Chapter Text
The day Vincent Whittman died was the happiest day of your life.
That fact alone probably explained why your soul wound up in hell. Still, you refused to feel guilty about it. After all, Vincent had never expressed any guilt for the ropes that strangled your wrists, or for the way you trembled in his arms each night.
Your skin still burned from the feeling of his lips on your neck as he whispered his taunts. “You know it drives me crazy when you don’t listen, baby. I’ve killed bastards for less. You’re lucky I love you so much.”
You could only scoff wryly whenever he professed his ‘love’. Once upon a time, those words would have swept you off your feet. But Vincent had long since drained you of any affection you held for him.
So, after everything he had put you through, watching his head get fried by a television was more cathartic than any therapy.
And when you met your tragic end not even two years later, you felt peace in knowing that everything would be over. That he would be forever wiped from your mind as you faded into nothingness.
But then you woke up in hell.
Every nerve flared with pain as you blinked away the fog behind your eyes. One second, you had been taking what you thought was your final breath, the next, plunging to the ground through a blood red sky.
Shakily, you craned your neck to see a maze of buildings towering over you.
It was a city. A filthy one at that.
Despite its uncanny resemblance to Earth, the sight of strange, demonic creatures wandering the streets made you quickly aware that you were in the 'bad place'.
All you could do was groan pathetically as you tried to gather your thoughts.
Well, fuck.
You kicked yourself for all the times you rolled your eyes at the nutjobs screaming about hell and damnation on the streets. Turns out they were onto something. Other than hard drugs, that is.
However, the true horror of your reality didn’t hit you until you pulled yourself to a shaky stand and took notice of your surroundings. You were in front of a television shop. A decrepit one with a suspicious splatter of blood on the glass, but a shop, nonetheless.
The army of televisions on display peered out at you mockingly. Bile rose in your throat as you flinched. It was a silly fear. In fact, you were certain that being afraid of televisions was a sure-fire way to end up in an asylum. But you couldn’t help it. Everything about them reminded you of him.
You closed your eyes. You needed to focus; you were in hell.
Vincent should be the last person on your mind right now.
“As the person on everyone’s minds right now, I just want to say it’s a pleasure to be Hell’s most trustworthy source of entertainment!”
Your neck nearly snapped clean off your head as you jerked up. When your eyes met the store window, it felt as though you had been sucker punched in the gut. You swayed unsteadily as your breathing grew laboured.
On every single one of the screens sat a vaguely humanoid man with a television set for a head. He was sitting on a sleek armchair, smiling charmingly into the camera, though his digital eyes were cold and hungry. Just like they had been when he was alive.
It was Vincent.
You stifled a horrified scream with the heel of your palm. Tears pooled in your eyes and promptly spilled onto your cheeks as you kept your gaze trained on the screens in front of you. He was hosting some kind of talk show, though the content was nothing more than white noise. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
A few of the demonic creatures (that you now realised were likely other deceased humans) threw jeers your way as they passed.
“Get off the sidewalk, bitch!”
“You new around here, pretty girl? Wanna make some easy cash?”
“Fucking crybaby…”
You didn’t even spare them a glance.
You should have realised sooner… obviously that bastard was down here.
And now you were too.
You would never be free.
Vincent looked directly into the camera, and you felt your skin crawl. It was as if he was gazing right at you, dissecting you piece by piece until you were completely hollowed out.
Then, he let out a smarmy chuckle.
“Let’s just say, I can’t wait for you to see what I have in store.”
65 years later
“Delivery!” Your voice echoed throughout the colossal warehouse, clashing with the sounds of heavy machinery grinding.
As usual, none of the sinners operating the tools spared you a glance. You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t bring yourself to hold it against them. You knew Carmilla Carmine ran a tight ship; her workers were no doubt trying to beat some looming deadline.
As much as you admired Carmilla, the thought of working directly under her sent shudders down your spine. Not even an exorcist blade was as brutal as that woman’s glare.
“You’re four hours late.”
You jolted at the sharp voice overhead. Glancing upwards, you spotted the familiar Overlord perched elegantly on the balcony that wrapped around the factory walls. You let out a breath that had caught in your throat.
Paranoia was a tough habit to shake. Even after all these years.
“Ms Carmine! Did you get new heels? You look taller than when I saw you last.” You squinted at the razor-sharp points of her feet. “And pointier.”
Carmilla brushed off your question like a speck of dust. “Do you have what I requested?”
“Right here, ma’am.” You replied, patting the trolley of crates beside you. “Sorry for the delay. I’m a little behind on orders at the moment. I threw in some freebies to make up for it.” The lie slipped out of your mouth easily as you forced a polite smile.
Truthfully, you were late because of the newly installed VoxTek cameras in the Industrial District. Now, you had to take a route along the outskirts of town. A route that was so out of the way that not even Vox could be bothered to monitor it.
Carmilla narrowed her eyes at you but didn’t push the issue. She simply reached for the clipboard in your hand to sign for the delivery. Your heart swelled with gratitude as you handed it to her with a slight nod.
For whatever reason, the two of you had formed a tentative understanding. It was by no means a friendship. But it was something.
A symbiotic bond between a supplier and a customer, maybe?
“I expect my next order to be on time,” Carmilla stated before tossing the clipboard back to you. She proceeded to leap back onto the balcony, not even sparing you a second glance.
You saluted the impressive display of aerobatics. “You got it. Anything for my favourite customer.”
That one was definitely not a lie. Carmilla’s orders accounted for about 90% of your profits, which was why she was saved in your phone under the name “my golden goose”.
(A joke that would probably end with you getting skinned if she ever found out.)
You delivered to her so often that Carmilla’s employees likely assumed you were some kind of underground dealer - supplying her with the finest materials for her weaponry. However, they were sorely mistaken.
You had a small candle-making business. And apparently, Carmilla Carmine really loved scented candles. Though you could hardly blame her. Your scented candles were essentially unbeatable in terms of sheer variety and quality.
The power you had received after arriving in hell and inhabiting your strange new ‘demon body’ allowed you to secrete essential oils from your palms. From there, you could mix and experiment until you found the most delightful scents for your customers. Like a scientist.
Or someone who cooked meth.
Frankly, it was a power that most sinners would turn their noses up at. But for you, it was your ticket to earning money while staying mostly out of sight and under Vox’s radar – which had somehow worked for the past 65 years.
All that time, and Vox still wasn’t aware that you were in Hell.
Despite his dystopian levels of surveillance over Pentagram City, and even though you knew he had been keeping an eye out for you, the man was none the wiser of your presence down here.
You were determined to keep it that way.
As you left the warehouse, you cast a wary glance into the streets ahead. You had scouted the area when you arrived and hadn’t spotted any VoxTek electronics, but you knew it was better not to take any chances.
You rushed to your van. It was battered, and the engine coughed like a lung cancer patient each time you pushed the gas pedal, but you loved it dearly.
The coil of tension in your chest loosened once you were in the vehicle. You always felt safe behind the tinted windows and discreet exterior of your van, like it was an impenetrable barrier between you and the horrors outside.
It was part of the reason you chose to live out of it rather than find permanent accommodation. That and the rent prices in Hell were borderline criminal.
Maybe that was part of the eternal punishment?
With an amused chuckle, you put the key in the ignition and turned it.
Vox was pissed.
That wasn’t a particularly new development – Vox was often pissed. He was pissed when his employees opened their worthless mouths to question him, he was pissed when Velvette tuned him out in favour of scrolling on her phone, and he was pissed when Valentino threw one of his tantrums. He was certainly pissed whenever a certain radio demon crossed his mind for more than two seconds. Good thing that prick had been gone for years. Hopefully dead.
But the thing that set him apart from the rest of Hell’s angry residents was that he knew how to use his rage to his advantage. Well… most of the time.
Today was different.
It was what Val called one of his ‘hunting’ days; a day where everyone in Vee tower knew to avoid him. Lest they end up an entrée for Shockwav, that is. It consisted of him holing up in his office while he scanned every corner of Pentagram City that was under his surveillance.
It was tedious. It was frustrating. But at this point, it was one of the only things keeping him sane.
The thought that he could someday find you.
Vox reclined in his chair as a hungry smile tugged at his virtual lips, his eyes trained on the wall of screens in front of him.
Unfamiliar sinners flitted on and off each of them, oblivious to the fact that they were being watched. Vox sank his claws into the arms of his chair, tearing through the leather like butter. He wanted nothing more than to obliterate each of them until only you filled his screen.
You had to have died by now. And Vox was almost 100% confident you wouldn’t pass the background check for Heaven.
Don’t get him wrong – Vox knew you were sweet and loving. You were perfect because you were his. But he also knew better than anyone the sins you committed in life; the sins that kept you awake at night.
For a second, he wondered what new sins you may have committed after his premature departure, but the thought alone made his head glitch. The idea that you had lived on without him filled him with so much blood-boiling fury that he wanted to tear someone apart.
You should have killed yourself the second he died. He always told you that – warned you that you were not permitted to exist in the world if he wasn’t there to cherish you.
But unfortunately, you decided to disobey him one last time.
Vox decided that he would need to punish you accordingly once you were back where you belonged. Safe in his arms, looking at him alone.
“Well, dearest, looks like it's time to raise the stakes in our little game of hide-and-seek,” Vox muttered, flicking off the screens and plunging his office into darkness. “Your darling husband is nothing if not persistent.”