chapter 1: Forsaken Bonds

Tom slumped on a crumbling bench outside the city hall, his frame thin and frail. The afternoon sun cast long shadows, and the bustling city seemed distant and indifferent. In his hands, he held a simple paper bag with a juice carton and a bun — not the synthetic fare typical of his neighborhood, but a small luxury he'd splurged on with his remaining savings.

Tom had always found comfort in the simplicity of a bun, especially one with a hint of sweetness, and the juice was a rare treat that had cost him most of his meager funds. Today, he decided to indulge himself before what he knew would be his final day.

He pulled out the bun first, its aroma surprisingly comforting. He took a bite, savoring the soft, slightly sweet bread, a small smile flickering across his face. After a few more bites, he set the bun aside and opened the juice carton. The juice was a vibrant orange, and as he took a sip, the tangy sweetness made him wince slightly, but it was a welcome change from the usual synthetic drinks he was used to.

"Ah! Sweet but a bit too tangy."

Despite the unusual flavor, he was determined to make the most of his indulgence. He took another sip of the juice, feeling the liquid's chill on his throat. The bun, now half-eaten, sat beside him on the bench, crumbs dotting his lap.

"I should've spent my money on something heartier. Who knew juice could be so overpowering? At least it'll give me a bit of energy."

Tom's eyes wandered to the elegant high-rises that towered over the city. From this vantage point, the world seemed almost surreal, a stark contrast to his own grim reality. He let out a weary sigh as he finished the bun, the last crumb wiped away with a contented look. He threw the empty paper bag into the trash bin, though it missed and landed on the ground. With a resigned shake of his head, he picked it up and disposed of it properly.

Feeling the weight of his situation pressing down on him, Tom took a deep breath and stood up. The city hall loomed ahead, an imposing structure with its heavy security and austere design. He walked towards the entrance, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous lobby. The cold, sterile air inside was a sharp contrast to the warm day outside.

As he approached the front desk, the stern-faced receptionist looked up from her paperwork with a raised eyebrow.

"Can I help you?"

Tom cleared his throat, his voice cracking slightly.

"Yes, I need to surrender myself as a carrier of Hell, according to the Third Special Directive."

The receptionist's eyebrows knitted together, a flicker of concern crossing her face. She exchanged a glance with a nearby security officer, who quickly came over. His uniform was crisply ironed, and his eyes were sharp and assessing.

"Are you sure about this?" the officer asked, his tone stern yet tinged with a hint of apprehension. "When did you first notice the symptoms?"

Tom shrugged, feeling the weight of his situation pressing down on him.

"About a week ago."

The officer's face paled, and he quickly turned to the receptionist, issuing hurried commands.

"Code Black. I repeat, Code Black."

The receptionist nodded and started making urgent calls. The officer gestured for Tom to follow him through a series of security doors, each opening with a resounding clang. The path led them down into the dimly lit basement of the city hall. The air grew colder, and the walls seemed to close in, lined with heavy metal and reinforced steel.

At the end of the corridor was a room that looked more like a high-security cell than a standard interrogation room. Tom was led inside and strapped into a bulky, uncomfortable chair that resembled a cross between a hospital bed and a medieval restraint device. The walls were lined with surveillance monitors, and the officers stationed there looked tense and alert.

Tom's eyes were heavy with exhaustion, and he struggled to keep them open. The officer who had brought him here, now accompanied by a gray-haired man in a higher-ranking uniform, approached. The new officer had a grave expression and moved with a practiced efficiency.

"Name?" the gray-haired officer asked, his voice calm but authoritative.

"Tom," he replied, barely managing to keep his head up.

The officer raised an eyebrow. "Tom? That's all?"

Tom nodded, his eyes fluttering.

"Yes. No family. No other name."

The officer's face softened for a moment before hardening again.

"Alright, Tom. How long can you stay awake?"

Tom yawned deeply, struggling to focus.

"Not much longer."

The officer sighed, a deep weariness in his eyes. "We don't have much time. Here's what you need to know. You're about to enter Hell. Inside, you'll encounter demons and people. The people aren't real. They're illusions created by the infernal forces."

Tom blinked slowly, his vision blurring.

"How do you know they're not real?" he managed to ask.

The officer's gaze was intense, almost haunted. "Because no one fully understands Hell. Treat them as illusions, for your own sake."

Tom's head was nodding, his consciousness slipping away.

"About the powers you'll gain… if you survive Hell, you'll acquire abilities based on your actions and natural affinity. Some powers will be immediate, others will take time."

The officer's voice grew distant, and Tom's surroundings seemed to dissolve into darkness.

"Check your Attributes and Aspect as soon as you enter. Combat Aspects are advantageous, but even non-combat Aspects have their uses. Survive, and you're halfway to gaining true power. Fail, and you risk unleashing a demon into the real world."

Tom's final thoughts were a hazy blend of anxiety and fatigue as he drifted into sleep, the weight of Hell pressing down on him.