When I open my eyes, I'm standing in... a strange alley—if it can even be called an alley. On my left and right, massive stones tower above me, as tall as a ten-story building. But they're arranged haphazardly, like a child carelessly placed them.
It's not completely dark. There is light, though I can't tell where it's coming from… or what it is. It resembles moonlight but is far gloomier. The whole atmosphere feels somber, cold… and heavy.
I take a few steps forward before remembering my broken shinbone. Yet, I'm walking normally. It's not broken. So, I guess… this must be another dream?
I pinch myself. Okay, that hurts. So, it's not a dream. Unless…
I recall the last moment before I ended up here. The peacefulness. The darkness.
Am I...?
"Hey, hold it right there, Mister!" A woman's voice calls out from above. I look up, but there's nothing.
A second later, a woman appears out of thin air, descending before me.
"H-Hi..." I stammer.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Scorpion," I answer without thinking.
She's petite and undeniably sexy, made even more striking by the horns on her head and the tail curling behind her. Is it Halloween already?
She checks the list she's holding. "Nope… You're not on the list."
"Maybe it's under my real name—Scott Bennet?" I suggest.
She gives me a sharp look before checking again.
"Nope," she says a moment later. "Are you sure you belong here?"
"What is this place?" I ask.
She stares at me, incredulous.
"Hell, of course," she answers, rolling her eyes. "What did you do in your mortal life?"
"Assassin."
"Ooh… yeah, you definitely belong here, buddy," she cuts in without hesitation. "Come on, follow me," she adds, walking ahead of me.
I follow her, taking in my surroundings. So, this is hell. Everything they said about it was wrong. There's no fire. It's not even warm.
"Yeah, I know… Those ridiculous bibles and fairy tales totally butchered the description of this place," she says, as if reading my mind. She turns to me with a smirk. "In case you haven't figured it out, I'm the cute little demon they all talk about."
"I guard the gate. Not to let people in, actually, but to make sure no one gets out," she continues.
"So, no one has ever escaped?" I ask.
"The last person? That was over two thousand years ago," she says.
"Are we being tortured here?" I ask.
"No! We don't torture people. Damn it, those religions!" she curses.
She walks up to one of the many doors set into the towering stones. I follow her, peering through the small window in the middle of the door.
On the other side is a room that looks like a casino. In the center, there's a table with only two people: a man in a uniform—probably a casino worker—and a woman.
Stacks of chips sit in front of her, yet she looks devastated. She sobs uncontrollably, her breath ragged as she shakes the dice in her trembling hands. She rolls them—and the moment she sees the outcome, she wails. The man takes all her chips. She cries… and cries…
Then, suddenly, everything resets. The chips are back in front of her, just as they were a few seconds ago.
"No!!" she screams, shaking the dice in despair.
She's trapped, forced to relive this moment over and over. She's clearly being tortured by her own actions—yet she can't stop.
"You see… we don't torture them. They torture themselves," the demon explains. She pulls the door open slightly. "Look, we don't even lock the doors," she continues. "And yet… no one leaves."
"They're drowning in their own mistakes?" I ask.
"Not mistakes—guilt. Regret," the demon corrects me. "They punish themselves for their deepest regrets."
"And no one has left these rooms in over two thousand years?" I ask.
"Oh, you mean if they ever finish regretting?" She shrugs. "Well, a few have. When they do, they go straight up above."
She waves a hand dismissively. "But what I meant before is that no one has ever escaped before serving their full sentence."
"Oh…" I nod, still staring at the gambling woman.
"Okay, I need to report you to Luci," the demon says. "You can look around. Just don't enter an empty room… yet. Or, well, why not? You're going to end up in one anyway."
With those parting words, she vanishes before my eyes.
Left alone, I let my feet wander aimlessly through this place. I peek into another room and see a man pounding into a woman, her chest pressed against an office desk. His body trembles with sobs as he wails, whispering "I'm sorry" over and over again. A few meters in front of him, a house burns violently, engulfing a woman and two children in flames.
In the next room, I see a man with full makeup, crying desperately as a surgeon cuts away his manhood, reshaping it into something new. In another, a pretty little girl shoves her friend into a sewer while screaming, "I'm sorry!" Her voice is filled with guilt, yet her actions contradict her words.
I close my eyes, trying to erase the horrors I've seen, but my feet keep moving. Another room. Another scene. A shotgun blast rings out, followed by a man's anguished cries.
"I'm sorry, Valentin… I didn't trust you..."
Through the small window, I see Artur Chekhovsky kneeling before a lifeless body—Valentin Sternov. Mr. Chekhovsky has killed dozens, both directly and indirectly. Yet, the one regret tormenting him the most is murdering Mr. Sternov.
Then, Sternov's eyes snap open. He rises to his feet.
"Artur… I was nothing but loyal to you for the past twenty years. Why did you kill me?"
"Because you betrayed me!"
"That's what I wanted to tell you! There's no way I would betray you!"
"But I have proof!"
"No! It can't be!"
"I was so mad at you, Sternov. I couldn't believe you betrayed me!"
"I DIDN'T! It was a setup! Please, Artur, you have to—"
A gunshot cuts him off.
"Nooo!!!"
Mr. Chekhovsky lets out a gut-wrenching scream as Sternov collapses into a pool of his own blood once again.
"Why… whyyy?!?!"
Chekhovsky wails, gripping his hair in agony. Then, suddenly, his eyes lock onto mine.
"You!! It's you!!" he shouts, his voice dripping with rage.
For a second, I freeze. He remembers me.
Then, as my brain kicks back into action, I see him charging toward the door. Instinct takes over, and I bolt. I run straight into the only room with an open door and slam it shut behind me.
I take a moment to steady my breath. That's when I realize—I've entered one of the torture rooms. Turning my head, I stare into the vast darkness stretching behind me.
What is my deepest regret?
I try to recall, but nothing comes to mind—not from the life I remember, at least. Maybe it's something from the life I've forgotten.
I step into the center of the room, waiting for the scene to change. Nothing happens. The space remains an empty void.
A minute passes. Then another. Still, nothing.
Frustrated, I turn back toward the door, intending to leave. But just as I reach for the handle, something tickles my chest. I brush it away and watch as it falls to the floor.
A scorpion.
The same one from my dream.
It scurries away, but I catch it easily. I could crush it right now, end it in an instant. But I hesitate. Instead, I meet its eyes.
Then, just like before, it suddenly leaps onto my head and stings me.
A searing pain explodes from the sting, spreading like fire through my skull. I collapse, writhing on the floor as the venom floods my brain, popping through nerves and muscles one by one.
I scream.
The agony is unbearable. I plead for it to stop, waiting for the relief that comes when I wake up from a dream.
But this isn't a dream.
And the pain isn't fading.
I scream until I lose consciousness.
When I wake up, I'm curled in a fetal position—knees tucked to my chest, chin resting against them, hands clutching my head.
Please… let it have been a dream.
But it's not.
I'm still in the same dark room, just a few steps from the door.
I try to stand, but before I can, the tickling sensation returns. Reflexively, I swipe it away. Then, just like before, I catch the scorpion, hesitate to kill it, and it jumps—stinging me all over again.
The cycle repeats.
I fall.
I scream.
I black out.
I wake up in the same position.
And then… it happens again.
And again.
And again.
I know the answer is simple. All I have to do is kill the scorpion.
But every time I'm about to, I hesitate.
I'm exhausted. Drained. My voice is raw from screaming, my mind slipping further into torment. Yet I can't break the cycle.
"Shit!"
A voice curses, and suddenly, I feel myself being dragged out of the room.
"Are you alright?"
It's the demon.
Though still in pain, I nod weakly.
"You met your deepest regret," she says.
I blink at her, dazed.
"Not killing a scorpion?" I ask, confused.
She laughs. "Your regret isn't as obvious as the others. I can't tell you what it is—you have to figure that out on your own."
I stare at her, my mind foggy from the lingering pain. "How? And why did you take me out? Wasn't I supposed to leave on my own?"
"Yeah, if you were already dead," she says with a smirk. "But you're not dead… yet."
"I'm not?"
"Well, you were. But then you came back."
I finally manage to stand, and she grins.
"So… ready to go back to hell?" she asks, chuckling.
I let out a small laugh at her calling Earth "hell."
"Don't laugh, buddy. It's going to be hell for you," she says, patting my shoulder.
I just nod.
"Come on, I'll walk you out," she says, leading the way.
-
The next time I open my eyes, I'm lying in a bed, surrounded by white walls.
A hospital.
Panic flickers through me. If I'm in a hospital, that means… Jennifer got us out.
And if she got us out…
No. Not "perhaps."
Definitely.
She definitely involved the police.
"You're awake," Jennifer's soft voice pulls me from my thoughts.
"Hey," I greet her, offering a thin smile.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
She chuckles, nodding as a single tear slips down her cheek. Seeing her safe—no matter what happens next—I'm relieved.
"I should be asking you that," she says.
I sigh. "I think you're more well-informed about my condition than I am."
She nods, another tear falling as she reaches for my hand.
"I'm just glad you're alive," she whispers.
Then, wiping her tears, she starts listing my injuries, her voice clinical, detached.
"Broken shinbone on the right leg. Broken trapezium carpal in the left hand. Multiple fractured ribs. Torn diaphragm. Shrapnel wounds in the lungs and heart. Any man would have died with even half of those injuries."
I exhale slowly. "Now you think I'm Superman, don't you?" I joke.
But my words wipe the amusement from her face.
"I…"
She hesitates, as if struggling with something. But instead of answering, she glances toward the doorway.
I follow her gaze.
Two police officers step into the room.
My body tenses.
She reported me.
"Good day, Mr. Bennet," one of the officers says with a bright, friendly smile. "We're glad you're awake."