POV Jane Doe.

Jesus fucking Christ, not another one! If I have to sit through one more of these divine circle-jerks, I'm gonna lose my goddamn mind. You'd think with my ass on the cosmic chopping block, I'd be all ears. Nope. My give-a-shit meter is buried so far in the red, it's practically bleeding.

Then Fate, that glorious asshole, opens his mouth. Out comes a stream of verbal diarrhea that would make a used car salesman blush. "Hailing from the gilded kingdom of El'dorah," he purrs like a cat in heat, "I give you - the Aurifex Ascendant, the baron of bountiful benisons, the one, the only...Aurelius Gilt!"

I drag my eyes back to the stage just in time. Another celestial douchebag is rising from his fancy-ass throne. Holy shitsticks, this one looks like he's stepped right out of a horny housewife's wet dream.

Golden curls? Check. Eyes bluer than a clear sky over Fuck-Me Mountain? Double check.

If Abercrombie and Fitch ever started a "Gods and Demigods" line, this prick would be their poster boy.

He actually pauses for applause. I shit you not. Flashes a smile so bright it could've given the sun an inferiority complex. I roll my eyes so hard I think I sprain something.

Great. Just what we needed. Another ego the size of Jupiter crammed into a walking, talking Ken doll. Fuck my afterlife.

This Aurelius dipshit starts ranting about "mindsets of magnificent manifestation" and "alchemical formulae for opulent success." It's like listening to a motivational speaker who'd huffed too much gold spray paint. I check out somewhere around his third reference to what sounds like a "cornucopian jizzcascade."

Pretty sure that wasn't it, but hey, a girl can dream.

Just when I think I might slip into a boredom coma, Raphael's voice slices into my brain like an ice pick through butter.

"Aurelius is a true master of prosperity magic," he mind-mutters at me. "Under his guidance, even the most hopeless cases can achieve staggering abundance..."

Oh spare me the sermon, Feathers. Nobody asked for your two cents.

But Bishop Buzzkill just can't let it go. He keeps nattering on like a sanctimonious squeaky toy.

Let me translate that pompous drivel for you: Lord Midas over there has the Merry Minstrels of Cash so far up his glittery sphincter, he probably pisses liquid assets. Spend too long huffing his sparkly farts and you might find yourself turning into a money-grubbing goblin, frothing at the mouth for your next hit of cold, hard cash.

So color me fucking unimpressed by Aurelius Gilt, the guru of filthy lucre himself. Call me crazy, but I'd rather not stake my immortal soul on the financial advice of a guy who looks like he bathes in liquified Rolexes.

But hey, to each their own cosmic pyramid scheme, right?

And just when I think we've hit peak bullshit, Fate opens his mouth again. "Hailing from the serene vales of Serenica, I present to you the maven of mindfulness, the doyenne of dulcet tones - Resonant Sage Euphoria Bright!"

I try to focus on the new figure rising from the dais, but my brain feels stuffed with cotton balls soaked in NyQuil. The parade of cosmic horrors is blurring into one neverending freak show, each new act more surreal than the last.

This latest one looks like a Stepford wife by way of Goop - all flowy hair and serene smiles, radiating a tranquility that makes Valium look like meth. What was her name again? Euphoria something? Fuck, I can barely keep my own name straight at this point.

She floats about the ballroom and starts speaking. Her words wash over me in a numbing wave of New Age nonsense. Inner stillness... harmonious alignment... untangling vibrations - it's like listening to a guided meditation written by a sentient yoga mat.

My mind drifts off, bouncing between foggy tangents and half-baked ideas. Am I actually dead? If so, does that mean no more taxes? Or period cramps? Hell, what even happens with periods in the afterlife? Do these celestial assholes have to deal with that bullshit, or is it just us mere mortals?

Maybe that's why they all look so fucking zen - no PMS to speak of.

And food? Is there a Taco Bell up here in the clouds, or are we stuck with ambrosia and nectar 24/7? 'Cause I gotta tell you, forever without a Crunchwrap Supreme?

That's not heaven, that's straight-up hell.

Oh, and don't even get me started on booze.

Is there some kind of godly Everclear that can actually get an immortal wasted?

Or are we looking at an eternity of being sober?

These are the real questions, the important shit ricocheting around in my brain while Miss Euphoria yaks on about chakras or whatever. You know, the truly vital, afterlife-changing stuff.

How long have I been standing here, listening to these self-important assholes pontificate? Hours? Days? I'm losing all sense of time, my grip on reality slipping away like a fistful of sand...

"Jane."

Raphael's voice slices through my mental fog like a hot knife through butter, dripping with that special brand of condescension he seems to reserve just for me.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I interrupt your little power nap?" he sneers in my head.

I mentally flip him the bird. "Excuse me for not being riveted by the Divine Comedy Hour. What's next, a celestial juggling act?"

"Your flippancy is as predictable as it is tiresome," Raphael sighs. "Perhaps if you paid attention, you might actually learn something useful."

"Fine," I grumble. "Enlighten me, O Wise One. What's Sunshine Suzy's deal? Aside from putting half the room in a coma, I mean."

Raphael's voice takes on that patronizing teacher tone that makes me want to punch him in his non-corporeal face. "Euphoria is... complicated. Her power lies in the manipulation of emotional and psychic energies. She can soothe a raging heart or ignite a tranquil one, all without lifting a finger. In the right hands, it's a tool for great peace and healing. In the wrong ones..."

He trails off ominously, like he's pausing for dramatic effect. I roll my eyes so hard I think they might get stuck.

"Oh, don't stop there, Feathers," I think sarcastically. "I'm on the edge of my metaphysical seat. In the wrong hands, what? She'll turn us all into blissed-out hippies singing Kumbaya for eternity?"

"Your cavalier attitude will be your downfall, Jane," Raphael snaps. "Euphoria can reshape the very fabric of consciousness. She can plant ideas, alter memories, even rewrite a person's entire emotional landscape."

"Fantastic," I mutter. "So she's basically the lovechild of Freud and Professor X, with a dash of Big Brother thrown in for funsies. What could possibly go wrong?"

I can practically feel Raphael's frustration radiating through my skull. "This isn't a joke, Jane. In Serenica, her influence maintains a state of perpetual serenity. But that level of control over the mind... it's a double-edged sword."

"Right, because 'double-edged sword' is exactly the reassurance I was looking for when we're talking about someone who can play my brain like a fucked-up fiddle," I shoot back. "Any other bombshells you want to drop, or should I just assume everyone here can mindfuck me six ways to Sunday?"

Raphael's sigh echoes through my mind like a long-suffering parent dealing with a particularly difficult child. "Focus, Jane. Understanding these powers - their potential and their dangers - is crucial to your survival. Euphoria may seem benign, even beneficial, but never forget that her version of 'peace' comes at a price. True harmony cannot be imposed from without."

I force myself to tune back in to Euphoria's sermon, but her words dissolve into sugary static on my tongue, their meaning lost in a saccharine haze. I can only watch, numb and glassy-eyed, as she finishes her piece and glides back to her seat, that tiny, cryptic smile still playing about her lips like she knows some secret jest that no one else is privy to.

The swell of unease in my gut curdles into something harder, sharper. Dread, or maybe just the dawning realization of how far in over my head I really am. A tiny fish in a pond full of megalodons, flailing desperately to keep afloat as the dark waters close in around me.

And something tells me the worst is yet to come.

Before I can waste any more precious brain juice pondering the scrot-rot quotient of immortal one-percenters, Fate is already raising his stupid, sexy voice to ear-fucking volume.

"In the months to come," he proclaims, managing to sound both hushed and thunderous at the same time, "a myriad of souls shall vie for the ultimate prize - a chance at everlasting glory. Yet only those who prove their worth in the eyes of our esteemed Donors shall earn the right to be forged anew in the crucible of the afterlife."

A tremor of anticipation ripples through the crowd, the air itself seeming to thicken and churn with the import of Fate's words. This is it - the start of whatever sick, cosmic game we've been drafted to play.

Oh, happy day. Pass the cyanide.

"This night presents an opportunity," Fate continues, his voice like velvet laced with steel. "A chance to sway the very strands of destiny, to forge alliances and weave connections that will ensure your favor in the trials ahead. A chance to prove your mettle before those who hold your eternal fates in the balances."

His gaze sweeps over the assembled masses, those fathomless eyes seeming to bore straight through me and into whatever pitiful remnants of a soul I have left. I feel like a bug pinned to a cosmic corkboard, squirming under the weight of his stare.

"But let this also serve as a warning," he cautions, the threat in his tone as undeniable as a hangman's noose. "Choose wisely, for such choices cannot be unraveled or undone. And may the threads of Fate forever weave in your favor."

Oh, great. No pressure or anything.

Just the weight of eternity hanging on every fucking sneeze and side-eye.

This is gonna be a real barrel of laughs.

The second Fate flicks his imperial wrist, the ballroom explodes into a dizzying clusterfuck of celestial elbow-rubbing. The dance floor becomes a twirling kaleidoscope of power plays and double-dealing, with alliances forged and shattered in the space between one blink and the next.

Don't get me wrong - as an experienced connoisseur of existential shit-shows, I can appreciate the artistry of it. The way an arched eyebrow or a flared nostril can carry entire encyclopedias' worth of implied threat, the way a half-smile or a cocked hip can broker peace or declare war between pantheons.

It's like watching a hundred games of 5-D chess played on a board made of live ammo and Machiavelli's slimiest wet dreams.

As much as I want to grab some interdimensional popcorn and watch these godly dickheads whip out their cosmic rulers, I just can't get into it. My eyes keep sliding off the main event like it's greased with holy oil, my brain doing its best impression of a drunk moth at a lightbulb convention.

At first, I chalk it up to my usual brand of mental fuckery. You know, the good ol' brain zoomies. The ADHD disco. My neurons doing the electric slide through the most batshit insane ethereal hoedown since Zeus discovered Tinder.

But then my eyes snag on some shadowy fucker lurking in the back of the crowd. And holy shitballs, does my world come crashing down faster than my ex's pants at a family reunion. Every last bit of that sweet, sweet mental novocaine evaporates, leaving me high and dry with a jumbo-sized serving of ice-cold dread lodged in my throat.

Oh, you've got to be shitting me. No fucking way. Not here, not now, not when I'm already hanging onto my sanity by a thread thinner than my ex's moral fiber. The universe couldn't possibly hate me enough to serve up this steaming plate of psychological fuckery, could it?

But there she is, Penelope Fucking Blackwood, in all her bitch-queen glory. My own personal Regina George from hell, the ground zero of every nuclear meltdown that turned my life into a dumpster fire of epic proportions.

And there she stands, bold as brass, not twenty feet from the stage, looking like she's just stepped out of "Vogue: Apocalypse Edition." That hair, still perfect enough to make Rapunzel weep.

Those cheekbones, sharp enough to cut diamonds and my self-esteem in one go. That whole "I just threw this on" look that probably costs more than my entire existence.

Our eyes meet across the room, and I swear I can feel her sneer from here. You know the look - the one that says "I could grind you into dust with my Louboutins and you'd thank me for the exfoliation."

Suddenly, I'm right back in high school, feeling every zit, every awkward moment, every time I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

And because the universe isn't done taking a dump on my parade, I spot her arm-candy. At first, I think I'm hallucinating - maybe all this cosmic bullshit has finally made me crack. But nope, it's real alright.

Standing there, looking like Raphael's evil twin, is Penelope's very own gatekeeper. Same face that looks like it was chiseled by horny angels, same "I'm better than you" vibe, but with an extra helping of "I might eat you alive and enjoy it."

I know I should move, run, do fucking something other than stand there like a deer in headlights if the deer was also having an existential crisis. But my body has other ideas, deciding to do its best impression of a statue made of Jell-O and panic.

As Penelope's gaze peels off my skin like a psychic potato peeler, one thought cuts through the screaming void of my brain: Does Raphael know about this bitch?

Has he been poking around in the toxic waste dump of my memories?

As if in answer, I feel my companion tense beside me, a subtle flinch ricocheting down the length of his arm where it still grips my bicep like steel cable wrapped in angora. His own gaze snaps to the back of the room, zeroing in on Penelope with laser-guided intensity before flicking to the Raphael knockoff glued to her side like a ball of well-coiffed coagulated smegma.

Something passes between them then - a moment of unspoken recognition, of silent communication laced with a crackling undercurrent of familiarity and threat. The bizarro Raphael's nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, his eyes flashing with a possessive, predatory light I've seen too many times on the faces of gutter rats and apex assholes alike.

He knows. Somehow, in that single loaded glance, my archangel parole officer has absorbed the totality of my history with Penelope, the whole ugly, festering morass of it. And what's worse, he seems to recognize the carbon copy clinging to her arm like an albatross with a bespoke skincare regimen and an insider trading fetish.

Great. Just abso-fucking-lutely perfect. Not only is my deepest, darkest high school nightmare crashing this divine freakshow, but she's brought her creepy gatekeeper fuckboi with her - a fuckboi who just so happens to rile up Raphael's slender, well-moisturized jimmies something fierce.

The universe is practically popping corks on the mid-apocalyptic champagne at this point, and I, Jane Doe, eternal fuckup and eminently pussified punching bag of fate, am the jaunty little maraschino cherry wobbling on top.

Something has to give. The knifing tension, the grotesque cognitive dissonance of having my two diametrically opposed lives collide like this on a stage only Hieronymus Bosch could love - it's too much, too fast, too fucking WRONG.

I feel my teeth start to chatter, the bones in my legs turning to overcooked linguini, my gorge rising in the back of my throat like an overambitious lover in a doomed sixty-nine.

A small, rapidly dwindling part of my brain screams at me to hold my shit, to keep it together, to not give the bitch the satisfaction of seeing me quake.

But the rest of me, the raw, shivering, shame-flayed parts still trapped eternally in that dank, fetid alleyway between one hysterical beating of self-hatred and the next, has already begun to crumble like an overbaked cake made of arsenic and howler monkey jizz.

And so, as I stand there drowning in the pitiless black spotlight of Penelope's gaze, something in me breaks clean through, some final eroded levee at the bottom of my soul shuddering free of its last shriveled moorings. A single, crystal-cut thought cleaves through the din:

Run. Just fucking RUN.

My arm rips free of Raphael's grasp as I spin on my heel, nearly snapping an ankle as I totter wildly on those goddamned stilettos. Then I'm off like a coked-up ferret, scrabbling through the gawking crowd in a wild, stutter-stepped fugue as my guide's startled shouts recede behind me like a dream.