"May I sit?" Damien asked evenly, his tone measured and devoid of unnecessary warmth.
The fat man, lounging on the scorched orange dirt with his elbows propped lazily behind him, let out a hearty chuckle and gestured widely with one meaty hand.
"Yes, yes, you can," he said in a low, rumbling voice.
Up close, Damien pegged him as middle-aged—maybe forty. Sweat glistened along the folds of his neck, and the skin beneath his eyes sagged with the weight of years and regrets. Despite the man's inviting demeanor, Damien's heart pounded behind a mask of calm.
'I have to tread carefully. One misstep and the system will shred me from the inside out.'
Every word had to be chosen with surgical precision—every inflection, every pause, every glance. A misjudged tone or too friendly a smile could be read as deception, which meant death.
The man opened his mouth, but Damien cut in first. He couldn't risk a question he'd be forced to answer honestly.
"It's crazy, isn't it?" he said quickly, letting his voice carry just enough curiosity to sound casual.
The man blinked. "What's crazy?"
Damien tilted his head, hair falling slightly over one eye. "That we're here. In Hell. About to fight our way through monsters and fire for a shot at rebirth. It's like something out of an anime."
The man burst into laughter—loud, guttural, and far too noticeable. Damien instinctively glanced around, wary of the attention. If anything went sideways, he didn't want to be seen with this man. But there was no stopping the fat bastard's laugh. It was the kind that rolled over itself, too used to bellyaching over simple things.
"I suppose it is crazy," the man finally wheezed. "But you know, I never really thought about it that way."
That piqued Damien's interest.
"Why?"
The man patted his belly and shrugged. "Because I've had my fill of chasing things. Don't care to bite off more damnation than I can chew."
Damien blinked, briefly thrown off.
'What?'
The trials were the only way out. Who in their right mind would pass on that chance?
"You care to elaborate?" Damien asked, carefully masking his disbelief.
The man rubbed his beard and sighed. "You sure? It's a long tale."
"We've got time," Damien replied.
And so the man began.
His story was long, deeply sad, and soaked in cruel irony. He told of clawing his way to the top of a company, driven by a hunger for power that had begun with love—love for a wife who once dreamed of escaping poverty, of waking up in a home with hot meals and soft beds. A woman who asked little and dreamed big. He had foolishly promised her the world.
They married. They had a son. But the house they could afford was never quite enough, and their child was born sick—wheelchair-bound, bullied, depressed. The wife's eyes lost their light. The boy grew quieter by the day.
So the man worked harder. Overtime. Side gigs. Projects no one else wanted. And eventually, his efforts caught the eye of his CEO. Promotion followed. And when that CEO died, the fat man inherited it all.
Power. Wealth. Status. At last, he gave his wife the mansion she'd always wanted. His son's parties were the envy of the local high school. For a brief time, he thought he'd won.
But his wife, now alone in the vast house, with a husband who never came home, slipped into isolation. His son's new friends—attracted more to status than sincerity—faded once the novelty wore off.
One night, he came home to silence.
They were both dead—a joint suicide.
He'd built an empire for them—and returned to find it empty.
Broken, he dove deeper into the only thing he had left: power. Gluttonous, insatiable power. Deals grew darker. Ethics vanished. He ruined lives without blinking.
And one day, he was gunned down in the street by the son of one of his victims. Shot. Left to bleed on the pavement.
"I knew, in that final moment," the man said quietly, "that I deserved this place."
Damien sat silently, absorbing every word—and not because he sympathized.
No, he was confused.
He understood murder, lies, betrayal, and manipulation. But none of those things, to him, were reason enough to give up. Why would someone abandon the fight? Why wallow in guilt when power was still attainable?
Damien relished cruelty. It gave him control. The idea of turning away from it was as foreign to him as morality itself.
He lowered his gaze, hair shadowing his expression.
For a moment, he forgot why he'd come.
Then, finally, he broke the quiet. "I don't understand. Why not climb out of here? If I were you, I'd do it all again—trials, monsters, flames. Whatever it took."
The man chuckled, softer now. "I see. You're just as lost as I used to be."
Inside, Damien sneered.
'Me? Lost? You've mistaken cunning for confusion, old man.'
But before he could reply, the man's tone shifted.
"Let me ask you something. What was the real reason you came over here?" His eyes narrowed. "I doubt it had anything to do with how crazy Hell is."
Damien froze.
'Shit.'
He'd forgotten. Let himself slip.
Thanks to the purge, he couldn't lie, and running would only confirm suspicion. Telling the truth was equally as dangerous. The fat man had a virtue, after all, and could kill him on the spot.
However, for some reason, Damien felt that the fat man would not kill him.
After a long, steady breath, Damien lifted a hand and pointed across the dome.
"You see that guy?" he asked, nodding toward a handsome man flanked by several admiring women. "The one surrounded by groupies?"
The fat man scoffed. "That pompous prick?"
Damien scratched the back of his neck, choosing his following words with bitter honesty.
"My plan was to tell you that he has an extremely high virtue. I hoped you'd get jealous—hungry for it—and tap into your gluttony to steal it. That would've triggered your sin and earned me an extra life."
The man's eyes widened, then—laughing again—he extended a hand.
Damien hesitated, half-expecting a magical trap, but it was just a handshake.
"You remind me of myself, kid. Always looking for an edge. I'll tell you what I wish someone told me back then—don't live that way. It's empty."
Damien took his hand and squeezed firmly. "Sorry to offend, but I probably won't change," he replied with a faint, wry grin.
'The organization made sure of that.'
He added, "But I'd like to know your name."
"Jack," the man said warmly. "And you?"
"Damien Veyne. It was... enlightening talking to you, Jack. Rare for someone to pique my interest."
Jack chuckled. "Likewise, Damien."
With that, Damien stood and walked away, his back straight, his pace slow and deliberate.
In his mind, a single, amused thought echoed:
'I guess the fat bastard gets to live a little longer.'