POV Jane Doe.

As Raphael hauls my ass through the grand archway like a bouncer tossing out a drunk, I spot a familiar rainbow-hued disaster heading our way. Fuck me sideways, it's Ollie, looking like he's just been vomited out by a unicorn after a three-day acid bender.

His suit is an eyesore that'd make a peacock blush - neon pink and green jacket clashing spectacularly with pants that seem to be having an electric blue and purple paisley seizure. His hair defies gravity, a glittering silver mohawk that screams "I stuck my finger in a socket and liked it!" And don't even get me started on the makeup. It looks like he's gone ten rounds with a possessed Lisa Frank sticker book and lost.

"Jane, sweetums!" Ollie squeals, shoving Raphael aside like yesterday's trash and crushing me in a hug that threatens to rearrange my newly-resurrected organs. "Ditching the party so soon? I wanted to show you off to all my friends!"

I gasp for air, trying to pry myself out of his Fabulous Death Grip. "Sorry, Ollie," I manage, shooting a glare at Raphael over his shoulder. "But apparently, I don't know how to behave myself in 'polite company.'"

Raphael's eye-roll could power a small city. He looks about as thrilled as a cat in a bathtub. "She needs to start her training immediately," he growls, sounding like he'd rather gargle razor blades. "We don't have time for your circus act, Olivier."

Ollie releases me, his pout reaching Olympic levels. "Oh, don't be such a wet blanket, Raphy-poo," he whines, flapping a bejeweled hand. "All work and no play makes Janey a dull corpse, you know. Besides, I was thinking she could join me for lunch tomorrow. It would be the perfect opportunity for her to impress some donors from the Elysian court!"

Well, fuck me running. My ears perk up faster than a dog hearing a slice of cheese hit the floor. Lunch with the Rainbow Tornado? Sign me the fuck up. Sure, my common sense is screaming bloody murder, but when have I ever listened to that naggy bitch?

I mean, yeah, Ollie is nuttier than squirrel shit, but in a weirdly endearing way. And any excuse to ditch Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass for a few hours is A-OK in my book. Rubbing elbows with the celestial upper crust sounds way more entertaining than whatever torture Raphael has lined up for me.

One look at Feathers' face tells me everything. He looks like he's just chugged a gallon of sour milk, all pinched and puckered up like a cat's asshole.

Dude needs to chill.

But, I can't resist poking the bear. "Aww, what's wrong, Raphy? Scared I'll corrupt your fancy friends?"

I can see Raphael's jaw clenching so hard you could use it to crack nuts, and I have to admit, it gives me a twisted little buzz. "Or maybe you're just jealous you didn't score an invite to Ollie's cool corpse club?"

Raphael and I lock eyes like a pair of wildcats ready to tear into each other over the last scrap of meat. His glare is arctic, but I've faced far worse in the twisted depths of my mind. Take that time I superglued my shoes to the floor mid-panic attack. Now that was a proper shite storm.

Ollie, bless his rainbow-puking heart, breaks the ice with a theatrical groan. "Oh, for the love of all that's unholy, would you two just hate-fuck already? The sexual tension is thicker than my hair gel!"

I feel my face go hot enough to fry an egg, while Raphael looks like he's swallowed a wasp. Before he can bitchslap Ollie into next Tuesday, the fabulous freak backpedals: "Oopsie! Guess all that necrophilia fanfic's rotted what's left of my brain!"

I snort so hard I almost choke on my own spit. Gotta admit, Ollie and I are on the same wavelength of fucked-up. Reminds me of... well, let's just say there are some skeletons in my closet that are staying buried, capisce?

"Anywhoo," Ollie chirps, grinning like the Cheshire Cat on acid, "you'll dig the castle, Janey. It's totally your aesthetic – all doom, gloom, and ready to crumble like my last relationship." Despite myself, I feel a flicker of interest. Sounds like the kind of joint I'd haunt willingly.

Raphael clears his throat like he's hacking up a hairball.

"That's quite enough, Olivier," he snaps, voice dripping condescension thick as tar. "If we can pencil you in, we will."

He turns to me, grip softening slightly – less 'dragged to execution' and more 'escorted firmly to detention'. "Let's go, Jane. We have more pressing matters to attend to."

I roll my eyes so hard I half expect them to detach and go bouncing across the floor, like a couple of marbles with attitude. Raphael has that effect on people.

He ushers me into the elevator, his grip firm, as though I'm an unruly toddler who needs escorting to the naughty corner.

I shoot a glance back at Ollie and see him waving frantically, his blue hair standing on end as though he's stuck a finger in an electrical socket. He's jumping around like a caffeinated lunatic, cackling like a mad scientist as the doors slide shut.

Great, now I'm stuck in a confined space with Mr. Pompous Ass himself. Just my bloody luck.

How many times have I ridden this elevator, brooding over my eternal damnation and the bloody unfairness of it all, without noticing that weird button?

It sits smugly above the one for the ninety-fifth floor, depicting a castle that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Harry Potter movie. I mean, seriously, has it always been there?

Is it some kind of secret portal to a magical afterlife where owls deliver parcels and people drink Polyjuice Potion for kicks? Probably not, but my mind is grasping at any kind of distraction from the suffocating presence of Raphael, Mr. Ass himself.

It's hard to focus on anything other than the crushing weight of my own mortality (or, well, immortality now, I suppose) and the fact that the afterlife is shaping up to be just as much of a bureaucratic nightmare as my miserable existence on Earth.

That two-faced cow, Eve, with her pristine desk and condescending stare, is probably chucking my afterlife grievances straight into the suggestions bin without so much as a glance. Thanks a lot, Eve, you absolute star.

But back to the damn button.

Not all the ones Raphael has pushed on me tonight, or this morning, or whatever fucking time it is, because my sense of time has gone to shit since my 'deathday'.

Each moment with Raphael feels like an eternity, and yet I have no fucking idea how much time has actually passed here in this bureaucratic hellhole. But that damn button—it offers a way out, a distraction from the endless torment of Mr. Ass and his soul-crushing glare.

A fresh hell, perhaps, but at least it's a change of scenery.

My finger itches to press it, to see what new madness awaits. Or, at the very least, it would get me away from Raphael and his judgmental stare. Like the man hasn't committed his own fair share of sins.

Puh-lease.

Only... before I can act on my impulses—to bitch-slap Raphael and risk shattering every bone in my hand again—that damn button calls to me like a siren. I know pressing it will likely lead to some fresh hell, but anything has to be better than enduring Raphael's leer for another bloody minute.

But before I can make a move, Raphael beats me to it. The fucker presses the button, and the elevator shakes violently like there's an earthquake. What the fuck is going on? Is this part of my punishment? Or is Raphael just as bored as I am and itching for something—anything—to happen?

The tremors almost knock me off my feet, and I stumble back, my heart pounding. The damn thing feels like it's about to plummet to the center of the bloody Earth, taking me with it. Fucking great. Like I need another reason to look like an idiot in front of Raphael. I'm already well aware that I'm a "klutz", as he so charmingly put it. Couldn't the universe give me a damn break for once?

But as I stumble, Raphael's strong hands catch me, anchoring me to his infuriatingly perfect chest. I want to pull away, to tell him to drop dead, but the violent shaking has my insides doing somersaults. Everything feels too close, too tight. I struggle to breathe, my vision blurring at the edges. I feel like I've just stepped off a bloody rollercoaster.

"Watch it," he mutters, his tone dripping with annoyance. "Can't have you breaking your neck before we even get there."

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to snap at him. I'm not a bloody child who needs babysitting. But before I can form a suitably scathing retort, my stomach decides to join the rebellion, flipping like an Olympic gymnast. Oh God. Not now. I know that feeling all too well. My hands fly up to cover my mouth as bile burns my throat.

Raphael's grip on my shoulders tightens, his voice a harsh whisper. "Steady. It's just the elevator. Focus on your breathing."

Easy for him to say. My lungs feel like they have a mind of their own, refusing to cooperate as I suck in shallow breaths. In. Out. In. Out. I feel like a fish flopping on dry land. And then, like a punch to the gut, the memory hits me.

Strobe lights flashed, the bassline throbbed through my veins, and the familiar burn of alcohol as I downed shot after shot. How many nights had I lost myself in that blur of noise and neon, only to wake up the next morning with a throbbing headache and a shameful hangover?

My eyes squeeze shut as I fight the nausea. I'm not going to throw up in this pristine elevator, or on Raphael's scaly shoes, for that matter. I feel Raphael's hands guiding me towards him, his voice annoyingly serene. "Close your eyes, Jane. Block out the movement. You'll adjust, I assure you."

But my body is having a full-blown mutiny. I lurch away from him, my back hitting the wall of the elevator. "Get off me!" I scream, my fists pounding against his chest. I feel caged, trapped, and my panic spirals out of control.

"Easy," Raphael says, his voice firm but with an edge of something unexpected—gentleness. "You need to maintain control, understand? This is just the start."

His words do little to calm me as the elevator continues its erratic descent. I feel like a leaf being tossed around in a tornado, my body at the mercy of unseen forces. And then, as if things couldn't get any worse, the memories hit me like a ton of bricks.

The lake, the darkness, the overwhelming panic as I sank beneath the surface. I was drowning all over again.

My fists unclench as the fight leaves me, and I collapse against Raphael, my face burying into his chest. I feel his heart beating steadily beneath my cheek, a stark contrast to my own erratic pulse.

His hand rests on my head, his touch surprisingly soft as he soothes, "Shh, it's alright. We're nearly there. It's always a bumpy ride through the gates of hell."

Gates of what now? What the actual fuck? My mind reels, but my body has other ideas. I'm out cold.