old debts that someone suddenly decides need collecting. The job pays the bills.

The other part of my work is what keeps me interested.

People tell private investigators things they would never tell the police. They gossip. They complain. They share rumors over drinks. Sometimes they mention a missing girl from ten years ago. Sometimes they mention a man who always seems to be nearby whenever someone disappears.

Most of the time it's nothing.

Sometimes it isn't.

It's strange, really. I don't remember exactly when I started. I was twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two.

My first was a man the locals called the Florida River Monster. He earned the nickname because of his habit of abducting women, butchering them, and scattering their remains across different rivers so the alligators could finish the cleanup for him. By the time anyone found what was left, there usually wasn't enough evidence to identify the victim, let alone connect her to him.

His preferred victims were blonde women in their early twenties.

I've noticed most serial killers have the same preferences. Women. Children. Sometimes both.

It's ironic, considering I'm a woman myself. A young woman, if being in your twenties still counts as young. According to every profile I've ever read, I should be the ideal victim. Too small. Too trusting. Too easy to overpower.

The River Monster thought so, too. That assumption lasted right up until I drugged him and gave him the same ending he'd spent years giving other people. I remember staring at him afterward. Not because I felt guilty. Not because I was horrified.

I was disappointed. For years, I'd read articles about him, watched documentaries, and followed every development in the investigation. The media made him sound larger than life—a monster, a predator, something almost supernatural. But when he died, he was just a man. A pathetic, terrified man bleeding out on the floor of a fishing shack. That's when I learned something important. Most monsters aren't monsters at all. They're just people who got away with being evil for far too long.

So I kept hunting them.

One killer became three. Three became ten. Then fifteen. Then more. I told myself I was making the world safer. Maybe I was. The truth is, I hated men like that. The ones who stalked women, hunted them, and treated them like prey. Wolves wearing human skin. And wolves need to be put down. Who better to do it than a woman?

Maybe that makes me a hypocrite. Maybe it makes me just as bad as they were. I really don't care.

Unfortunately, homicide pays terribly.

So, I figured I'd spend a few days following a rich man's wife, collect a paycheck, and head home. That's how these private investigative jobs usually went. Take pictures. Write a report. Collect the money. Move on. South Texas wasn't exactly my preferred destination, but five hundred dollars an hour has a way of making a long drive seem reasonable.

I asked Terry to send over the case file. Terry was my assistant, a meek man in his fifties who treated confrontation the same way most people treated unexploded bombs. The file showed up in my inbox before I could finish my coffee, along with an email apologizing for taking so long to send it. 

The file was surprisingly thin. The client's name was Daniel Walker. Forty-eight years old. Oil money. Married for twenty years. No criminal record. No history of domestic disputes. No obvious reason to suspect his wife was cheating. What caught my attention was the note attached to the bottom of the file: 

Client does not believe wife is having an affair. 
Client believes wife is acting strangely. 

I stared at those words for several seconds before calling Terry. He answered on the second ring.

"Please tell me that's a typo."

 "It isn't."

I sighed.

 "What does acting strange mean?" 

"I asked."

 "And?" 

"He said it's something he would rather discuss in person." I rubbed my temples. Of course he did. 

"Fantastic. Five hundred dollars an hour and I'm investigating a strange wife."

 "Still taking the job?" 

I looked at the payment agreement again. Five hundred dollars an hour. Some questions answer themselves. "Of course I'm taking the job." 

"What if he's crazy?" 

"Then he's a crazy man paying five hundred dollars an hour." 

Terry sighed. He was a genuinely kind man. If someone robbed him at gunpoint, he'd probably apologize for not carrying more cash. So, the idea of voluntarily meeting a potentially insane stranger offended every survival instinct he possessed.

I hung up.

Three days later, I found myself driving into a small South Texas town that looked like it had been forgotten by time. The buildings were rusty, the roads were cracked, and the locals had elevated being nosy into an art form. By the time I'd stopped for gas, bought a coffee, and asked for directions to my motel, half the town probably knew my license plate number. What surprised me more was how often my client's name came up. The gas station belonged to him. The convenience store belonged to him. The car wash belonged to him. Apparently, half the businesses in town belonged to him. No wonder he was willing to pay five hundred dollars an hour.

I checked into a small motel about ten minutes from the gated neighborhood where he and his wife lived. The room smelled vaguely of cigarettes and regret.

The next morning, I met my client. He was a large man with a round face and the kind of expensive clothes that desperately wanted everyone to know they were expensive. Gold rings covered his fingers—two on one hand, three on the other. Enough gold to sink a fishing boat. I immediately disliked him. Fortunately, taking money from people I dislike has never bothered me. 

He looked me up and down as I sat across from him, his eyes narrowing. "The White Viper is a woman?" There was genuine surprise in his voice. I smiled. "Oh, so you've heard of me." The White Viper was one of many names people had attached to me over the years. Most of them were ridiculous. A few of them are accurate.

"My name is Mara Graves," I said, extending a hand. That wasn't my real name, of course, but clients don't need to know things like that. He shook my hand carefully, as if he expected me to bite him.

"So," I said, leaning back in my chair, "what's the problem?"

His expression immediately darkened. "It's my wife."

That was usually how these conversations started. The details changed. The excuses changed. The tears changed. But eventually, every marriage investigation became the same story.

I pulled out a notebook. "Is she cheating?"

"No."

That answer surprised me. The report had said the same thing, but most husbands accused their wives of cheating before I even sat down.

"Then what exactly am I looking for?"

He glanced toward the restaurant doors before lowering his voice. "My wife isn't acting like herself."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. People said things like that all the time. Depression. Affairs. Midlife crises. Secret addictions. There were a hundred possible explanations, and most of them were boring.

"Can you be more specific?"

He swallowed. "She's different."

"How?"

"Everything."

I stared at him. He stared back. Neither of us seemed particularly happy with the conversation.

"Mr. Walker, you're paying me five hundred dollars an hour. Help me help you."

He nodded slowly. "She forgets things."

"Lots of people forget things."

"Not like this."

He leaned forward in his chair. "She forgot the name of our dog."

That was strange. Not impossible. But strange.

"What else?"

"She forgot where we went on our honeymoon."

I wrote it down. "What else?"

"She asked me where the guest bathroom was."

I paused. "You've been married twenty years."

"Twenty-two."

I looked up from my notebook. He wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked terrified. The kind of terrified that can't be faked. I'd seen that expression before. Usually, on victims.

"Medical issues?" I asked.

"Doctors say she's healthy."

"Head injury?"

"No."

"Medication?"

"No."

I tapped my pen against the notebook. "Anything else?"

For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he reached into his jacket and slid a photograph across the table.

A woman in her early thirties smiled back at me. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Pretty. Completely ordinary.

"My wife."

I looked at the photograph, then back at him. "And?"

He pointed at the picture. "That's not how she smiles."

I waited for him to elaborate.

He didn't.

"Mr. Walker."

"You don't understand."

His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

"She's smiling the right way."

I blinked. "What?"

"The expression is correct." He tapped the photograph with a trembling finger. "But somehow it's wrong."

I stared at him for several seconds.

Then I wrote a single word in my notebook.

Crazy.

He noticed.

"You're thinking I'm insane."

"A little."

His shoulders slumped. "Everyone does."

I tucked the notebook away. "Fine. Let's assume you're not insane. What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Follow her."

"For how long?"

"Until you see it too."

I looked down at the payment agreement one more time.

Five hundred dollars an hour.

I've ignored bigger red flags for less.

I followed Mrs. Walker for the next week. Her schedule was so normal it was almost insulting. Every morning, she attended a Pilates class. After that, she visited a boutique downtown. Around noon, she met a group of friends at a café before eventually heading home. Sometimes she and her husband went out for dinner. That was it. No secret affairs, no suspicious meetings, no hidden bank accounts. Nothing.

I was beginning to think Daniel Walker had paid me five hundred dollars an hour because he was bored. The only thing keeping me on the case was the amount of money accumulating in my bank account.

While I waited for Mrs. Walker to do something interesting, I focused on another investigation. The city next to town had a serial killer. Five women had disappeared over the last year. The victims had nothing in common. Different ages. Different jobs. Different backgrounds. The bodies were what connected them.

Every victim had been found completely drained of blood. Every organ was missing. The bodies were essentially empty skin wrapped around a skeleton. Each victim also had a single incision running from the base of the skull to the lower back. The locals called him the Spine Taker.

One of the victims was seventeen years old.

I took that personally.

I don't pretend to be a good person, but certain things make my blood boil. Children are one of them.

Mrs. Walker spent most mornings at Pilates, which left me with several hours to kill. I used that time to look into the Spine Taker case. My investigation eventually led me to the sheriff's office. Officially, I was there for information. Unofficially, I was there for the free coffee.

Side note: The coffee was terrible.

A woman was screaming at two deputies near the entrance when I walked in.

"I told you she was acting strange!" she shouted. "If you'd listened to me, she'd still be alive!"

The deputies grabbed her by the arms and dragged her toward the door. A moment later, they shoved her outside. She stumbled onto the sidewalk and broke down sobbing while they returned to work without another word.

I recognized her immediately. She was the mother of the seventeen-year-old victim.

That got my attention.

I followed her outside and sat down beside her on the curb, blonde wig and all. People trust blondes. I don't know why, but they do. I introduced myself as a law enforcement officer working on the investigation and asked what she had been yelling about inside.

By the time I left, she was still crying, and I had learned something interesting.

A week before her disappearance, her daughter had started forgetting things. Important things. Her birthday. Her favorite food. The names of relatives. According to her mother, she had become distant and cold, like she had suddenly become a different person.

It sounded familiar.

Daniel Walker had described his wife almost the same way.

I drove straight to the Pilates studio.

Mrs. Walker's class wasn't supposed to end for another hour.

She wasn't there.

Neither was her car.

That bothered me.

So I committed a crime.

As usual. 

The security office was empty. The guard always left for lunch around that time. I knew because I'd spent the last 2 weeks watching the place. I pulled up the security footage and started reviewing the cameras.

At 11:03 a.m., Mrs. Walker entered the women's restroom.

Nobody followed her.

Nobody came out.

The hallway remained empty for almost an hour.

Then, at 12:01 p.m., an elderly woman exited the restroom.

I frowned and rewound the footage.

The elderly woman had never entered.

I checked every camera angle.

Every hallway.

Every entrance.

Nothing.

Mrs. Walker went into the restroom.

An old woman came out.

That was it.

I took screenshots and headed to the restroom myself. There were no windows, no maintenance tunnels, and no secondary exits. It was just a bathroom.

I stood there staring at the empty room, trying to figure out what I had missed.

I couldn't.

An hour later, I found Mrs. Walker exactly where she was supposed to be, sitting at her usual café, drinking coffee and laughing with friends.

Her car was in the parking lot.

That night, I followed her again.

At midnight, she left her house without warning, got into her car, and drove away. I followed from a distance. About twenty minutes later, she turned onto a dirt road near a lake and parked beside the woods.

Then she got out and started running.

Not jogging.

Running.

Fast enough that I almost lost sight of her.

I chased her through the trees until she stopped in a clearing.

I ducked behind a tree and watched.

Mrs. Walker bent forward.

For a second, I thought she was sick.

Then something stepped out of her.

I don't know how else to describe it.

Something unfolded from her back. Something impossibly tall.

Mrs. Walker's body collapsed onto the ground while the thing that had been inside her remained standing.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't even process what I was looking at. It ran towards the car again.

A few minutes later, it returned carrying another body.

An elderly woman.

The same elderly woman from the security footage.

When the creature finally disappeared into the darkness, I approached Mrs. Walker's body.

She was dead.

And empty.

No blood.

No organs.

Nothing.

Just skin.

And a long incision running from the base of her skull to the end of her spine.

I recognized the wound immediately.

I had seen it five times before.

The Spine Taker wasn't human.

That realization hit me about half a second before the creature came charging out of the darkness.

It had tricked me.

I barely had time to raise my pistol before it slipped into the elderly woman's body. The corpse jerked upright like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. I fired immediately. The bullet tore through her chest. The creature didn't even flinch. I fired again. Then again. Nothing. The thing simply kept walking toward me, wearing the old woman's skin like a poorly fitted costume.

"What are you?" I shouted.

The creature tilted its head. I heard bones crack. Its neck bent farther than any human neck should have been capable of bending. Then it spoke.

"You... wil...l be... my next... ves...sel."

The words sounded wrong. Not an accent. Not a speech impediment. More like something trying to imitate human language without fully understanding how it worked.

I am not becoming anyone's vessel.

I'd rather die.

I turned and ran.

Branches whipped against my face as I crashed through the forest. Behind me, I could hear the creature moving through the trees. It wasn't trying to hide. It wasn't trying to be quiet. The thing knew it was faster than me.

A few moments later, the trees opened up and I nearly stumbled into a river. Dark water rushed past below me. Behind me came the sound of snapping branches.

I turned around.

The creature stood at the edge of the treeline.

For the first time, I got a good look at the body it was wearing. In the moonlight, I could see it clearly now. The old woman's legs bent at impossible angles. Her arms hung too low. Her neck twisted sharply to one side as though every bone inside it had been shattered. Yet somehow she remained standing.

The thing smiled.

Then it lunged.

I stepped backward.

Unfortunately, there was no ground behind me.

I fell into the river.

For one brief moment, I thought I had escaped.

Then my head struck something beneath the surface.

Pain exploded through my skull. Red flooded my vision. I felt the current dragging me away as darkness closed in around me.

The river swallowed me.

I remember the impact. I remember the pain. Then everything disappeared.

When I opened my eyes again, I was falling.

I don't know how long I fell for. Minutes. Hours. Years. There was no wind rushing past me. No sensation of speed. Just endless darkness stretching in every direction while I plunged through it.

Then suddenly I crashed into something soft. Black mist.

Strangely, it didn't hurt.

I climbed to my feet and looked around.

There was nothing.

No sky.

No ground.

No horizon.

Just darkness stretching endlessly in every direction.

And a desk.

A single wooden desk sitting in the middle of the void.

With absolutely no better options available, I started walking toward it. 

There was a creature sitting behind the desk.

At least, I think it was sitting.

The thing was enormous. Even seated, it was taller than a bus. A massive goat skull concealed its face, its horns disappearing into the darkness above. Beneath the skull was a surprisingly human body dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. If I ignored the skull, the size, and the fact that I was in a bottomless pit, it looked like an accountant.

"Welcome to Level One," it said.

The voice caught me off guard.

Female.

Calm.

Professional.

Like a receptionist greeting someone who had arrived slightly late for an appointment.

I looked around at the endless darkness surrounding us.

"Level One?" I asked. "Am I dead?"

"Yes."

The answer came so quickly that it took me a moment to process it.

No sympathy.

No dramatic speech.

No ominous thunder.

Just yes.

Dead.

I considered arguing. Then I remembered smashing my head against a rock while running from a skin-wearing monster.

Fair enough.

The creature reached beneath the desk and slid a thick binder toward me. It landed with a heavy thud. Curious, I opened it.

My stomach sank.

The pages were filled with names, photographs, police reports, witness statements, and dates.

The Florida River Monster.

The Butcher of Pensacola.

The Red Lake Strangler.

Every serial killer I had ever murdered.

Every victim.

Every crime.

Every body.

All neatly organized into a single file.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Your record."

I turned another page.

Then another.

The binder seemed endless.

The creature's eye sockets suddenly ignited with a deep red glow.

"After review of your actions, you have been sentenced to two hundred years of punitive suffering before retribution."

I slowly closed the binder.

"Two hundred years?"

"Correct."

"That seems excessive."

"You murdered seventeen people."

"Nineteen."

The creature paused.

Then it looked down at the file.

"You murdered nineteen people."

"See? That's the kind of mistake that gets organizations sued."

For several seconds neither of us spoke.

Finally the creature sighed.

"I liked you better when you were unconscious."

I shrugged.

The truth was, none of this surprised me.

I had always known this was how my story would end.

I knew what I was.

I knew what I had done.

I wasn't a hero.

I wasn't a vigilante.

I was a serial killer who happened to choose worse people as victims.

There was a difference.

Just not enough of one.

"I see," the creature said.

Then it leaned forward.

"But."

I frowned.

"But?"

"We can make a deal."

That got my attention.

"A deal? What kind of deal?"

The red glow inside the skull brightened slightly.

"The kind that allows you to repay your debt."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Repay my debt?"

The creature nodded.

"There are souls on Earth that belong here. Murderers. Predators. Monsters wearing human faces. Some escape justice. Some escape death. Some are taken by things that have no right to claim them."

I stared at it.

"So you're offering me a job."

"In a manner of speaking."

"You do realize that I have spent years murdering people, right?"

"That is precisely why you're being considered."

I wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or flattered.

The creature folded its hands atop the desk.

"You have contributed greatly to Hell. Many souls currently suffering below would never have arrived without your assistance. Only a few mortals possess such a record."

"That might be the worst compliment I've ever received."

The creature ignored me.

"In exchange for your service, your sentence will be reduced. Continue long enough, and it may eventually be erased."

I glanced down at the binder.

Then, at the endless darkness surrounding us.

Then back at the creature.

"So let me get this straight. My choices are two hundred years of torture..."

"Among other punishments."

"...or I go back to Earth and drag damned souls down here for you?"

"Correct."

I considered the offer.

Honestly, it sounded suspiciously similar to my previous hobby. The only real difference was that this time I had an employer. Unfortunately, that employer was Hell.

"What happens if I refuse?"

The creature leaned back in its chair.

A moment later, another binder appeared on the desk.

This one was significantly thicker.

It opened by itself.

Flames spilled from between the pages.

Screaming followed.

I immediately pointed at the first binder.

"I'll take the job."

The creature nodded.

"A wise decision."

"I've been told I don't make many of those."

For the first time since I had arrived, I could have sworn the thing laughed. Then everything went dark. I woke up lying on the riverbank. For several seconds, I just stared at the sky, trying to figure out where I was before the headache hit. It felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through my skull. Slowly, I sat up. The river was still rushing past beside me. My clothes were soaked, and dried blood clung to the side of my face.

The last thing I remembered was falling into the river. The creature. The rock. Then the desk. The goat-skull woman. Hell.

I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up, and my stomach immediately dropped. Three days had passed. I checked again, convinced I was reading it wrong. I wasn't. The battery icon flashed red. One percent. "Fantastic," I muttered.

I staggered to my feet and followed the river until I found the dirt road. My car was still parked exactly where I had left it three nights earlier. Nobody had touched it. Nobody had towed it. Nobody had even broken a window. Apparently, even criminals had a line they wouldn't cross, and that line was trespassing on private property.

The drive back to the motel passed in a haze. The moment I got inside, I plugged my phone into the charger. As soon as it powered on, I discovered over four hundred missed calls from Terry. I called him back.

He answered before the first ring had finished.

"Mara, what the hell is wrong with you?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear. "Terry—"

"No. Absolutely not. Do you have any idea what I've been dealing with for the last three days? I filed a missing persons report. The sheriff has been looking for you. I've called every hospital within a hundred miles."

His voice got louder with every sentence.

"You vanished."

"I noticed."

"Where were you?"

I considered telling him the truth. I decided against it.

"Long story."

"You're damn right it's a long story."

I rubbed my temples. The headache was somehow getting worse.

"I'm alive."

"Clearly."

"Mostly."

There was a long pause. Then Terry sighed. It was the exhausted sigh of a man reconsidering every career decision he had ever made.

"Call the sheriff."

"What?"

"Call the sheriff and tell him you're alive before they waste another three days looking for your stupid ass."

"Fair."

After reassuring local law enforcement that I wasn't dead, kidnapped, or buried somewhere in the desert, I finally collapsed onto the motel bed and turned on the television. The local news was covering the Walker case. I sat upright immediately.

Behind the anchor was a photograph of Mrs. Walker.

My stomach sank.

Her body had been found.

Authorities believed she had been murdered.

A second photograph appeared on screen.

The elderly woman from the security footage.

Police had identified her as a suspect in the murder.

Then another photograph appeared.

Daniel Walker.

Dead.

I froze.

According to the report, he had been murdered inside his own home. The estimated time of death was shortly after midnight. The same night, Mrs. Walker had driven into the woods. The same night, I had followed her. The same night I had died.

Then the report got worse.

Investigators believed the Walker deaths were connected to the Spine Taker killings. The similarities were impossible to ignore. Mrs. Walker's body had been found drained of blood. Her organs were missing. The same incision ran from the base of her skull to the end of her spine.

The sheriff's department was treating it as another Spine Taker victim.

I knew better.

The Spine Taker wasn't a serial killer.

It was that thing.

And the creature knew I was following it from the beginning.

It knew I was watching.

Daniel Walker had hired me because he suspected something was wrong with his wife, and the moment I started getting close to the truth, everyone connected to the case started dying.

I sat there staring at the television long after the report ended. Then my phone suddenly buzzed, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The screen displayed an unknown number, and for a moment, I seriously considered hanging up, but instead, I answered.

"Hello?"

For several seconds, nobody spoke. Then a familiar female voice sighed.

"Congratulations on surviving."

My blood ran cold. The goat-skull woman. The manager of Hell. Or whatever her official title was.

"Thank you."

I wasn't entirely sure how one was supposed to respond to congratulations for surviving their own death.

"I suppose you know who your first assignment is."

"The Spine Taker?"

"Very good, little bug."

I frowned.

"Did you just call me a good bug?"

"I called you an intelligent little bug."

"That's somehow worse."

"Humans are very sensitive."

I decided not to argue with the giant demonic bureaucrat and looked back toward the television. The news report had changed. A young woman's face now filled the screen. Light brown hair. Hazel eyes. Maybe twenty-three. Twenty-four at most. Only a few years younger than me. Then the television crackled. The anchor vanished, and the screen filled with the image of a goat skull.

"That is its next victim. Protect the innocent soul."

I stared at the photograph on the screen.

"I still don't know what that thing is."

For the first time since the conversation began, the demon was silent. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost its usual amusement.

"It is a prisoner."

"A prisoner?"

"A demon."

I felt my stomach drop.

"It escaped."

The words hung in the air for a moment.

"It escaped Hell?"

"Yes."

"That seems like a serious design flaw."

"It was not designed to escape."

"Clearly."

The demon ignored me.

"It was undergoing punishment. Somehow, it found a way out. Since then, it has been stealing souls that belong here."

I remembered the empty bodies, the missing organs, the thing climbing out of Mrs. Walker's back, the thing wearing people like clothing.

"You want me to bring it back."

"I want you to drag it back."

There was a noticeable difference in her tone. One sounded like a request. The other sounded like an order.

"What happens if I fail?"

For several seconds, there was only silence. Then laughter erupted from the television.

Not human laughter.

Not even close.

It sounded like earthquakes, screaming, and church bells all happening at once. The motel room shook. The television screen flickered. A crack appeared across the glass. When the laughter finally stopped, the demon spoke again.

"Then you will serve its remaining sentence alongside your own."

"That's not fair."

"Hell is not fair."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Fair point.

"Someone must return the souls it has stolen," she continued. "And unfortunately for you, you're the most qualified candidate available."

The television immediately went black. A second later, my phone vibrated. A new message had arrived. An address. A photograph. And beneath it, a single sentence.

"YOUR SENTENCE REDUCTION BEGINS NOW."

I opened the photograph.

It showed the girl—the future victim. The picture had been taken at night through a window, from somewhere outside her house. At first, it looked innocent enough.

Then I noticed the red circle.

Someone had marked a shadowy figure standing in the darkness beyond the glass.

Watching.

Smiling.

If I'm going to survive this, I need to find her before the Spine Taker does.

I'll update this journal if I make it through the night.

If I don't, Terry will probably end up going through my computer trying to figure out what happened to me. If that happens, this journal is all I can leave behind.

Everything I've written here is true. I know how insane that sounds because I thought it was insane too until I checked my pulse.

The only reason I know any of this is real is because my heart isn't beating as I write this.

And you really can't keep calling something a hallucination when you're already supposed to be dead.

I am a serial killer.

Not the typical kind, as serial killers go.

I don't kill innocent people. Well, innocent in the eyes of the law, maybe. The kind of innocent that comes from a lack of evidence, incompetent investigations, or expensive lawyers. If you looked at their actual victim lists, most of them should have been buried beneath prisons.

Instead, I buried them.

Officially, I'm a private investigator. Most of my clients hire me for the usual reasons: cheating spouses, missing persons, deadbeat fathers, or old debts that someone suddenly decides need collecting. The job pays the bills.

The other part of my work is what keeps me interested.

People tell private investigators things they would never tell the police. They gossip. They complain. They share rumors over drinks. Sometimes they mention a missing girl from ten years ago. Sometimes they mention a man who always seems to be nearby whenever someone disappears.

Most of the time it's nothing.

Sometimes it isn't.

It's strange, really. I don't remember exactly when I started. I was twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two.

My first was a man the locals called the Florida River Monster. He earned the nickname because of his habit of abducting women, butchering them, and scattering their remains across different rivers so the alligators could finish the cleanup for him. By the time anyone found what was left, there usually wasn't enough evidence to identify the victim, let alone connect her to him.

His preferred victims were blonde women in their early twenties.

I've noticed most serial killers have the same preferences. Women. Children. Sometimes both.

It's ironic, considering I'm a woman myself. A young woman, if being in your twenties still counts as young. According to every profile I've ever read, I should be the ideal victim. Too small. Too trusting. Too easy to overpower.

The River Monster thought so, too. That assumption lasted right up until I drugged him and gave him the same ending he'd spent years giving other people. I remember staring at him afterward. Not because I felt guilty. Not because I was horrified.

I was disappointed. For years, I'd read articles about him, watched documentaries, and followed every development in the investigation. The media made him sound larger than life—a monster, a predator, something almost supernatural. But when he died, he was just a man. A pathetic, terrified man bleeding out on the floor of a fishing shack. That's when I learned something important. Most monsters aren't monsters at all. They're just people who got away with being evil for far too long.

So I kept hunting them.

One killer became three. Three became ten. Then fifteen. Then more. I told myself I was making the world safer. Maybe I was. The truth is, I hated men like that. The ones who stalked women, hunted them, and treated them like prey. Wolves wearing human skin. And wolves need to be put down. Who better to do it than a woman?

Maybe that makes me a hypocrite. Maybe it makes me just as bad as they were. I really don't care.

Unfortunately, homicide pays terribly.

So, I figured I'd spend a few days following a rich man's wife, collect a paycheck, and head home. That's how these private investigative jobs usually went. Take pictures. Write a report. Collect the money. Move on. South Texas wasn't exactly my preferred destination, but five hundred dollars an hour has a way of making a long drive seem reasonable.

I asked Terry to send over the case file. Terry was my assistant, a meek man in his fifties who treated confrontation the same way most people treated unexploded bombs. The file showed up in my inbox before I could finish my coffee, along with an email apologizing for taking so long to send it. 

The file was surprisingly thin. The client's name was Daniel Walker. Forty-eight years old. Oil money. Married for twenty years. No criminal record. No history of domestic disputes. No obvious reason to suspect his wife was cheating. What caught my attention was the note attached to the bottom of the file: 

Client does not believe wife is having an affair. 
Client believes wife is acting strangely. 

I stared at those words for several seconds before calling Terry. He answered on the second ring.

"Please tell me that's a typo."

 "It isn't."

I sighed.

 "What does acting strange mean?" 

"I asked."

 "And?" 

"He said it's something he would rather discuss in person." I rubbed my temples. Of course he did. 

"Fantastic. Five hundred dollars an hour and I'm investigating a strange wife."

 "Still taking the job?" 

I looked at the payment agreement again. Five hundred dollars an hour. Some questions answer themselves. "Of course I'm taking the job." 

"What if he's crazy?" 

"Then he's a crazy man paying five hundred dollars an hour." 

Terry sighed. He was a genuinely kind man. If someone robbed him at gunpoint, he'd probably apologize for not carrying more cash. So, the idea of voluntarily meeting a potentially insane stranger offended every survival instinct he possessed.

I hung up.

Three days later, I found myself driving into a small South Texas town that looked like it had been forgotten by time. The buildings were rusty, the roads were cracked, and the locals had elevated being nosy into an art form. By the time I'd stopped for gas, bought a coffee, and asked for directions to my motel, half the town probably knew my license plate number. What surprised me more was how often my client's name came up. The gas station belonged to him. The convenience store belonged to him. The car wash belonged to him. Apparently, half the businesses in town belonged to him. No wonder he was willing to pay five hundred dollars an hour.

I checked into a small motel about ten minutes from the gated neighborhood where he and his wife lived. The room smelled vaguely of cigarettes and regret.

The next morning, I met my client. He was a large man with a round face and the kind of expensive clothes that desperately wanted everyone to know they were expensive. Gold rings covered his fingers—two on one hand, three on the other. Enough gold to sink a fishing boat. I immediately disliked him. Fortunately, taking money from people I dislike has never bothered me. 

He looked me up and down as I sat across from him, his eyes narrowing. "The White Viper is a woman?" There was genuine surprise in his voice. I smiled. "Oh, so you've heard of me." The White Viper was one of many names people had attached to me over the years. Most of them were ridiculous. A few of them are accurate.

"My name is Mara Graves," I said, extending a hand. That wasn't my real name, of course, but clients don't need to know things like that. He shook my hand carefully, as if he expected me to bite him.

"So," I said, leaning back in my chair, "what's the problem?"

His expression immediately darkened. "It's my wife."

That was usually how these conversations started. The details changed. The excuses changed. The tears changed. But eventually, every marriage investigation became the same story.

I pulled out a notebook. "Is she cheating?"

"No."

That answer surprised me. The report had said the same thing, but most husbands accused their wives of cheating before I even sat down.

"Then what exactly am I looking for?"

He glanced toward the restaurant doors before lowering his voice. "My wife isn't acting like herself."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. People said things like that all the time. Depression. Affairs. Midlife crises. Secret addictions. There were a hundred possible explanations, and most of them were boring.

"Can you be more specific?"

He swallowed. "She's different."

"How?"

"Everything."

I stared at him. He stared back. Neither of us seemed particularly happy with the conversation.

"Mr. Walker, you're paying me five hundred dollars an hour. Help me help you."

He nodded slowly. "She forgets things."

"Lots of people forget things."

"Not like this."

He leaned forward in his chair. "She forgot the name of our dog."

That was strange. Not impossible. But strange.

"What else?"

"She forgot where we went on our honeymoon."

I wrote it down. "What else?"

"She asked me where the guest bathroom was."

I paused. "You've been married twenty years."

"Twenty-two."

I looked up from my notebook. He wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked terrified. The kind of terrified that can't be faked. I'd seen that expression before. Usually, on victims.

"Medical issues?" I asked.

"Doctors say she's healthy."

"Head injury?"

"No."

"Medication?"

"No."

I tapped my pen against the notebook. "Anything else?"

For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he reached into his jacket and slid a photograph across the table.

A woman in her early thirties smiled back at me. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Pretty. Completely ordinary.

"My wife."

I looked at the photograph, then back at him. "And?"

He pointed at the picture. "That's not how she smiles."

I waited for him to elaborate.

He didn't.

"Mr. Walker."

"You don't understand."

His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

"She's smiling the right way."

I blinked. "What?"

"The expression is correct." He tapped the photograph with a trembling finger. "But somehow it's wrong."

I stared at him for several seconds.

Then I wrote a single word in my notebook.

Crazy.

He noticed.

"You're thinking I'm insane."

"A little."

His shoulders slumped. "Everyone does."

I tucked the notebook away. "Fine. Let's assume you're not insane. What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Follow her."

"For how long?"

"Until you see it too."

I looked down at the payment agreement one more time.

Five hundred dollars an hour.

I've ignored bigger red flags for less.

I followed Mrs. Walker for the next week. Her schedule was so normal it was almost insulting. Every morning, she attended a Pilates class. After that, she visited a boutique downtown. Around noon, she met a group of friends at a café before eventually heading home. Sometimes she and her husband went out for dinner. That was it. No secret affairs, no suspicious meetings, no hidden bank accounts. Nothing.

I was beginning to think Daniel Walker had paid me five hundred dollars an hour because he was bored. The only thing keeping me on the case was the amount of money accumulating in my bank account.

While I waited for Mrs. Walker to do something interesting, I focused on another investigation. The city next to town had a serial killer. Five women had disappeared over the last year. The victims had nothing in common. Different ages. Different jobs. Different backgrounds. The bodies were what connected them.

Every victim had been found completely drained of blood. Every organ was missing. The bodies were essentially empty skin wrapped around a skeleton. Each victim also had a single incision running from the base of the skull to the lower back. The locals called him the Spine Taker.

One of the victims was seventeen years old.

I took that personally.

I don't pretend to be a good person, but certain things make my blood boil. Children are one of them.

Mrs. Walker spent most mornings at Pilates, which left me with several hours to kill. I used that time to look into the Spine Taker case. My investigation eventually led me to the sheriff's office. Officially, I was there for information. Unofficially, I was there for the free coffee.

Side note: The coffee was terrible.

A woman was screaming at two deputies near the entrance when I walked in.

"I told you she was acting strange!" she shouted. "If you'd listened to me, she'd still be alive!"

The deputies grabbed her by the arms and dragged her toward the door. A moment later, they shoved her outside. She stumbled onto the sidewalk and broke down sobbing while they returned to work without another word.

I recognized her immediately. She was the mother of the seventeen-year-old victim.

That got my attention.

I followed her outside and sat down beside her on the curb, blonde wig and all. People trust blondes. I don't know why, but they do. I introduced myself as a law enforcement officer working on the investigation and asked what she had been yelling about inside.

By the time I left, she was still crying, and I had learned something interesting.

A week before her disappearance, her daughter had started forgetting things. Important things. Her birthday. Her favorite food. The names of relatives. According to her mother, she had become distant and cold, like she had suddenly become a different person.

It sounded familiar.

Daniel Walker had described his wife almost the same way.

I drove straight to the Pilates studio.

Mrs. Walker's class wasn't supposed to end for another hour.

She wasn't there.

Neither was her car.

That bothered me.

So I committed a crime.

As usual. 

The security office was empty. The guard always left for lunch around that time. I knew because I'd spent the last 2 weeks watching the place. I pulled up the security footage and started reviewing the cameras.

At 11:03 a.m., Mrs. Walker entered the women's restroom.

Nobody followed her.

Nobody came out.

The hallway remained empty for almost an hour.

Then, at 12:01 p.m., an elderly woman exited the restroom.

I frowned and rewound the footage.

The elderly woman had never entered.

I checked every camera angle.

Every hallway.

Every entrance.

Nothing.

Mrs. Walker went into the restroom.

An old woman came out.

That was it.

I took screenshots and headed to the restroom myself. There were no windows, no maintenance tunnels, and no secondary exits. It was just a bathroom.

I stood there staring at the empty room, trying to figure out what I had missed.

I couldn't.

An hour later, I found Mrs. Walker exactly where she was supposed to be, sitting at her usual café, drinking coffee and laughing with friends.

Her car was in the parking lot.

That night, I followed her again.

At midnight, she left her house without warning, got into her car, and drove away. I followed from a distance. About twenty minutes later, she turned onto a dirt road near a lake and parked beside the woods.

Then she got out and started running.

Not jogging.

Running.

Fast enough that I almost lost sight of her.

I chased her through the trees until she stopped in a clearing.

I ducked behind a tree and watched.

Mrs. Walker bent forward.

For a second, I thought she was sick.

Then something stepped out of her.

I don't know how else to describe it.

Something unfolded from her back. Something impossibly tall.

Mrs. Walker's body collapsed onto the ground while the thing that had been inside her remained standing.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't even process what I was looking at. It ran towards the car again.

A few minutes later, it returned carrying another body.

An elderly woman.

The same elderly woman from the security footage.

When the creature finally disappeared into the darkness, I approached Mrs. Walker's body.

She was dead.

And empty.

No blood.

No organs.

Nothing.

Just skin.

And a long incision running from the base of her skull to the end of her spine.

I recognized the wound immediately.

I had seen it five times before.

The Spine Taker wasn't human.

That realization hit me about half a second before the creature came charging out of the darkness.

It had tricked me.

I barely had time to raise my pistol before it slipped into the elderly woman's body. The corpse jerked upright like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. I fired immediately. The bullet tore through her chest. The creature didn't even flinch. I fired again. Then again. Nothing. The thing simply kept walking toward me, wearing the old woman's skin like a poorly fitted costume.

"What are you?" I shouted.

The creature tilted its head. I heard bones crack. Its neck bent farther than any human neck should have been capable of bending. Then it spoke.

"You... wil...l be... my next... ves...sel."

The words sounded wrong. Not an accent. Not a speech impediment. More like something trying to imitate human language without fully understanding how it worked.

I am not becoming anyone's vessel.

I'd rather die.

I turned and ran.

Branches whipped against my face as I crashed through the forest. Behind me, I could hear the creature moving through the trees. It wasn't trying to hide. It wasn't trying to be quiet. The thing knew it was faster than me.

A few moments later, the trees opened up and I nearly stumbled into a river. Dark water rushed past below me. Behind me came the sound of snapping branches.

I turned around.

The creature stood at the edge of the treeline.

For the first time, I got a good look at the body it was wearing. In the moonlight, I could see it clearly now. The old woman's legs bent at impossible angles. Her arms hung too low. Her neck twisted sharply to one side as though every bone inside it had been shattered. Yet somehow she remained standing.

The thing smiled.

Then it lunged.

I stepped backward.

Unfortunately, there was no ground behind me.

I fell into the river.

For one brief moment, I thought I had escaped.

Then my head struck something beneath the surface.

Pain exploded through my skull. Red flooded my vision. I felt the current dragging me away as darkness closed in around me.

The river swallowed me.

I remember the impact. I remember the pain. Then everything disappeared.

When I opened my eyes again, I was falling.

I don't know how long I fell for. Minutes. Hours. Years. There was no wind rushing past me. No sensation of speed. Just endless darkness stretching in every direction while I plunged through it.

Then suddenly I crashed into something soft. Black mist.

Strangely, it didn't hurt.

I climbed to my feet and looked around.

There was nothing.

No sky.

No ground.

No horizon.

Just darkness stretching endlessly in every direction.

And a desk.

A single wooden desk sitting in the middle of the void.

With absolutely no better options available, I started walking toward it. 

There was a creature sitting behind the desk.

At least, I think it was sitting.

The thing was enormous. Even seated, it was taller than a bus. A massive goat skull concealed its face, its horns disappearing into the darkness above. Beneath the skull was a surprisingly human body dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. If I ignored the skull, the size, and the fact that I was in a bottomless pit, it looked like an accountant.

"Welcome to Level One," it said.

The voice caught me off guard.

Female.

Calm.

Professional.

Like a receptionist greeting someone who had arrived slightly late for an appointment.

I looked around at the endless darkness surrounding us.

"Level One?" I asked. "Am I dead?"

"Yes."

The answer came so quickly that it took me a moment to process it.

No sympathy.

No dramatic speech.

No ominous thunder.

Just yes.

Dead.

I considered arguing. Then I remembered smashing my head against a rock while running from a skin-wearing monster.

Fair enough.

The creature reached beneath the desk and slid a thick binder toward me. It landed with a heavy thud. Curious, I opened it.

My stomach sank.

The pages were filled with names, photographs, police reports, witness statements, and dates.

The Florida River Monster.

The Butcher of Pensacola.

The Red Lake Strangler.

Every serial killer I had ever murdered.

Every victim.

Every crime.

Every body.

All neatly organized into a single file.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Your record."

I turned another page.

Then another.

The binder seemed endless.

The creature's eye sockets suddenly ignited with a deep red glow.

"After review of your actions, you have been sentenced to two hundred years of punitive suffering before retribution."

I slowly closed the binder.

"Two hundred years?"

"Correct."

"That seems excessive."

"You murdered seventeen people."

"Nineteen."

The creature paused.

Then it looked down at the file.

"You murdered nineteen people."

"See? That's the kind of mistake that gets organizations sued."

For several seconds neither of us spoke.

Finally the creature sighed.

"I liked you better when you were unconscious."

I shrugged.

The truth was, none of this surprised me.

I had always known this was how my story would end.

I knew what I was.

I knew what I had done.

I wasn't a hero.

I wasn't a vigilante.

I was a serial killer who happened to choose worse people as victims.

There was a difference.

Just not enough of one.

"I see," the creature said.

Then it leaned forward.

"But."

I frowned.

"But?"

"We can make a deal."

That got my attention.

"A deal? What kind of deal?"

The red glow inside the skull brightened slightly.

"The kind that allows you to repay your debt."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Repay my debt?"

The creature nodded.

"There are souls on Earth that belong here. Murderers. Predators. Monsters wearing human faces. Some escape justice. Some escape death. Some are taken by things that have no right to claim them."

I stared at it.

"So you're offering me a job."

"In a manner of speaking."

"You do realize that I have spent years murdering people, right?"

"That is precisely why you're being considered."

I wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or flattered.

The creature folded its hands atop the desk.

"You have contributed greatly to Hell. Many souls currently suffering below would never have arrived without your assistance. Only a few mortals possess such a record."

"That might be the worst compliment I've ever received."

The creature ignored me.

"In exchange for your service, your sentence will be reduced. Continue long enough, and it may eventually be erased."

I glanced down at the binder.

Then, at the endless darkness surrounding us.

Then back at the creature.

"So let me get this straight. My choices are two hundred years of torture..."

"Among other punishments."

"...or I go back to Earth and drag damned souls down here for you?"

"Correct."

I considered the offer.

Honestly, it sounded suspiciously similar to my previous hobby. The only real difference was that this time I had an employer. Unfortunately, that employer was Hell.

"What happens if I refuse?"

The creature leaned back in its chair.

A moment later, another binder appeared on the desk.

This one was significantly thicker.

It opened by itself.

Flames spilled from between the pages.

Screaming followed.

I immediately pointed at the first binder.

"I'll take the job."

The creature nodded.

"A wise decision."

"I've been told I don't make many of those."

For the first time since I had arrived, I could have sworn the thing laughed. Then everything went dark. I woke up lying on the riverbank. For several seconds, I just stared at the sky, trying to figure out where I was before the headache hit. It felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through my skull. Slowly, I sat up. The river was still rushing past beside me. My clothes were soaked, and dried blood clung to the side of my face.

The last thing I remembered was falling into the river. The creature. The rock. Then the desk. The goat-skull woman. Hell.

I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up, and my stomach immediately dropped. Three days had passed. I checked again, convinced I was reading it wrong. I wasn't. The battery icon flashed red. One percent. "Fantastic," I muttered.

I staggered to my feet and followed the river until I found the dirt road. My car was still parked exactly where I had left it three nights earlier. Nobody had touched it. Nobody had towed it. Nobody had even broken a window. Apparently, even criminals had a line they wouldn't cross, and that line was trespassing on private property.

The drive back to the motel passed in a haze. The moment I got inside, I plugged my phone into the charger. As soon as it powered on, I discovered over four hundred missed calls from Terry. I called him back.

He answered before the first ring had finished.

"Mara, what the hell is wrong with you?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear. "Terry—"

"No. Absolutely not. Do you have any idea what I've been dealing with for the last three days? I filed a missing persons report. The sheriff has been looking for you. I've called every hospital within a hundred miles."

His voice got louder with every sentence.

"You vanished."

"I noticed."

"Where were you?"

I considered telling him the truth. I decided against it.

"Long story."

"You're damn right it's a long story."

I rubbed my temples. The headache was somehow getting worse.

"I'm alive."

"Clearly."

"Mostly."

There was a long pause. Then Terry sighed. It was the exhausted sigh of a man reconsidering every career decision he had ever made.

"Call the sheriff."

"What?"

"Call the sheriff and tell him you're alive before they waste another three days looking for your stupid ass."

"Fair."

After reassuring local law enforcement that I wasn't dead, kidnapped, or buried somewhere in the desert, I finally collapsed onto the motel bed and turned on the television. The local news was covering the Walker case. I sat upright immediately.

Behind the anchor was a photograph of Mrs. Walker.

My stomach sank.

Her body had been found.

Authorities believed she had been murdered.

A second photograph appeared on screen.

The elderly woman from the security footage.

Police had identified her as a suspect in the murder.

Then another photograph appeared.

Daniel Walker.

Dead.

I froze.

According to the report, he had been murdered inside his own home. The estimated time of death was shortly after midnight. The same night, Mrs. Walker had driven into the woods. The same night, I had followed her. The same night I had died.

Then the report got worse.

Investigators believed the Walker deaths were connected to the Spine Taker killings. The similarities were impossible to ignore. Mrs. Walker's body had been found drained of blood. Her organs were missing. The same incision ran from the base of her skull to the end of her spine.

The sheriff's department was treating it as another Spine Taker victim.

I knew better.

The Spine Taker wasn't a serial killer.

It was that thing.

And the creature knew I was following it from the beginning.

It knew I was watching.

Daniel Walker had hired me because he suspected something was wrong with his wife, and the moment I started getting close to the truth, everyone connected to the case started dying.

I sat there staring at the television long after the report ended. Then my phone suddenly buzzed, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The screen displayed an unknown number, and for a moment, I seriously considered hanging up, but instead, I answered.

"Hello?"

For several seconds, nobody spoke. Then a familiar female voice sighed.

"Congratulations on surviving."

My blood ran cold. The goat-skull woman. The manager of Hell. Or whatever her official title was.

"Thank you."

I wasn't entirely sure how one was supposed to respond to congratulations for surviving their own death.

"I suppose you know who your first assignment is."

"The Spine Taker?"

"Very good, little bug."

I frowned.

"Did you just call me a good bug?"

"I called you an intelligent little bug."

"That's somehow worse."

"Humans are very sensitive."

I decided not to argue with the giant demonic bureaucrat and looked back toward the television. The news report had changed. A young woman's face now filled the screen. Light brown hair. Hazel eyes. Maybe twenty-three. Twenty-four at most. Only a few years younger than me. Then the television crackled. The anchor vanished, and the screen filled with the image of a goat skull.

"That is its next victim. Protect the innocent soul."

I stared at the photograph on the screen.

"I still don't know what that thing is."

For the first time since the conversation began, the demon was silent. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost its usual amusement.

"It is a prisoner."

"A prisoner?"

"A demon."

I felt my stomach drop.

"It escaped."

The words hung in the air for a moment.

"It escaped Hell?"

"Yes."

"That seems like a serious design flaw."

"It was not designed to escape."

"Clearly."

The demon ignored me.

"It was undergoing punishment. Somehow, it found a way out. Since then, it has been stealing souls that belong here."

I remembered the empty bodies, the missing organs, the thing climbing out of Mrs. Walker's back, the thing wearing people like clothing.

"You want me to bring it back."

"I want you to drag it back."

There was a noticeable difference in her tone. One sounded like a request. The other sounded like an order.

"What happens if I fail?"

For several seconds, there was only silence. Then laughter erupted from the television.

Not human laughter.

Not even close.

It sounded like earthquakes, screaming, and church bells all happening at once. The motel room shook. The television screen flickered. A crack appeared across the glass. When the laughter finally stopped, the demon spoke again.

"Then you will serve its remaining sentence alongside your own."

"That's not fair."

"Hell is not fair."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Fair point.

"Someone must return the souls it has stolen," she continued. "And unfortunately for you, you're the most qualified candidate available."

The television immediately went black. A second later, my phone vibrated. A new message had arrived. An address. A photograph. And beneath it, a single sentence.

"YOUR SENTENCE REDUCTION BEGINS NOW."

I opened the photograph.

It showed the girl—the future victim. The picture had been taken at night through a window, from somewhere outside her house. At first, it looked innocent enough.

Then I noticed the red circle.

Someone had marked a shadowy figure standing in the darkness beyond the glass.

Watching.

Smiling.

If I'm going to survive this, I need to find her before the Spine Taker does.

I'll update this journal if I make it through the night.

If I don't, Terry will probably end up going through my computer trying to figure out what happened to me. If that happens, this journal is all I can leave behind.

Everything I've written here is true. I know how insane that sounds because I thought it was insane too until I checked my pulse.

The only reason I know any of this is real is because my heart isn't beating as I write this.

And you really can't keep calling something a hallucination when you're already supposed to be dead.

I am a serial killer.

Not the typical kind, as serial killers go.

I don't kill innocent people. Well, innocent in the eyes of the law, maybe. The kind of innocent that comes from a lack of evidence, incompetent investigations, or expensive lawyers. If you looked at their actual victim lists, most of them should have been buried beneath prisons.

Instead, I buried them.

Officially, I'm a private investigator. Most of my clients hire me for the usual reasons: cheating spouses, missing persons, deadbeat fathers, or old debts that someone suddenly decides need collecting. The job pays the bills.

The other part of my work is what keeps me interested.

People tell private investigators things they would never tell the police. They gossip. They complain. They share rumors over drinks. Sometimes they mention a missing girl from ten years ago. Sometimes they mention a man who always seems to be nearby whenever someone disappears.

Most of the time it's nothing.

Sometimes it isn't.

It's strange, really. I don't remember exactly when I started. I was twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two.

My first was a man the locals called the Florida River Monster. He earned the nickname because of his habit of abducting women, butchering them, and scattering their remains across different rivers so the alligators could finish the cleanup for him. By the time anyone found what was left, there usually wasn't enough evidence to identify the victim, let alone connect her to him.

His preferred victims were blonde women in their early twenties.

I've noticed most serial killers have the same preferences. Women. Children. Sometimes both.

It's ironic, considering I'm a woman myself. A young woman, if being in your twenties still counts as young. According to every profile I've ever read, I should be the ideal victim. Too small. Too trusting. Too easy to overpower.

The River Monster thought so, too. That assumption lasted right up until I drugged him and gave him the same ending he'd spent years giving other people. I remember staring at him afterward. Not because I felt guilty. Not because I was horrified.

I was disappointed. For years, I'd read articles about him, watched documentaries, and followed every development in the investigation. The media made him sound larger than life—a monster, a predator, something almost supernatural. But when he died, he was just a man. A pathetic, terrified man bleeding out on the floor of a fishing shack. That's when I learned something important. Most monsters aren't monsters at all. They're just people who got away with being evil for far too long.

So I kept hunting them.

One killer became three. Three became ten. Then fifteen. Then more. I told myself I was making the world safer. Maybe I was. The truth is, I hated men like that. The ones who stalked women, hunted them, and treated them like prey. Wolves wearing human skin. And wolves need to be put down. Who better to do it than a woman?

Maybe that makes me a hypocrite. Maybe it makes me just as bad as they were. I really don't care.

Unfortunately, homicide pays terribly.

So, I figured I'd spend a few days following a rich man's wife, collect a paycheck, and head home. That's how these private investigative jobs usually went. Take pictures. Write a report. Collect the money. Move on. South Texas wasn't exactly my preferred destination, but five hundred dollars an hour has a way of making a long drive seem reasonable.

I asked Terry to send over the case file. Terry was my assistant, a meek man in his fifties who treated confrontation the same way most people treated unexploded bombs. The file showed up in my inbox before I could finish my coffee, along with an email apologizing for taking so long to send it. 

The file was surprisingly thin. The client's name was Daniel Walker. Forty-eight years old. Oil money. Married for twenty years. No criminal record. No history of domestic disputes. No obvious reason to suspect his wife was cheating. What caught my attention was the note attached to the bottom of the file: 

Client does not believe wife is having an affair. 
Client believes wife is acting strangely. 

I stared at those words for several seconds before calling Terry. He answered on the second ring.

"Please tell me that's a typo."

 "It isn't."

I sighed.

 "What does acting strange mean?" 

"I asked."

 "And?" 

"He said it's something he would rather discuss in person." I rubbed my temples. Of course he did. 

"Fantastic. Five hundred dollars an hour and I'm investigating a strange wife."

 "Still taking the job?" 

I looked at the payment agreement again. Five hundred dollars an hour. Some questions answer themselves. "Of course I'm taking the job." 

"What if he's crazy?" 

"Then he's a crazy man paying five hundred dollars an hour." 

Terry sighed. He was a genuinely kind man. If someone robbed him at gunpoint, he'd probably apologize for not carrying more cash. So, the idea of voluntarily meeting a potentially insane stranger offended every survival instinct he possessed.

I hung up.

Three days later, I found myself driving into a small South Texas town that looked like it had been forgotten by time. The buildings were rusty, the roads were cracked, and the locals had elevated being nosy into an art form. By the time I'd stopped for gas, bought a coffee, and asked for directions to my motel, half the town probably knew my license plate number. What surprised me more was how often my client's name came up. The gas station belonged to him. The convenience store belonged to him. The car wash belonged to him. Apparently, half the businesses in town belonged to him. No wonder he was willing to pay five hundred dollars an hour.

I checked into a small motel about ten minutes from the gated neighborhood where he and his wife lived. The room smelled vaguely of cigarettes and regret.

The next morning, I met my client. He was a large man with a round face and the kind of expensive clothes that desperately wanted everyone to know they were expensive. Gold rings covered his fingers—two on one hand, three on the other. Enough gold to sink a fishing boat. I immediately disliked him. Fortunately, taking money from people I dislike has never bothered me. 

He looked me up and down as I sat across from him, his eyes narrowing. "The White Viper is a woman?" There was genuine surprise in his voice. I smiled. "Oh, so you've heard of me." The White Viper was one of many names people had attached to me over the years. Most of them were ridiculous. A few of them are accurate.

"My name is Mara Graves," I said, extending a hand. That wasn't my real name, of course, but clients don't need to know things like that. He shook my hand carefully, as if he expected me to bite him.

"So," I said, leaning back in my chair, "what's the problem?"

His expression immediately darkened. "It's my wife."

That was usually how these conversations started. The details changed. The excuses changed. The tears changed. But eventually, every marriage investigation became the same story.

I pulled out a notebook. "Is she cheating?"

"No."

That answer surprised me. The report had said the same thing, but most husbands accused their wives of cheating before I even sat down.

"Then what exactly am I looking for?"

He glanced toward the restaurant doors before lowering his voice. "My wife isn't acting like herself."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. People said things like that all the time. Depression. Affairs. Midlife crises. Secret addictions. There were a hundred possible explanations, and most of them were boring.

"Can you be more specific?"

He swallowed. "She's different."

"How?"

"Everything."

I stared at him. He stared back. Neither of us seemed particularly happy with the conversation.

"Mr. Walker, you're paying me five hundred dollars an hour. Help me help you."

He nodded slowly. "She forgets things."

"Lots of people forget things."

"Not like this."

He leaned forward in his chair. "She forgot the name of our dog."

That was strange. Not impossible. But strange.

"What else?"

"She forgot where we went on our honeymoon."

I wrote it down. "What else?"

"She asked me where the guest bathroom was."

I paused. "You've been married twenty years."

"Twenty-two."

I looked up from my notebook. He wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked terrified. The kind of terrified that can't be faked. I'd seen that expression before. Usually, on victims.

"Medical issues?" I asked.

"Doctors say she's healthy."

"Head injury?"

"No."

"Medication?"

"No."

I tapped my pen against the notebook. "Anything else?"

For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he reached into his jacket and slid a photograph across the table.

A woman in her early thirties smiled back at me. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Pretty. Completely ordinary.

"My wife."

I looked at the photograph, then back at him. "And?"

He pointed at the picture. "That's not how she smiles."

I waited for him to elaborate.

He didn't.

"Mr. Walker."

"You don't understand."

His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

"She's smiling the right way."

I blinked. "What?"

"The expression is correct." He tapped the photograph with a trembling finger. "But somehow it's wrong."

I stared at him for several seconds.

Then I wrote a single word in my notebook.

Crazy.

He noticed.

"You're thinking I'm insane."

"A little."

His shoulders slumped. "Everyone does."

I tucked the notebook away. "Fine. Let's assume you're not insane. What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Follow her."

"For how long?"

"Until you see it too."

I looked down at the payment agreement one more time.

Five hundred dollars an hour.

I've ignored bigger red flags for less.

I followed Mrs. Walker for the next week. Her schedule was so normal it was almost insulting. Every morning, she attended a Pilates class. After that, she visited a boutique downtown. Around noon, she met a group of friends at a café before eventually heading home. Sometimes she and her husband went out for dinner. That was it. No secret affairs, no suspicious meetings, no hidden bank accounts. Nothing.

I was beginning to think Daniel Walker had paid me five hundred dollars an hour because he was bored. The only thing keeping me on the case was the amount of money accumulating in my bank account.

While I waited for Mrs. Walker to do something interesting, I focused on another investigation. The city next to town had a serial killer. Five women had disappeared over the last year. The victims had nothing in common. Different ages. Different jobs. Different backgrounds. The bodies were what connected them.

Every victim had been found completely drained of blood. Every organ was missing. The bodies were essentially empty skin wrapped around a skeleton. Each victim also had a single incision running from the base of the skull to the lower back. The locals called him the Spine Taker.

One of the victims was seventeen years old.

I took that personally.

I don't pretend to be a good person, but certain things make my blood boil. Children are one of them.

Mrs. Walker spent most mornings at Pilates, which left me with several hours to kill. I used that time to look into the Spine Taker case. My investigation eventually led me to the sheriff's office. Officially, I was there for information. Unofficially, I was there for the free coffee.

Side note: The coffee was terrible.

A woman was screaming at two deputies near the entrance when I walked in.

"I told you she was acting strange!" she shouted. "If you'd listened to me, she'd still be alive!"

The deputies grabbed her by the arms and dragged her toward the door. A moment later, they shoved her outside. She stumbled onto the sidewalk and broke down sobbing while they returned to work without another word.

I recognized her immediately. She was the mother of the seventeen-year-old victim.

That got my attention.

I followed her outside and sat down beside her on the curb, blonde wig and all. People trust blondes. I don't know why, but they do. I introduced myself as a law enforcement officer working on the investigation and asked what she had been yelling about inside.

By the time I left, she was still crying, and I had learned something interesting.

A week before her disappearance, her daughter had started forgetting things. Important things. Her birthday. Her favorite food. The names of relatives. According to her mother, she had become distant and cold, like she had suddenly become a different person.

It sounded familiar.

Daniel Walker had described his wife almost the same way.

I drove straight to the Pilates studio.

Mrs. Walker's class wasn't supposed to end for another hour.

She wasn't there.

Neither was her car.

That bothered me.

So I committed a crime.

As usual. 

The security office was empty. The guard always left for lunch around that time. I knew because I'd spent the last 2 weeks watching the place. I pulled up the security footage and started reviewing the cameras.

At 11:03 a.m., Mrs. Walker entered the women's restroom.

Nobody followed her.

Nobody came out.

The hallway remained empty for almost an hour.

Then, at 12:01 p.m., an elderly woman exited the restroom.

I frowned and rewound the footage.

The elderly woman had never entered.

I checked every camera angle.

Every hallway.

Every entrance.

Nothing.

Mrs. Walker went into the restroom.

An old woman came out.

That was it.

I took screenshots and headed to the restroom myself. There were no windows, no maintenance tunnels, and no secondary exits. It was just a bathroom.

I stood there staring at the empty room, trying to figure out what I had missed.

I couldn't.

An hour later, I found Mrs. Walker exactly where she was supposed to be, sitting at her usual café, drinking coffee and laughing with friends.

Her car was in the parking lot.

That night, I followed her again.

At midnight, she left her house without warning, got into her car, and drove away. I followed from a distance. About twenty minutes later, she turned onto a dirt road near a lake and parked beside the woods.

Then she got out and started running.

Not jogging.

Running.

Fast enough that I almost lost sight of her.

I chased her through the trees until she stopped in a clearing.

I ducked behind a tree and watched.

Mrs. Walker bent forward.

For a second, I thought she was sick.

Then something stepped out of her.

I don't know how else to describe it.

Something unfolded from her back. Something impossibly tall.

Mrs. Walker's body collapsed onto the ground while the thing that had been inside her remained standing.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't even process what I was looking at. It ran towards the car again.

A few minutes later, it returned carrying another body.

An elderly woman.

The same elderly woman from the security footage.

When the creature finally disappeared into the darkness, I approached Mrs. Walker's body.

She was dead.

And empty.

No blood.

No organs.

Nothing.

Just skin.

And a long incision running from the base of her skull to the end of her spine.

I recognized the wound immediately.

I had seen it five times before.

The Spine Taker wasn't human.

That realization hit me about half a second before the creature came charging out of the darkness.

It had tricked me.

I barely had time to raise my pistol before it slipped into the elderly woman's body. The corpse jerked upright like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. I fired immediately. The bullet tore through her chest. The creature didn't even flinch. I fired again. Then again. Nothing. The thing simply kept walking toward me, wearing the old woman's skin like a poorly fitted costume.

"What are you?" I shouted.

The creature tilted its head. I heard bones crack. Its neck bent farther than any human neck should have been capable of bending. Then it spoke.

"You... wil...l be... my next... ves...sel."

The words sounded wrong. Not an accent. Not a speech impediment. More like something trying to imitate human language without fully understanding how it worked.

I am not becoming anyone's vessel.

I'd rather die.

I turned and ran.

Branches whipped against my face as I crashed through the forest. Behind me, I could hear the creature moving through the trees. It wasn't trying to hide. It wasn't trying to be quiet. The thing knew it was faster than me.

A few moments later, the trees opened up and I nearly stumbled into a river. Dark water rushed past below me. Behind me came the sound of snapping branches.

I turned around.

The creature stood at the edge of the treeline.

For the first time, I got a good look at the body it was wearing. In the moonlight, I could see it clearly now. The old woman's legs bent at impossible angles. Her arms hung too low. Her neck twisted sharply to one side as though every bone inside it had been shattered. Yet somehow she remained standing.

The thing smiled.

Then it lunged.

I stepped backward.

Unfortunately, there was no ground behind me.

I fell into the river.

For one brief moment, I thought I had escaped.

Then my head struck something beneath the surface.

Pain exploded through my skull. Red flooded my vision. I felt the current dragging me away as darkness closed in around me.

The river swallowed me.

I remember the impact. I remember the pain. Then everything disappeared.

When I opened my eyes again, I was falling.

I don't know how long I fell for. Minutes. Hours. Years. There was no wind rushing past me. No sensation of speed. Just endless darkness stretching in every direction while I plunged through it.

Then suddenly I crashed into something soft. Black mist.

Strangely, it didn't hurt.

I climbed to my feet and looked around.

There was nothing.

No sky.

No ground.

No horizon.

Just darkness stretching endlessly in every direction.

And a desk.

A single wooden desk sitting in the middle of the void.

With absolutely no better options available, I started walking toward it. 

There was a creature sitting behind the desk.

At least, I think it was sitting.

The thing was enormous. Even seated, it was taller than a bus. A massive goat skull concealed its face, its horns disappearing into the darkness above. Beneath the skull was a surprisingly human body dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. If I ignored the skull, the size, and the fact that I was in a bottomless pit, it looked like an accountant.

"Welcome to Level One," it said.

The voice caught me off guard.

Female.

Calm.

Professional.

Like a receptionist greeting someone who had arrived slightly late for an appointment.

I looked around at the endless darkness surrounding us.

"Level One?" I asked. "Am I dead?"

"Yes."

The answer came so quickly that it took me a moment to process it.

No sympathy.

No dramatic speech.

No ominous thunder.

Just yes.

Dead.

I considered arguing. Then I remembered smashing my head against a rock while running from a skin-wearing monster.

Fair enough.

The creature reached beneath the desk and slid a thick binder toward me. It landed with a heavy thud. Curious, I opened it.

My stomach sank.

The pages were filled with names, photographs, police reports, witness statements, and dates.

The Florida River Monster.

The Butcher of Pensacola.

The Red Lake Strangler.

Every serial killer I had ever murdered.

Every victim.

Every crime.

Every body.

All neatly organized into a single file.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Your record."

I turned another page.

Then another.

The binder seemed endless.

The creature's eye sockets suddenly ignited with a deep red glow.

"After review of your actions, you have been sentenced to two hundred years of punitive suffering before retribution."

I slowly closed the binder.

"Two hundred years?"

"Correct."

"That seems excessive."

"You murdered seventeen people."

"Nineteen."

The creature paused.

Then it looked down at the file.

"You murdered nineteen people."

"See? That's the kind of mistake that gets organizations sued."

For several seconds neither of us spoke.

Finally the creature sighed.

"I liked you better when you were unconscious."

I shrugged.

The truth was, none of this surprised me.

I had always known this was how my story would end.

I knew what I was.

I knew what I had done.

I wasn't a hero.

I wasn't a vigilante.

I was a serial killer who happened to choose worse people as victims.

There was a difference.

Just not enough of one.

"I see," the creature said.

Then it leaned forward.

"But."

I frowned.

"But?"

"We can make a deal."

That got my attention.

"A deal? What kind of deal?"

The red glow inside the skull brightened slightly.

"The kind that allows you to repay your debt."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Repay my debt?"

The creature nodded.

"There are souls on Earth that belong here. Murderers. Predators. Monsters wearing human faces. Some escape justice. Some escape death. Some are taken by things that have no right to claim them."

I stared at it.

"So you're offering me a job."

"In a manner of speaking."

"You do realize that I have spent years murdering people, right?"

"That is precisely why you're being considered."

I wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or flattered.

The creature folded its hands atop the desk.

"You have contributed greatly to Hell. Many souls currently suffering below would never have arrived without your assistance. Only a few mortals possess such a record."

"That might be the worst compliment I've ever received."

The creature ignored me.

"In exchange for your service, your sentence will be reduced. Continue long enough, and it may eventually be erased."

I glanced down at the binder.

Then, at the endless darkness surrounding us.

Then back at the creature.

"So let me get this straight. My choices are two hundred years of torture..."

"Among other punishments."

"...or I go back to Earth and drag damned souls down here for you?"

"Correct."

I considered the offer.

Honestly, it sounded suspiciously similar to my previous hobby. The only real difference was that this time I had an employer. Unfortunately, that employer was Hell.

"What happens if I refuse?"

The creature leaned back in its chair.

A moment later, another binder appeared on the desk.

This one was significantly thicker.

It opened by itself.

Flames spilled from between the pages.

Screaming followed.

I immediately pointed at the first binder.

"I'll take the job."

The creature nodded.

"A wise decision."

"I've been told I don't make many of those."

For the first time since I had arrived, I could have sworn the thing laughed. Then everything went dark. I woke up lying on the riverbank. For several seconds, I just stared at the sky, trying to figure out where I was before the headache hit. It felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through my skull. Slowly, I sat up. The river was still rushing past beside me. My clothes were soaked, and dried blood clung to the side of my face.

The last thing I remembered was falling into the river. The creature. The rock. Then the desk. The goat-skull woman. Hell.

I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up, and my stomach immediately dropped. Three days had passed. I checked again, convinced I was reading it wrong. I wasn't. The battery icon flashed red. One percent. "Fantastic," I muttered.

I staggered to my feet and followed the river until I found the dirt road. My car was still parked exactly where I had left it three nights earlier. Nobody had touched it. Nobody had towed it. Nobody had even broken a window. Apparently, even criminals had a line they wouldn't cross, and that line was trespassing on private property.

The drive back to the motel passed in a haze. The moment I got inside, I plugged my phone into the charger. As soon as it powered on, I discovered over four hundred missed calls from Terry. I called him back.

He answered before the first ring had finished.

"Mara, what the hell is wrong with you?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear. "Terry—"

"No. Absolutely not. Do you have any idea what I've been dealing with for the last three days? I filed a missing persons report. The sheriff has been looking for you. I've called every hospital within a hundred miles."

His voice got louder with every sentence.

"You vanished."

"I noticed."

"Where were you?"

I considered telling him the truth. I decided against it.

"Long story."

"You're damn right it's a long story."

I rubbed my temples. The headache was somehow getting worse.

"I'm alive."

"Clearly."

"Mostly."

There was a long pause. Then Terry sighed. It was the exhausted sigh of a man reconsidering every career decision he had ever made.

"Call the sheriff."

"What?"

"Call the sheriff and tell him you're alive before they waste another three days looking for your stupid ass."

"Fair."

After reassuring local law enforcement that I wasn't dead, kidnapped, or buried somewhere in the desert, I finally collapsed onto the motel bed and turned on the television. The local news was covering the Walker case. I sat upright immediately.

Behind the anchor was a photograph of Mrs. Walker.

My stomach sank.

Her body had been found.

Authorities believed she had been murdered.

A second photograph appeared on screen.

The elderly woman from the security footage.

Police had identified her as a suspect in the murder.

Then another photograph appeared.

Daniel Walker.

Dead.

I froze.

According to the report, he had been murdered inside his own home. The estimated time of death was shortly after midnight. The same night, Mrs. Walker had driven into the woods. The same night, I had followed her. The same night I had died.

Then the report got worse.

Investigators believed the Walker deaths were connected to the Spine Taker killings. The similarities were impossible to ignore. Mrs. Walker's body had been found drained of blood. Her organs were missing. The same incision ran from the base of her skull to the end of her spine.

The sheriff's department was treating it as another Spine Taker victim.

I knew better.

The Spine Taker wasn't a serial killer.

It was that thing.

And the creature knew I was following it from the beginning.

It knew I was watching.

Daniel Walker had hired me because he suspected something was wrong with his wife, and the moment I started getting close to the truth, everyone connected to the case started dying.

I sat there staring at the television long after the report ended. Then my phone suddenly buzzed, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The screen displayed an unknown number, and for a moment, I seriously considered hanging up, but instead, I answered.

"Hello?"

For several seconds, nobody spoke. Then a familiar female voice sighed.

"Congratulations on surviving."

My blood ran cold. The goat-skull woman. The manager of Hell. Or whatever her official title was.

"Thank you."

I wasn't entirely sure how one was supposed to respond to congratulations for surviving their own death.

"I suppose you know who your first assignment is."

"The Spine Taker?"

"Very good, little bug."

I frowned.

"Did you just call me a good bug?"

"I called you an intelligent little bug."

"That's somehow worse."

"Humans are very sensitive."

I decided not to argue with the giant demonic bureaucrat and looked back toward the television. The news report had changed. A young woman's face now filled the screen. Light brown hair. Hazel eyes. Maybe twenty-three. Twenty-four at most. Only a few years younger than me. Then the television crackled. The anchor vanished, and the screen filled with the image of a goat skull.

"That is its next victim. Protect the innocent soul."

I stared at the photograph on the screen.

"I still don't know what that thing is."

For the first time since the conversation began, the demon was silent. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost its usual amusement.

"It is a prisoner."

"A prisoner?"

"A demon."

I felt my stomach drop.

"It escaped."

The words hung in the air for a moment.

"It escaped Hell?"

"Yes."

"That seems like a serious design flaw."

"It was not designed to escape."

"Clearly."

The demon ignored me.

"It was undergoing punishment. Somehow, it found a way out. Since then, it has been stealing souls that belong here."

I remembered the empty bodies, the missing organs, the thing climbing out of Mrs. Walker's back, the thing wearing people like clothing.

"You want me to bring it back."

"I want you to drag it back."

There was a noticeable difference in her tone. One sounded like a request. The other sounded like an order.

"What happens if I fail?"

For several seconds, there was only silence. Then laughter erupted from the television.

Not human laughter.

Not even close.

It sounded like earthquakes, screaming, and church bells all happening at once. The motel room shook. The television screen flickered. A crack appeared across the glass. When the laughter finally stopped, the demon spoke again.

"Then you will serve its remaining sentence alongside your own."

"That's not fair."

"Hell is not fair."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Fair point.

"Someone must return the souls it has stolen," she continued. "And unfortunately for you, you're the most qualified candidate available."

The television immediately went black. A second later, my phone vibrated. A new message had arrived. An address. A photograph. And beneath it, a single sentence.

"YOUR SENTENCE REDUCTION BEGINS NOW."

I opened the photograph.

It showed the girl—the future victim. The picture had been taken at night through a window, from somewhere outside her house. At first, it looked innocent enough.

Then I noticed the red circle.

Someone had marked a shadowy figure standing in the darkness beyond the glass.

Watching.

Smiling.

If I'm going to survive this, I need to find her before the Spine Taker does.

I'll update this journal if I make it through the night.

If I don't, Terry will probably end up going through my computer trying to figure out what happened to me. If that happens, this journal is all I can leave behind.

Everything I've written here is true. I know how insane that sounds because I thought it was insane too until I checked my pulse.

The only reason I know any of this is real is because my heart isn't beating as I write this.

And you really can't keep calling something a hallucination when you're already supposed to be dead.