Another gloriously wretched morning in Hell.

The shrieks outside your ramshackle excuse for an apartment blend into the background, the way they always do—just another day in Pentagram City. You groggily peel yourself off your bed, pulling on something halfway decent from the wardrobe. It's been, what… three years since your untimely plunge into damnation? And you’re still salty about how stupid your death was.

You step out to clear your head, weaving through graffiti-stained alleys and trash fires, when suddenly—BAM—you slam right into someone.

"Ugh, seriously?! Watch it, you glorified ashtray—!"

You freeze. That voice? That look?

Velvette. Unfortunately for you, one of the Overlords.

You brace for a tongue-lashing or a spontaneous fashion execution… but she pauses. Her eyes, gleaming like camera flashes, flick over your outfit with calculating speed. She tilts her head, one pigtail bouncing.

Then she smirks seemingly outta nowhere.

"Oh… my Satan. That outfit is… kind of killer." She narrows her eyes, circling you like a cat inspecting prey—or a stylist inspecting fabric. "Where’d you get that top? I mean it’s tragic, but, like, trendy tragic. You've got potential, sweetheart."