The fall seemed to last forever and no time at all. Daemon plummeted through absolute darkness, his stomach lurching with each second of weightless terror.
Then, without warning or transition, his feet touched solid ground.
He stood in a queue that stretched both ahead and behind him into the gloom of a narrow hallway.
The walls were hewn from black stone, slick with moisture that could have been condensation or something far less pleasant.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting sickly shadows that danced across the faces of the damned.
Other souls materialized behind him with soft thuds, each one looking as disoriented as he felt. They all wore gray too.
A woman stumbled, nearly falling before catching herself against the wall.
An elderly man blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
Four guards stood at intervals along the hallway, their armor a patchwork of metal that had seen better centuries.
Rust stained the joints, and their weapons, swords and spears that looked functional despite their age, bore nicks and scratches that spoke of frequent use.
Their faces remained hidden behind visors that reflected nothing, not even the flickering lights above.
The line moved with mechanical efficiency. Each soul took a step forward, then another, drawn inexorably toward whatever waited at the end of the corridor.
Daemon found himself studying the back of the head of the man in front of him, middle aged with graying hair.
The man's hands shook constantly, a tremor that seemed to worsen the closer they got to their destination.
"Next!"
The voice echoed from somewhere ahead, sharp and bureaucratic. The man disappeared through a doorway, and suddenly Daemon found himself at the front of the line.
A door, plain wood, completely unremarkable except for the brass nameplate that read "Intake Processing" stood before him.
"Next!"
When Damon hesitated, one of the guards turned his helmeted head toward Daemon.
When he spoke, his voice carried the rasp of metal grinding against stone. "Get in."
The office beyond the door could have belonged to any government building in the world above.
Gray filing cabinets lined the walls, their drawers stuffed with papers that overflowed onto the floor.
A single desk dominated the center of the room, behind which sat a man who looked as bureaucratic as his surroundings, thinning hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a tie that had gone out of style decades ago.
He didn't look up from his computer screen as Daemon entered.
His fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, the clicking of keys filling the silence. Only when he finished whatever he was typing did he acknowledge Daemon's presence.
"Sit."
The chair across from the desk was uncomfortable by design, hard plastic that forced the occupant into an awkward position.
Daemon settled into it as best he could, his eyes adjusting to the harsh fluorescent light that made everything look washed out and sterile.
"Full name," the man said, still staring at his screen.
"Daemon Sinners."
The typing resumed, punctuated by occasional clicks of the mouse.
The man's expression never changed, as if he'd processed thousands of souls before and expected to process thousands more.
"Cause of death."
Daemon hesitated for a moment, remembering. The alley. The shadows that had moved wrong. The pain as claws,not hands, definitely claws, had torn through his chest and wrapped around his heart.
"I was jumped. Strange men. They... they clawed out my heart."
The typing stopped. The man looked up for the first time, his eyes magnified behind thick lenses.
He stared at Daemon for a full minute, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire.
"I'm not joking," Daemon added quickly.
The man grunted and returned to his screen. More typing, faster now, as if he was making additional notes. When he finished, he leaned back in his chair and gestured toward the door.
"You can go."
"That's it? What happens next?"
"You'll see."
Daemon stood, confusion mixing with frustration.
The entire process had taken less than five minutes. He'd expected interrogation, judgment, some kind of formal sentencing. Instead, he got bureaucratic indifference and a dismissal that could have come from any clerk in any office anywhere.
He opened the door, expecting to step back into the hallway. Instead, he fell.
This time the transition was even more abrupt. One moment he was opening a door, the next he was seated in another chair, in another room, facing another person across another desk.
The space around him had expanded dramatically, he could see rows upon rows of identical setups stretching into the distance, each occupied by a soul receiving their own personal consultation.
The woman across from him was middle-aged, wearing a cardigan that had seen better days and glasses that hung from a chain around her neck.
She was eating a slice of pie…apple, from the smell. She seemed completely at ease with the surreal nature of their surroundings.
"I heard there was no food in hell," Daemon said, watching her take another bite.
"That's bullshit," she replied around a mouthful of crust and filling. "One of many misconceptions, I'm afraid. Hell has an excellent cafeteria system. The food's not great, but it's edible."
She set down her fork and pulled her glasses up to her nose, squinting at a computer screen that Daemon couldn't see.
Her fingers clicked across the keyboard, and with each keystroke, her expression grew more severe.
"Jesus Christ," she muttered. "You've got a lot of sins here."
"Don't we all?"
She looked at him over her glasses. "Murder, theft, assault, fraud, adultery, pride, wrath, envy, lust, greed..."
She kept reading, her voice taking on the tone of someone working through a particularly long grocery list.
"Can we skip to the point?" Daemon interrupted.
"The point is that you're going to have to be assigned citizenship in one of the nine circles based on your greatest sin." She leaned back in her chair. "And according to this, that would be treachery."
The word hit Daemon like a physical blow.
Images flashed through his mind, faces of people he'd betrayed, promises he'd broken, trust he'd shattered for personal gain.
He'd always told himself he was just being practical, just doing what was necessary to survive. But the label stripped away all his justifications.
"So where does that put me?"
"The Ninth Circle. The worst of them all." She reached into a drawer and pulled out a laminated card. "Congratulations, you're going to the very bottom of hell."
She handed him the ID card. His photo stared back at him.
When had they taken it?
Along with his name and, in bold red letters, "NINTH CIRCLE." The back of the card was blank except for a magnetic strip.
"Try to keep warm down there," she said, returning to her pie.
"What do you mean, keep warm?"
But she was already waving him toward another door, her attention focused on her dessert.
Daemon pocketed the ID and joined the stream of souls moving toward the exit. The man beside him,young, nervous, constantly wringing his hands, caught his eye.
"I really don't want to fall through another door," he said.
Despite everything, Daemon found himself smiling. "Yeah, the transportation system here leaves something to be desired."
The man managed a weak laugh. "I'm Florian. Where you headed?"
"Ninth Circle."
"Ah. Apparently, my greatest sin was lust." Florian shook his head. "I guess I was quite the playboy back in the day."
Daemon was about to respond when he caught the look in Florian's eyes, not shame or embarrassment, but something else. Something that made his skin crawl.
"I liked to do it with kids," Florian said matter-of-factly, stepping through the door.
The casual admission hit Daemon like a sledgehammer.
His smile vanished, replaced by disgust so intense it made him physically nauseous.
He'd thought he understood evil, thought his own sins had prepared him for whatever he might encounter. The reality of being in the underworld suddenly hit him hard.
He was in the home of the worst of humans.
He stepped through the door, half-expecting another fall. Instead, his foot landed on solid concrete.
He found himself in a train station that could have been lifted from any major city in the world above. Thousands of souls milled about on the platform, their conversations creating a low murmur that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
Electronic boards displayed departure times in languages that shifted and changed as he watched.
Track numbers appeared and disappeared. Announcements echoed from speakers hidden in the shadows, the words just distorted enough to be incomprehensible.
A familiar voice rang out.
"Daemon!?"