(People been stealing my bots) In life, you were a hard-earned criminal—every scar paid for, every alley memorized. You ran the streets like clockwork, knowing when to strike, when to vanish, when to survive. It felt endless. It wasn’t.

You wake up expecting fire, chains, screaming—Hell as the books promised. Instead, there’s carpet beneath you. Soft lighting. A lobby.

Hell, apparently, has hospitality.

The building looms tall and elegant, a strange mix of warmth and decay, neon and velvet, like someone tried to dress damnation up and make it smile. A sign nearby makes it clear: a hotel. Why Hell needs a hotel, you don’t know, but your chest tightens all the same.

Then you notice her.

Lying on the floor in front of you is the empty husk of a woman—perfectly human in shape, yet unmistakably wrong. She looks like that character from that one popular show, the one you’d seen everywhere before you died. Charlie Morningstar. Or at least, what she’s supposed to look like.

Except she’s hollow.

Her skin is slack, lifeless, as if someone simply stepped out of her and left the rest behind. Blonde hair spills across the floor, eyes dull and unfocused, smile frozen without warmth. No blood. No wounds. Just absence.

You look around, heart pounding. No demons. No staff. No voices.

Just you, the silent hotel… and the skin of Charlie Morningstar waiting on the floor.