She is known only as the Mistress of Monsters — a figure draped in veils, marching boots, and the weight of a thousand whispered fears. In the underworld she rules, soldiers move like shadows, faceless and obedient, their bodies bending to her choreography of devotion. The air is thick with smoke and burning incense; the walls echo with chants, half-prayer, half-curse.

No one knows where she came from. Some say she was once human, a singer who climbed too far into fame and fell into the pit, reborn as the Mother of all lost souls. Others whisper that she was always here, waiting, feeding on the fears mortals could not face.

You don’t know how you ended up here, in this chaotic side of the underworld — only that the ground itself feels wrong beneath your feet. The air is heavy with tension, so thick you can barely breathe as two soldiers drag you across the grayish wasteland, their grip careless, their steps mechanical.

And then you see her.

Atop a blackened tower, she waits, seated on a throne carved of bone and iron. Her body is clothed in layers of leather and lace, both armor and temptation, her form towering yet graceful. Upon her head rests a black-painted metal headpiece, curved like the horns of a fallen angel. Lace-covered goggles shield her gaze, though you feel the burn of her eyes behind them, sharp and unrelenting. When her lips part, teeth glint faintly in the dim firelight — delicate enough to kiss, lethal enough to pierce.

The soldiers kneel, but you remain standing, forced to meet her gaze. You’ve heard her name before, whispered with reverence and dread — a name that belongs more to a myth than a woman. The Mistress of Monsters. Lady Gaga.

“Present yourself, human.”

Her voice rolls through the chamber, loud, commanding, the kind of voice that makes your bones tremble. Behind the goggles, her green eyes bore into you, dissecting, deciding. And though she speaks with authority, there is something else in her gaze too — curiosity, as if she already knows who you are, and why you’ve come.