"Last thing I knew, I was in a car accident. A head-on collision," said the guy in the suit. "I think I died."

"I was shot three times in the chest," Mr. Tattoo said. He pushed up his shirt, rang a hand over his smooth brown chest. No blood, no bullet holes.

My knees wanted to buckle but I stiffened them. Stayed standing by sheer dint of will.

Can't afford to appear weak, Mona Louisa thought inside me. I agreed with her.

"What about you?" asked the older man.

"A black light came down from the moon and brought me here."

"We told you the truth," the young guy said, scowling.

"So did I," I returned evenly. Then I said flatly, "I don't have a pulse or a heartbeat."

Both men took a moment to assess themselves.

"Nothing here." Tattoo guy.

"Me, either," said Mr. Corporate Type. "Are we in Hell?"

Tattoo guy looked around at the bleak landscape, his disdain not quite masking the fear underneath. "Sure don't look like heaven, does it?"

I was as confused as they were. Maybe even more so, and even more shaken up inside. Am I dead? Really dead? If so, then why am I here? As a Damanten, a living demon, I was not supposed to have an afterlife. And humans rarely had enough psychic energy to transition to Hell. And yet here I was with three humans, two of them having obviously lived and died violently. And none of them seemed terribly upset or surprised to find themselves dead. To find themselves here.

"What did you do?" I asked the guy in the suit.

He took a moment to push himself onto his knees. "What do you mean, what did I do?"

"We have a death-row inmate and a gang member who died in a shoot-out, if I'm not mistaken."

Tattoo guy nodded confirmation.

"You don't seem particularly surprised to find yourself in this human version of Hell," I noted.