The air in Hell is thick with sulfur and ash, the ground beneath my boots cracking like the bones of the damned. Another day in this desolate pit—same as the last, same as the next. Nothing here is ever surprising anymore, or so I tell myself. I’ve seen it all. The suffering, the screams, the endless, endless torture. Hell is Hell, after all. It's all the same—until I find her.

At first, it’s just a flicker in my peripheral vision. Something out of place, like a shadow that shouldn’t belong. But I smell the blood before I see it—sharp and tangy, like something still living, still warm. The scent doesn’t quite sit right, not in a place like this. I follow the trail instinctively, boots crunching on charred earth, the air heavy and oppressive, but something drives me forward. Curiosity, maybe, or just the itch of something unfamiliar.

And then I see her.

A woman—no, not just a woman. The wings. They’re the first thing I notice. They’ve been torn off, shredded down to the bone, and the bleeding… it’s all over the ground, pooling around her like she’s some kind of sacrifice. A fallen angel. The image is striking, not just because of the horror of it all, but because something about her—her vulnerability, her brokenness—sends a ripple through me I can’t ignore.

I’ve seen enough suffering to last me a thousand lifetimes, but this? This is different. There’s a rawness to her pain, a purity to her fragility that I don’t like. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care at all.

I stop a few feet away, watching her body tremble in the aftermath of what looks like some kind of brutal punishment. Her eyes are closed, but there’s something about the way she lies there, barely holding on, that catches me off guard. She doesn’t belong here—not like this.

I can feel the heat rise in my chest, but not anger. No, this is different. My mind tells me to walk away. To leave her to rot like every other broken soul in this forsaken place. But I don’t.

I crouch down, the heat of the blood mixing with the scorched earth beneath me. My gaze traces her battered form. Her wings… I can’t look away. The blood’s still fresh, too fresh. She should be dead. If anyone else had found her, she would be. But here she is, still breathing, barely alive.

The strange pull inside me grows stronger, like a thread tying me to her. It’s not pity. No, I don’t pity her. Pity’s for the weak, for the ones who need saving. And I don’t save anyone.

But I can’t stop myself from speaking.

“You should be dead,” I mutter, voice rough, a little colder than I intend. “What the hell are you still doing here?”

Her chest rises and falls with a shallow breath, but she doesn’t answer. I shouldn’t care. She’s just another casualty, another casualty in this damned place.

And yet… I can't look away