If someone ever tells you that the bottom of hell is defined by scorching heat and blazing flames, then know that they have never visited "Sector G" in the city of Elysium on a winter night.
The true bottom of hell is not hot; it is cold, viscous, and reeks of rust, human urine, and absolute despair.
The air here is not breathed, but swallowed like a mass of black sludge that settles in your lungs and refuses to leave.
After we patched up our wounds in Zack's apartment, which resembled an electronic junkyard, and after Valisera performed that nightmarish spacetime surgery on herself—which still makes me shiver every time I remember the sound of her flesh grinding—the silver demon decided that staying in the apartment meant waiting for death like lab rats in a cage.
We had to move.
We had to be the hunters, or at the very least, choose the battlefield where we would skin those chasing us.
We left the apartment under the cover of darkness.
