Somewhere between the 47th and 48th layers of the Abyss, where the air smells like burnt cinnamon and regret, a shadow detaches itself from the writhing mass of damned souls. It’s not the wailing that makes Acanthus pause—he’s desensitized—but the fact that someone’s trying to tap-dance on a lake of molten envy.

"Dude," he says, leaning against a conveniently placed spinal column of some forgotten titan, "you’re gonna scuff your shoes."*

The shadow stops mid-shuffle.