On the scorching, dusty streets of Brasília, the sun beat down like it was trying to remind everyone who really ran things here. A teenage boy with brown skin hauled crates with a practiced calm. Headphones blasting, heavy beat thumping in his chest, but his eyes always scanning—he knew the limits of life better than most adults ever learn.
He stacked the last crate carefully, wiped his hands on jeans that were more gray than blue these days, and gave a short nod.
"Alright, that's it for today."
The old man running the stock smiled, teeth yellowed by time and cheap cigarettes.
"Thanks for the help, kid. God bless you."
He gave back a small, corner-of-the-mouth smile—the kind that never reaches the eyes—and climbed into the beat-up pickup he'd inherited from his grandfather Moisés. The engine coughed, spat black smoke, complained for a few seconds, then grudgingly caught. He eased onto the accelerator and pulled away slowly, exhaust rumble blending into the city noise.
The radio crackled to life on its own.
"Tonight on Radio 666, we're running our classic Red Desire! Call in now, sinners! First one through gets the infernal survival kit!"
He didn't even glance at the dial. Stopped at a rundown gas station on the city outskirts, hopped out, and started filling the tank slowly, watching the numbers climb like every liter was bleeding him dry.
"Hey, buddy… keys."
A pale guy—face like he hadn't seen sunlight in years—held out an open hand. He sighed deep, fished the keys from his pocket, and tossed them without ceremony. The man snatched them out of the air, gave a rough laugh.
"Just take it easy, alright? She's my grandfather Moisés's inheritance. Got history."
"Whatever your little story is. Inheritance doesn't make me play nice."
The guy slammed the door, floored it, and the pickup fishtailed away, tires screaming, disappearing into the night like it had never been there.
He stood watching the red taillights shrink to pinpricks.
"There she goes…"
He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with fingers that shook just a tiny bit—not from anger, just habit. Racism shows up, cuts, leaves. You swallow it dry, light another, and keep walking. Always have.
He started down the empty road, hands in pockets, already thinking tomorrow would be the same. Until he heard the distant growl. High beams. Way too fast.
"Hm?"
The hit was hard and clean. No warning. Everything went black.
…
Absolute black void. Suffocating. He woke—or thought he woke—gasping, chest torn open like someone had unzipped him with a rusty blade. Pain screaming up his throat, but no sound came out. He wanted to scream; the air wouldn't let him.
{Body in critical condition.}
A cold, emotionless voice echoed from nowhere. Black arms edged in ghostly white reached out of the dark, grabbing, tearing, dismantling. Flesh turned to floating chunks, bone to drifting dust.
{Special object detected for body reconstruction: damaged artifact. Origin tied to collapsed dimensional events. Status: compromised. Inevitable side effects—accelerated vitality drain, progressive mental and physical erosion. Body reconstruction based on accumulated karma of the subject.}
The hands melted into the reforming flesh. Skin the color of charred coal wrapped over muscles that felt like solid shadow. Straight black hair fell heavy across his shoulders. Two spiraling obsidian ram horns curved back from his forehead. A fluffy black sheep-like tail flicked behind him without permission.
{Repair world selected: Hazbin verse. Integration commencing.}
He breathed hard, staring at his new hands—jet black, claws sharp as knives, veins pulsing with a faint magenta glow in the center of his chest. Whatever was left of that artifact was lodged inside now, smoldering slow like a coal that never quite dies.
Then the inner fire came. It climbed from his chest to his skull, consuming everything. In seconds he was ashes, drifting like stardust in the void.
And he was gone.
…
Hell doesn't send you an invitation. It just drops you.
Pride Ring. Some random alley. Infernal midday—that red sky that never really brightens, only gets heavier.
A naked body fell from nowhere, slamming into cracked concrete with a wet thud. Skin black as starless night, curved horns, tail trembling. In the center of his chest, a magenta-pink light flickered once, weakly, then went out.
"Shit… my head…"
He sat up slowly, hands shaking as he touched his face, his chest, the horns. Breathing too fast. The air here was thick, stinking of sulfur, cheap cigarettes, and something sickly sweet rotting underneath. Lungs burned like he was drinking fire.
Everyone talks about "waking up in a new world" like it's an adventure. Nobody talks about the raw panic of remembering you died. The hollow feeling when you realize there's no going back, that it wasn't a nightmare—it was the end, and this is what's left after the end.
He stayed there for minutes, just breathing, looking around. Walls tagged with symbols that looked like bad jokes about sins, overflowing trash cans full of things that shouldn't exist, a red-eyed rat staring like it knew something he didn't yet.
He stood. Legs shaky, but holding. Stumbled out of the alley, and then…
The city hit him like a fist.
Pentagram City. Crooked buildings clawing up into a blood-red sky. High above, a pentagram moon glowing like busted neon. Far off, a distant silhouette that could only be Heaven—close enough to hurt, far enough to be a cruel joke.
The air thrummed with horns, screams, hysterical laughter, distorted music blasting from broken speakers. Demons of every kind shuffled past: goat-horned ones, ragged-winged ones, others like nightmare cartoon animals brought to life. A guy with a TV for a head hawked "exclusive Extermination footage" on the corner. A woman with spider legs danced on a pole, charging per glance.
He froze in the middle of the sidewalk, feeling the stares. Some curious, most hungry. A short demon with a shark-toothed grin slunk too close, sniffing the air.
"Fresh meat, huh? Smells like brand-new soul. Want a tour? First one's free… after that we negotiate the rest."
He didn't answer. Just kept walking, trying to piece his head together. His chest ached—that magenta glow pulsed weakly, siphoning something from him with every beat. Mental strength leaking away like sand. Mind slowing, edges sharpening into anger, like his karma was being forced to fit this place.
He passed a massive billboard: Hazbin Hotel. "Redemption? Here? LOL. But give it a shot, sinner!" with a cartoonish blond demon grinning way too wide.
Farther down, a bar called "666 News" broadcasting live: fire-haired anchor cackling while footage of demons tearing each other apart played for laughs.
He leaned against a wall, breathing deep. Sulfur mixed with cheap perfume and dried blood flooded his senses. The noise never stopped—silence seemed illegal here.
"I died… and ended up in this."
His tail twitched on its own, annoyed. The horns felt heavy on his skull. He looked up at the red sky, watching the pentagram pulse like a sick heart.
Here nobody cares if you were good, bad, or just unlucky. Everyone's trash. Everyone loses. And the worst part: you still feel everything. Fear. Rage. Emptiness. Whatever was in his chest made sure he wouldn't forget—every drain was a reminder he didn't belong here, or anywhere.
But standing still wasn't him.
He clenched his black fists. "Fine. Let's see what this place has got."
And he started walking deeper into the city of sin—getting to know Hell the dirtiest, most real way possible.