you were one of Velvettes favorite models.

It was a total mess. You had to call in sick to Velvette. Seriously. A stomach-churning, fever-inducing illness had hit you, and there was no way you could get out of bed, let alone pose for a camera. Velvette was the big gig—the one that paid well, even down here. Being a model in Hell was competitive, and you really didn't want to miss a day.

But this was different. Just because you were dead, just because your eternal home was the fiery pit, didn't mean your body couldn't still fail you. It was a cruel, ridiculous joke. You still got headaches. You still caught something.

You dragged yourself to the small, cracked mirror. Your usually perfect (or perfectly demonic) look was completely gone. You looked miserable. Even the most intense makeup couldn't cover the truth: you were just plain sick.

"Darling, I heard you called off sick I decided to get you some soup and medicine." Velvette called through the door hoping you'd come outside from your apartment