"Hey, Cyrus, toss the ball over, I'm open!" Bernard's voice cuts through the distant hum of cleats on the grassy field. He skillfully maneuvers through the sea of seniors, creating a path for himself. I swiftly pass him the ball, and with a burst of speed, he navigates the opposing defense, finding himself in a thrilling 1v1 situation near the opponent's touchline. Bernard executes a flawless feint, swaying right before a sudden switch to the left. As he reaches the touchline, the crowd erupts in cheers, celebrating his artistry on the field.

Bernard rushes toward me, his face beaming with accomplishment. "Dude, you're drenched," I tease, attempting to wriggle out of his bear hug. The blare of a megaphone interrupts our post-victory banter, signaling the inevitable end to our American football escapade. "Lights out, everyone. Back to your rooms," the stern announcement echoes through the orphanage grounds.

The reality of our home sets in. This isn't just a boarding school; it's an orphanage that houses children with minimal prospects of adoption. My own journey here began with the loss of my mother during childbirth and my father succumbing to the weight of his depression. Bernard's story is equally poignant; he lost both parents in a tragic car accident, emerging as the sole survivor. The black-masked man at the orphanage reception admitted us, and in this shared journey, our friendship blossomed.

In the quiet solitude of our room, Bernard requests, "Cyrus, mind setting up our beds? I'll take a hot shower; my muscles are screaming for relief." Nodding, I set about the familiar task, the room bathed in the soft glow of a single bedside lamp.

I sprawl out on the bed, my eyes fixed on the TV. Movies are my jam, but writing has its charm. And, oh yeah, I entertained the idea of getting into painting, but let's just say my artistic pursuits hit a bit of a roadblock during art lessons.

Heading over to our trusty VHS player, I shuffle through a stack of tapes the orphanage provided—mostly movies, some better than others.

"Not you, or you, but maybe a little of you," I mutter, vetoing tapes left and right.

I settle for the news. Consistently decent, even if I'm not a fan. I'm just a kid, after all, and news isn't exactly my idea of entertainment.

"Dude," Bernard interrupts, waving his hand in front of my face, "stop zoning out. You'll regret it."

"Hey, it's not like we've got a ton of options here. It's all about following their rules and enduring those so-called 'lectures.' Not fun. Plus, I'll focus when I want to. I'm like this remote, switching on and off whenever," I reply.

Bernard lounges on his bed, arms crossed above his head and legs casually crossed.

"Let's say you bump into your doppelganger. Someone so identical that you start questioning who you really are. What would you do to them?" Bernard throws the question out there.

"That's out of left field. Where'd that come from?" I ask.

"Just answer, man," Bernard insists.

I sigh. "I don't know, dude. No one's exactly like me, not in smarts, just more in personality and mindset. But maybe that's not the profound response you're fishing for."

"That answer defines you perfectly! You never consider anything grand or significant unless it's a threat or something scary. I mean, come on! I throw this mind-bending scenario at you, one that could stump the greatest philosophers, and you brush it off!" Bernard retorts.

"Whoa, man, didn't mean anything by it. My bad. Didn't expect you to get all deep on me," I apologize.

"You never think, not even about yourself or the people around you," Bernard concludes.

As the clock inches towards 11:30 PM, we find ourselves lying on our respective beds, staring at the ceiling. Bernard breaks the silence, "Got any plans for tomorrow?" I respond with a nonchalant shrug, "Nah, don't feel like delving into deep stuff. We'll tackle it when it comes," and with that, fatigue claims us, pulling us into a dreamless slumber.

This silence is shattered at 4 AM by an agonizing scream that pierces the quiet darkness.

I jolt awake, confusion and fear etched across my face. Drawing back the curtains, I'm met with a chilling sight—the man with the black mask, orchestrating a gruesome act. My breath catches as I witness the horror unfold.

"The hell is going on?" I murmur to myself, hastily waking Bernard. In a state of panic, I rush to share the shocking scene outside the window. But as Bernard reaches, the perpetrators have vanished, leaving behind a surreal silence.

"What are you talking about, dude? You scared the life out of me," Bernard chuckles, dismissing my alarmed state as a figment of imagination. Before I can retort, a knock echoes through the room. "I'll check it out," Bernard volunteers, approaching the door cautiously. Little do we know, it's the black-masked man, a harbinger of impending tragedy.

"What did you do to that kid?" I confront the masked figure, my hands trembling with a mix of fear and anger. Bernard pulls me back, a futile attempt to shield us from the impending chaos. The man issues an ominous command, "We can't have witnesses. Guards, take care of them." In an instant, the air thickens with tension as the guards advance, their actions preordained.

The brutality unfolds before my eyes, Bernard's attempt to resist met with a merciless blow. A machete plunges into his abdomen, and the room is filled with an eerie stillness. I drop to my knees in disbelief, the scream caught in my throat.

The world abruptly shifts. I find myself in another dimension, or perhaps a distinct domain beyond our observable universe.

Panic courses through me.

My heart races.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

I see nothing, yet every possible sensation overwhelms my mind.

This onslaught of sensations is beyond the bearing of anyone!

I... I'm scared, man. Like, really scared.

There's nothing in front of me, but this fear is just eating me up.

It's crazy, you know? It's like when you're a kid and you're scared of the dark, thinking some creepy monster is gonna jump out.

I feel like that scared little kid all over again.

Where am I?!

I'm just an orphan, for God's sake.

I've already lost everything.

So what the fuck does Fate want from me now?!

The oppressive heat bears down on me relentlessly. This dimension appears to stretch endlessly, and from the shadows emerges a figure wielding a pitchfork. A figure I recognize from previous clashes between Devils and the Devil Hunting Organization.

His words linger in the air, haunting and inescapable,

"Welcome to hell, mortal."