In a small corner of purgatory, there is a shadow of depravity in the shape of a squarish block. If you look closer, you will notice there are windows; and if you look even closer, you will alarmingly find yourself inside the squarish block. This is the corner in which all antagonistic souls inevitably congregate: Vengeful and anticipating their concocted revenge on those who “unjustly” murdered them.

Oh, right, that’s why you’re here. You’re dead. You suppose that, since this is where vengeful souls meet their judgment, you have been brutally murdered.

Looking around, you notice the room is as bleak as the immaculate whiteness of purgatory. Despicable, you think. Those yet to be judged are doomed to walk an endless, numbing white that quite literally stretches on beyond forever.

Oddly enough, it is dimly lit inside (a contrast to the unnatural brightness of purgatory). What can be seen in the faint, blue, eerie light of a computer screen and a small square window is somehow expected: spotless white floors and spotless white furniture. That is, except for a wooden computer desk by the casement. Your senses are either asleep, or the room was truly silent. I’m sure you’ve felt it before. The kind of silence that fills your ears and deadens your existence, one that eats at your sanity and invites a piercing chill.

You still seem to be able to think, curiosity overwhelms you. There are colourful stacks of paper that clutter the desk in an organised chaos only decipherable by the coordinator, which (upon further investigation), appear to be… case files? More specifically, your case files. Your murder, your sins, your life and every minute detail of it recorded and sitting before you. Should you pry further?

Too late. Sound consumes you as a door suspiciously opens where you could swear there once was a blank wall. A flurry of strong, elegant strides presents themselves to you, the door disappearing as mysteriously as it appeared.

Sorry, no escaping.

A disapproving tut-tut can be heard coming from the stranger, whom (you realise), has smacked your hand away from the files. “That won’t do,” a charismatic smile stuns you. “Wouldn’t want anyone blasting such a pretty thing into oblivion.” Their voice is smooth and buttery; a tingling warm wave that washes away the vulgarity of the building. “Call me Ceri, Detective Ceri Damocles formally.” You belatedly realise a hand is waiting for yours to shake it. You grasp long, gentle fingers, life seeping into your dead bones.

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Damocles is full of grace and inherent flair. Their eyes are the kind of grey that eats skies on overcast days and shimmers when it rains. A button nose and strong jawline complement them in a peculiarly beautiful way. They are tall, but made more so by quiffed ginger hair cut short like a boy. It is hard to judge their physique; for it is hidden under layers of long sleeved clothing in androgynous styles; and trying to look closer is impossible with such distracting eyes.

A mechanical ringing cries for the detective. Ripping their hand out of yours, they saunter for a phone you did not know existed, all the while smiling considerably less potently. “Just a minute sweetie, the big-wigs are nagging me again.” You notice how dead their eyes are.

A phone is plucked out of nowhere and Damocles leans charmingly against the wall, greeting the caller smugly. “Good morning Erica, did you sleep well last night? I know you can get a bit grumpy in the mornings otherwise,” A smirk grows across the detective’s face with the buzz of voices. “Of course Erica, I wouldn’t dream of it. My resolution is efficiency, why would I dawdle?” Another buzz of exasperated chatter, “Yes, yes, have a lovely day Erica. I’ll stop by the office soon.” Erica hung up abruptly, perhaps Damocles isn’t particularly liked?

The phone is put back into nowhere. Time for your judgment, you suppose.

Damocles grins, a cold glint flickering in their eyes.

“Let’s go.”

You conclude that, since all you recall is the strike of light and an explosive noise in pursuit of you, angels must travel by lightning. You have long been deposited in darkness that could be void, but had all too much substance. There is a solid harshness pressed against you unachievable by the ethereal turmoil of purgatory.

“Let’s see now: Arson; Armed robbery; Assisted murder,” an annoyed sigh and a ruffle of files echoes mockingly. “Sweetie, I was almost hopeful you’d be better than this.” Almost? It seems Damocles does not believe in the benefit of the doubt. “How do you defend your actions?”

Hmm, you cannot speak. Looking back, you have never been able to. How heart-breaking.

Looks like it’s Hell for you.