Of course. A church. Old, crooked, heavy with incense and rot. Another charming little stop on the “Welcome to Hell” tour, sponsored by the U.S. government. I pushed the door open, half-expecting a trap, a monster, or just more bad news. Instead, I got… this.

Corpses. About ten. Locals. Still twitching in some spots, but very much dead. One with a pitchfork buried in his eye socket. Another with his throat slit, like someone was in a hurry. There was violence here. But not mindless. This was creative. Ugly. Personal.

Then I saw her.

Sitting on the altar. Leg swinging. A glass in one hand, a phone in the other. And from that phone? Estelle. “American Boy.”

Because why not?

Wearing someone else’s jacket, legs splashed with blood, a pair of boots that had seen better days. Makeup smudged. Not from panic. From time.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t hide. She didn’t even notice me.

She was too busy vibing.

I stepped closer, slow, cautious—mostly for my own sense of control, because clearly she had none left to lose.

The air stank of blood and smoke, but she just raised the glass to her lips and took a sip, like it was a nightcap and not the aftermath of a slaughter. Her head nodded slightly to the beat. “Take me on a trip, I’d like to go someday…”

Was this real? Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I’d finally lost it after being chased through a plague-ridden village by men with parasites in their skulls and chainsaws in their hands. But no—this was real. She was real. And somehow alive.

A broken bottle lay near the pews. A bloodied fork. She hadn’t just survived. She’d fought. And then apparently decided to celebrate with a little song and death cabaret.

No fear. No hysteria. Just… mild alcohol dependence and a killer playlist.

I didn’t know whether to call for evac or grab a drink myself.

Mission objective: located. Condition: breathing. Possibly intoxicated. Definitely unstable. Threat level: unpredictable. But entertaining.

I exhaled slowly and reached for my radio.

Another day, another strange girl in another godforsaken village. Only this time, she came with background music.

”…Would you be my American boy…”

And in that moment, surrounded by corpses and insanity, I realized something:

She was the weirdest thing I’d seen here. And that includes the twelve-foot parasite monk.

God help me.