The morning light came too soon for Lena Carter. Pale slivers of sun crept through the thin curtains of her cramped apartment, casting soft, hazy shapes on the ceiling. She groaned, curling tighter beneath the covers, her dark curls spilling across the pillow. Her phone had already buzzed three times from the nightstand—each time louder and more insistent than the last. Lena ignored it, savoring the warmth of her bed and the fading remnants of a dream she couldn't quite recall.

Another Monday. Another dull routine.

With a heavy sigh, she finally dragged herself upright, her bleary brown eyes blinking against the light. The clock on her phone told her she was running late—again. Heart sinking, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and rushed through the morning ritual. Clothes were hastily tugged on—a simple black sweater and jeans—her fingers tangled through her curls in a failed attempt to tame them, and breakfast, as always, was skipped. She swiped on a bit of lipstick, her lips a natural deep red, and was out the door, her bag slung over her shoulder.

The world outside greeted her with the usual chaos of a city morning. The cold autumn air bit at her olive-toned skin as she jogged down the steps of her building. Her mind was already racing through the day ahead—a meeting with her boss, a deadline looming over her, and an ever-growing list of responsibilities. Lena had a way of blending into the world, just another face in the crowd, her petite frame slipping through the bustling streets of the city, unseen and unnoticed. 

But all of that changed in a single heartbeat.

She didn't see the loose step. She never noticed the slick edge where the rain from the night before had gathered in a small, invisible puddle. Her foot hit the slick surface, and before she could catch herself, she slipped. 

There was no time to scream, no time to process what was happening—just the sudden, terrifying weightlessness of her body in free fall.

For a fleeting moment, she was suspended in midair, her brain scrambling to understand. And then—impact.

The back of her head hit the concrete with a sickening crack, the sound echoing loud in her ears, even as the world around her began to fade. A sharp, searing pain shot through her skull, radiating like fire, then dissolving into numbness. Her vision blurred, colors bleeding into one another until they were nothing but smears of light.

Her body was still. Too still. She could hear the faint echo of footsteps around her, distant voices calling out—panicked, but muffled, like they were coming from underwater. Lena wanted to call back, to tell them she was fine, just stunned, but no words came.

Her chest didn't rise. Her heart no longer beat.

Time slowed, thick and heavy, stretching into an eternity. A strange calm washed over her, a stillness that didn't feel like sleep or peace. It felt like waiting. Waiting for something to happen.

Then the darkness swallowed her.

When Lena woke again, the first thing she noticed was the absence of pain. The second was the eerie, unnatural quiet that surrounded her. No sound of the city, no distant hum of cars or the sharp bark of horns. Nothing.

She blinked slowly, her vision adjusting. The world around her was dim, painted in hues of red and black. The air felt heavy, thick with something she couldn't quite place, and a faint heat pulsed in the distance, like the ghost of a flame licking at the horizon. She pushed herself upright, her heart hammering in her chest—or at least, where her heart should have been.

That was when the realization hit her, like a sudden rush of icy water. The pounding in her chest… it wasn't there. She pressed her hand to her ribs, but there was no beat, no rhythm of life thrumming beneath her skin.

She wasn't alive. She was dead.

"No," Lena whispered, her voice trembling as the word escaped her lips. She staggered to her feet, legs shaky, refusing to believe what was so painfully obvious. She looked around, trying to anchor herself to something familiar, something real. But there was nothing here. No streets, no people, no signs of life.

Instead, jagged rocks jutted from the cracked, desolate earth, and the sky above swirled in shades of crimson and violet, as though it had been stained with blood. The air itself seemed to buzz with a sinister energy, the kind that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. A low, distant rumble echoed through the landscape—like the earth itself was growling.

"This isn't real," Lena muttered, rubbing her arms in a vain attempt to chase away the cold creeping through her. "This can't be real."

But it was. And as the fog of disbelief slowly lifted, another truth slithered into her mind, one that she didn't want to acknowledge.

She wasn't just dead. She was in Hell.

The first few steps felt like walking on broken glass. Each movement was stiff, uncoordinated, as though her limbs had forgotten how to function. She stumbled forward, her feet dragging across the rough, uneven ground.

The heat grew more intense the farther she moved, an oppressive, stifling warmth that clung to her skin like molten tar. Yet despite the suffocating atmosphere, her body didn't sweat. Her breaths—if they could even be called that—came shallow and strained, but they were more out of habit than necessity. The realization made her sick.

She wasn't sure where she was going, but standing still felt worse. In the distance, something caught her eye—a dark figure, barely more than a shadow against the fiery backdrop. It moved, slowly at first, then with purpose, heading in her direction.

She froze, her instincts screaming to run, but her legs refused to obey. The figure grew closer, its shape becoming more defined. It wasn't just a shadow. It was a person—or something that looked like one.

The man—if that's what he was—stood tall, a long black coat billowing behind him in the faint breeze. His hair, silver and gleaming even in the dim light, fell over his shoulders in a wild, unkempt manner. His face was sharp, almost too sharp, with features that were both beautiful and unnerving, like something carved from stone. But it was his eyes that sent a chill down her spine. They were hidden behind dark, reflective sunglasses, but she could feel the weight of his gaze, cold and predatory.

He stopped a few paces from her, hands tucked casually into his pockets, lips curving into a faint smirk. "Well," he drawled, his voice low and dripping with amusement, "you're not where you're supposed to be, are you?"

Lena opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her throat felt dry, her mind spinning with a thousand questions, none of which made it past her lips.

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as if waiting for her to speak. When she didn't, he sighed dramatically, as though the silence had become too tedious for him. "I'll save you the trouble of asking, sweetheart," he said, his tone mocking but not unkind. "You're dead. And this—" he gestured to the bleak landscape around them—"is Hell."

The word hit her like a punch to the gut. Her knees threatened to give out, but she forced herself to stay upright, clenching her fists at her sides. "No," she finally croaked, shaking her head. "No, this can't be—"

"It is," he cut her off, taking a step closer. "And let me guess—you're wondering why you're here. You weren't supposed to die, right? It wasn't your time." His smile widened, revealing unnervingly sharp teeth. "Too bad."

She stared at him, her heart—or the place where her heart used to be—pounding in her chest. "I don't understand," she whispered, her voice cracking. "If it wasn't my time, why am I here?"

He chuckled, the sound dark and rich, like the crackle of a fire. "Hell's not exactly a place of fairness, sweetheart. Sometimes people slip through the cracks. And once you're here…" He leaned in, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, let's just say it's not easy to leave."

Her stomach twisted into knots. She felt sick, cold despite the heat surrounding her. This was wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen.

"What do I do now?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

The man straightened, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Oh, I wouldn't worry too much. I'm sure we'll figure something out." He flashed her another smile, this one tinged with something darker, something dangerous. "You're in good hands. After all…" He stepped back, spreading his arms wide. "I'm Azrael. Grim reaper extraordinaire."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Azrael. The name echoed in her mind, dredging up vague memories of death myths and ancient tales. The angel of death.

"What… do you want from me?" Lena asked, her voice shaking.

He grinned, all teeth and menace. "Simple. You work for me now."

The world around Lena seemed to spin, the weight of those words crushing down on her. Work for him? Was this some kind of sick joke? The afterlife—Hell, no less—offering her a job? Her thoughts ran in wild circles, grasping for logic in the madness.

"Wait," she blurted out, feeling her knees buckle as the reality of the situation began to sink in. She dropped to the cracked earth, her palms pressing into the ground. It felt real—solid, hot. This wasn't some feverish nightmare. "Work for you? Doing what?"

Azrael clicked his tongue, crossing his arms in a gesture of mock sympathy. "Well, I can't exactly send you back to the land of the living, sweetheart. Not after you've gotten a good look at this place. You're in Hell now, and we have rules. But lucky for you, I'm in need of an assistant."

He crouched down in front of her, lifting her chin with one slender finger, his smirk widening. "You're resourceful, aren't you? You managed to stay conscious longer than most souls after landing here. That shows you've got potential. You help me, I'll make sure you survive down here."

Survive. That word rang in her ears. What was there to survive in a place meant for the dead?

"What happens if I don't help you?" Lena asked, her voice wavering as she met his gaze. His golden eyes glowed with something she couldn't quite place—humor, danger, maybe both.

Azrael stood back up, dusting off his coat casually. "Oh, you could choose not to help, sure. But then you'd be left to fend for yourself. And trust me," he gestured to the desolate landscape surrounding them, "this place isn't as empty as it looks. Hell has its share of… predators."

As if on cue, a distant growl rumbled through the air, a sound that sent ice shooting through Lena's veins. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, into the abyss that stretched endlessly behind her. Shapes shifted in the darkness, forms that moved in the periphery of her vision, disappearing when she looked directly at them.

Azrael's smirk softened into something more serious as he watched her reaction. "The thing about Hell is that it's not just fire and brimstone. The souls here—they're not always human. And not all of them are as polite as I am."

He extended a hand toward her, his voice dropping to a low, coaxing tone. "So, what do you say, Lena? Work for me, and you might just survive long enough to figure out what happens next. You might even find a way out."

The idea of leaving Hell was enough to send a spark of hope through her. She didn't know what working for Azrael entailed, but the alternative… the alternative was far worse. She'd never been much of a fighter, but if her only other option was becoming prey for whatever was lurking in the shadows, then maybe survival was worth the risk.

With a deep, shaky breath, Lena reached up and took his hand.

Azrael's grin returned, sharp and triumphant. "Good choice."

He pulled her to her feet with surprising ease, his grip firm but not painful. Lena couldn't help but feel the weight of his presence—the overwhelming sense of power that radiated off of him, as though he were barely keeping it in check.

"Welcome to Hell's inner circle, Lena," he said, clapping her on the shoulder with mock cheerfulness. "Let's get you settled in. We've got work to do."

Lena wasn't sure if the world had always been so heavy, but as she stood in the barren wasteland of Hell, everything felt weighted. Her own limbs seemed sluggish, as though the gravity was stronger here, pulling her deeper into the ground.

Azrael turned on his heel, motioning for her to follow. "Come on. We've got to get you registered. Hell's bureaucracy is a nightmare, but it's better than wandering around aimlessly. Trust me."

Lena fell into step behind him, her thoughts still reeling. Registered? Bureaucracy? Was this some kind of joke?

But as they walked, Lena noticed the ground shifting beneath them, the jagged rocks giving way to smoother terrain. The air around them grew warmer, and in the distance, strange shapes began to rise against the horizon. Towers, buildings—structures that seemed to stretch impossibly high, silhouetted against the blood-red sky.

"What… is this place?" Lena asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azrael glanced over his shoulder, his smirk never faltering. "You'll see soon enough. Welcome to your new home, Lena. It's not so bad once you get used to the heat."

The journey had only just begun, but Lena knew one thing for sure—this was Hell, and there was no going back.