Elliot sat slumped over his cluttered desk, his forehead damp with sweat as a lingering sense of unease gripped him. His eyes flickered open, bloodshot and wide, as the remnants of his nightmare clawed at his consciousness.
The dark figures, the suffocating air, the distant screams, it all seemed so real. His breath came in short gasps, chest heaving in panic, and for a moment, the weight of it all made it hard to distinguish reality from the nightmare.
Yet, as his gaze swept across the dimly lit office, the hum of the fluorescent lights and the low buzz of his computer pulled him back. He wasn't in that hellish place anymore. He was just in the office, his cubicle, the place where he spent most of his days in a haze of work.
A quick glance at the clock confirmed it was still lunch break. He could hear faint chatter in the breakroom. The second hand of the clock ticked steadily, and as his mind finally settled, the room's familiar sights seemed to calm his racing heart. A sigh of relief escaped him. He was just taking a nap, not lost in some dark realm. Just a nap.
His friend, Marcus, appeared at his side, holding a bottle that at first glance seemed to be filled with a soft drink. But there was something different about it—the way Marcus held it, the playful grin on his face, made it clear it wasn't just another soda.
"Care for a drink? It's a little... special," Marcus teased, eyes sparkling with mischief. He popped the cap with a dramatic flair and handed it over. Without hesitation, Elliot took it, not wanting to seem rude.
It wasn't the first time Marcus had brought something a little out of the ordinary. As they both took their first sip, the rich, biting taste of alcohol replaced the sweetness of what had appeared to be a regular soda.
The warmth of it slid down his throat, adding a strange contrast to the lingering unease from his dream. The alcohol's burn, though strong, was oddly comforting, like a small rebellion against the mundane office routine.
As the two friends chatted idly, the light buzz from the alcohol creeping up on them, Elliot's phone vibrated on the desk. The screen lit up, displaying a strange app he didn't recognize. "Welcome to Hell" was emblazoned in ominous red lettering. Elliot's heart skipped a beat. His fingers hovered over the phone, the sight of the app making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
"What is that?" he asked, his voice tinged with both curiosity and a hint of fear. Marcus leaned in, clearly excited.
"Oh, that's my latest find," he replied with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's a new app I installed in your phone. Think of it like a... marketplace. You can get anything from hard drugs, escorts, weapons, and even alcohol in disguise. Whatever your darkest desires are, you can find them here."
Elliot's face paled. Something about the app unsettled him on a deep level, the implications of what Marcus said taking root in his mind. His finger hovered over the screen, an inexplicable pull to tap it. But as he did, the flashes of his nightmare returned—flickering images of the dark, twisted shapes from his dream, the cold, empty screams, the overwhelming fear. His breath caught in his throat.
A voice in his mind screamed at him to stop, but he ignored it, pretending nothing had happened.
"Are you seriously gonna open it?" Marcus prodded, his voice full of anticipation.
Elliot hesitated. The pull of curiosity was strong, but the fear from his nightmare was stronger. He withdrew his finger. No. He couldn't do it. Not after what he'd just felt. There was something deeply wrong with the idea of an app that could offer such horrors. He tried to dismiss it, but his mind couldn't quiet the storm of thoughts swirling in his head.
Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of indecision, he pushed the phone aside and let the moment pass. He'd gotten enough of a taste for the bizarre, the unsettling. His mind was no longer in a place for further exploration.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of unease and tension. Elliot couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, something much bigger than the bizarre app. His stomach churned, and the more he tried to ignore it, the worse it got. He couldn't focus, couldn't find the energy to finish the tasks on his desk.
He finally made a decision. An early leave. He grabbed his things, leaving without a word, the oppressive feeling gnawing at his insides. The weight of the app's existence lingered, as though the world had shifted and was now just a little darker than before.
Elliot walked down the quiet street, his footsteps quick and purposeful, his mind still heavy with the unsettling events of the day. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pavement, but the daylight did nothing to soothe the unease that clung to him. The feeling of dread wasn't leaving, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off.
A shout cracked the air like thunder.
Then—running footsteps. Hard. Desperate. Coming fast.
Elliot turned just in time to see a man sprinting toward him, eyes wide and feral. His clothes were torn, blood on his collar, face soaked in sweat. He kept looking back, over his shoulder—hunted.
Then came the shouting. Police. Two officers in pursuit, breathless but determined.
Elliot froze for half a second.
The man was almost on him now, close enough that Elliot could see the flicker of fear—or madness—in his eyes.
And something inside Elliot snapped.
Not out of courage. Not even fear. Just a single, blinding impulse. A heat rising in his chest that said: do it.
He swung his bag—hard, viciously. It cracked across the runner's face with a wet crunch of bone and fabric. The man's feet tangled. He hit the pavement with a sickening thud.
No groans. No movement.
Just silence.
Elliot stood there, heart jackhammering. His hands shook as he stared down at what he'd done.
Blood pooled beneath the man's head, slowly creeping across the concrete.
A second later, the police arrived. The first officer skidded to a stop, weapon half-raised, eyes wide. The second dropped to his knees, checked the man's pulse.
"Shit," he muttered. "He's out cold. No—wait…" A beat passed. Then: "No pulse."
Elliot stepped back, eyes wide. "I didn't mean to—he was running right at me—I just—"
The first cop cut him off with a raised hand. "Easy. Just breathe."
Elliot's fingers twitched at his sides. He couldn't look away from the blood. The way the man's limbs were twisted. Broken. Wrong.
"He was armed?" Elliot asked, voice cracking.
The officer glanced at the body, then back at Elliot. "Doesn't look like it. But he was running dirty. Mule for sure."
He motioned to a small torn satchel that had spilled open in the fall. White powder glinted in the dying light—coated the sidewalk like ash. Cocaine.
The officer's tone shifted. "You didn't know that, though… right?"
Elliot hesitated. "No. I mean—I just reacted. I wasn't trying to…" He trailed off.
The second cop stood up slowly. His gaze held something unreadable. "Not a good way to go. But he chose to run. You didn't choose the outcome."
Then, almost under his breath: "You might've done us a favor."
That last line sat uncomfortably in Elliot's stomach.
The street began to fill with noise—more sirens, distant murmurs, bystanders filming. But Elliot couldn't hear any of it. The world seemed far away, like he was watching from behind glass.
The man's body still hadn't moved.
Elliot's gaze dropped to the cocaine. One of the plastic bags had torn, the contents still spilling. A single packet lay within reach, the label smudged but intact.
And for some reason, Elliot crouched down.
His hand moved before his brain could stop it.
He took it.
No one noticed. Or pretended not to.
He was taken to the police station and after the statement he was left free.
The police station door clicked shut behind him with a sterile finality.
Elliot stepped out into the night, the city colder than before, its usual buzz replaced with a strange, oppressive stillness. Streetlights painted pools of pale yellow on cracked pavement. A siren wailed faintly in the distance—detached, indifferent.
In his right hand, his fingers clenched around the plastic packet he never should've taken. It crinkled in his fist as he walked, tucked deep into his coat pocket. The cocaine burned against his palm like a secret.
He moved without direction, just trying to breathe, to think. Each step felt heavier than the last. The station had let him go with nods, sympathies, and empty reassurances. "You did the right thing." "He was a criminal." "Just bad luck."
But none of that mattered.
The man was still dead.
Suddenly, a buzz in his coat pocket.
He stopped.
Elliot pulled out his phone. The screen lit up harshly in the dark.
Welcome to Hell – New Notification
He tapped it, slowly.
"The person who died because of you was not an accident. You had a murderous intent behind your act."
Elliot stood frozen on the sidewalk.
The world around him seemed to muffle, like cotton had been stuffed in his ears. The traffic a block away faded. Even the night air felt denser.
He read the message again.
Then again.
A chill ran through him—not because of what the app said, but because... a small part of him believed it.
His thumb trembled above the screen. His jaw clenched.
Did I want him dead?
He hadn't even thought. His body had moved on its own. He told himself it was instinct—but there had been something behind that swing. Not panic. Not fear.
Satisfaction.
Like a valve inside him had been waiting for a moment—any moment—to burst.
He shook his head, hard, as if the motion could knock the thought loose.
No. That wasn't him.
He wasn't that person.
His pace quickened. Shoes clicking faster against the pavement. He needed to get home. Needed to shut out the voice in his head—the app, the guilt, the question he couldn't stop asking:
"What if I wanted to do it?"
Another corner. Another empty street. A flickering neon sign above a closed bodega cast him in sickly green light. A wind swept through the alley nearby, cold and sudden. Trash rustled. Something scraped across concrete.
Elliot didn't look. He didn't want to
His hand moved without permission again—into his pocket.
He pulled out the cocaine.
For a moment he just stared at it, caught in the absurdity of it. It wasn't even his. It had belonged to a man now dead because of him.
But he didn't care.
His hands moved quickly. A short breath. A practiced flick. He took a hit.
The high hit sharp. Fast.
His body buzzed, nerves singing. The tension in his chest uncoiled—but something else took its place. Something worse.
His phone buzzed again.
He didn't want to look.
But he did.
Welcome to Hell – New Notification:
"That will only increase your sins."
The words bent on the screen. Warped. Like they weren't just written—but whispered.
Elliot staggered back a step, his foot catching on a raised slab of pavement. He steadied himself on a grimy wall, breathing hard, eyes darting around the empty street.
This isn't happening.
It's just the drug. Just the guilt.
Just my own head.
But it didn't matter what he told himself. The weight in his gut didn't budge.
The truth—or what felt like it—was beginning to crack through the surface.
Maybe the app didn't know anything.
Maybe it didn't have to.
Maybe it was just holding up a mirror—and showing him the part of himself he'd spent years burying.
The part that had waited for the right moment.
The part that, given the chance... had enjoyed the violence.
Elliot turned and broke into a run, as if outrunning the thought could save him.
Behind him, the phone buzzed once more—still glowing in his hand.
But he didn't look this time.
He was afraid he'd recognize himself in the next message.
Elliot's hands trembled as he fumbled with his phone, his breath shallow, uneven. The notifications from the Welcome to Hell app kept lighting up the screen—like a siren call in the dark. Each buzz was like a tap on his shoulder, a whisper from the shadows. The pull was magnetic, unnatural.
He wanted to ignore it. He couldn't.
The app had wormed its way into his head, clawing at his guilt, feeding on it. It didn't just observe his sins—it invited them. It thrived on them. The longer he resisted tapping it open, the stronger the need grew, like a drug all its own. The app had become a presence now—constant, looming, intimate.
By the time he reached home, his knuckles were white around the cocaine packet.
The moment he stepped inside, the familiar smell of his apartment greeted him—cooked grease, old wood, detergent. But today, it felt wrong. Off. The air hung heavy in the kitchen, thick like fog, like it had been waiting for him. Watching him. Every corner of the room seemed darker than it should be. The lights buzzed faintly, slower than usual, like something was interfering with the electricity—or his senses.
He moved without thought, letting the high guide him. The freezer door groaned open. A blast of cold air hit him.
Inside: frozen meat.
He blinked.
He didn't remember buying it.
And yet, it was there—neatly packed, stacked, labeled.
Except for one piece.
One that didn't belong.
It was pale. Misshapen. Curved in a way no butchered cut should ever be. Fingers. Five of them. Blue-tinted and stiff, curled inward like they'd died grasping something.
Elliot's heart stopped for a moment. He stared.
Then blinked again.
Maybe it was the drug. Maybe it wasn't.
But the longer he looked, the less strange it seemed. The cocaine in his bloodstream quieted his revulsion, blurred the horror until it dulled into detachment.
He reached in and pulled it out.
His body moved like it had done this before. Not in memory—just in instinct. The kind that came from somewhere deeper. Somewhere primal.
He placed the meat on the counter, peeled off the wrapping. His mind said stop—but his hands didn't listen. The skillet hissed as the slab hit the heat. Grease crackled, popped. The smell was thick and heavy, metallic, earthy.
It should have turned his stomach.
It didn't.
It made his mouth water.
The cocaine hadn't dulled his hunger—it had sharpened it. This wasn't appetite. This was craving. Urgent. Compulsive. Something that twisted itself around his bones and wouldn't let go.
Elliot sat at the table, plate in front of him. The meat had browned unevenly. Its texture... was familiar in a way he didn't want to think about.
Still, he cut a piece.
Still, he brought it to his lips.
And he chewed.
Warm. Soft. Oddly tender.
His eyes closed. He swallowed.
And felt satisfied.
A sick, slow satisfaction bloomed in his chest—twisting his gut into something monstrous. He cut another bite. Then another.
He didn't stop.
He couldn't.
The more he ate, the less it mattered what it was.
Then—his phone buzzed again.
He picked it up.
The screen lit.
Welcome to Hell – New Message:
"Are you still eating your ex?"
The fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
His breath caught.
The bite hung in the air, trembling in his grip. A drop of juice slipped off the edge of the meat, landing with a quiet tap on the plate.
His stomach twisted violently.
No. It's lying. It has to be lying. That's not—
Another buzz.
New message.
"At this moment, you also taste delicious."
His chest seized up. The fork clattered onto the floor. He backed away from the table, stumbling, hand gripping the edge of the counter as if it could keep him grounded.
The room swam.
The kitchen—the whole apartment—felt smaller. Closer. As if the walls were breathing. Watching.
He stared at the plate.
The meat still sat there.
Steaming.
Half-eaten.
The texture...
The skin...
His own voice echoed in his skull: What the hell have I done?
But somewhere deeper than the voice of panic... was something worse.
A flicker of satisfaction.
And hunger.
Not for food.
But for more.
More indulgence. More darkness. More surrender.
His phone buzzed again—longer this time.
The screen glowed red like a furnace door cracked open.
The icon of the app pulsed slowly.
Elliot stared at it, heart pounding, vision swimming.
His fingers hovered.
Then tapped.
The screen opened.
The moment Elliot's trembling finger tapped the app, something snapped in the air.
The screen didn't respond at first—it flickered violently, spasming in his grip like something alive, resisting his touch. Then, it glowed. A deep, pulsing red—not the red of digital light, but something more organic, like blood behind a stretched membrane.
The light spilled into the room, flooding the kitchen in crimson. The walls bled color. The furniture seemed to breathe. The air thickened, heavy as oil, laced with heat and decay. It wasn't just the screen anymore—the world itself was warping.
The sky outside darkened to a bruised, arterial red. The floor beneath his feet rippled, losing form like melting wax. Elliot staggered backward, his breath catching as the ground cracked open beneath him in jagged lines, glowing faintly with infernal light.
He fell.
The landing knocked the breath from his lungs. He opened his eyes to find himself kneeling before a massive black door, impossibly tall, carved from stone that seemed to pulse with heat and heartbeat. In the center: the app's symbol.
Welcome to Hell, etched above it in seething, glowing letters—alive, watching.
Elliot reached out with shaking fingers. But before he could touch the surface, the world around him shuddered.
The air vibrated. The light became blinding.
And then—it appeared.
A figure.
Brilliant. Radiant. Impossible.
Wings like glass aflame. A face that was neither male nor female, neither young nor old. Its gaze held both infinite compassion and unbearable sadness. An angel, Elliot realized. Or something close enough that the difference didn't matter.
In silence, it reached for a book.
The motion was gentle, graceful, slow.
A massive tome, bound in pale leather, resting on a pedestal before it. With a soft, deliberate motion, the angel closed it. The sound—a single thud—echoed like thunder through the void.
Then, beside it, another.
A second book.
This one dwarfed the first.
The Book of Sins.
Where the Book of Good Deeds was small, compact, perhaps only a few pages thick, the Book of Sins sprawled. Its pages curled into the darkness, unending. It expanded as Elliot watched, as though new sins were being written even now. He felt its weight—crushing, suffocating—settling on his chest like stone.
He couldn't breathe.
The angel's eyes were full of sorrow as it looked upon him. It said nothing. Didn't need to. The silence told him everything.
Then, finally, the angel spoke.
Its voice was wind and flame, delicate but undeniable.
"Which book is yours?"
Elliot stared, throat tight.
He wanted to answer—but no sound came. He couldn't lie. Not here. Not under that gaze. His eyes drifted toward the Book of Sins, and the truth hit him like a blade.
It was already open to his page.
And it was still being written.
The angel reached forward and closed the book with solemn finality.
"Your sins are yours to bear."
The ground trembled. The black door behind the angel groaned and creaked open, spilling searing red light into the void. The heat was immediate, suffocating. Elliot staggered back.
He didn't even have time to scream before the hands came.
Clawed. Charred. Black as coal, slick with flame.
They erupted from the doorway like smoke with teeth, grabbing him by the arms, the legs, the shoulders. Dozens of them. Too many. He thrashed violently, his screams shredding the air, but the grip was unyielding.
The door yawned wider.
And Elliot was dragged inside.
The shift was instant.
The world vanished beneath him.
And then—
He was suspended.
Hovering in darkness, arms stretched wide. Cold metal pierced his back, then his chest. Hooks. Jagged. Barbed. Anchored in flesh. The pain was instant, sharp, electric.
He screamed again, but the void swallowed the sound.
Below him stretched an endless abyss of flame and ash. A crimson chasm. The very air burned, stinging his eyes and lungs. Shadows moved through it—shapes of former humans, now twisted beyond recognition. The damned.
They wept.
They wailed.
And they watched.
He wasn't alone.
A presence moved through the gloom.
The first soul approached.
It drifted like smoke—faceless, eyeless, but somehow aware. Elliot felt its hunger before it reached him. Cold flooded his bones.
Then it opened its mouth.
Jagged teeth, wet and gleaming.
The soul lunged.
Pain exploded across Elliot's body as it bit down, tearing flesh from his side. Blood sprayed in an arc, hissing as it touched the burning air.
He screamed.
The soul chewed. Swallowed.
Then bit again.
Others followed.
They came in waves—whispering, giggling, sobbing—feeding, circling. Every bite tore something away. Not just flesh—memories, shame, guilt. His own past played out in searing flashes:
The man in the street, crumpling under the weight of Elliot's swing.
The meat in the pan, sizzling, pink, soft—human.
The taste, the pleasure, the indulgence.
His own reflection, smiling.
He couldn't escape it.
Each soul that fed wore a piece of his history. Each face a moment he'd tried to forget. A sin he'd denied. They were him.
This was his cycle.
And it wouldn't end.
When one soul was finished, another came, its hunger even greater. The torment was endless. No escape. No redemption. Just pain. Just clarity.
And through it all, the app's icon still pulsed faintly on the ground far below. Like an eye.
Watching.
Mocking.
Judging.
The worst part wasn't the pain. It was knowing he deserved it.
And now—he would feel it forever.
Elliot's body was a ruin. Broken, twisted, barely human. His skin hung in sagging folds, blistered and torn, blackened by fire and rot. His bones ached from millennia of torment; his nerves had long since frayed to threads. His hair had fallen out centuries ago. His voice, once sharp, was now only a rasp drowned beneath agony.
The suffering never stopped.
Venomous serpents coiled around his limbs, their fangs sinking deep again and again. His flesh had been flayed by winds of molten glass. Hooks had dragged him across fields of razors. He had burned, drowned, frozen, and shattered — again and again — through what felt like thousands of years of relentless punishment.
Hell had stripped him down to the core. And what remained was not rage. Not defiance.
But clarity.
A single flicker of realization pierced the darkness — fragile, yet unwavering. Somewhere in the echoing chasm of his soul, remorse bloomed. Not out of fear. Not out of desperation. But out of truth.
He knew.
He had chosen this path. Every lie, every indulgence, every violent thrill — they had led him here. To this place where time bled endlessly forward and pain never slept. He had deserved it. And now… he was sorry.
Not to escape it. Not to lessen it.
But because he finally understood.
His chest trembled. He mouthed the words he no longer had the strength to speak.
Forgive me.
And then, through the haze of torment, through the smoke and screams and flame, Marcus appeared.
Elliot's sunken eyes widened.
Marcus stood untouched — clean, unaged. Dressed sharply. Not a single scar marked his skin. His presence, in this place of rot and despair, was more jarring than any torture Elliot had endured. He smiled casually, like an old friend catching up over coffee.
"Are you really sorry?" Marcus asked, his voice calm. Almost amused.
Elliot, trembling, nodded as best he could. "Yeah," he rasped. "I am. I took the wrong path. If I had another chance… I wouldn't do it again."
Marcus chuckled darkly. Not mockingly — but knowingly. "A human can't change his nature, no matter what they say. You want what all sinners want. But deep down…" He tilted his head. "You're still the same."
The words sliced deeper than any hook or flame ever had.
Elliot's breath stuttered. He wanted to argue — but the truth burned. Marcus was right. He had always returned to the same urges, the same hungers. And yet, he wanted to believe this time was different.
"Please," Elliot begged, desperation rising in his ruined voice. "Just one chance. One real chance. I can change. I swear I can."
Marcus stared at him — unreadable, unmoved.
Then leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo across all of Hell:
"Every time I say sorry, it means I will not do it again.
Yet every time, I have to say sorry."
The words hit like thunder.
Not loud — but final. They hung in the air like smoke, heavy with truth.
Elliot closed his eyes. He understood. Even the act of apology was an admission of repetition. The pattern never broke. The nature never changed.
And yet—
Marcus straightened, his tone shifting, almost casual.
"You have one day," he said. "Prove you can change. But if you fail—I'll add another hundred to your sentence."
Elliot's response was instant. "I won't. I swear it. I won't."
Marcus nodded once. Then turned and walked away into the smoke.
And with that, the world shifted.
The fires dimmed. The torment fell silent. The weight in Elliot's chest lifted.
And then—
His eyes snapped open.
🕯️ RETURN
Elliot gasped, sitting upright at his desk. Sweat clung to his skin. His lungs burned. He was back. The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above him. The smell of coffee and printer toner filled the air.
His office.
His skin was whole. His body — unmarked. The agony had vanished. Hell was gone. He blinked in disbelief, rubbing his eyes.
Had it been a dream?
A hallucination?
The vividness of the suffering still lingered — just at the edge of memory — but it was fading fast, like smoke through fingers. The searing weight of guilt, of endless pain, was slipping away. Dissolving into unreality.
He couldn't hold on to it.
He couldn't remember why it had felt so real.
Then—a voice beside him.
"You look like you need a drink," Marcus said, placing a bottle down on the desk with a grin.
Elliot turned.
Marcus was there, unchanged. Just as he had been in Hell. Confident. Smiling.
Elliot accepted the drink.
No hesitation.
The bottle was cold, familiar. The burn of it down his throat comforting. Soothing.
He smiled.
The promise was gone.
The torment forgotten.
The chance—wasted.
Around him, the world resumed. Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Normalcy. Routine.
Then, from the desk—his phone buzzed.
One new notification.
He picked it up.
The screen glowed.
Welcome to Hell.
And the Cycle begins
A figure emerged from the dark.
Marcus. The warden. The judge. The curator of regret.
He didn't look at Elliot.
He looked at you.
He smiled.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
Just… knowingly.
"You think this is real, don't you?" he said softly, almost like a confession. "You think this is some twisted little story with a message at the end. Some cautionary tale where the sinner sees the light, begs for forgiveness, and finally climbs out of the fire."
He stepped forward slowly, his hands tucked behind his back, his voice smooth as oil.
"But here's the truth."
Pause.
"You're not watching Elliot's torment. You're watching your own."
He tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a familiar problem with no solution.
"You think this is his chance. That this time it's different. That he might finally break the cycle. Funny."
He gave a short laugh—dry, knowing.
"Every thousand years, he gets one day. One clean slate. One illusion of choice. And every single time, he fails. Why? Because even when he says he's sorry, he's still the same man who needed to say it in the first place."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. His grin stretched a little wider.
"And the best part? He doesn't remember the last time. Or the time before that. Or the hundred before that. It's always his 'first' chance."
He turned slowly, pacing through the space as if savoring the echo of his own words.
"I've watched it happen for longer than your species has understood fire. The pattern never changes. They all think they're different. Special. That they'll make the right choice this time."
He stopped again.
Looked back at you.
"You think you're different."
Now his smile dropped. Just a little. Not anger. Not pity. Something colder. Recognition.
"You, reading this—you think you're outside the game. You think you're above it. That you're not part of the test. But you are. You always have been."
His voice dropped, softer now. Closer.
"You ever feel like you're trapped in your own skin? Like no matter how many times you say 'I've changed,' the same mistakes find their way back to you?"
"Ever wonder why your victories feel like borrowed time?"
"Why you lie awake, wondering if you're actually good… or just afraid of being caught?"
Marcus took a step closer, and somehow the air around you thickened.
"You're not observing Elliot. You're sharing his fate."
"You are in your cycle, just like him."
Then came the whisper. A voice that didn't seem to come from his lips—but from somewhere inside you.
"What if this is the hell?"
"What if everyone around you is just a shadow? A test? What if the world you're clinging to is just a stage built for your judgment?"
"What if you're not real either—just a soul playing out its punishment again and again, convinced this time will be the last?"
Marcus straightened, tilting his head back with a quiet sigh, like someone who'd told the same story too many times.
"You think you have control. You think this isn't about you. But soon you'll be right back where you started."
"And when that moment comes—when the hunger returns, when the lie slips out of your mouth, when you hurt someone and convince yourself it was justified—you'll say it."
"You'll say sorry."
He paused—long enough for you to fill in the silence with your own memory of those words.
Then, finally, he spoke them:
"Every time I say sorry, it means I will not do it again.
Yet every time… I have to say sorry."
The light dimmed.
The app buzzed.
Welcome to Hell.
And you couldn't tell anymore if it was Elliot's story.
Or yours.