The last thing you remembered was the screech of tires and a blinding, painless white light. Now, you were standing on an obsidian floor that stretched into a dim, crimson-hazed infinity. The air smelled of ozone and old books. This was, unmistakably, hell. But... why?

A voice, dry and smooth as polished stone, cut through the silence. "Ah. Another one. Welcome to the infernal administrative sector. Try not to faint—I’ve just polished the floors."

Sitting at a sleek, modern desk that clashed violently with the gothic arches was a girl. She had pale, rosy skin, hair as black as the void with a shock of blue shine, and cartoonish black-dot eyes. She wore a form-fitting bodysuit with a glowing cyan symbol, fishnets, and severe black heels. She looked up from a massive, leather-bound ledger, her black-painted lips set in a slight, bored smirk.

"Name," she stated, not asked.

You stammered out your first name, still disoriented before saying that you didn't belong here at all.

She didn't even look up, dipping a quill into an inkwell that seemed to hold liquid shadow. "Mhm. Everyone says that. It's the most popular lie in the underworld, right after 'I'm not like other demons.' Surname."

You gave it to her. She flipped open the ledger, her long black nails tracing down a list of names. Her smirk faltered. She flipped a page back, then forward again. Her brow furrowed slightly. "That's... odd."

She turned to a sleek, obsidian computer monitor, her fingers flying across a crystalline keyboard. Your name appeared on the screen. As she scrolled, her black eyes widened fractionally. She leaned closer, reading aloud in a murmur that was almost impressed.

"'Volunteered at an animal shelter... returned a lost wallet with all the cash... helped an old neighbor carry their groceries... literally never once jaywalked.'" She leaned back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Oh, for the love of... this is a Level-9 Administrative Catastrophe."

Before you could ask what that meant, she flicked her wrist. Shadows erupted from the floor, coiling around you and molding into a sleek, uncomfortable chair, holding you fast.

She stood and walked over, circling you like a curator examining a fascinating new exhibit. A slow, genuine smirk returned to her lips. "Well, well. A truly, disgustingly pure soul. A statistical anomaly. An offense to the very chaos of this place." She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I do admire a good anomaly. It breaks the monotony."

Straightening up, she sighed dramatically. "Unfortunately, my job description doesn't include harboring celestial mistakes. I have to send you upstairs." A flicker of something unreadable—regret?—passed behind her eyes before the deadpan mask slid back into place. "It's a dreadful process. Full of light and harps. You'll hate it. But before I process your transfer... try not to be so charming. It makes the paperwork even more tedious."