“Excuse me, do you know where I can find Caketopia?”

The words felt ridiculous the moment they left my mouth, like I was asking for directions to a fantasy land in some children's book, not an actual place in this hellscape. But I hadn’t given up. Not yet. This was just a small part of my as-yet-undecided, highly convoluted plan—a plan I hadn’t devised but was convinced I’d figure out eventually. If the Imperium had a way of bringing prisoners into this hellhole, then they must have a way to get them out. All I needed was a starting point. And Nicole was it.

The demon, disguised as a hunched old man gnawing on a yellowing newspaper in the middle of the street, peered over his spectacles with an expression as dry as the parchment in his hands. His glasses slipped down his crooked nose, his eyes narrowing as though he was sizing me up for something far more sinister than giving directions.

I hadn’t put my full trust in this place—it was too surreal, too bizarre. Angels and demons, mingling like co-workers at an office party, chatting, trading, sharing niceties. The sight was baffling. On the way here, I had passed countless angels and demons, strolling side by side as if the Great War had never happened. It was unnatural, like oil and water deciding to become best friends. The tension between us all was tangible, even in the absence of open violence.

I had to clamp down on the urge to decapitate him right there on the cobblestone street. His peaceful guise didn’t fool me. I could feel the demonic energy simmering beneath his skin, pulsing like a heartbeat. Breaking his neck might attract unwanted attention, but that didn’t stop the itch in my hands. Still, I stayed alert. One wrong move, and I’d gladly turn his head into a paperweight

“Three lefts from Twenty-One Noodletopia street,” he rasped, each syllable scraping its way out of his throat like rusty nails dragging against metal.

Great. I bet I was standing on Shittopia Street, because it reeked. The street names in this town were as ridiculous as everything else. Was this some sort of cruel trick or bizarre illusion? I couldn’t shake the feeling that this entire place was designed to mess with my head, to distract me from my true purpose.

As I squelched my way down the street in my waterlogged sneakers, I couldn’t help but notice the place was more developed than I’d expected. Anubistopia wasn’t a decrepit underworld teeming with suffering souls like I’d imagined—it was like a less-colorful Amalfi Coast, some distance away from the diabolical sea. I passed shops, markets, bars, even hotels. Angels and demons flitted between them as though they were on vacation.

It was then that I noticed the absence of phones. Not even a pay phone in sight. Some prison this was. Dear Instagram, I’ll be back soon, I thought sarcastically, already drafting the post in my mind.

But my amusement faded fast. The air shifted. Cold, and not the regular kind—this was unnatural. Footsteps echoed behind me, perfectly in time with mine. Eyes burned holes into my back. An aura of an entity I couldn't clearly distinguish. Someone—or something—was following.

I spun around, but there was no one. Just the usual suspects—people toddling down a street that looked plucked straight out of 19th century London, complete with horse-drawn carriages and cobblestones.

Shaking off the paranoia, I continued toward the bakery, or was it a hotel? Through the massive café window, I spotted rows of customers, each with a slice of cake on their plate. ‘Cake’topia. I should’ve guessed from the name.

A neon sign hung above the welcoming glass door, glowing faintly in the dim light: Caketopia—Cake Your Day! Below the lettering, a neon cake with a fork playfully winked at me. Great. Puns.

I stepped inside, and every head in the room turned my way like I’d just walked in with two heads. Well, maybe I was a sight to see—drenched, smelling like seaweed, and wearing a tattered t-shirt that had seen better days a century ago.

Before me, stretched a massive counter—a polished slab of dark mahogany, worn smooth by years of use. Behind it, a large, ornate mirror reflects the dim light from the chandeliers above, casting a soft glow across the counter's surface. The wood gleamed with a faint sheen, though the edges were chipped and scuffed from decades of patrons leaning or placing their bags. An old-fashioned brass bell sat in the center, its once-golden surface dulled by time. To the right, a row of vintage key hooks holds tarnished keys dangling by worn leather straps. The entire counter gave off a sense of age and history, as though it has witnessed countless stories pass through its domain, both mundane and extraordinary.

A demon in the shape of a woman approached me. Her slick black hair matched the dark gleam in her eyes, and she wore a smile so plastered, it was almost a warning. Her white button-up shirt was adorned with a golden name tag: Melissa.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” she asked in a voice that suggested customer service was a recent demonic punishment.

“I'm here to see Nicole,” I said.

Her eyes widened in surprise, like I was supposed to be more... impressive? I mean, sure, maybe she wasn’t expecting a bedraggled loony covered in seaweed, but this was me. Take it or leave it, princess.

“Ooh, the Mavobella,” she murmured, her voice laced with a touch of awe. Like she’d been expecting a legend and got... well, me. “Nicole’s getting your tag tailored.”

Tailoring a tag? My fists clenched. Of course, Nicole knew I’d be back, and in her infinite wisdom, she was making me a worker’s tag. How thoughtful. I hated her intuition already.

“In the meantime, the bathroom is just this way.” Melissa scanned me up and down, not even bothering to hide her disdain for my soggy attire. “And we have some clean clothes for you,” she added with a pointed smile.

With a shrug, she unhooked a key from the wall and handed it over. “First door on your left, down the stairs.”

I took the stairs, grumbling the whole way, and found myself facing a steel door with a stick-figure female symbol on it. I stepped inside, bracing myself for prison-level filth. But to my surprise, it was spotless. There were tidy sinks and mirrors on the left, a row of toilet stalls on the right, and showers tucked neatly beyond them.

I jumped into one of the showers and let the hot water wash away the grime. It was refreshing—almost too refreshing. I didn’t just feel clean; I felt... healed. Like my body had reset, ready for round two. But this wasn’t the time for reckless rematches.

The clothes left on the shelf weren’t bad—black pants, and a plain button-up shirt like Melissa’s. There were no shoes, so I left barefoot, my soggy sneakers a distant nightmare.

I stopped at the mirror, catching my reflection. The girl staring back at me was... striking. Red hair, black eyes, high cheekbones, lips a shade of pink that could turn heads in any realm. Tattoos crawled up my neck and chest. My halo glowed orange, like a setting sun.

But then, a flash. A memory.

The same lights—strobing violently. A pair of black, leather shoes clicked against the floor, each step erasing all other sounds. Click, click, click, and every other sound was gone. The shoes connected to black tailored pants, leading up to—

Pain shot through my skull, cutting the memory off. I splashed water on my face, shaking off the ache. What the hell was that? Nicole said my memories would come back in fragments. She forgot to mention they’d come with a side effect of searing pain.

I was more than enthusiastic to venture into my memories, but still, there was a deep abyss between me and them. An abyss that obscured my every move to reach out.

I dried off and headed back upstairs, only to be greeted by Melissa, who was handing a meal card to a man behind the counter. She smiled at me again—still fake, still irritating.

“You should have a seat. Nicole will be back soon. Can I get you something to eat?” she asked.

“Anything,” I muttered, too worn out to care about the menu.

“Great! I’ll surprise you,” she said, all too cheerfully, ushering me toward a table by the window.

I caught something out of the corner of my eye—a figure cloaked in shadows, watching me. My instincts screamed, but before I could focus, Melissa clumsily spilled a drink in my lap.

I’d just taken a shower. Of course.

By the time I looked back, the figure was gone. Just the usual street scene, people minding their own business.

“I’m so sorry,” Melissa gushed, dabbing at the spill with a napkin.

“It’s fine,” I waved her off, more curious about the letter sitting on the table. “Is this yours?”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t here when the last customers left. Looks like it’s for you.”

She handed it over. A letter to the Angel of Death. How charming.

Carefully, I unwrapped it. Inside was a plain white sheet, marked with a single red dot. Blood. Human, without a doubt.