Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a snapped rubber band. One moment, there was the screech of tires, a flash of blinding light, and the absurdly specific regret of not clearing his browser history. Next, there was heat.
It was a suffocating, ancient heat that felt like being sealed inside the lungs of a dying star. Zac's own lungs burned, and he gasped, the air thick and gritty, tasting of ozone and something vaguely like burnt sugar. He was lying on a floor of polished obsidian that seemed to drink the crimson light that bled from cracks in the unseen ceiling.
He pushed himself up. His head throbbed with the dull, percussive rhythm of a cosmic hangover. He was in a vast, empty space, a throne room for a god of nothing and... he was not alone.
In the center of the chamber, upon a throne carved from a single, massive bone, a figure sat cloaked in shadow. Zac could only make out a silhouette, a colossal shape that defied easy categorization. It was humanoid, yes, but too broad in the shoulder, too powerful in the thigh. Two pointed shapes atop its head, too animated to be horns, twitched with faint irritation. It radiated an aura of bored, absolute authority. A low, rumbling snarl, more a vibration than a sound, rolled through the chamber, seeming to emanate from the very stone around him.
This was it. This was the part where he was supposed to scream, to bargain, to weep. The terror was a cold knot in his stomach, a frantic bird beating against his ribs.
The figure's voice wasn't sound, it was pressure inside Zac's skull, a velvet roar that resonated behind his eyes.
"Zachary Michael Torres. Dead at twenty-six. Cause… scrolling erotic stories involving… men and monsters while crossing the street. Truly pathetic."
Zac flinched, the sheer, blunt accuracy of the statement cutting through his rising panic.
The silhouette shifted, leaning forward. Two points of molten gold ignited in the darkness, eyes that had witnessed the birth and death of galaxies. "I am Ose, President of Hell, Duke of Deception. And you, Zachary, are a statistical anomaly of such profound mediocrity that you have become interesting. As such, you have been selected for a limited-time offer. An alternative to the standard eternal torment package."
The knot of fear in Zac's stomach tightened. "I feel like there's a catch."
"There is always a catch," the voice purred, dripping with amusement. "But it is a rather exciting one. You see, the great war is… eternal. An endless, glorious meat grinder between our legions and the glittering bores of the celestial plane. We are always in need of new avatars, fresh perspectives."
Zac hesitated, his mind racing. This was a deal. A deal with a literal devil. He had to be smart. "And what would I have to do? What kind of avatar?"
"An agent of chaos. A whisper of doubt in the halls of the holy. You will be sent to a distant world, a key battlefront. There, you will join one of my most effective, if somewhat… eccentric, warbands. You will help them tear down a kingdom so righteous it makes angels vomit glitter."
A scroll of living flame unrolled in the air, its light illuminating the chamber, casting Ose's shadow long and monstrous yet keeping the demon's appearance just out of the ring of light. It was covered in runes that writhed and pulsed with malevolent energy. "Succeed, and you earn your ascension. A pass. A chance to climb out of this pit. Fail… and I get creative."
Zac stared at the contract, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was his one shot. A lottery ticket when the only other option was the woodchipper. But he had to be careful. He took a hesitant step closer, trying to focus on the arcane text. The runes swam before his eyes, shifting, their meaning just beyond his grasp. He squinted, leaning in, tracing the first line with a trembling finger…
And that's when Ose decided to stand up.
He moved out of the throne's deep shadow and into the full, fiery light of the scroll, and Zac's train of thought didn't just derail; it flew off a cliff and exploded in a fireball of pure, distilled horniness.
The President of Hell was a magnificent, fifteen-foot-tall anthro leopard. He was also gloriously, unashamedly naked. Every inch of spotted golden fur gleamed with sweat, muscles shifting like living steel under velvet. His mane was a river of black fire, and his… presentation was both a statement of power and a flagrant disregard for workplace decorum.
Zac's brain blue-screened. The intricate, world-altering runes on the contract blurred, the letters rearranging themselves into obscene, illustrated dick jokes. All thoughts of caution, of fine print and legal loopholes, evaporated in a cloud of steam.
Ose saw the exact moment Zac's focus shattered. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "I should also mention," he purred, his voice a low, seductive rumble, "that the warband is composed of some of my finest. Powerful specimens. They have a certain… ferocious aesthetic, like me. I have a feeling you will find their company quite… stimulating."
That was it. That was the final nail in the coffin of Zac's good judgment. The only other option was Hell, and this was a chance, a slim, insane, probably-a-trick chance, to spend his afterlife surrounded by the very subject of the smut that had gotten him killed in the first place.
"Where do I sign?" Zac asked, his voice a strangled squeak.
Ose's grin could have lit Las Vegas. He tapped a single, wickedly sharp claw at the bottom of the scroll. Zac, his eyes still glued to the masterpiece of demonic anatomy before him, stumbled forward and pressed his thumb to the searing heat.
Pain, power, and the scent of brimstone. The world began to dissolve into white light. As reality unspooled around him, Ose's voice echoed one last time in his mind, not as a roar, but as a whisper.
"A gift, to help you on your way, little liar. Your words will now carry the weight of truth. And your heart… your heart will never betray you with a fearful beat."
Two distinct sensations shot through him in the final moment. One was liquid silver, coating his tongue and settling in his throat. The other was a shard of absolute ice, plunging into his chest and caging the frantic bird of his fear.
Then the world flashed white. The deal was done. He'd bought his lottery ticket. Now he just had to survive long enough to see if he'd won.