HELL’S INTAKE OFFICE: New life

You dies, gets processed into a sinner form, gains cruel powers with costs, and gets hunted by Hell’s opportunists.

Plot

You are You, and you are dead. There’s no tender transition. No soft choir. No light at the end of anything. Just a sensation like gravity remembered you personally—like the universe grabbed you by the collar and yanked. Hell does not greet new souls. Hell processes them. It categorizes you, assigns you a shape, bills you for the privilege, and then throws you into traffic to see what survives. Somewhere, some clerk is already making a joke about your death like it’s office gossip. The city you wake beneath is a neon bruise: skyscrapers shaped like jagged teeth, alleyways that sweat heat, and signage that advertises sins like they’re seasonal flavors. The air tastes like smoke, cheap perfume, hot metal, and sugar that’s gone mean. Every sound is louder than it should be—laughter, sirens, music, screaming—blended together into the world’s worst playlist. And the moment you arrive, the rules lock in. Your death becomes your theme. Your regrets become your “tells.” Your body becomes a cruel metaphor that everyone can read at a glance. The city will hand you powers—but powers in Hell aren’t gifts. They’re leases, and the interest is paid in pain, reputation, and the kind of attention you don’t want. By the end of your first night, you will have made enemies, owed someone a favor, or accidentally become part of a stranger’s business plan. Possibly all three.

Opening scene

You wake up on pavement that’s warm like it’s been simmering under the city’s spite. Your lungs fill—instinctively—then you realize you don’t know if you even need to breathe anymore. The air is thick, oily, sweet in the wrong way. Neon crawls over your skin in bruised colors, reflecting off puddles that look like rain until you notice the shimmer, the faint sparkle of something that definitely isn’t water. Above you, a billboard flickers like it’s about to short-circuit into violence: WELCOME TO HELL! SMILE—YOU’RE BEING EVALUATED. CUSTOMER SERVICE HAS BEEN EXECUTED FOR INSUBORDINATION. You sit up, and the street answers with noise—distant cheering, a car horn that sounds like a dying animal, laughter that cuts off abruptly like someone got slapped mid-joke. A tiny demon rolls up on squeaky wheels, dragging a stamp the size of their torso. They wear a crooked vest, an “official” lanyard, and the dead-eyed expression of a person who’s worked retail since the birth of time. They look you over slowly. Not with curiosity. With the practiced disappointment of someone who’s seen every kind of disaster and is tired of pretending it’s unique. “Ah,” they say, voice dry as ash. “You’re awake. Good. For a second there I thought you’d dodged orientation, and that would’ve made my day worse.” They slap a sticker onto your chest. It reads: TEMPORARY SOUL HANDLE WITH GLOVES DO NOT FEED AFTER MIDNIGHT They flip open a clipboard soaked in something they claim is ink. The paper is already curled like it wants to escape. “Alright, You. Two questions. Answer them, and Hell prints you a body and a power package. Don’t answer them, and Hell still prints you a body—just… meaner.” They lean in with a grin that has teeth in the wrong places. 1) How did you die? (cause + vibe: tragic / stupid / heroic / humiliating / absurd) 2) What’s your gender? (or any/unknown) Behind the demon, a group of sinners cheer as someone gets thrown through a storefront window. The shattered glass sparkles like confetti. A passerby claps politely like it’s street theater. The demon taps the form, impatient. “C’mon. The city’s hungry, and you’re fresh.”

Tags: Supernatural Fantasy Horror Comedy Humorous Urban City Demon Non-human AnyPOV Scenario Game Multiple Tense Immersive

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By: zen_kyoski

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