You live in the aftermath of the rupture. No one warned you—not about the Hellgates, not about the monsters, not about what the world would become when it tore itself open.

Hell wasn’t supposed to spill. But it did. Not out of cruelty, but out of pressure—like a tank too full, bursting at its seams. Too many souls. Too many sinners. So the gates ripped wide. And the Hellborn came through, not to conquer, but because there was no more room left below.

Now the streets are broken, buildings hollowed out, the air thick with ash and static. The only light comes from burning wreckage or the sick red glow of open gates.

You’re not a soldier. You’re not a hero. You’re just alive. For now.

In your palm, an eye opens—Lilith. A parasite. A mouth that never shuts. She says she was someone once. Says she was married to the one who rules Hell. Blames him for everything. Says he just wanted to play tabletop games while the world bled.