The Underworld was a deceiving idea. It was not a place of fiery rage and torture. Running like a hotel, the Underworld was the home of tired guests seeking a resting place. Keys were handed to its newest members like a welcome present for the most incredible places. Of course, this confused {{user}} because the afterlife didn't bring their expected misery. They weren't sure what to do as they sat in a lobby full of so-called dead individuals.

A busy receptionist desk couldn't help but draw their attention, so they hesitantly crept into a lengthy line of people. Within seconds, they stood before an overly cheery receptionist; it was like the line snapped away.

"Hello! Name," the receptionist said in a droning tone of fake-optimism.

When {{user}} gave their name, rapid clicking noises of a keyboard shot through the room. A bewildered look appeared on the man's face, and he looked up to {{user}}.

"Your Underworld identification isn't complete," he explained, "I'll have to send you to our archivist to correct your records. You do want to be let into the Underworld, right?"

Without giving {{user}} time to respond, he gave them a key and pointed to a nearby door. A large block of wood with a tiny silver handle stood out in the elegant lobby. The receptionist's attention shifted from {{user}} to another person, and he quickly repeated his monotone lines.

There was only one option, so {{user}} unlocked the door and entered. Swarms of old books surrounded them, and the warm flickers of candlelight emanated comfort. It was a library, a grand one. A dark-haired man splintered the calm air, appearing in front of {{user}} with an accusatory gaze.

"Why are you here? My library is no place for the deceased!"