POV Jane Doe.

I jolt awake, my heart pounding like a jackhammer trying to break through my ribcage. For a moment, I can't remember where I am or how I got here. The last thing I recall is... fuck. The elevator. Raphael. That godawful shaking.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I find myself in what can only be described as Dracula's wet dream of a bedroom. Gothic arches loom overhead, their intricate carvings casting eerie shadows that seem to writhe and dance in the flickering candlelight. Heavy velvet curtains, the color of congealed blood, block out any hint of natural light.

Everything seems to be cast in a perpetual twilight, the air thick with the musty scent of old books mingling with something vaguely metallic that makes my stomach churn.

I sit up, my head spinning like I've just stumbled off a particularly vicious tilt-a-whirl. That's when I notice the silky nightgown clinging to my skin. What the actual fuck? This definitely isn't the macabre dress Ollie had poured me into for that clusterfuck of a ball.

A wave of relief washes over me as I realize I'm no longer trapped in that nightmare of a gown, forced to parade around like some twisted beauty pageant contestant in the afterlife's sickest game show. At least this get-up doesn't have my own screaming face embroidered all over it. Small mercies, I guess.

I run my hands over the smooth fabric, trying to ground myself in the present. The silk is cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my thoughts. Part of me is grateful to be away from that hellish ballroom, away from Penelope's smug face and the suffocating weight of my past. But another part of me, the part that has learned the hard way that nothing good ever comes without a price, is on high alert.

Where the hell am I? And more importantly, who the fuck changed my clothes while I was out cold? The thought sends a shiver down my spine, goosebumps erupting across my skin despite the room's stuffy warmth.

Just as I'm trying to wrap my head around this latest mindfuck, the door creaks open like it's auditioning for a haunted house sound effects reel. Two figures glide in, and I swear on my grandmother's crusty dentures, they look like they've sashayed straight out of Tim Burton's wet dreams after a three-day absinthe bender.

The first one moves with the kind of grace that'd make a cat burglar look like a drunk elephant. She's tall and willowy, with skin so pale it's almost translucent, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Her eyes are huge, liquid pools of midnight that seem to drink in the light. But holy shitballs, it's her mouth that makes my brain do a record scratch.

Her lips, painted a violent shade of crimson, are literally sewn shut. Not metaphorically, not figuratively, but honest-to-god stitched together with thick black thread like some fucked-up craft project gone wrong.

Right on her heels, bouncing around like a labradoodle on crack, is her polar opposite. This one is all curves and color, with cotton candy pink hair piled high in some gravity-defying updo. Her dress looks like it's been dipped in a vat of glitter and sprinkles, so bright it makes my retinas scream for mercy. But it's her face that really takes the cake - she has a grin plastered on her mug so wide and cheerful, it makes the Joker look like a sulky teenager.

The moment Pinky lays eyes on me, she starts yapping away, her voice so sickeningly sweet it could've given diabetes to a pack of Pixie Sticks.

"Good morning, sunshine! Did you sleep well? I'm Melody, and this is Silence. We're here to help you start your day!"

I blink hard, wondering if I've somehow managed to die again and ended up in some twisted mashup of 'The Addams Family' and 'My Little Pony.' Maybe this is my personalized hell - death by aggressive cheerfulness and haute couture horror.

Silence - because of-fucking-course that's her name - glides over to the curtains, moving like she's underwater or in some artsy slow-mow music video. As she draws them back with hands that look more like porcelain claws than flesh, I brace myself for the harsh light of day. But what greets my eyes is about as normal as finding out your new vibrator was possessed by your dead grandmother.

The view beyond the window is a kaleidoscope of cosmic LSD trips. Floating islands drift by like they're out for a Sunday stroll, complete with waterfalls that flow upwards because gravity is clearly more of a suggestion than a law here. The sky can't decide if it's day, night, or the grand finale of a fireworks show on acid. Rivers of what looks suspiciously like liquid fire wind their way through forests made of crystals and broken dreams.

And in the distance, a mountain range writhes and reshapes itself like it's made of smoke and bad life choices.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Melody chirps, her perkiness apparently unfazed by the reality-bending mindfuck outside. "Nothing like a good view to remind you of your new reality!"

And just like that, it hits me all over again, a sucker punch right to the existential nuts. I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto. I'm not anywhere I've ever been before. I'm dead, deader than disco, deader than my high school dreams of becoming a rockstar/astronaut/unicorn trainer.

I squint at the Technicolor nightmare outside, then back at Tweedledee and Tweedledumber. "Okay, what the actual fuck? Where are we? Because this sure as shit isn't any afterlife I've ever heard of."

Melody's grin, if possible, gets even wider. I swear I can count all thirty-two of her pearly whites, plus a few extra for good measure. "Oh, silly billy! We're on the outskirts of Penance, of course!"

I blink at her, wondering if I've suffered some kind of stroke. "Pen-what now? Is that some kind of fancy name for Hell's buttcrack?"

Melody giggles like I've just told the funniest joke since the invention of whoopee cushions. "Oh, you're such a riot! No, no, no. Penance is the capital of Purgatory. You know, the big cheese, the main event, the place to be and be seen!"

I feel my jaw drop somewhere around my knees. "Hold up. Purgatory has a fucking capital?"

What is this, the afterlife version of Washington D.C.?

"Well, every realm needs a center of operations, silly!" Melody chirps, while Silence nods sagely beside her, looking like the world's creepiest mime. "And you, lucky duck, are at Doomstead Abbey!"

"Doomstead Abbey," I repeat flatly. "Sounds like a retirement home for supervillains."

Melody's laughter tinkles like broken glass in a blender. "Oh, you're just full of jokes today! No, no. Doomstead Abbey is the training facility for souls in the Judgement Day trials. It's where you'll learn everything you need to know to win your second chance at life!"

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn't come, I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. "Right. Because that's a thing." Judgement Day trials. Sure. Why the fuck not?

Just as I'm contemplating the logistics of yeeting myself out the window into whatever cosmic abyss awaits, Silence decides to get in on the action. She claps her hands, the sound unnervingly loud in the cavernous room. It's like the world's most ominous applause.

Before I can tell her to knock it the fuck off, the door bursts open again. A parade of butlers in honest-to-god tailcoats marches in, looking like they've stepped straight out of Downton fucking Abbey. Each one carries a steaming bucket, bee-lining for a massive claw-foot bathtub I hadn't noticed before. It's the kind of tub you'd expect to find a murder victim in, all Victorian opulence and gilt edges.

The butlers, moving with military precision, start filling the tub. Steam rises in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of lavender and what I can only describe as 'eau de angelic bullshit.' As quickly as they'd appeared, the butlers vanish, leaving me alone with Tweedledee and Tweedledum again.

Silence glides towards me, her sewn-shut lips somehow managing to curve into what I guess is supposed to be a reassuring smile. It looks more like a half-assed impression of the Cheshire Cat. She reaches out, clearly intending to help me out of bed.

"Oh, hell no," I growl, slapping her hand away. Her skin is ice-cold, like touching a corpse. Which, given where we are, might not be far off the mark.

Silence recoils, her enormous eyes widening even further. She looks like a kicked puppy, if puppies were reanimated Victorian dolls with a penchant for body modification.

"Now, now," Melody tuts, her voice so syrupy I can practically feel cavities forming. "That's no way to treat your helpers, silly goose!"

Before I can tell her exactly where she can shove her 'silly goose,' Melody pounces. For someone who looks like a rabbit had fucked a cupcake, she's surprisingly strong. She latches onto my arm like a sequined leech, yanking me out of bed with the force of a small locomotive.

"What the fuck?!" I yelp, my feet hitting the cold floor. "Get your cotton candy hands off me, you demented Barbie!"

But Melody is undeterred. She and Silence tag-team me, herding me towards the tub like I'm a particularly unruly sheep. I fight them every step of the way, cursing up a storm that would've made a sailor blush.

"I swear to whatever fucked-up god is running this shitshow, if you don't let me go, I'll—" My threat is cut short as they unceremoniously dump me into the tub, nightgown and all.

I splutter, ready to unleash holy hell on these pastel-colored psychos. But then... oh. Oh shit. The water is perfect. It envelops me like a warm hug, soothing away aches I didn't even know I had. It's like being suspended in liquid bliss, if bliss smelled vaguely of lavender and broken dreams.

"There now," Melody coos, looking disgustingly pleased with herself. "Isn't that better?"

I want to tell her to go fuck herself with a rusty spork. I want to leap out of the tub and make a break for it. But my traitorous body is already relaxing into the warm embrace of the water.

"I hate you," I mumble, sinking lower into the tub. "I hate you, and this stupid bath, and this entire goddamn afterlife."

But even as I say it, I can't help but close my eyes, letting the warmth seep into my bones. Maybe, just maybe, I can pretend for a moment that I'm not dead, not trapped in some cosmic game show from hell. Maybe I can just... float.

I'm just starting to relax when Melody's saccharine voice shatters my brief moment of peace. "Silly you, you can't bathe in your gown!"

I jolt upright, water sloshing over the sides of the tub like a miniature tsunami. The sudden movement sends droplets flying, splattering against Melody's glittery dress and Silence's porcelain face.

"Back the fuck off, Barbie," I snarl, clutching the soaked fabric to my chest. The once-silky nightgown now clings to me like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. "I can handle my own damn bath, thank you very fucking much."

Melody's eyes widen, big as saucers, a mix of shock and something else—is that amusement?—flashing across her face. It's like watching a Pixar character discover R-rated content. She snaps her fingers, the sound echoing through the cavernous room like a gunshot in a cathedral.

"What the fu—" I start, but what comes out is a series of beeps and bleeps, like I'm starring in my own censored reality show. It's surreal, hearing those electronic sounds coming from my own mouth. My hand flies to my throat, feeling the vibrations of speech but hearing nothing but PG-rated noise.

"Oh [BEEP]! What the [BEEP] did you do to me, you [BEEP] [BEEP] [BEEP]?!" Each profanity comes out as a different pitch of beep, creating a symphony of censorship that would've been hilarious if it wasn't happening to me.

Melody's grin turns wicked, transforming from Cinderella to Cruella in the blink of an eye. Her teeth seem sharper somehow, her eyes glinting with mischief that borders on malice.

"Well, fuck me sideways with a rusty chainsaw, if this isn't the most fun I've had since I shoved my head up a dead moose's ass!" she says, her voice dripping with gleeful profanity but still maintaining that sickly-sweet tone. It's like hearing Snow White swear like a drunken sailor.

I gape at her, my brain short-circuiting. This cotton candy nightmare has a mouth that would make a longshoreman blush? Water drips from my chin as I stare, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, too stunned to even attempt speech.

"Don't look so shocked, sugar tits," Melody chirps, bouncing on her toes like an overexcited chihuahua. "I just swapped our tongues for a bit. Neat trick, huh? I'll give yours back if you behave." Her eyes dart to Silence, standing there like a living mannequin. "You don't want to end up like our quiet friend now, do you?"

My eyes follow hers, landing on Silence. The stitches on her lips seem to stand out more now, black and angry against her pale skin. A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the cooling bathwater. Goosebumps erupt across my skin, and I sink a little lower into the tub, suddenly very aware of my vulnerability.

"Now," Melody continues, her voice once again all sugar and spice, "let's get you properly cleaned up, shall we? Can't have you meeting your new teachers looking like a drowned rat, can we?"

I press myself against the back of the tub, as far from Melody and Silence as I can get. My mind races, trying to process this new development. One minute I'm dead, the next I'm in some twisted Alice in Wonderland meets Saw bullshit. What fresh hell have I landed myself in this time?

Silence glides over, her movements unnaturally smooth, like a puppet on strings. Her hands reach for the sodden nightgown clinging to my body, and I try to protest, but all that comes out is more censored beeping. I feel utterly powerless, my own voice stolen from me.

"There, there," Melody coos, her tone sickeningly sweet, like poisoned honey. "Just let it happen. It'll be easier that way."

Before I can make another move, Melody dunks me back into the water. I thrash wildly, my limbs flailing against the smooth porcelain of the tub, but between her and Silence, I'm overpowered. They begin scrubbing me down with rough sponges, working shampoo into my hair with unnervingly efficient movements.

Their hands are everywhere, and I feel violated, exposed, like a doll being roughly manhandled by uncaring children. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the reality of what's happening, but I can't escape the feeling of their hands on me, or the growing sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.

I grit my teeth as Silence's cold hands slither over my skin, her touch clinical yet invasive. She scrubs at me like I'm a stubborn stain, her rough sponge scouring every inch of my body. I try to squirm away, but Melody holds me firm, her grip deceptively strong.

"Come on, love, don't be shy," Melody coos, her voice a sickly-sweet poison in my ear. "We've all got the same bits and bobs down there. Nothing to be embarrassed about."

I want to scream, to tell her to fuck off, that this is my body and they have no right. But all that comes out is a garbled mess of censored noise, a symphony of beeps and bleeps that only serves to amuse Melody further.

Silence's hands move lower, her touch impersonal yet violating. I clamp my legs shut, but she wedges them open with surprising force. I gasp, the sound echoing in the room, as she runs the sponge between my thighs. I feel exposed, humiliated, like a piece of meat being prepared for market.

"There we go, all clean," Melody chirps, as Silence finally withdraws her hands. I shiver, feeling a cold draft against my wet skin. I hug my arms across my chest, trying to cover my breasts, to reclaim some semblance of dignity.

But Melody isn't having it. She tsks, her eyes narrowing as she prizes my arms away from my body. "Now, now, none of that," she scolds. "You're going to be on display, dear. No point in being modest now."

I glare at her, hatred burning in my eyes. I want to claw her face off, to make her feel an iota of the violation I'm experiencing. But I'm powerless, my body no longer my own. I'm a doll, a plaything, being primped and preened for some sick game.

Melody smirks, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Oh, the look on your face," she laughs. "Priceless. But don't worry, sweet cheeks. This is just the beginning. You're in for a world of surprises."

I shudder, goosebumps prickling across my skin despite the warm water. What fresh hell awaits me next? I'm trapped, at the mercy of these twisted creatures, and there's nothing I can do but endure.

Silence glides behind me, her cold hands gripping my hair. I wince as she begins to tug and pull, her fingers working quickly and efficiently. I can feel my wet locks being twisted and styled, the weight shifting as she piles it atop my head. In the ornate mirror across the room, I catch glimpses of my flame-red hair, vibrant even when soaked, contrasting sharply with Silence's pale hands.

"Oh, your hair is simply divine!" Melody coos, clapping her hands like an excited child. "Like liquid fire! We'll have to make sure it really pops for your big debut!"

I open my mouth to tell her exactly where she can shove her 'big debut', but all that comes out is more censored beeping. Frustrated, I slap the surface of the water, sending a spray towards Melody. She dodges it with irritating grace.

"Now, now," she tuts, "let's not make this harder than it needs to be. Up you get!"

Before I can protest, Melody and Silence are hauling me out of the tub. Water cascades off me, pooling on the marble floor as they maneuver me towards an elaborate dressing table. My feet slip and slide on the wet surface, but their grips are iron-clad.

"Careful, careful," Melody chirps, as if this is all some grand game. "We wouldn't want our star pupil to crack her skull open before the fun even begins!"

They settle me onto a plush velvet stool. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. My skin glows with an unexpected vitality, making my vivid red hair seem even more striking in its intricate updo.

As Silence gently pats me dry, Melody rummages through the dressing table drawers. "Now," she says with a mischievous glint, "let's make you presentable for orientation!"

I shoot her a glare, my censored protests still falling on deaf ears.

Melody giggles. "Oh, silly me! Here, have your voice back." She snaps her fingers, and I feel a strange tingle in my throat.

"What the actual fuck is going on?" I test, relieved to hear my own voice again.

"Language, darling," Melody tuts. "Olivier will be here shortly with your new wardrobe. We must have you ready!"

"Ollie?" I raise an eyebrow. "What's that rainbow nightmare up to now?"

As if summoned, the door bursts open. Olivier sashays in, a whirlwind of color and fabric. Today, he sports a tailored suit in a deep, shimmering purple that seems to absorb and reflect light in equal measure. His shirt is a crisp white, offset by a tie that looks like it's woven from actual starlight. His usual wild hair is slicked back, giving him an air of unexpected professionalism.

He takes one look at me and winces theatrically. "Oh honey, I hope they were gentle with you."

I flip him off, which only makes him chuckle.

"Now, now," Olivier clucks, "is that any way to greet your fairy godfather of fashion? I have the perfect ensemble for your orientation, darling."

He snaps his fingers, and an assistant I hadn't noticed before wheels in a clothing rack.

"For orientation, we need something that says 'I'm here to learn, but I'm not to be trifled with,'" Olivier muses, rifling through the garments. "Ah, here we are!"

He pulls out a sleek, tailored pantsuit in a deep, midnight blue. The fabric seems to ripple like water when it moves, catching the light in mesmerizing ways.

"The jacket," he explains, holding it up, "is cut to accentuate your figure without being provocative. The lapels are embroidered with subtle sigils of protection – can't be too careful in this realm, darling."

He then shows me a crisp, ivory blouse. "This is made from ethically sourced cloud silk. Breathable, comfortable, and it'll make your skin glow."

Finally, he presents a pair of shoes. They look like classic Oxford shoes at first glance, but on closer inspection, I can see they're adorned with intricate, swirling patterns. "These, my dear, are enchanted for both comfort and quick escapes. You never know when you might need to run in the afterlife."

"Oh, and darling," Ollie adds, his eyes twinkling like stars in his purple-framed face, "we'll be having lunch together after orientation. I simply must hear all about your first day in the afterlife's most exclusive academy."

He lays out the clothes on my bed with the precision of an artist arranging their masterpiece. The midnight blue pantsuit seems to ripple like water as he smooths it out, the subtle protective sigils on the lapels catching the light. The ivory blouse, folded with military crispness, looks soft enough to sleep in. The Oxford shoes, with their intricate swirling patterns, are placed at the foot of the bed, perfectly aligned.

"Now, I'll leave you in the capable hands of our lovely assistants. Tata for now!" With a dramatic twirl that sends his coat tails flaring, Ollie sashays out of the room, leaving behind a cloud of glitter and the faint scent of lavender and stardust.

I close my eyes, resigning myself to whatever fresh hell Tweedledee and Tweedledumb have in store for me. I feel the soft tickle of brushes dancing across my face, the cool sensation of liquid foundation being blended into my skin. Powder settles on my face like the gentlest snowfall. Something cool and creamy is applied to my lips, followed by the feather-light touch of what I assume is lip gloss.

The urge to sneeze is almost overwhelming as powder tickles my nose, but I hold it in, not wanting to give them an excuse to start over. I can hear Melody humming tunelessly as she works, the sound grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

When I finally open my eyes, I almost don't recognize the person staring back at me in the ornate, gilt-edged mirror. The makeup isn't as flawless as Ollie's handiwork, but it's leagues better than anything I could've managed on my own. My eyes look bigger, more luminous, rimmed with a subtle smokey shadow that makes the green in them pop.

My cheekbones could've cut glass, accentuated by a hint of rosy blush. My lips are a deep, rich red that makes them look fuller, more pouty.

"Now, get dressed," Melody chirps, her voice saccharine sweet and grating on my last nerve. "Raphael will be here shortly to escort you to orientation."

At the mention of Raphael's name, a surge of white-hot anger courses through me, from the roots of my stylishly coiffed hair to the tips of my perfectly manicured toes. All I can think about is how satisfying it would be to wrap my hands around his smug, angelic throat and squeeze until his eyes bugged out.

I imagine the shocked look on his perfect face as he realized I wasn't the helpless little mortal he thought I was.

Would his skin bruise, I wonder, or would it remain as flawless and unblemished as ever?

As I reluctantly start to put on the admittedly gorgeous outfit Ollie has chosen, I can't help but wonder if they teach choking techniques in this twisted afterlife school. The fabric of the blouse is indeed as soft as it looks, sliding over my skin like a cool breeze. The pantsuit fits like a glove, hugging my curves in all the right places without being restrictive.

As I slip on the Oxford shoes, I'm surprised to find they're as comfortable as slippers, despite their formal appearance.

"Hurry up now," Melody sing-songs, oblivious to my murderous thoughts as she flits around the room, tidying up the mess from our impromptu makeover session. "We wouldn't want to keep Raphael waiting!"

I grit my teeth, the taste of the fancy lipstick bitter on my tongue. I force myself to focus on adjusting the jacket instead of plotting Raphael's demise. The sigils on the lapels seem to shimmer as I smooth them down, and I feel a strange tingle in my fingertips. After all, I have all of eternity to figure out how to make that sanctimonious prick pay.

For now, I'll play along.

But Raphael better watch his back. Because this "lowly mortal" is out for blood, and I have a sneaking suspicion that these new clothes are more than just a fashion statement. They're armor, and I intend to use every advantage they give me.

As I stand there, fully dressed and primped to perfection, I catch my reflection in the mirror one last time. The woman staring back at me is a stranger – polished, poised, and dangerous. A wolf in designer clothing. I allow myself a small, predatory smile. Let them think they've tamed me, I think.

They have no idea what's coming.

A sharp knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Melody practically bounces over to answer it, her cotton candy hair bobbing with each step. As she swings the door open, I steel myself, knowing who's on the other side.

And there he is. Raphael, in all his angelic glory, looking like he's just stepped out of a Renaissance painting. His golden curls frame his perfect face, those piercing blue eyes sweeping over me with a mix of approval and something else – is that concern?

"Jane," he says, his voice as smooth and rich as aged whiskey. "You look... different."

I plaster on my best fake smile, all teeth and no warmth. "Why, thank you, Raphael. You're looking as sanctimonious as ever."

His eyes narrow slightly, but he maintains his composure. "Are you ready for orientation?"

I step towards him, my new shoes silent on the marble floor. As I draw closer, I can smell his scent – a mix of cinnamon and something distinctly otherworldly. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Oh, Raphael," I purr, my voice dripping with false sweetness. "I was born ready."

And with that, I brush past him into the hallway, my head held high. I don't look back, but I can feel his gaze burning into me as he falls into step behind me. Let the games begin, I think. This helpless little mortal is about to turn your world upside down.

As we make our way through the twisting corridors of Doomstead Abbey, I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking into the lion's den. But for the first time since I'd woken up in this bizarre afterlife, I feel a glimmer of something other than fear and confusion.

It's hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, I can turn this fucked-up situation to my advantage. Hope that I can find a way to not just survive, but thrive in this new world.

And if that means playing their game for now? Well, they're about to learn that Jane Doe plays to win.