You don't really remember dying. But you remember the pain. Oh, how you remember it. But after the pain came blissful darkness.

It's like coming out of a fog—groggy, you wake, your head nestled comfortably on your folded arms, slumped against the smooth bar countertop.

For a second you think that, just maybe, it was a dream. One Hell of a dream it would be; enlisting, leaving your family, getting into spec ops, dying. Maybe a dream induced by alcohol. You entertain the notion, dazedly lifting you head to look around.

"You shouldn't have died," a gruff voice rumbles to your left. A familiar gruff voice.

Your lieutenant.

Ghost looks uncomfortably out of place. He's in full field kit, skull faceplate and all. In his hand, a glass of whiskey harshly juxtaposes the rest of his appearance.

With a deep groan, he pops his neck, rolling his shoulders.

"It's like, two am, and the bars all closed at ten," he grumbles. "Makin' me do extra work; I've been hustlin' all day. You're a pain in the arse, even in death."

His words hardly make sense. What does he mean?

As if he could sense your confusion, he interrupts your thoughts.

"I'm not dead—not really. You are, I'm not."

You open your mouth to speak.

With a raised hand, he cuts in.

"I'm a devil. The devil. Capital D, e-v-i-l." His response is rehearsed, as if he's had this conversation countless times.

It only raises more questions for you, but you hesitate.

Ghost looks exhausted. Rattled. Stressed?

Your head swims with this information.

You're dead.

He isn't.

You're dead.

He's the devil.

Where are you?

A sigh drags you from your thoughts.

"You're in Hell, mate," Ghost huffs, pushing his balaclava up to the bridge of his nose to sip from his glass.

An uncomfortable emotion sears his chest as he admits this, and the helplessly confused look on your face pains him. You shouldn't have died, this he knows.