Lena stared at Azrael's outstretched hand, her mind spinning. Work for him? The Grim Reaper? Is this real? She couldn't process it—the fact that she was dead, the fact that she was in Hell. The shadows lurking in the distance, with their twisted, hungry gazes, reminded her of the horror that awaited her if she refused. She had no choice.
With no other option, she swallowed her fear and reached up, her fingers trembling as they met Azrael's cold, unyielding grip. He pulled her to her feet effortlessly, his golden eyes gleaming with something between amusement and impatience.
"Good," he said, his tone casual but laced with the kind of detachment that made her stomach churn. "You'll need to learn quickly if you want to survive here."
Her heart was pounding, each thud echoing through her chest like a war drum, but she wasn't sure if it was from fear or the gravity of her situation. Hell. This was Hell, and the Grim Reaper was walking away, expecting her to follow.
Forcing her feet to move, Lena trailed behind Azrael, her steps uncertain. Every part of her wanted to curl up, close her eyes, and pretend that this nightmare would end, that she'd wake up in her small, cluttered apartment, late for work, with the morning light creeping through the blinds. But there was no waking from this.
As they walked, the oppressive heat of Hell pressed down on her skin, though oddly enough, she didn't sweat. She felt it—the dry, suffocating warmth—but her body didn't respond to it as it should have. Everything here felt wrong. Even the air she was breathing felt heavy, tainted by something old and unseen, almost like the remnants of death itself.
"Where are we going?" she finally asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Azrael didn't bother to turn around. "To where you'll be staying. You'll need a place to rest in between assignments."
Rest. The word felt hollow here. The red-tinted sky seemed to pulse like a dying ember, casting eerie shadows on the landscape, and the jagged rocks scattered across the ground looked sharp enough to cut through flesh. Even as she glanced around, Lena couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. The shapes that lurked in the distance seemed to move, though they disappeared whenever she tried to focus on them.
"Assignments?" Lena questioned, her voice weak.
"You'll be assisting me with a few duties," Azrael replied. His tone was smooth, unbothered by the looming terror that surrounded them. "Nothing you can't handle—once you adjust to Hell, that is."
Lena's stomach twisted into knots. Adjust to Hell. Could someone even do that? The farther they walked, the more she realized there was no logic to this place. Everything was off—distorted. It felt as if the very landscape was alive, breathing, waiting for her to falter.
Eventually, they arrived at a towering fortress, a structure that seemed to be made from the very bones of the earth. The dark stone walls twisted upward, jagged and uneven, as though they had been torn from the ground and reshaped by some sinister force. There were no windows, only narrow slits that gave the place a feeling of suffocating enclosure.
"Welcome to your new home," Azrael said, pushing open the heavy iron doors with a creak that echoed down the long, empty corridors. "You'll be staying here while you're working for me."
Lena followed him inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light that filtered through the cracks in the walls. Torches flickered along the hallways, casting long shadows that twisted and danced with every step she took. The building felt alive in a way that made her skin crawl, as if it were watching her, waiting to consume her whole.
The halls were eerily silent, save for the faint crackling of the torches and the occasional whisper of movement from unseen figures. Lena had to remind herself to keep walking, though every instinct told her to turn around and run. But run where? There was no escape. She was dead.
They passed several figures in the hall, beings that Lena could only vaguely make out from the corners of her vision. Some looked human, or at least had once been, but there was something off about them—their eyes hollow, their movements disjointed. They didn't acknowledge her, and Lena was grateful for that. They weren't the kind of people—or things—she wanted to meet.
Finally, Azrael stopped at a heavy wooden door, pushing it open to reveal a small chamber inside. The room was bare, with a stone bed in one corner, a simple desk, and a single window that overlooked the barren wasteland outside. It was cold and unwelcoming, like everything else in Hell, but at least it offered some semblance of solitude.
"This will be your quarters," Azrael said, leaning against the doorframe with a casual air that didn't match the dread pooling in Lena's chest. "It's not much, but it'll keep you sheltered."
Lena stepped inside and ran a hand over the cold stone bed. It felt more like a tomb than a place to sleep, but she supposed it was better than nothing.
"Tomorrow, we'll begin your training," Azrael continued. "You'll learn how to manage souls, where they belong, and the responsibilities of your role. Trust me, it's far less boring than it sounds."
Lena nodded mutely, her fingers brushing the surface of the rough stone. It was all too much to take in. She had died. She was in Hell. And now, she was being trained to assist the Grim Reaper. It was a nightmare beyond anything she could have imagined.
As if sensing her thoughts, Azrael tilted his head. "Try to get some rest. You'll need your strength." He turned to leave but paused in the doorway, glancing back at her with a smirk. "Oh, and don't be surprised if you hear things at night. Hell has a way of playing with your mind."
Before Lena could ask what he meant, the door closed with a resounding thud, leaving her alone in the dim, torch-lit room. She stood there for a moment, her heart still racing, her mind numb from everything she had seen and heard.
As she sat down on the stone bed, a chill ran down her spine. The whispers that had been faint before were growing louder, but they weren't voices she could understand. They felt disjointed, like echoes of something distant and forgotten.
Lena pressed her hands against her temples, trying to block out the sound, but it didn't stop. The whispers were relentless, weaving through her thoughts, a constant murmur in the back of her mind.
_Sleep…_ one of the voices urged, soft and distant. _Rest._
Lena shuddered. Who's there? she thought, but the whispers didn't answer. They simply swirled around her, an ever-present hum of half-formed words.
She lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The stone beneath her was cold and hard, and even with the blanket pulled over her, it did little to offer warmth or comfort. The room felt too large, too empty. And those whispers—why wouldn't they stop?
Eventually, exhaustion overtook her, and despite the fear gnawing at her insides, she drifted off into a fitful sleep.
---
Lena dreamed.
At first, the dream was simple—a memory of her old life. She was in her apartment, the familiar smell of coffee and vanilla filling the air as she sat on the couch, flipping through a book. The soft hum of traffic outside her window was soothing, a reminder of the world she had once belonged to.
But then, something shifted.
The air grew colder, the colors around her dimming until they faded into a dull gray. The book in her hands turned to ash, disintegrating between her fingers, and the world around her darkened, twisting into strange, unfamiliar shapes. Her apartment walls began to stretch, warping into something grotesque, and the hum of traffic turned into a low, haunting wail.
Lena's heart began to race as shadows formed around her—figures standing in the corners of her vision, just out of focus. She tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, like she was wading through water.
"Who's there?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
The shadows didn't respond, but they seemed to draw closer, the whispers growing louder, overlapping in a cacophony of disjointed words. Lena strained to make sense of them, but it was like listening to a thousand conversations at once, each one too distant and fragmented to understand.
Suddenly, one of the shadows darted toward her, a cold rush of air hitting her face. Lena screamed, stumbling back, but the figure was gone before she could even process what had happened.
She was alone again, but the whispers hadn't stopped.
_We're here…_
The voice was soft, almost gentle, but it sent a shiver down Lena's spine. She turned slowly, her breath catching in her throat as she saw them. The shadows were everywhere, their forms hazy and indistinct, their hollow eyes fixed on her.
"We're… here…" the voice repeated, closer
now.
Lena backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs. "What do you want?"
The shadows didn't answer. Instead, one of them stepped forward, reaching out with a translucent hand. Lena gasped, stumbling back again, but her foot caught on the edge of the bed, and she fell, hitting the ground hard.
The shadow loomed over her, its hand outstretched, but it didn't attack. It hovered there, almost as if it were… waiting.
"We'll help," the whisper came again, this time from behind her.
Lena scrambled to her feet, her hands shaking. "Help me? How? What are you?"
The shadow didn't answer, but the cold air around her shifted, almost like a breeze passing through. The whispers grew louder, swirling around her, but they didn't feel threatening anymore. If anything, they felt… familiar.
As Lena stood there, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, she realized something—these weren't just shadows. They were ghosts.
---
Lena woke with a start, her heart racing, the cold sweat clinging to her skin. The whispers were gone, replaced by the silence of the room. But the memory of the dream lingered, vivid and real.
Spirits? Ghosts? Are they real?
She shuddered at the thought, pulling the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders. The whispers, the shadows—they had felt so real. Too real. But if they were trying to help her, what did that mean?
The sound of footsteps in the hall pulled her from her thoughts. A moment later, the heavy door to her chamber creaked open, and Azrael stood in the doorway, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Get up," he said, his tone brisk. "We've got work to do."
---
Azrael led Lena through the winding corridors of the fortress, explaining the duties she would take on as his assistant. There were no pleasantries, no reassurances—just cold, hard instructions about the souls she would need to manage and the responsibilities of her new position.
"The souls that end up here in Hell aren't your problem," Azrael said as they descended a long staircase that spiraled into the depths of the fortress. "Your job is to make sure the ones assigned to me are processed. They each have a place, a purpose, and a punishment. It's your job to ensure they end up where they belong."
Lena nodded, though the pit in her stomach only deepened. The dream from the night before still clung to her mind like a shadow, but she tried to push it aside. Focus on the task. Don't get distracted.
"When we reach the lower chambers," Azrael continued, "I'll show you how to sort the souls. You'll be working with them directly, so it's important you understand the process."
Lena followed him down the dark stairwell, the flickering torches casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was cooler here, but it still held the weight of something oppressive, something old and unspoken.
As they walked, Lena felt it again—the soft, distant murmur of whispers. They were faint, almost imperceptible, but they were there, hovering at the edge of her consciousness. She tensed, glancing around, but nothing seemed out of place. The ghosts from her dream didn't appear, but the feeling of being watched never left her.
They reached the lower chambers, a sprawling underground labyrinth of stone corridors and rooms filled with strange, glowing orbs. Souls, Lena realized. These were the souls that Azrael had spoken of, drifting aimlessly inside the glowing orbs, waiting to be sorted.
Azrael gestured to the nearest orb, his expression unchanging. "These are the souls you'll be working with. Each one has a destination, and it's your job to make sure they get there."
Lena swallowed hard, staring at the glowing orb. The soul inside seemed to pulse faintly, its form flickering like a dying ember. There was something so… fragile about it.
Azrael's eyes gleamed as he watched her. "You'll get used to it."
Lena wasn't so sure.
---
For the rest of the day, Azrael trained her in the basics of soul management. The work was tedious, repetitive, but she understood the importance of it. Each soul had a specific place in Hell, and if they weren't sent where they belonged, chaos would ensue.
As she worked, the whispers returned, growing louder as the day wore on. Lena tried to ignore them, focusing on her task, but they never left her alone. They hovered at the edge of her mind, their presence constant and unnerving.
But despite the fear, there was something comforting about them. It was as if they were trying to guide her, to help her navigate this new, terrifying reality.
By the time Azrael dismissed her, Lena was exhausted. Her body ached, her mind was clouded, and the weight of her new responsibilities pressed down on her like a boulder.
She returned to her chamber and collapsed onto the stone bed, her head spinning with everything she had learned. The whispers were still there, soft and distant, but this time, Lena didn't try to block them out.
As she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep, the last thing she heard was a faint, almost imperceptible voice.
_We're here._