POV Jane Doe.

The never-ending hallway stretches out before me, a sterile and lonely path illuminated only by flickering lights. As I walk, I can't help but feel like a cliché white girl in a horror movie, except instead of dying at the hands of some masked killer, I'm just trying to find my way because the receptionist with her absurdly long nails has given me half-assed directions. Might as well be dead already. But wait, it could always get worse.

"You must be Jane," a voice says behind me.

I scream and turn around, ready to defend myself with my beat-up sneakers. Turns out, no one is there. Great. Slowly turning back, I continue on my journey to wherever the hell I'm supposed to go, only to scream again and almost trip over myself.

"Are you alright, Jane?"

Ugh, not even close, buddy.

The man in front of me has hair blonder than a Disney princess and eyes that remind me of my own before life sucked the brightness out of them. His obnoxious Simon Cowell grin makes me want to punch him straight in his expensive, probably designer face. And don't even get me started on his fancy clipboard and tailored suit that could fund my existence for a year.

Oh, and those shoes? Definitely made from real snakeskin. Sicko.

"Jesus CHRIST," I exclaim, trying to regain my composure. "Could you have given me a warning before creeping up on me like that... you weirdo with your snake shoes."

He just shrugs, nonchalant as ever. "Oh, did Eve not tell you I'd be waiting for you here?"

I mentally curse out Eve, the receptionist who probably gets off on people being caught off guard. Another name to add to the list of signatures on my shoe - if I end up in hell, at least I will know who to look for.

"And just so we're clear," he declares in a pompous tone, "it's The Gatekeeper."

I can't resist flipping him off as he turns away. But of course, he catches me and shoots back the same look I have been giving him all this time - the universal sign for 'fuck off'.

"I didn't ask," I fire back with zero fucks given.

"Charming... You must have a lot of questions," he drawls, his smirk growing more irritating by the second.

"A lot is an understatement," I reply dryly, rolling my eyes.

"Well, they'll be answered in due time."

"Great, just what every dead person wants to hear," I mutter sarcastically under my breath.

But of course, I still have to wait for this date with death. "Not much longer," he reassures me. "I'm here to take you to your second date with Fate."

"Hopefully there's wine this time," I quip, trying to lighten the mood.

"Well, we'll be heading to your dressing room first," he informs me as we start walking.

"Dressing room?" I scoff. "What, am I supposed to put on a fancy gown before facing death again?"

"Yes, and we must be quick because you're late," he says with a hint of annoyance.

I let out a sarcastic snicker as I survey my surroundings. "Late to my own date with death? How fitting."

The Gatekeeper gives me a stern look, clearly not amused by my lack of punctuality. "Well, last time you were early. You can't even die correctly."

"Sounds like someone who knows the struggle," I quip, earning myself an even more disapproving glare. I can't help but wonder how he had ended up in this role - maybe he had been murdered too, judging by his smug demeanor. And then it hits me - maybe that was why I was here too. Because let's face it, I might have been a bitch in life, but at least I owned it.

But before I can linger on that thought any longer, I walk straight into the door with a loud thud. "Ow!" I exclaim, rubbing my forehead and trying not to collapse and die for the second time since arriving in this afterlife. It turns out even in death, pain is still very much a thing.

With my eyes fluttering open, I take in the sign in front of me - "Jane's dressing room." Huh, so I guess this is where all the souls go before their final destination. Before I can knock on the door though, my attention is drawn to the sudden absence of the Gatekeeper. When had he left? And then I hear loud crashing noises coming from inside the dressing room. Great, so not only am I stuck in the afterlife, but with incompetent staff as well. Is there no escape from shitty customer service?

I drag my heels towards the door, letting out an exasperated sigh before finally mustering up the energy to knock. I pound on the door like a crazed maniac, the echoes of my fists reverberating through the empty hallway. "Open up, for fuck's sake!" I yell, my patience wearing thin.

After what feels like an eternity, I hear shuffling from inside and a timid voice responds. "Just a moment," it says, its tone laced with fear and guilt. It reminds me of someone who had been caught watching midget porn on Pornhub.

As I wait, I hear the distinct sound of a chainsaw revving up and immediately turn on my heel to make a run for it. But then the door opens and I'm greeted by... my own reflection in the looking glass. Goddamn it.

I examine myself in the mirror, taking note of my tired appearance. I have dark circles under my eyes and my usually curly chocolate locks are now lifeless and straight. It's almost comical how dying seems to have miraculously straightened my unruly hair; if only it were that easy in life, I would have been a billionaire. My once golden skin has lost its healthy glow, and there's a strange bruise on my neck that makes me wonder if I have bruises elsewhere as well. As I look down at my hands, I see they're covered in dirt and grime, a constant reminder that I am indeed dead.

The wait feels like torture. Just as I'm considering whether the dead can die of boredom, a man pops into existence like a jack-in-the-box from hell. We both scream like we're auditioning for a B-grade horror flick. So much for the calm and quiet of the afterlife.

As our screeches fade into awkward echoes, the guy's eyes bug out like he's seen a ghost. Which, considering where we are, is pretty fucking ironic.

"Oh my GODS, why didn't they tell me you looked like..." He stops mid-sentence, probably realizing there's no polite way to finish that thought.

"Like death?" I offer, my sarcasm dialed up to eleven. "Shocking, I know. Who would've thought the dead girl wouldn't look fresh as a daisy?"

"No, worse," he stutters, his eyes bulging with fear. "We have a lot of work cut out for us."

"Oh joy," I deadpan. "And who might you be exactly?"

"Your beautician, or should I say mortician..." he trails off, smirking at his own joke.

I raise a dirty eyebrow at him. "You're kidding, right?"

He lets out a small laugh. "I leave the jokes for the dead comedians."

My mortician? More like a mad scientist who had escaped from an asylum. His outfit is a cacophony of colors, from the rainbow suit to his electric blue hair and top hat. Even his socks are mismatched and his shoes resemble something out of a Dr. Seuss book.

"Sorry for the wait," he says, wiping sweat off his forehead with a shaky hand. "I was just... busy."

I eye him warily as I step into the room, taking in the chainsaw lying abandoned on the floor. "Busy doing what? Chopping up bodies?"

He lets out a nervous laugh and quickly ushers me to sit in the chair. "Oh no, nothing like that. Just some... experimenting with hairstyles." His lips are painted with a heart and I can't help but think 'experiment' is an understatement as I catch a glimpse of his outrageous ensemble in the mirror.

"Well, I can see you've done quite the experiment on yourself," I say dryly, gesturing at his appearance.

He just chuckles and begins to gather his tools, including scissors that look more like weapons than hair-cutting tools. "Don't worry, dear. You're in good hands."

I gulp and try not to judge too harshly.

"So, how did you get into this... profession?" I ask cautiously, curious about his backstory.

"Oh, I've always had a fascination with hair and experimenting with different styles," he replies eagerly, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

"And the chainsaw?" I can't help but ask.

His eyes light up with excitement. "Ah, that's just for when clients ask for extreme makeovers. It adds some... drama."

I picture myself walking out with half my head shaved and a bloody chainsaw in hand.

"Well, as long as you don't use it on me," I joke nervously.

He just gives me a mischievous grin. "Oh, but where's the fun in that?"

My heart races as I gulp nervously, silently praying to every deity I have never believed in that he will keep that chainsaw far away from me. And yet, as messed up as it is, he's the first person since I arrived in this afterlife beyond hell that I don't want to punch in the face or add to the list of assholes on my shoes. Perhaps it's because death has already taken care of that part for him.

The Mortician begins his work with my hair, and the room fills with the sound of scissors snip-snip-sniping against the leather chair. He starts by shaving off the rough edges, combing through the knots and tangles until it's all smooth and silky to the touch.

The heavy smell of hair straightener fills the air, mixed with a faint whiff of embalming fluid from his other clients. "You're in luck, we have a new line of dyes today," he remarks, running his fingers through a bottle of rich crimson hues before pouring a generous amount into small bowls.

"Want to try something new?" His voice is playful, but not unkind as he dips each comb into the inky liquid and drags them through my hair. A strange warmth spreads through me as he slides one through my scalp -- or perhaps it's just relief that he isn't sawing it off altogether.

"This color will make your eyes pop," he says, placing a hand on my head gently as if guiding me towards an important decision.

As he speaks, I shut my eyes, my twisted brain immediately picturing my eyeballs literally popping out. Gross.

Suddenly, his hands are gone and cool air replaces them; he must be applying some product or another for shine. His breath tickles my ears as he murmurs about how pretty I'll be when he's done.

My skin tingles under his fingertips as he works his magic with brushes and spray cans, painting an intricate design across my face: lines representing tears running down cheeks that could never cry again; stars around my eyelids for those final moments of sight before darkness claimed me forever; feathers on my lips symbolizing freedom in flight from this afterlife beyond hell.

Staring back at me is a creature of beauty and darkness. The once bland features of my face are now transformed into something otherworldly and captivating. My hair hangs in waves of deep crimson, framing my face perfectly. The colors on my skin blend seamlessly together, creating a hauntingly beautiful effect.

The Mortician stands behind me, smiling at his work with pride evident in his eyes.

"Oh wow," is all I can say, still in shock at the transformation.

He chuckles softly. "I told you we do extreme makeovers here." I can't help but admire myself in the mirror for a few more seconds before turning to thank him profusely.

"Thank you so much," I say sincerely.

His response, however, makes my stomach flip nervously.

"It was my pleasure," he says with a grin that might have looked innocent if it weren't for the circumstances. "But doll, don't thank me too soon. We've only just cracked open this little cocoon."

"Cocoon?" I take his hand as he helps me up from the plush chair and look around his salon. It's an eerie blend of glamour and gore - racks of designer clothes mingle with jars filled with strange concoctions and pictures of dead actresses like Marilyn Monroe, who I can't help but wonder if he had worked on in her final moments.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach as he leads me to the backroom, excitement mixing with apprehension at what transformations he has in store for me. The smell of burning sage hangs in the air, a mélange of scents that can't hide the underlying stench of death.

He guides me down the dimly lit hallway to a closed door at the end. As he unlocks and opens it, a musty smell of formaldehyde hits my nose, making me wrinkle it in disgust. Inside, there's a cold metal table with strange instruments scattered about.

A powerful glint flashes in his eyes as he motions for me to lie down on it. I hesitate for a moment, looking around at the sterile environment before slowly complying.

The table feels cold against my skin as I lay back, and I already feel uneasy, but the Mortician doesn't seem to notice or care. His hands move quickly now, grabbing a scalpel from one tray before starting to cut away my clothes – leather jacket first, then my crop top and ripped jeans, finally my dirty Converse sneakers.

"Try not to move," he murmurs while disconnecting the laces of my sneakers. His voice is so soft yet commanding that it sends shivers down my spine despite the frigid air conditioning of the room. He slides them off gently, revealing my feet: pale, bare soles desperately needing some TLC; callused but surprisingly soft beneath his expert touch.

My heart races as he begins to cut away pieces of fabric from my skin until all that remains are ragged strips of clothing clinging to my body like faded memories. The room is deathly silent apart from the soft swish-swish of his tools gliding across material and our shallow breaths mixing together like two ghosts haunting this place.

His fingers trace every inch of exposed flesh on their way towards removing each piece until finally only a pile of discarded clothing lay beside him on the floor like an offering.

I feel like a plaything in his hands, like he isn't bothered by the mess of my cuts and scrapes, as if they're nothing more than imperfections that need to be fixed with the precision of a surgeon. Each incision burns, but there's no painkiller strong enough to dull the unbearable sensation of being stripped down and opened up like this.

The Mortician's gloved fingers caress my skin as he peels away layers of filth from my pores. I can't help but tremble at his touch - especially on my breasts not because it hurts or because I'm cold but because there's an undeniable intensity radiating from him that makes me feel alive for the first time since... well, since everything went to shit.

It's a twisted kind of intimacy that makes my body tingle even as he scrubs away at my grime-stained skin with rough sponges dipped in harsh soaps that leave stinging trails on my flesh.

Suddenly, his hands pause over a particularly violent scar across my abdomen; his eyes flicker up to meet mine before tracing its jagged path with careful fingers, causing fresh tears to sting at the corners of my eyes.

"A knife wound," he mutters thoughtfully, absorbing its gory tale in a single glance. "Must've been painful."

I nod mutely, clenching my teeth against the pain that shoots through me at his touch. He doesn't seem bothered by any of it – just methodically cleanses every inch until finally, I look like marble once again – smooth and perfect... well, as perfect as one can get after death.

"But you didn't die from the wound," he states.

"I drowned..." I whisper.

"But not on your own. You had help."

"Forgive me for not being grateful for that."

"Most people aren't." He replies.

"This seems a bit excessive just to find out I'm going to hell."

"That's where you think you're going?" He chuckles, but stops when he realizes I'm serious. "You really have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, do you doll?"

"No, I don't. Are you going to enlighten me? Because I was expecting wine on my second date with death, not to be stripped naked by a guy who looks like Rainbow Brite."

"Olivier." He corrects.

"What?"

"My name is Olivier."

"A little late for introductions. And just so you know, Ollie, I prefer to be wined and dined before being dissected like a frog."

"Don't we all."

He reaches for my hands and begins cleaning the dirt and dried blood from under my nails. "You put up quite a fight."

"Don't most people when they're about to be murdered?"

"Not everyone has a fighting chance."

For once, I'm speechless. All I have are strong words, vulgar ones even, and now they escape me.

"You're different from the others," he says, breaking the silence.

"What do you mean?"

"You're worth betting on. They'll like that."

"They?" I ask.

"The Donors."

"Is this where you reveal that you're an organ harvester and you plan on giving my kidney to The Gatekeeper? Because let me tell you, he's the last person I'd willingly donate an organ to."

Ollie's laugh is like music, not like those cheesy high school musicals, but rich and smooth. It has a strange quality that reminds me of Nina, but it makes me laugh uncontrollably. It's either that or ugly cry, and after all the work Ollie has put into making me look better than I ever did in life, I'm not about to ruin it with mascara streaks.

"I see you've met Raphael."

"Raphael?" So that's his name. "A fitting name for a pompous jerk."

"He's not that bad..." Ollie grabs a nail clipper and starts trimming my nails. "Not all the time."

"Do you even believe yourself?"

"No." He laughs again, and I can't help but join in.

"So what's this about Donors?"

"You must have really pissed him off if he hasn't explained it to you yet."

"I do have a talent for pissing people off, it's my superpower."

"That's his too."

As Ollie continues talking, I forget that I'm lying naked in front of someone I have just met that day. Not that it's my first time being nude in front of a stranger, but this isn't a casual Tinder hookup - this is the afterlife.

"Yeah, well I didn't die for small talk about assholes in the afterlife. I did enough of that while I was alive. So are you finally going to give me some answers?"

"I probably shouldn't."

"But you're going to anyway."

"Well, since there has been a change in management... three - no, four millennia..."

"MILLENNIA?!"

"Yes..." He chuckles. "I haven't even gotten to the best part yet and you're already freaking out."

"My bad... continue."

"Things in Limbo aren't how they used to be. Normally, people would have already ascended or descended by now. But the powers that be got bored and decided to mix things up..."

If there's one thing I hate more than waiting, it's change. And this is a lot of change - the biggest change in my existence, or lack thereof.

"Spit it out, Ollie. Suspense gives me diarrhea." I wish I was joking.

"Okay, okay... when the gods get bored, they find new ways to amuse themselves. And since there has been an increase in people like you who died before their time, they decided to turn it into a competition."

"A competition?"

"Yes, where you all compete for another chance at life."

"What?!" My outburst echoes loudly, ricocheting off the walls and startling Ollie who jumps in surprise.

The candles flicker and go out in the sudden darkness, causing Ollie to hastily light more, as if conjuring fire from thin air. I can't see a match in his hand, but perhaps it's just the darkness playing tricks on me, pushing back the shadows that now surround us.

My heart pounds like an army of drums in my chest, and I struggle to catch my breath as if I had just run a marathon. The words echo through my mind, filling me with dread and panic: millennia... competition... another chance at life?

Ollie reaches out a hand to calm me down with a heavy sigh, his voice full of concern. "Easy there," he speaks softly. "It's not as terrible as it sounds."

But it is. It's worse than terrible.

How many years has Ollie spent in this place? He described it as four millennia, but to him, it probably felt like only four hours. Being trapped in eternal decay while the rest of the world moved on without you was its own form of torture.

If I don't participate in this competition, if I'm not chosen by these mysterious Donors or Gods to live again, what will become of me? Will I spend eternity wandering aimlessly, with no heaven or hell or anything in between? Just an endless limbo?

The thought makes my stomach churn like a rough sea, and bile rises in my throat. My hands tremble uncontrollably, knocking over the things Ollie has been using to clean me - a rusted razor blade clattering on the floor, a bucket of dirty water splashing out with a sickening noise.

I can't help it; emotions like hope or excitement are foreign to me in this miserable place where I'm stuck. It's unfair. This has to be some twisted joke from those cruel gods who have abandoned us here.

"Wait," I manage to say between ragged breaths, "what do you mean by compete?"

He pauses thoughtfully before responding, "Calm down, okay? You don't have to participate if you don't want to."

But it's too late for that; his words have triggered something inside my head. Four millennia - how could anyone survive that long without going insane? And now they want us to fight for our own lives? It isn't fair! I shout in disbelief and despair, tears welling up in my eyes.

"I can't go on like this! It's unbearable!" I cry, realizing the irony of my statement - I'm not even truly alive in the first place.

"But you must understand," Ollie says softly, his voice filled with empathy. "If you don't compete and win, you'll be trapped here for eternity without rest or peace."

He takes a deep breath before continuing. "And even if you do miraculously win, there are no guarantees that your life will improve."

"But..." My protests die in my throat as I imagine an endless future stuck in this never-ending cycle.

"What do you mean by 'win'? What kind of game is this?" I ask incredulously, my voice shaking from disbelief and exhaustion.

Ollie lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head at me as if he knows something I don't. "It's not a game," he explains, taking a step closer. "It's just life in this place. Every millennium or so, these trials take place for the entertainment of the Donors. Only those who are popular among them are allowed to compete."

His eyes dart around anxiously, as if afraid of what he has revealed. "It's my job to make sure you look like someone worth investing in..."

I collapse onto the table behind me, rubbing my temples to ease the intense headache that seems to be getting worse by the second. This whole situation feels like a nightmare - the gods got bored and used us dead as their entertainment, like a sick reality show. But what is real about any of it?

My voice trembles with desperation as I plead, "But what if I don't want to participate?" It feels like every fiber of my being is resisting this game. Ollie shrugs casually, "Doesn't matter, cherub. You're already a player whether you realize it or not.

Trust me, after being here for over a millennia, you learn to go along with it." He reaches for a large bottle filled with a murky liquid from a nearby shelf and approaches me slowly.

"Here," he offers, holding it out to me, "Drink this." His tone softens as he sees the fear in my eyes.

"It'll calm your nerves and help you rest." I eye the bottle warily before taking a small sip – the taste is strange but not unpleasant, with a hint of bitterness and sweetness that confuses my taste buds.

Almost immediately, my muscles relax and warmth spreads through my body like honey on cold bread. The world around me starts to spin and all colors blend together into a dull grey haze.

"I... I..."

"Shh," Ollie interrupts gently. My vision blurs and then everything fades away.