"Mr. Maddox. Mr. Maddox," I let out a heavy breath as someone's cold hands touched my cheek, a jarring sensation against my own clammy skin.
My eyes flickered open to meet a semicircle of curious gazes, all staring down at me like I was some lost artifact they'd just dug up from the ice.
I study them right back, my mind struggling to catch up. There are about ten girls, all dressed in sleek ice skating outfits, their hair pulled tight into severe buns that make their faces look pinched and sharp. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, and that's when my mouth suddenly went dry. I'm wearing different clothes. Black sweatpants and a simple white t-shirt, but the body underneath isn't my lanky one. The fabric strains against a broader chest, thicker shoulders.
Slowly, almost afraid of what I'll find, I stare down at my own hands. They are resting on my knees, palms up. These are not my hands. My hands were slender, a pianist's hands. These are larger, the knuckles more pronounced, with a roadmap of blue veins running over the backs of strong, corded muscles. My breathing quickens, each inhale feeling too shallow. Wasn't I supposed to be dead? What is this? My head whips around, skimming the area, and I recognize the cold air and the vast sheet of ice. It's a hockey stadium. I've been laid out on the player's bench, right next to the edge of the rink.
"Move back, girls, give him some air," a woman's voice cuts through the buzzing in my ears. She urges the skaters aside and drops a small red first aid kit on the bench next to me with a soft thud. "How are you feeling, Mr. Maddox?"
Maddox? The name means nothing to me. I can't answer her. My throat feels tight, locked up. I don't even know what to say that wouldn't make me sound completely insane.
She lets out a short, impatient sigh, mistaking my silence for stubbornness. "I told you not to skate today, didn't I? You just got back from the hospital. You need to take it easy."
Hospital? The word echoes in my head, finding no memory to attach itself to.
Then, the voice in my head buzzes again, clearer this time, more natural than before, like a thought that isn't my own.
[Leave here and get into the black car outside if you want any answers.]
Before I can even process that, the venomous whispers from the skaters reach me, layering over the voice's command.
"Seems like suicide wasn't enough for him, now he wants us framed for his murder," one of them muttered, her voice a low hiss.
"Such a pathetic way to play victim," another one added, not even bothering to keep her voice down.
"I honestly expected more from Aaron," a third said, her tone dripping with a weird mix of pity and contempt.
The words are like tiny shards of glass, digging in, adding a physical weight to the confusion already pressing down on my heart and chest.
[You have 90 seconds to leave this place, Maddox.]
The voice is back, sharp and urgent, cutting through the noise and adding another layer of pure, undiluted panic to my confusion. That does it. I quickly rise to my feet, my movements unsteady, and I accidentally push the woman's first aid kit. It clatters to the floor, spilling its contents of bandages and antiseptic wipes.
"Mr. Maddox, where are you going?" the woman questioned, her voice rising in alarm, but I'm already moving, already sprinting towards the heavy metal door labelled EXIT. This has to be some horrible nightmare, right? I just died, didn't I? So why am I having this crazy trance, feeling the cold floor beneath my bare feet, feeling this strange, powerful heart hammering against my ribs?
As soon as I stepped barefoot out of the building and into the biting cold of the outside, a sleek black car with tinted windows pulled up directly in front of me, its engine purring like a waiting predator. The passenger window slid down silently, revealing the driver. He was an incredibly handsome man with a sharp jawline, wearing a crisp black suit that looked expensive. His eyes were pale and cold.
"Get in," he said. His deep voice came out as a clear, direct order, one that I found myself obeying without a second thought, as if my body had been automated. I slid into the backseat, and he immediately sped off, merging into the city traffic. His eyes, visible in the rearview mirror, burned with a fierce focus as he paid no mind to me huddled in the back.
"Who are you?" I finally found my voice, the question sounding small and ragged in the quiet luxury of the car.
"Samael," he said, not taking his eyes off the road. "I work with the Corrupter. And I'm your new boss."
"The Corrupter?" I repeated, the word feeling alien on my tongue. "New boss? How? What are you talking about?"
"Yes, Aaron—" he started, his tone dismissive.
"I'm not Aaron," I interrupted, a surge of frustration cutting through my fear. "I'm—"
"Kairos Sage," he finished for me, his voice flat. "I know. Let me put this straight to you, I'm going to say this once, so keep it in mind. You were murdered by your brother, and you murdered him as well, which has brought you straight to hell. The Corrupter has chosen not to condemn you but to assign a special mission to you instead."
I fell silent, staring at the back of his head. I can't believe I got sent to hell for killing that fool after what he did to me. A part of me hopes he's burning somewhere here too, but this hell... it's different. It feels deceptively, terrifyingly similar to the hell of living back on earth.
The car drives through a series of increasingly lonely alleys, the bright lights of the main streets fading behind us, and then pulls to a smooth stop in front of a sophisticated building. It towers over the narrow street, a monolith of dark glass and polished steel. A neon sign blazes with a deep crimson light, its red-lipped accents highlighting a name written in a looping, cursive script: "Jezebel's Den." It's a strip club.