"Excuse me, do you know where I can find Caketopia?"
The words felt ridiculous the moment they left my mouth, like I was asking for directions to some whimsical theme park in a children's book, not an actual place in this hellscape. But I hadn't given up. Not yet. This was just a small part of my as-yet-undecided, highly convoluted plan—a plan I hadn't devised but was convinced I'd figure out eventually. If the Imperium had a way of bringing prisoners into this hellhole, then they must have a way to get them out. All I needed was a starting point. And Nicole was it.
The "man" I'd asked—a demon disguised as a hunched old geezer, gnawing on a yellowed newspaper in the middle of the street—peered over his spectacles. He scrutinized me, his glasses sliding down his crooked nose, as though he was deciding whether I was worth more than a shrug or a snort.
Unnerved, I fought the sudden, inexplicable urge to decapitate him. His peaceful disguise didn't fool me; I could practically taste the demonic energy simmering beneath his wrinkled skin, pulsing like an exposed nerve. Granted, going full "Angel of Death" right here on the cobblestone street probably wouldn't win me any fans, but I couldn't deny the urge. My fingers itched to snap his neck, to wipe that dry smirk off his face. Still, I stayed vigilant. Just one wrong move, old man. One, and I'd gladly turn his head into a paperweight.
"Three lefts from Twenty-One Noodletopia Street," he rasped, each syllable scratching its way out of his throat like a smoker's last cough.
Right. Noodletopia. Of course.
I was probably standing on Shittopia Street, because it reeked. The street names in this nightmare were as ridiculous as everything else. Was this some kind of twisted joke, a cosmic prank to test my patience? I couldn't shake the feeling that this entire place was designed to throw me off my game, distracting me from my true purpose.
As I squelched my way down the street in my waterlogged sneakers, muttering curses under my breath, I had to admit, Anubistopia was… surprisingly developed. It wasn't the wasteland of lost souls I'd imagined. It was more like a less-colorful Amalfi Coast, only a little bit far from the try-hard diabolical sea. There were shops, bars, even hotels, all swarming with angels and demons mingling like awkward coworkers forced into small talk at a party. It was downright bizarre.
Oh, and not a single phone in sight. Not even a payphone. Some prison. I wondered what an Instagram post from here would look like. Dear Instagram, stuck in actual Hell. Be back never.
Just then, I felt it—that prickling sensation, that unnatural chill wrapping around my spine. It wasn't just the lousy weather. Footsteps echoed perfectly in time with mine, and I sensed a gaze boring into the back of my head, as though daring me to turn around.
So, I did. Naturally.
Nothing. Just the usual parade of people going about their day like this was some quaint, 19th-century London market square, complete with horse-drawn carriages and cobblestones that looked like they'd give me tetanus just for standing on them.
Shaking off the paranoia, I turned my attention forward and continued down the street. Finally, I spotted it—a bakery with a neon sign blinking faintly above the door: "Caketopia—Cake Your Day!" Below, an animated neon cake with a fork winked at me. Ugh. Puns. Just what I needed.
The moment I stepped inside, every head turned my way, as if I were an alien. Granted, I did look like I'd washed ashore in rags after a shipwreck. Soggy, grimy, smelling like low tide, I was pretty much the opposite of "casual visitor." I walked up to the counter, noting the way it gleamed with a faint sheen despite its chipped edges. The wood was dark mahogany, polished smooth from years of use. An old-fashioned brass bell perched in the center, its dull surface begging to be rung. To the right, a row of vintage hooks held tarnished keys dangling by worn leather straps. The whole setup gave off a sense of age and history, like this place had seen everything from sweet reunions to sinister farewells.
A woman—demon, really—glided over. She had slick black hair and dark eyes that gleamed with a dangerous curiosity. Her smile was so fixed it might as well have been glued on. A little name tag on her shirt read Melissa in curlicue letters.
"How can I help you, ma'am?" she asked, her tone suggesting customer service had recently become some demonic punishment.
"I'm here to see Nicole," I said, raising an eyebrow for good measure.
Her eyes widened slightly, as if she'd been expecting someone a little more… impressive. I mean, sorry to disappoint, Melissa, but this is me. Take it or leave it.
"Ooh, the Mavobella," she murmured, her voice thick with a note of awe, like she'd been expecting a legend and got… well, a half-drowned, red-haired loony covered in seaweed. "Nicole's getting your tag tailored."
A tag? My fists clenched instinctively. How thoughtful of Nicole to anticipate my return and prepare a tag to mark me as a good little worker bee. I already despised her intuition.
"In the meantime, the bathroom is just this way," Melissa added, her voice positively dripping with fake hospitality as she eyed my drenched attire. "And we have some clean clothes for you." She hooked a key off the wall and handed it over with a tight, sugary smile. "First door on your left, down the stairs."
Great. So I get a tag and a makeover. What's next, demon therapy?
I made my way downstairs, grumbling with every step, until I reached a steel door with a stick-figure lady on it. Inside, I braced for prison-level filth, but the place was spotless. There were rows of sinks and mirrors on one side, stalls on the other, and showers tucked in the back.
I stepped into a shower and turned the hot water on full blast, letting it rinse away the grime. It was invigorating—almost suspiciously so. By the time I stepped out, I didn't just feel clean; I felt healed, like I'd taken a dip in some magical spring. Now if only they had a cure for my patience running thin.
On a shelf, there was a set of clean clothes—black pants and a plain button-up shirt like Melissa's. No shoes, though, so I left barefoot, letting my soggy sneakers haunt the bathroom alone.
I caught my reflection in the mirror on my way out. I had to do a double-take. The girl staring back was striking—high cheekbones, black eyes, and red hair that looked fierce instead of bedraggled. Tattoos crept up my neck and chest. My halo glowed orange, casting an eerie light. Just looking at myself felt like some odd mix of vanity and defiance.
And then—just for a second—a flash of something else.
Lights, flickering, strobing violently. The sound of leather shoes clicking sharply against the floor, drowning out every other sound. Click, click, click—each step like an eraser to reality. The shoes led up to—
Pain slammed through my skull, shattering the memory. I clutched the sink, gasping, and splashed cold water on my face to shake off the ache. Nicole had said my memories would come back in fragments. A minor detail she left out: each fragment came with a free migraine.
Still feeling like I'd had a close encounter with a brick, I trudged back upstairs. Melissa was handing a meal card to a worker behind the counter, her plastered smile unwavering. She turned to me with a fresh smile, her voice dripping with a syrupy cheer that could rot teeth.
"Nicole will be back soon. Would you like something to eat while you wait?"
"Anything," I muttered, not caring what ended up on my plate.
"Great! I'll surprise you," she chirped, practically shoving me toward a table by the window.
I caught a flash out of the corner of my eye—a figure cloaked in shadows, watching me from across the street. My instincts prickled, but before I could get a good look, Melissa "accidentally" spilled a drink in my lap.
I'd just taken a shower. Obviously.
By the time I looked up, the figure was gone, just the usual cast of oddballs wandering about. Melissa dabbed at the spill with a napkin, an apology painted on her face.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She apologized. I was about to give her a piece of my mind when I noticed something on the table: a plain white envelope with my name scrawled across it in black ink, "A letter to the Angel Of Death."
"Is this yours?" I asked, knowing clearly that it wasn't her name jotted on it.
She shook her head, too quickly. "Nope. Must be for you."
I peeled it open and found a single white sheet, marred by a single red dot—a drop of blood. And not just blood: Human blood.