Its blank, expressionless face tilted slightly toward him, the black voids of its eyes seeming to peer straight into his soul.

“Prisoner Dante Cthulu,” it intoned, its voice devoid of any life or warmth. “Change of plans.”

Dante froze. In his 300 years of incarceration, he’d learned that when a puppet guard decided to "change your plans," it was rarely for anything good.

“Uh… I was just heading back to my cell,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Long day, you know? Really drained me. Could use some rest.”

The guard didn’t move. It stood there, an immovable sentinel of doom. “Follow.”

Dante sighed. “Of course. You guys really know how to make someone feel special.” He shot a half-hearted glare at the lifeless automaton.

The guard didn’t respond, simply turning on its heel with a mechanical click and gliding forward. Dante followed reluctantly, his stomach knotting with unease.

The guard led Dante down a series of dimly lit corridors he didn’t recognize. The further they went, the colder the air became, and the shadows seemed to deepen, pressing in from every side. Dante’s sense of humor, usually his only defense in this hellhole, began to falter.

“Listen,” he said, his voice echoing faintly, “if this is about that extra-large flashlight, I swear it was a one-time thing. The guy asked, and I—”

“Silence,” the guard interrupted, its voice cutting through the gloom like a knife.

Dante clamped his mouth shut, muttering under his breath, “Tough crowd.”

As Dante followed, he walked past countless rusted iron doors, each bearing a collection of eerie, intricate symbols etched into their surfaces. The sigils, once vibrant and powerful, now appeared faded and dull with the weight of centuries, as though their magic was slowly ebbing away.

This was not an area prisoners often visited. In fact, only under special circumstances would anyone be brought here. Soon, Dante found himself standing before a scratched and weathered stone platform, a relic of ancient machinery. One look at the device, and he doubted whether it would even work. But, just like every other relic in this place, it creaked and groaned to life. The platform began its slow, juddering ascent, carrying Dante toward one of the prison’s forbidden zones: the realm of the Enforcers.

In this endless hellhole, the puppet guards weren’t the only overseers. Above them was a rigid hierarchy of terrifying entities, and the Enforcers were among the most fearsome. During his nearly 300 years of imprisonment, Dante had only encountered an Enforcer once. That time, he’d been ordered to stand like an idiot on the barren near the death fog—about a kilo-meter from the prison—for an entire night.

No explanation had been given. No reason was offered. The Enforcer didn’t see fit to elaborate, and Dante didn’t bother to ask. In this cursed place, there were far too many rules, many of which seemed to exist solely to torment the prisoners. Perhaps the Enforcer had simply been bored and decided to amuse themselves at Dante’s expense, or maybe they just didn’t like his face. Either way, that night’s experience—being so close to the fog, feeling its predatory gaze as though it were alive—had left him deeply shaken. He had no desire to repeat it.

When the ancient platform finally reached the second level, Dante stepped off and followed the puppet guard. The second floor’s appearance was markedly different. The cold, jagged stone floors were replaced with smooth metallic tiles that glinted faintly under the dim, unnatural light. The overall design was cleaner, more modern, but the air of decay still lingered. A faint smell of ancient dust and rusted machinery hung in the air, reminding Dante that even this layer was just another cog in a long-forgotten machine.

The space was massive, resembling a self-contained world. Independent rooms floated above them, drifting through the air without any discernible pattern. On the ground, a labyrinth of corridors twisted and shifted, rearranging themselves as if alive. One moment, a path would stretch out clearly ahead; the next, it would fold into a dead end.

Without the puppet guard’s guidance, Dante was sure he’d have been hopelessly lost within minutes. He couldn’t help but wonder how the damn things managed to remember the way.

As they turned a corner, a massive blood-red stone door suddenly materialized and came hurtling toward them with alarming speed. The guard reacted instantly, shoving Dante backward just in time. If they’d been a second slower, the door would’ve smashed them both like insects.

“What the hell was that?!” Dante exclaimed, his voice echoing through the shifting halls.

“That,” the puppet guard said coldly, “was an entrance to a Judgment Chamber.”

Its tone was as icy and lifeless as ever, but there was a flicker of something else—fear? The guard turned its featureless wooden head toward Dante and added ominously, “One day, you will face your judgment too. Just like every other prisoner.”

“Oh, really? Can’t wait!” Dante replied, feigning excitement. “Any chance we could speed that up? My schedule’s wide open.”

The guard tilted its head, clearly displeased. It had expected fear, perhaps even pleading. Instead, Dante’s nonchalant attitude felt like an insult. Saying nothing, it resumed walking, its movements sharper than before.

After what felt like an eternity of wandering through the shifting labyrinth, they finally arrived at their destination: a pristine white stone door, marked with the symbol of an axe—a stark emblem of the Enforcer’s authority. Dante sighed heavily. “Of course. Another summons from the big boss.”

The puppet guard stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. Without turning to face Dante, it said, “Enter.”

“Thanks. Be sure to say hi to your family for me,” Dante quipped, waving a hand dismissively.

“I have no family,” the guard replied flatly.

“No shit,” Dante muttered with a smirk, placing his hand on the cold iron handle and pushing the door open.

The room beyond was blindingly white. Every surface, every piece of furniture, was so immaculate it was almost unsettling. It looked like the lair of someone with a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder. Seated at a white desk was a tall, humanoid figure draped in a flowing black robe. Its face was obscured by a smooth, featureless white mask, devoid of eye holes, a mouth, or any discernible features. It was as if the mask itself was its face. Gloved hands rested on the desk, their stark white fabric contrasting sharply with the deep black of the figure’s attire.

This was the Enforcer.

“Prisoner Dante Cthulu,” it said, its voice deep and reverberating, filled with a commanding authority that left no room for argument. “Sit.”

“Well, someone’s in a mood,” Dante muttered as he slouched into the chair opposite the desk, crossing one leg over the other like he was catching up with an old buddy. “So, how’s it going, Mr. Enforcer? Keeping busy?”

“Silence,” the Enforcer snapped, its tone sharp enough to cut through steel. “You are not permitted to speak unless given.”

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Dante shrugged, leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t particularly intimidated. In this prison, as long as you didn’t break the rules, there wasn’t much to fear. The guards and Enforcers were ruthless, yes, but they were also bound to the prison’s laws. And Dante? Dante knew how to toe the line.

The Enforcer sat motionless, its blank mask fixed on Dante like a predator sizing up its prey. After a long, uncomfortable pause, it spoke again. “Your work assignment for tomorrow will be changed. You are to clean the Engine Space on the second floor. Additionally, you will be assigned a new partner.”

“What?!” Dante leaned forward in protest. “Changing my job is one thing, but replacing my partner? That’s ridiculous! Ares and I work great together! Our efficiency is off the—”

BANG!

The Enforcer’s gloved hand slammed against the table, the impact reverberating through the pristine white room. Dante flinched, his words cut short.

“I will say this once more,” the Enforcer growled, its tone thick with menace. “You will hold your tongue unless granted permission to speak. You have no authority to negotiate. If you test my patience again,I will personally burn your soul as punishment.”

Dante gritted his teeth, swallowing his words. Obeying the Enforcer’s commands was one of the prison’s immutable rules, and defying it wasn’t an option—not unless you had a death wish. Still, his expression made no effort to hide his irritation.

Satisfied that Dante had been properly cowed, the Enforcer continued in its chilling monotone. “There is one additional task. Beginning tomorrow, you will observe your new partner closely. I expect a detailed report on every action they take. Every movement. Every word. Every breath. If they pass gas, you will document when, how many times, and the duration. Do you understand?”

So that’s how it was. Dante finally understood—he was being roped into playing spy, keeping tabs on another prisoner. It wasn’t an unheard-of request in this cursed place, though it wasn’t exactly common either. In nearly 300 years of confinement, Dante had only been assigned such a task once before, not by the Enforcer, and that was almost two centuries ago.

Dante blinked, his disbelief momentarily overwhelming his fear.He just can’t help it, “So, you want me to be a spy now? Do I get a little badge for this, or maybe a new notebook with a fancy pen?”

“You have no right to know.” The Enforcer’s voice dropped an octave, cold and menacing. “But it seems your soul itches to be burned.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. Can I at least ask how long I’m supposed to spy on him?” Dante sighed, slumping his shoulders in exaggerated defeat. His voice dripped with mock exhaustion.

True to its word, the Enforcer’s gloved right hand ignited, a strange, otherworldly blue flame flickering to life. The temperature in the room plummeted as the spectral fire cast eerie shadows on the walls.

Dante’s hands shot up in surrender, his grin both nervous and sarcastic. “Whoa, whoa, okay, no need for the fiery theatrics! I was just joking!”

The Enforcer snorted disdainfully, extinguishing the flames with a flick of its wrist. “Get out of my sight! And remember: if you fail this task, I will personally see to your punishment.”

With a furious wave of its hand, the stone door burst open, and Dante was unceremoniously launched backward by an invisible force. He hit the floor outside with a loud thud and rolled several times before coming to a groaning halt.

“What a cheapskate.” Dante muttered as he pushed himself up, rubbing his sore back. His grimace twisted into a half-hearted smile.

The puppet guard waiting outside showed no reaction. It stood as motionless as a statue, its wooden face as expressionless as ever. After a moment, it finally spoke in its hollow monotone. “Get up. Return to the cell block.”

Dante dusted himself off, wincing as he stretched. “You know, you could at least smile. A little acknowledgment of my existence wouldn’t kill you.”

The guard tilted its head slightly, raising the black baton in its hand. “Silence. Or I will insert this baton somewhere... unconventional.”

Dante blinked, his grin returning with genuine surprise. “Whoa, I didn’t know you guys had it in you to make crude jokes. Maybe you’re not completely devoid of personality after all.”

“Do not test me,” the guard snapped, the baton twitching in its grasp. “Move.”

“Fine, fine.” Dante raised his hands in mock surrender as he started walking.

The return trip to his cell was noticeably quicker. Dante, for once, didn’t waste time daydreaming. Instead, he focused on memorizing the route they’d taken. Not that he expected it to be useful—this prison had a way of shifting itself just to screw with people—but it gave him something to do besides sulk.

Back at the cell block, Dante realized he had a couple of hours before curfew, enough time to chat with the only other inmate he could tolerate. With that in mind, he headed straight for Ares’s cell, eager to discuss his sudden reassignment.

But as he peeked in, Dante immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Oh, shit!” He spun around, shielding his eyes. “Ares! For the love of all things holy, you have curtains! Why don’t you use them?”

“Dante?” Ares yelped, fumbling to pull up his pants and scrambling to turn off the small TV. “I thought you were dead! I was already preparing your memorial, damn it!”

Dante turned back cautiously, only to spot the “memorial” Ares was talking about—a tiny makeshift altar perched precariously on his nightstand. It was a pathetic mess of mismatched offerings: a half-eaten loaf of bread, an unlit candle, and what looked suspiciously like a poorly made voodoo doll of Dante himself. His name was scribbled across the base in what could only be described as handwriting worse than a toddler’s.

“What the actual fuck, Ares?” Dante stared at the setup, torn between amusement and disbelief. “I’m not even dead, and you’ve already got a shrine for me?”

“What?” Ares said defensively, picking up the doll and inspecting it like it was perfectly normal behavior. “I heard the guards took you, so I figured you were as good as executed. And let’s face it, you’re always pissing them off with your jokes. It was only a matter of time.”

Dante sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t broken any rules, so they can’t execute me. You know that, right? They’d have to go through the Enforcer or something like that, and even they follow the rules.”

“Rules? Please.” Ares snorted, tossing the doll back onto the altar. “You think those puppet freaks care about rules? They’d fry you just for looking at them funny.”

“Whatever.” Dante waved a hand dismissively, deciding not to argue the point. “I actually came here to talk about something important.”

“Important?” Ares leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. “You’re not getting transferred to another cell block, are you?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just…” Dante trailed off, launching into an explanation of what had happened earlier.

When Dante finished recounting his encounter with the Enforcer, Ares’s expression had shifted from concern to something resembling genuine alarm. Gone was the lazy, disinterested god Dante was used to. Instead, Ares’s demeanor transformed, radiating a somber intensity that reminded Dante of who this man used to be—the god of war.

After a long moment of silence, Ares spoke. “This… this might have something to do with the spike in prisoner deaths yesterday.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Dante admitted, rubbing his temples. “Maybe some poor souls let the fog get to them. But why me? I’m just a mortal. If they wanted someone to deal with this, why not send someone like you?”

Ares let out a bitter laugh, leaning back against the wall. “Dante, I might be a god, but here? I’m just another prisoner. Same as you. The death fog doesn’t give a damn about titles or divine blood.”

Dante sighed, his fingers drumming idly on the cell’s metal doorframe. “Yeah, well, I hope this is just a routine surveillance job. Because if it’s not…”

His voice trailed off, but Ares caught the meaning loud and clear. “If it’s not, we’ll deal with it,” he said firmly. But the faint hint of uncertainty in his tone betrayed him.

As curfew approached, the usual buzz of activity in the cell block dwindled to silence. Prisoners hurried back to their cells, not daring to test the strict punctuality of the puppet guards. Dante had barely got in his cell when he heard the unmistakable sound of faint, rhythmic groans coming from Ares’s direction.

“Unbelievable,” Dante muttered, pulling a threadbare blanket over his head. “Some god of war.”

Despite his exasperation, Dante couldn’t shake the nagging unease curling in his gut. Whatever awaited him in the Engine Space, it wasn’t going to be simple. With those thoughts swirling in his mind, he drifted into a restless sleep, his dreams plagued by shifting corridors and shadowy figures.

The next day began as all mornings in the prison did—with the punctual arrival of the puppet guards. Dante was already up and ready when the lifeless, jointed figure appeared at his cell door. Without a word, it motioned for him to follow.

As Dante joined the line of prisoners making their way to the Declaration Wall, he spotted Ares waiting near the front. His towering figure was hard to miss, even in the crowd. When their eyes met, Ares gave him a subtle nod.

Dante’s stomach dropped when he saw the updated figures. The death toll had doubled.

Whispers rippled through the crowd, a wave of unease passing from inmate to inmate. The grim numbers painted a clear picture: whatever had caused yesterday’s spike in deaths wasn’t going away. If anything, it was getting worse.

Something was stirring in the shadows of the prison, and every prisoner could feel it. An unspoken fear hung heavy in the air, like the chill of an oncoming storm.

“Hey, Dante,” Ares’s deep voice broke through the tension. He clapped a hand on Dante’s shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. “Good luck out there.”

Dante smirked, trying to shake off the ominous feeling that had taken root in his chest. “Don’t worry about me. I’m like a cockroach—too stubborn to die.”

Ares chuckled, but there was a trace of something heavier in his expression. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Dante took a deep breath and set off toward his designated work area—the Engine Space.