A Game in Hell

Mondays always suck. You’d think after five years of dragging myself through the same grey streets, under the same half-dead sky, I’d get used to it. But no-every Monday still hits like a truck made of emails, deadlines, and people who walk too slow.

I had my coffee in one hand. Lukewarm and bitter. My leather bag slung over one shoulder, the strap digging into my collarbone. The city moved around me in its usual, monotonous chaos-horns blaring, tires hissing on the wet asphalt, voices blending into a kind of urban hum. Familiar and comforting, in a weird way.

The crosswalk ahead blinked red, just as I reached it. I click my tongue. If it hadn’t been for that woman walking so slow, I would’ve made it across. I stopped, as did the crowd around me-strangers orbiting the same routine. Phones out. Eyes half-dead and cold. The woman from earlier stood next to me, tapping a message with her long red nails, chewing her gum like it owed her money. A guy behind me hummed something totally off-key. I sigh looking around me. Just another typical Monday.

The crosswalk signal ticked down, and on the other side of the street, a cluster of schoolkids in bright yellow jackets were ushered across the road by a teacher. She looked like a zombie, two cups of coffee short of surviving the day. The kids giggled, bouncing around like the city wasn’t a giant concrete death trap. How nice would it be to live so carefree.

That was when I saw her. One girl. Tiny. Black pigtails. She hesitated-maybe distracted, maybe scared of the traffic that roared to life as soon as the lights turned green. She was frozen in place. The huge machines moved. The teacher didn’t see. The crowd didn’t move. She was forgotten. She was left behind. Nobody realized what was going to happen.

The cup in my hand dropped to the ground, as I darted across the street. There wasn’t time to think-just instinct. Just motion. I reached her just as the screech hit the air. A car too fast, driver too late to brake. I remember grabbing her. Lifting. Turning my back to the headlights. And then- Nothing.

That’s the first thing I notice-not the pain, not the impact. Just...nothing. No weight. No ground beneath me. No sky above me. No cars, no girl, no city. The concrete jungle was now gone, replaced by a silence so thick it presses into me from every direction. It doesn’t feel like the absence of sound. It feels like sound was never invented here. A foreign concept in a space that forgot how to exist.

I blink. Or at least, I think I did. Hard to tell when there’s no light, no color, no form. Just me-even that’s questionable. I feel like I exist but not, at the same time. I try to look at my hands, but they’re not there. Not gone, not detached...just irrelevant. Like the concept of hand no longer applies.

My breathing quickens. Or it should be. I don’t hear it. Not do I feel it. But I know it. My chest doesn’t rise. My heart doesn’t pound. Am I dead? The question doesn’t come out of fear. Not yet. Just curiosity. Like reading a book half-asleep, and realizing your favorite character died. You turn back the page, and realize you forgot what you read.

I remember the headlights. The screech. The girl. Did she make it? The thought hits like a spark in the dark. I want to know what happened. No, I need to know. But there’s nothing here to ask. No voice, no presence, no life.

I don’t know how long I’ve been floating in this endless void. It could be seconds, minutes, hours, or even lifetimes. Time doesn’t exist here. It’s just a feeling. The same one I get when I’ve been sitting too long on a chair, too long in a room. Oblivious to the outside. That strange sensation of doing the bare minimum, and feeling the day slowly slip away behind the horizon.

And then, a shift. The air-if there is such a thing here- changes. Something pushes against my chest. A weight. A pressure. Like the world around me tightened its grip. The darkness fades. Just a little.

I’m standing now. Or maybe I’m not. But I feel the ground beneath my feet. There’s a faint outline of a shape ahead-a figure. A faint glow, like a light pushing outside a dense fog. Except there is no fog here, only darkness.

“Welcome.”

The voice is soft but ancient, like the first breath of a storm. It carries no warmth, nor any malice. Just distance. Like it’s above the need for either. I open my mouth, but no sound comes. There’s no air here. No room to speak.

“Am I...”

The voice interrupts, unbothered.

“We know you.”

I want to argue. I want to shout. But no words come out. Just an emptiness that hangs in the air. A second voice joins the first-this one darker, more colder.

“You are not what you think you are.”

I feel it, then-a weight pulling me down. A cold, heavy tug of inevitability.

“Your deeds do not outweigh your nature. Not enough. Not even close.”

My heart races. This can’t be real, can it? I’m not a bad person. I’ve done everything right. Just moments ago, I’ve sacrificed myself to save a little girl. Isn’t that good? I open my mouth to protest, to speak again, but it’s no use. The voices don’t hear me. And then, through the silence that was deafening me, the words I never expected to hear, came crashing through.

“Hell.”

The word echoes. Not from a mouth, not through ears. It just exists—burned into my thoughts like a brand against skin. And then, the floor vanishes. I fall.

Not fast, not slow—just endlessly. Like gravity got tired of pulling me and handed me off to something worse. There’s no wind. No pressure. Just the sensation of down. The light—or what little there was—fades completely, and all that remains is cold. Not the kind that numbs. The kind that remembers. The kind that sinks into bone and clings to the pieces of you didn’t know existed.

Then—impact. But it doesn’t hurt. I’m just... there. On solid ground. On my knees. Gasping, even though I haven’t needed to breathe since I died.

The world around me pulses like a heartbeat. The ground is cracked, black stone veined with something glowing beneath—like magma, but wrong. Not hot. Just angry. The sky above is...not a sky. It shifts constantly. Clouds that twist like muscle. Lightning that forks silently, illuminating structures in the distance that shouldn’t exist—too many angles, too many limbs.

I stand. Barely. My legs shake, not from exhaustion, but from sheer disbelief. This isn’t a place. It’s a punishment sculpted into geography. A realm built on judgment. Everything here feels personal. And then I hear the clapping. Slow. Measured. Mocking.

From behind me, footsteps—boots clicking against the stone like a metronome. I turn, and there he is. Tall. Impossibly tall. Dressed sharp, like a CEO dipped in shadow. His smile is wide, too wide. His eyes glow faintly red, not like fire, but like dying embers on the last log of a fire you forgot to put out.

“Quite the entrance,” he says, voice smooth as oil. “You really thought you were going to Heaven, didn’t you?”

I want to speak, scream, demand—but all I manage is a hoarse question.

“Who are you?”

The man steps forward. Grins. Tilts his head like he’s inspecting something pitiful.

“Oh, I think you already know.”

He says it with that same grin—polished, practiced. Like he’s amused I even asked. I narrow my eyes.

“You’re the Devil.”

He places a hand to his chest, mock-offended. A silent gasp escapes his mouth.

“The Devil? Oof. Bit reductive, don’t you think? But yes, in a manner of speaking. Satan. Lucifer. Morningstar. CEO of Eternal Damnation, Inc. That’s copyrighted, so don’t try to steal it from me.” He bows, sweeping one leg behind the other. “Though I do prefer ‘Lucien’ these days. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

He straightens up and starts circling me like a wolf appraising a dying deer.

“So,” he continues, “how does it feel? Hell, I mean. Disappointing? Too warm? Not enough fire and brimstone for your taste? I can change them to your comfort. After all, I don’t want my guest of honor to feel unhappy in my lair.”

I don’t answer. He clicks his tongue.

“Silent treatment already? You’re worse than my wife. Tsk. You humans and your moral confusion. Always so sure you’re the good guy in your own little movie.”

I grit my teeth.

“I am a good guy. I saved someone. I gave my life for a child. I-”

He raises a brow, amused.

“And? You want a medal? A parade, perhaps? That one act—heroic, sure—doesn’t scrub the rest clean, my friend.”

“I don’t care what you say,” I snap, the words cracking out of me like glass underfoot. “It’s not fair. I didn’t deserve this.”

Lucien raises an eyebrow, hands clasped behind his back like a smug professor waiting for a student to catch up.

“Fair? Darling, you’re in Hell. The last fair thing that happened here was...actually, never mind. Nothing fair has ever happened here.” He spins on his feet, pacing a slow circle around me. “You humans love fairness until the scales tilt against you. Then suddenly it’s ‘unjust’ and ‘cruel.’ Boo-hoo. Cry about it. Did you think about fairness when you ghosted that one girl who actually liked you? When you cheated on a test because you were tired and figured it didn’t matter? When you lied on your résumé about...well about everything?”

My fists clench.

“That’s not the same.”

He stops in front of me, the smile wiped away from his face.

“No. It’s not. But it adds up.”

The silence returns, heavy and humid, like it’s pressing against my ears. I try to shake it off.

“Well, what about all the good things I’ve done? Don’t they mean something?”

Lucien shrugs.

“Sure. It means you’re not completely useless. But here’s the problem—Hell isn’t about what you did once. It’s about who you were, most of the time. And you, my dear Monday martyr, were just...average.”

I laugh bitterly.

“So I’m damned because I wasn’t good enough?”

“Ah, the ‘I was a good person’ speech. Do you want me to pretend to be moved? Should I tear up? I can. I’m very method. I’ve been practicing for a while now.”

My jaw tightens. I try to speak, but the words twist into a growl halfway up my throat. The pressure behind my eyes builds like a storm on the edge of breaking.

“What kind of a sick system is that?”

Lucien claps once, loud and sharp.

“Bingo! You’re starting to get it. But don’t look so glum. I’m feeling generous today.”

His eyes gleaming, red and cunning.

“How about a game?”

I stare at him.

“A game?”

He snaps his fingers, and the ground shudders. The cracks glow brighter. In the distance, the blackened stone rises and reshapes, forming into massive squares—an enormous, life-sized chessboard, stretching into the distance like it’s been pulled from some hellish cathedral. Each square is large enough to stand on. Flames flicker between the tiles. And on them—people. Souls. Human, trembling, dressed in strange uniforms. A man in plated armour with a rook’s silhouette carved into his chest. A girl in a bishop’s robe, her eyes hollow. A knight on one knee, chains coiled around his legs.

Lucien grins.

“You play. Win—and maybe you’ll earn something more than just eternal torment. Maybe a clean slate. Maybe a chance at redemption.” He leans in. “Lose, and, well... you’ll get to know what real suffering tastes like.”

He paused for a moment to breathe before he continues.

“But hey, no pressure on you. Think of it as...performance review meets gladiator arena. Just with more existential despair and fewer lions.”

He laughs at his own joke.

“And them?” I ask, nodding toward the people on the board.

“Oh, they’re already mine. Every piece taken gets sent to the lowest layers of Hell. The fun parts. The ones I personally decorated.”

I feel bile rise in my throat.

“That’s sick.”

He smiles.

“I am the Devil.”

Then he steps back and gestures grandly at the board.

“So, what do you say, hero? My board. My rules. Your misery. Welcome to ‘A Game in Hell.’ Trademark pending,” he winks at me.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. The ground hums under my feet, hot with trapped energy, but my body’s colder than ever.

“A game,” I repeat slowly, like I’m tasting the word for the first time. “What kind of game?”

Lucien throws his hands up like a magician unveiling a trick.

“Classic chess! Well, kind of. Loosely inspired. Morally corrupted. Spiritually devastating. The usual.”

I narrow my eyes. “And the rules?”

He pretends to think, tapping his chin with a single, black-gloved finger.

“Hmm. Let’s see. You’re the player. You command your side. The people on the board? Real souls. Real sinners. Some worse than you. Some just unlucky. But all mine.”

He leans in, eyes gleaming like rubies sunk in tar.

“Every time you lose a piece, they get dropped into a deeper layer. The kind of place where even demons hesitate to go. But every piece you take—that’s a step toward your redemption.”

“And if I lose?” I ask, my voice hollow.

“Oh,” he says with a delighted little smile. “Then you join them. Piece by piece. Torn down to the bone. Rebuilt as something...useful.”

I swallow hard. My eyes flick to the board. The souls don’t move. Some kneel, some shake. Some stare straight ahead like they’ve already gone mad.

“This is sick,” I whisper.

Lucien shrugs, unapologetic.

“Welcome to Hell. You don’t win by being nice. You win by being better. Smarter. Colder, maybe. You want fairness? Try reincarnation. I hear toddlers have it great.”

I turn away from the board, jaw clenched. My hands shake. It’s not fear—it’s the crushing weight of decision.

“Why me?” I ask. “Why give me this chance at all?”

Lucien chuckles and puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch at the cold.

“Hey, don’t think you’re special now. You aren’t the only one who got this opportunity. The last guy who came in gave me an earful about justice, good and bad, and more. He just wouldn’t stop preaching to me, so I had to give him another chance to redeem himself. Just like you, but instead of chess, it was boxing. Safe to say, after my Super Punch 3000, he won’t be complaining again anytime soon,” he grinned, content with his decision.

I stare at him, stunned.

“You killed him?”

Lucien raises a brow.

“Oh no, no, no. I don’t kill people. That’s such a messy business. I just...accelerated his journey through the lower levels. With flair.” He mimes a dramatic uppercut, complete with a sound effect. “Boom. Straight to the lava pits.”

My stomach turns. He says it like he’s recalling a good punchline, not a soul screaming through layers of torment.

“And if I say no?” I ask, voice low.

He smiles wider

“Then you go straight to the endgame. No board, no pawns, no applause. Just the void. And trust me—you don’t want the void.”

The board behind me pulses with fire. The heat is suffocating. I can hear the crackle of flame, the distant sobs of the pieces. Lucien clasps his hands together like we’re planning a brunch.

“So what’s it going to be? Play the game? Or fold like the moral house of cards you are?”

I look at the board again. The squares stretch out into darkness, each tile cracked and glowing from beneath like molten glass. The pieces—people—shift uncomfortably in place. Some stare blankly ahead. Others glance at me with pleading eyes.

I hate this. But I hate the thought of doing nothing even more.

“Fine,” I say, the word dragging out of me like a confession. “I’ll play your damn game.”

Lucien lights up—figuratively, this time. He claps once, and the sound echoes like thunder through the void.

“Marvelous!” he beams. “I do love a bit of enthusiasm, even if it’s wrapped in despair. Adds flavor.”

He snaps his fingers. The ground beneath me trembles. A square near the edge of the board splits open, and a platform rises—smooth, black stone veined with crimson. A single tile, large enough for me to stand on. My starting point.

“Step up, hero,” Lucien says, gesturing like a game show host unveiling the grand prize. “You’re now the King. Not because you earned it, but because I find it funny.”

My feet move before my brain catches up. The tile is hot under my shoes, but bearable. Barely. Lucien leans in from the sidelines, smirking.

“Now, a few rules—don’t worry, they’re flexible. One: you win when the other King falls. Two: you lose when you’re taken. Three: any piece you lose goes straight to the cozy little nightmare spa I mentioned earlier. Oh, and four: try not to die. Again.”

He taps his chin thoughtfully.

“Actually, scratch number four. Dying might make things spicier.”

The board hums beneath me, radiating heat and something else—something old, like the grind of ancient machinery fused with suffering. The other souls on the board begin to move into formation, shuffling into place like they’ve done this before. Too many times before.

To my right, a soul wearing a bishop’s insignia grunts and drops to one knee. She doesn’t look at me. Just stares ahead like a soldier waiting for the next war. To my left, a woman dressed in a queen’s robe lifts her chin. Her eyes are dead, but her hands are steady.

Lucien saunters along the sidelines, arms wide like he’s presenting a circus act.

“White moves first, naturally. That’s you. Don’t worry, I’ll play black—of course.” He winks. “You go first, hero.”

I scan the board. Every piece is a person. Every step is a sentence. I feel sick. But the others...they’re waiting. I grit my teeth, force the bile down, and point forward.

“Pawn. E2 to E4.”

The pawn in front of me—just a boy, barely older than sixteen—nods once. Then he steps forward, one square. Another. His hands tremble the whole way. Lucien claps slowly. Mocking. Gleeful.

“Oooh, bold. Classic opening. I like it. Let’s see what we’ve got on my side.”

He glances over his shoulder, and immediately, one of his pawns lurches forward on the opposite end of the board. He looks older—mid-forties, chain around his neck, guilt carved into his face.

“C7 to C5,” Lucien calls lazily.

Then he leans toward me again, voice low and sweet like poison in a glass of wine.

“Your move, King. How many lives are you willing to spend to prove you deserve a second chance?”

“Knight. F3.”

I call out the move, and the soul marked as knight-a boy no older than eight, chainmail stitched into his skin- lurches forward to F3. His eyes are wide with panic, but he obeys. They always obey. Lucien yawns and flicks his wrist. A woman at the edge of the board, barefoot and burned along one side, stumbled to A6. No fanfare, no flair.

“Gotta keep the corner warm,” he says with a smirk. ” Never know when you’ll need a dramatic exit.”

I hesitate, then gesture forward. A trembling man in a tattered suit-his tie still half-knotted like he died rushing to work- takes slow, careful steps to C3. He flinches at every crack between the tiles, like they might swallow him whole. He reminds me of myself, for some odd reason.

Lucien rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers. A soul in a scorched military uniform matches to E6, posture perfect despite the gaping wound in his chest. Lucien leans towards me, voice dripping with amusement.

“You seem tense. Why don’t you relax a little. I’d offer you a drink, but it’s mostly lava and guilt. Pairs nicely with crushed hope, though.”

He doesn’t even pretend to take this seriously. That almost makes it worse. I take a breath and point. Another soul-a woman this time, elderly, eyes clouded but defiant- shuffles forward to D4. Her steps echo, soft and steady, like she’s done this a thousand times in another life. If something like that even exists in here.

Lucien doesn’t even look at the board. His hand waves lazily, and a tall, silent man in priest’s robes steps onto D5. The moment he lands, he locks eyes with the woman. Neither blinks. Lucien gives a mock yawn as his pawn takes his place.

“Riveting stuff. At this rate, we’ll finish just in time for the heat death of the universe.”

I glance at the pawn on E4—no, the boy. Young. Scared. His eyes meet mine, searching for something—hope, maybe. I hesitate. My hand hovers in the air.

Lucien leans in, mock-whispering.

“Tick-tock, killer. Morality’s such a time-consuming habit.”

“I need some time to think.”

“Oh, no no-please, take your time. It’s not like eternity’s going anywhere,” he laughs.

I grit my teeth and point to the pawn. The boy nods once before stepping forward into Lucien’s path.

“E takes D5,” I say, just as the opposing pawn gets captured.

The clash is silent, and then the man vanishes-no scream, no drama. Just...gone.

Lucien hums as his queen-a woman with a ghastly pale complexion- slides across the board, striking my pawn down like swatting a fly.

“First one’s the hardest,” Lucien says, spinning around towards me. “But don’t worry-you’ll get very good at it.”

I stand there, behind my wall of protection, my mouth gaping. I had just led two souls to their eternal damnation. I just turned their lives into more misery.

“What? You’re acting like I want to do this. I mean, I do. But still-dramatic much?”

I remain silent. My eyes lace with disgust. I want to scream, swear at him, but my words wouldn’t escape my lips.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. I didn’t make the rules-I just enjoy them. Tell you what-if you win the game, I’ll throw in a free escape room experience. Spoiler: it’s still Hell, but with more puzzled and fewer exits. Our latest hit service,” he grins mockingly.

I glance at the board. The black queen stares down the center like a loaded gun. I need to apply pressure, to push Lucien off-balance—even if I’m barely keeping my own.

“C3 to C4.”

The man I moved earlier—the one in the tattered suit—flinches again but obeys, stepping forward like he’s crossing a minefield. He lands on C4 and exhales shakily, like he was holding his breath since the game began.

Lucien whistles.

“Ohh, spicy. I like the energy. Bit of a cold shoulder to the center, huh?”

Then, with a casual shrug, he gestures lazily toward his queen. She doesn’t walk—she glides, her gown dragging over the board like a funeral veil. The other souls instinctively step back as she passes.

“D6, darling,” Lucien coos to her. “Nice and ominous.”

She lands on D6, staring directly down the line at my army, eyes empty like frostbitten glass. Lucien watches his queen settle, then claps his hands once, like he’s proud of a pet doing a trick.

“Ah, my queen,” he sighs theatrically. “Cold, commanding, emotionally unavailable—just my type. Don’t get too close, though. She tends to ruin lives in six directions at once.”

I raise my hand and gesture to the woman standing tall to my right—cloaked in scholar’s robes, with ink-stained fingers and eyes that seem to remember every mistake I’ve ever made.

“Bishop. To E2.”

She moves gracefully, like this isn’t Hell but a cathedral, and for a moment I forget where I am.

Lucien doesn’t. He grins and casually waves a hand. One of his pawns—the man on C5—lunges diagonally and tackles mine.

“C takes D4,” he announces with the glee of a game show host. “That’s the spirit. Trade knowledge for violence—it’s how we got here in the first place!”

I eye Lucien’s queen—pale, ghostlike, gliding across the board with regal menace. She hasn’t struck again yet, but the way she watches...it’s only a matter of time. I can’t let her run free.

“Bishop to G5.”

A young girl turns, her robe brushing ash as she moves to intercept. She stands now in the queen’s path, an act of defiance. A blockade.

Lucien raises an eyebrow.

“Ah, a queen-hunter, are we? How noble.”

With a snap of his fingers, another soul moves—this one younger, broad-shouldered, eyes vacant like something’s been hollowed out. He marches forward, fists clenched.

“F7 to F6,” Lucien purrs. “Careful now. My boys don’t like when you chase the lady.”

I feel the trap forming. My bishop’s path back is open—but barely. I hesitate, but pull her away to safety.

“Bishop to H4.”

She retreats, one step at a time, not in fear but in strategy. Lucien tilts his head.

“Hm. Flirted with murder, then ghosted. You’re just like my ex,” he chuckles at his own joke. “Ah, the good ol’ days. How nostalgic! She tried to stab me with a pitchfork. Romantic stuff.”

He spins slowly on his heel, as if savoring the memory.

“Of course, she’s on the board somewhere. Don’t worry—you’ll know her when you see her. Screams in rhymes.”

He winks again, like we’re sharing some inside joke. I say nothing. I’m too busy wondering what kind of man remembers torment like it’s a love song.

Lucien barely even glances at the bishop looming on the edge. Instead, he gestures lazily, and another soul—the man in the military uniform—steps forward from E6 to E5, planting himself firmly in the center like he owns the place.

“Ah, the center,” Lucien sighs, watching the pawn settle in. “It’s like prime real estate in a burning city—everyone wants it, but no one survives owning it.”

I clench my fists. If he holds the center, he controls the game—and if he controls the game, I lose. Simple as that. Without another word, I signal my move. Bringing out the bishop hadn’t just put it in play; it opened the path for my rook. I signal to the soul-a tall woman with half her face missing. She immediately straightens her spine, ready to march into the heart of the battlefield.

Lucien clicks his tongue, watching the rook emerge like a storm.

“Ah, the rook. The drama queen of the back ranks. Shows up late, steals the spotlight, and somehow thinks she’s the hero of the story.” He leans in, voice dipped in velvet malice. “Careful, dear King. The bigger the entrance, the messier the fall.”

Lucien waves his hand, and a lean, silent man in a merchant’s cloak steps diagonally to the center.

“Bishop to F5,” he says, then glances at me. “Gotta dress up the center if I’m gonna host a massacre there.”

I narrow my eyes. He’s taking space now—quietly, surely. I don’t like it. I draw back my knight from F3, repositioning it behind the lines—away from danger, but not away from purpose.

“Knight to E1.”

Lucien tilts his head, unimpressed.

“Ah, retreating. Bold strategy. Let’s see if crawling backward wins wars.”

He shifts another piece—another knight, a lean man, armoured and eyeless—stalking silently to D7.

“Just tidying up a bit,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t want to leave my royal guests unguarded.”

I bring the knight forward again, to D3 this time—closer to the action. My hands don’t shake anymore. Lucien answers immediately. A tall woman with a twisted smile and eyes like rusted iron moves to H6.

“Knight to H6. She doesn’t talk much,” he says, “but when she does, it’s usually your last words.”

I respond in kind. My bishop glides out, flanking in front of the pawn wall, stepping to G3. She belongs there—watching. Waiting.

“Like hiring a guard dog,” I murmur.

Lucien’s bishop moves to E7. Another polished piece set neatly in place.

“Just setting the table,” he says with a grin. “Wouldn’t want dinner to start without proper decorum.”

I scan the board. Then I realize. He’s not just taking space. He’s building a noose. Slowly, deliberately, Lucien’s moved every piece behind his line to the front—bishops and knights, all creeping forward like a rising tide. All of it aimed at the center, pressing, choking, daring me to focus there. But that’s not the real play.

He’s set the stage for castling on either side. I can see it now—the rooks, still nestled in the corners, waiting like wolves behind bars. The moment he locks his king away, they’ll be facing each other. Roaring down the battlefield. And if that happens, I’ll be the one in their crossfire. Lucien grins like he hears my thoughts.

“Just a little feng shui, you know? Gotta get the rooks in line before I rearrange your afterlife.”

I nod toward the soul standing diagonal to my position.

“H3.”

She’s a girl—barely twenty, face bruised but defiant. She grips her arms tight as if hugging herself, sleeves rolled up to reveal tally marks carved into her skin. Hundreds of them. Days? Sins? Victims? I don’t ask. She steps forward like she’s adding one more to the list.

Lucien watches, then casually rolls his shoulders.

“Ah, lovely. A bit of fresh air for yourself. How quaint.”

Then, with a snap of his fingers, his king strides two steps to the right, and one of his rooks slides over with silent menace. A perfect castle.

Lucien flashes me a grin.

“Gotta align the rooks before they start decapitating people. Feng shui, darling. Feng shui.”

He stretches like we’re at brunch, not a war for my soul.

“Besides, the king sleeps better in the corner. Soundproof walls, less screaming. Just perfect for a ten-hour nap.”

I squint at the center. No more waiting. No more fear. I jab a finger forward.

“F2 to F4.”

The soul—a man in his thirties, jaw clenched, veins bulging from restraint—nods once. He charges, shoulder-first, like he’s breaking through some invisible barrier. The board groans beneath his feet as he shoves into the square. A bold stance. Aggressive. Necessary.

Lucien raises a brow.

“Oh-ho! Now we’re getting violent.”

He points lazily toward his own pawn-the man in the military uniform. He shudders, then throws himself forward with terrifying force, straight into the line of fire.

“Pawn to E4,” Lucien says, watching with amusement.

Lucien’s pawn slides to E4, threatening my knight like it’s a casual nudge in a bar fight. I squint at the board, then smirk.

“Oh, you want the knight, huh?” I mutter under my breath. “Alright then.”

My gaze flicks to his queen. She’s silent, unreadable, but I swear I can feel her anticipation. One bold step, and she’ll be staring right down my neck. I point to the board.

“Pawn to C5.”

The soul steps forward. He slams his foot down on the square like he’s challenging the devil himself.

“Go ahead,” I think, eyes locked on Lucien. “Take my knight. I dare you.”

Lucien’s eyes narrow, the ever-present grin twitching just slightly at the edges.

“Oh, feisty today, aren’t we?” he purrs, then flicks his fingers as if shooing away a fly.

A soul—the armoured lean man—darts from the shadows, landing on C5 with the grace of a predator. The man in the tattered suit, my loyal pawn, barely has time to gasp before he vanishes—gone in a blink.

My heart skips a beat. Wait—how the hell did I not see that knight? Panic surges through me like a jolt of lightning. I move without thinking, practically shouting my move aloud.

“Knight takes c5!”

The soul—the youthful boy—lunges forward, driving himself into Lucien’s smug knight. The lean predator vanishes in a shimmer of black smoke, but the relief is short-lived.

Because the moment I exhale, Lucien grins like a cat who’s been gifted two mice.

“Bold. Also, dumb,” he says, already gesturing.

His queen glides forward like royalty descending into a warzone, and my knight is gone before I can process it. Just snuffed out.

“Queen takes C5,” Lucien says, mockingly formal.

Then he leans closer, stage whispering.

“You’re doing your best, and that’s what matters. Of course, your best wasn’t good enough-but points for effort!”

No—no, no, no. I bite down on panic, but it’s clawing its way up my throat. I need to push her back. I need space. Options. Anything.

“Pawn to B4,” I say, almost begging the board to listen.

The soul, a hunched man, stumbles forward as if even he knows it’s a mistake. He doesn’t make it far.

Lucien raises an eyebrow. His queen doesn’t just move—she glides, like she’s dancing on air, utterly untouchable.

“Queen takes B4,” he says sweetly. “Was that your plan? A bribe? Because I have to say, it’s the cheapest date I’ve ever been offered.”

The soul vanishes. And with him, another piece of my hope.

I take a breath. No—I steal one. Like air is a luxury I’m not supposed to have here. I force myself to stop reacting and think. Panic is exactly what he wants. I can’t give him that. Not again. My eyes scan the board. My queen still has some reach. I can push her up the flank—threaten, harass, breathe.

“Pawn to A3,” I say quietly.

A girl steps forward, no older than twelve. She walks slowly, as if trying not to disturb the quiet dread surrounding her. Lucien hums, and without even glancing, he waves his hand.

“Queen to C5,” he says, his voice light as air, but there’s tension now.

I look at my queen. She looks back—stone-faced, scarred, still standing. She knows what I’m thinking.

“Queen to B3. Check.”

She storms forward, lifting her arm like a commander’s blade, pointing straight at Lucien’s side of the board. Lucien frowns for the first time.

“Tsk. How rude. Can’t my king enjoy his slumber without being interrupted by your dramatic queen stomping up like she owns the place?” Lucien drawls. “Honestly, you’d think she was auditioning for a soap opera.”

He raises a finger, snaps it—and his king, now flanked by his guards, calmly steps to the side.

“King to H8,” Lucien sighs. “You know, this game was so much more fun before you started playing like you meant it.”

I move my hand toward the board again. The little girl nods grimly and advances to A4, planting her feet like she means to hold that line forever. Lucien, on the other hand, grins wide.

“Oh ho, now that’s interesting,” he murmurs.

He gestures lazily, and one of his pawns—the man in his mid-forties-lurches forward to D3, and in doing so, unleashes hell.

A sharp pain rings through the air as I realize it’s not just a move—it’s a discovered check. The pawn is also hurtling straight toward my bishop. Two attacks at once. Lucien taps his temple smugly.

“Multitasking, my dear boy. I am the Devil—of course I can ruin two lives at once. Efficiency is hell’s greatest achievement.”

I hiss and make the only move I can. I dart to the side, breath shallow, eyes wide. Lucien’s grin sharpens as his pawn continues its march, swallowing the bishop on E2 in one brutal, efficient motion.

“Poor soul didn’t even see it coming,” Lucien muses. “But don’t worry—he’ll have plenty of time to think about it in sub-basement Hell. It’s cozy. Smells like sulfur and failure. One of my go-to places when I’m feeling down.”

I call the next move without much thought. The pawn had already consumed my bishop, and now has its eyes set on my rook. I wasn’t going to let it play out like that.

“Rook to E1”

The tall woman matches forward to take her place. Her steps are heavy, but certain. Lucien hums, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh? You’re bringing the big girl out? Finally! How exciting!”

With a flick of his finger, one of his rooks responds. The man looks half-dissolved in his plated armor, skin peeling away like an old wallpaper, but still walks with a grim, practiced discipline.

“Rook to D8,” Lucien declares, watching his queen side rook slide into his place intently.

I see an opportunity. A golden ticket. I make my move, launching my queen towards Lucien’s queenside pawns left wide open.

“Queen takes B7,” I say.

My queen glides forward. The woman cuts down the pawn in front of her with eerie precision. He disappears. No scream. No cry. Just...gone. Lucien only grins.

“Ah, I see we’re looting now. A true man of culture.”

He snaps his fingers and his rook speeds down the D file, finally coming to a halt at D3.

“Rook to D3,” he says, casually, like he’s reading from a script he’s already seen the ending of.

I ignore the anxiety clawing up my spine.

“Queen takes A6.”

My queen keeps going, sniping another pawn off the board. The corpse of a crumbling plan, maybe—but I’ll take every advantage I can get.

Lucien chuckles.

“You know, when you focus on scraps...”

He raises a single finger. No flair. No dance. His bishop strides out to strike.

“Bishop takes H3.”

She screams. The soul that was my pawn—the girl with a bruised face and tally marks all over her body—vanishes mid-reach. I was upset, not because I lost another piece, but because I couldn’t ask her what the talkies were. Lucien sighs theatrically.

“You should really supervise your staff better,” he says, wagging a finger. “She was out of position, distracted, probably overworked. Happens. That’s why I do my performance reviews with fire.”

I turn around and notice one of knights, ticked away into the corner with the rook, forgotten in the heat of the moment. I decide to bring it out, even though it might not be useful.

“Knight to D2.”

The soul responds-a boy this time, with glasses cracked down the middle and eyes that have seen far too much. He swings into position behind the enemy rook, a shaky sort of reinforcement. He’s trying. That’s all I can ask.

“Rook takes G3.”

The man lunges at my bishop like a hungry cheetah, an unchained beast tearing through its captors. The girl vanishes before my own eyes. Just like that. Gone. Turned to dust. Lucien pouts.

“Aww, she was so shy. I barely got to torment her.”

I ignore him. Focus. That rook was shielding my queen’s diagonal. Now, she’s got a clear shot. I raise my hand.

“Queen takes E2.”

She moves with silent rage, taking the center of the square and the soul that once stood there. The knight on Lucien’s side—the one who had been hovering in the back, silent as a statue—finally stirs. Lucien grins.

“Knight to G4.”

He leaps forward in a single motion—a soul in broken armour, face half-burned, landing like a vulture just a breath from my king’s flank. Lucien raises an eyebrow.

“Oh dear. I think I smell fear. Or is that desperation? Hard to tell down here,” he chuckles, amused.

My mouth tastes like ash. I can feel my fingers tremble as I raise my hand.

“Pawn takes G4.”

The girl who’d been stationed there—skin translucent, her hands always wringing some invisible worry—nods and lunges. She collides with the bishop, and he vanishes like smoke. For a moment, silence.

Then Lucien lets out a delighted little gasp.

“Ohhh, now you’ve done it.”

He snaps his fingers.

“Queen to H5.”

She slides across the board, her ghost-white eyes fixed on me. My only safety was the single pawn in front of me. My only curtain. My breath hitches.

I react without thinking.

“Queen to G2.”

My queen lunges in defense, placing herself diagonally behind the pawn. Lucien lets out an exaggerated tsk.

“Fine, fine. You wanna be a hero?”

He gestures with a twirl.

“Rook takes H3. Check.”

The girl who’d just captured the bishop is lifted off the board like a ragdoll, tossed aside by Lucien’s rook like an afterthought. She doesn’t even scream. I stare on in silence. I hesitatingly step aside, tucking myself into the safety of G1. But not long before Lucian’s bishop turned the corner, her eyes locked with mine, radiant with mock reverence. Lucien laughs softly.

“Ah, nothing like a good old-fashioned cornering. It’s the Hell edition of hide and seek—only, spoilers, there’s no place to hide.”

I slide left, right outside the bishop’s line of fire, trying to regroup, to survive just a little longer. If I can escape this constant wave of checks, have a single moment to breathe, I can breakthrough Lucien’s defenses and win. I can feel it. I can feel the victory right outside my grasp. A single push and it will be mine. I am right at its doorstep. One push is all I need. One moment. One chance. One piece.

Lucien taps his chin thoughtfully. Then, as if he’s just remembered a private joke, he grins.

“Knight to H2. Check.”

He leans forward on his elbows, chin in hand.

“You know, I’ve always loved this kind of moves. It’s a real red flag kinda vibe. Shows up, uninvited, in your safe space, insists he ‘just wants to talk.’ Total nightmare fuel. Ten outta ten.”

He pauses, mock serious.

“Would you like to schedule a boundary-setting workshop? Or are we past that stage?”

I freeze. Realization dawns upon me. I have no way out. No cover. No shield. Every square around me is death dressed in black. The woman grind, the twisted smile spread across her face. There’s only one move. I turn slowly to look at her—my queen. The woman hasn’t spoken this whole game. Regal. Composed. A scar slicing through one eye. I don’t want to do this. She sees it in my eyes before I say a word. And still, she nods.

I hate this game.

“Queen takes H2,” I murmur, the words catching in my throat.

She moves, slow and deliberate, wraps her hands around the knight’s throat, and twists. She vanishes in a wisp of ash. Then the rook is there. He doesn’t hesitate. He slams into her like a freight train. She’s gone. Just like that.

Lucien exhales like he just took the first sip of a good vintage.

“Well, that’s a breakup for the ages,” he says brightly. “Didn’t even get to keep the mixtape.”

I want to scream. But there’s no time for that now. I need to get my queen back. As fast as possible. I won’t be able to win the endgame without her. I look around to spot the lonely pawn on A5, away from the chaos unfolding near me. Without much thought and hesitation, I command her to move, pushing her one step at a time.

Lucien doesn’t say a word this time. No flourish. No applause. No joke teed up and ready to knock me off balance. Just silence. Then—click. Like the final piece of a lock sliding into place. His queen, untouched and unbothered, glides down the board with the grace of a guillotine. Her smile is almost gentle as she steps onto H3.

“Queen to H3...”

Without letting him finish his sentence, I blurt out.

“Pawn to A6.”

But nothing happens. She just stands there, motionless, like the string holding her up’s been cut. I try again.

“Pawn. A6. Move.”

Still nothing.

Lucien tilts his head, lips twitching, barely holding in a laugh.

“You might want to look around,” he says, his voice singsong and syrupy.

I turn. The board has gone still. Silent. The remaining souls frozen in place. The tiles beneath my feet start to hum—no, vibrate—a low, dreadful pulse building beneath the surface. I don’t get it. I don’t get it.

Lucien throws his head back and laughs. Not the playful kind. Not even the cruel kind. Something colder. Hungrier.

“Checkmate,” he purrs. “And here I thought you were starting to get the hang of it.”

The world around me doesn’t fall apart. It settles. The echo of Lucien’s laughter fades, replaced by the low creak of finality—the board locking into stillness. The souls freeze where they stand, eyes glassy, limbs limp. The battlefield goes quiet, but not peaceful. It’s the quiet of aftershocks, of smoke curling through a ruined city. Lucien steps across the board now, hands in his pockets, whistling some old tune I can’t quite place. A lullaby. Or a dirge.

He stops beside me. Tilts his head.

“Well. That was fun.”

Then he leans in.

“For me, anyway. Bravo! Truly, a masterclass in dramatic failure. If there were Oscars in Hell, I’d nominate you for ‘Most Painful Checkmate’ with no competition. Well, hey, at least you made it to the end. Not the end you wanted, sure—but points for commitment!”

I can’t speak. My throat’s dry. My legs barely hold me up. The weight of what I’ve done—the souls I moved, sacrificed, led to their ends—sinks in with full, punishing clarity. I lost. I lost.

“But you know,” Lucien muses, tapping his chin. “You showed promise. Mmm...impulsive, morally shaky, a bit dramatic, but not hopeless.”

I glare up at him.

“What now?”

He smiles. That damn smile.

“Oh, you don’t go back. No golden gates for you, champ. This was never about redemption. It was about who you are when everything’s burning.”

He steps back; arms wide like a magician finishing his final trick.

“And you, my friend...you’re wonderfully human.”

The board beneath me begins to crumble, tile by tile, as if the very floor of my last chance is being pulled out from under me. Fire flickers beneath the gaps. Screams begin to rise—not mine, not yet, but familiar. Souls I condemned.

“Where am I going?” I whisper, though I already know.

Lucien grins.

“Where all the best players go after they lose.”

He taps my chest with one finger.

“Down.”

The last thing I see before the darkness swallows me whole is Lucien, tossing a casual wave.

“Better luck next eternity,” he says with a wink. “Though between us...I wouldn’t bet on it.”

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