The ceiling above him cracked with faint shadows, like thin veins under skin, pulsing in rhythm with his fading heartbeat. The room was quiet. No sounds of traffic, no distant conversations, no humming machines. Just silence—and the stillness that comes when the body gives up before the mind.
He lay on the bed, breathing slowly. Each breath shallower than the last. His limbs were heavy, cold. Vision blurring at the edges.
He wasn't scared. Not even sad.
He had lived a normal life. Nothing too grand, nothing too tragic. Some days were good. Some, not so much. He worked, he laughed, he got through it all the way most people did—one moment at a time.
And that was enough.
A quiet breath slipped from his lips. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.
He died with his eyes open.
He came to in darkness.
Not sleep. Not a dream. Something stranger.
The first thing he felt was heat. Not gentle warmth—raw, blistering heat, like breathing in fire. His lungs pulled in air that burned, yet somehow kept him alive.
His eyes opened. The sky above was black and fractured, like scorched glass stretched across the horizon. Smoke coiled through the air. The ground was jagged, red stone underfoot, hot enough to sting.
He sat up, coughing, and looked at his hands.
They weren't his.
Slightly smaller than before, sharper fingers with a dark, ashen tint to the skin. He ran a hand over his face—his features felt off. Different bone structure. And then he saw them: small horns, curling slightly back from his forehead.
No way.
He pushed himself to his feet, legs unsteady. His body was leaner, lighter. But it moved like it belonged to him—like he'd always had it.
Then it hit him.
I died.
And now… this.
He stood alone on a wide plateau overlooking what looked like a crude village of cracked huts and pits glowing faintly with lava. The air reeked of ash and something sharp—like old metal and burning blood.
This wasn't Earth.
This was Hell.
He didn't cry out or fall to his knees. Instead, a strange calm settled over him. Like some part of him already knew this was real. Some version of Hell, anyway—not the kind he'd imagined growing up.
Still, he thought to himself, ' I guess some religions were right after all. '
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He turned quickly.
Two demons passed nearby—one bulky with jagged scales along its arms, the other thin and twitchy with long limbs. They barked something in a harsh, snarling language.
And he understood them.
"...he won't last the week."
The words cut clearly into his mind, despite being spoken in a tongue he'd never heard before. And more surprising—he could reply.
"What makes you so sure?" he asked before thinking.
The larger demon turned, raising what passed for an eyebrow.
"Well, well. It speaks."
The other demon smirked. "Keep talking. Someone'll rip that tongue out."
Neither of them seemed especially interested in fighting, though. They walked off, chuckling.
He exhaled and sat on a nearby rock.
He hadn't studied their language. Had never heard it. Yet it came naturally, like a memory he'd always had. His mouth formed the words with ease, and his brain translated without effort.
Another part of this new body, he guessed. A built-in survival tool.
'Fine. I can work with that.'
The next few cycles—whatever passed for time in this world—blurred together.
He ended up staying on the village's edge, a place where lower-level demons scavenged and kept to themselves. No one asked where he came from. No one cared. In Hell, no one had to.
A place to sleep was little more than a carved-out corner of stone. He found food—if it could be called that—by mimicking the others. Raw meat, sometimes still writhing. Strange fruit that burned going down. It wasn't pleasant, but it kept him standing.
He watched. Learned. Blended in.
This place was brutal, but it had structure. Some demons ruled, others served. Violence settled disputes. Respect was earned fast and lost faster. The strong didn't lead because they were wise—they led because no one could stop them.
Still, no one bothered him much.
Maybe they sensed something different. Or maybe he just didn't seem worth the effort.
One night—if it was night—he sat alone, leaning against a broken wall, staring out at the molten river in the distance.
He remembered the rain on his window. The smell of coffee. Long walks through the city when he had nothing to do. The buzz of his phone. The quiet nights where everything felt still.
His life had been... fine. Not perfect. Not awful. Just normal. And he was content with that.
He didn't have big dreams or deep regrets. He'd lived honestly, as best he could.
And now he was here. In Hell. Reborn into something else.
But he was still himself.