I suppose this is more of a prologue than a Chapter 1 since it's rather short, but oh well.

Chapter Warnings: mentions of death and torture, religious implications.

Despite the screams and howls of the damned, Hell was an organized, professional business. Check in at the counter, where the smiling receptionist would have you wait, read an outdated magazine to pass the time, a seat between each body to provide personal space. Or politely, you'd apologize, and sit next to strangers, for no other seats are available, and you keep your legs pressed tight together, arms across your chest to avoid brushing against your neighbors. You'd wait, until a man in doctor's scrubs would open the door and call your name, and you'd follow, the same nerves in mind that you'd have at any office such as this. A slight anxiety present in the back of your thoughts, but not so overwhelming that you might panic. You might even forget why you're here. You'd forget and think, "Oh, this isn't so bad now, is it?" And you'd be lead to a room, fitted much like your everyday doctor or dentist's office. You'd be told to have a seat, which you would, and the door would shut.

Yes, a business was what they liked to call it, those who worked there. It was much nicer sounding than eternal punishment or something else of the sorts, even if behind the spotless counters and crisp suits that's what it was; Hell. The door would shut, and the doctor would take out your file and read it aloud, and you'd remember suddenly why you're there. On the file are not medical conditions or pills taken daily, but a list of sins. He'd read them aloud, explain your position, perhaps give a sympathetic, almost apologetic smile, for he too was once like you, a damned soul, filled with dread, fear, guilt. You might try to apologise or claim there must be some mistake, but you know there have been none. You are meant to be here, that list is proof. Hell is a business, a tightly knit one, and they do not make mistakes.

You might try to run, but you are already restrained to the chair. The doctor is opening drawers, pulling out the tools of his trade, and your blood runs cold at the sight. And you wish, oh how you wish you could take it all back! Start over anew, make amends, you wouldn't live your life how you did, not knowing that this is the result.

But there are no second chances in death.

Gilbert was tired of this routine. Lead in a patient, to the office, read to them the list of sins, sigh and ignore their pleas, then get on with it. Hell was Hell, and no amount of clean cut doctors and smiling receptionists and old timey magazines could hide it once you were locked in. In the beginning, he'd relished in the thrill of it all. How silly the patients were, thinking they could just beg and they'd be let go! No, once you'd made an appointment with Hell, you stuck through with it. No turning back, no delays. It was almost comical, the fear in their eyes as he'd prepare his tools, as if they didn't expect damnation to involve pain. He'd thrived on their shrieks and screams and the warm blood that would stain his once pristine coat. He had to. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been chosen for this job. Mercy was not an option for the doctors. They were to do their job without thought, and if they enjoyed it, well, that was just a bonus, wasn't it? But after so many years, after so many patients, the process grew boring and mundane. Gilbert used to be baffled by the older doctors who complained about the monotony of their work, but now he cursed it as well. It was so predictable, each patient the same as the last. He hadn't even bothered to look at this one yet or read his file beforehand. What was the point, afterall? He'd forget this patient's face, just like the rest, ignore his screams and begging as he worked, then go home for the day, just to come back and start the process anew.

But he couldn't go the entire time without greeting the patient who so obediently followed him into his room, one of thousands, and sat in the chair he wouldn't leave for days, years, centuries, perhaps. So, a look of absolute boredom on his face, Gilbert observed his newest patient.

He was a young man, too young to have died of old age. An accident perhaps, then, or sickness. Fair skinned, glasses that framed violet eyes, and an expression that was almost a pout, as if he were inconvenienced by being here. Gilbert had to shake himself from those eyes, for they were beautiful, just like the rest of his delicate features. He wondered, laughing to himself as he tried to imagine what such a gorgeous man could have done to land himself here. He wasn't bulky, in fact, he seemed to lack extra muscle entirely, so he could be no killer. Perhaps, then, he'd done something more sinister, more manipulative, something befitting such sharp eyes. He seemed like a smart man, but then again, no man smart enough would land themselves in hell. Perhaps it was just the glasses.

Gilbert reached for the clipboard holding the files of this man, a rare curiosity in his mind. He skimmed the outline, speaking as he did so.

"So. Welcome. I'm Doctor Beilschmidt, but just call me Gilbert, we're gonna be spending a lot of time together, so might as well." He paused, searching for a name. "Edelstein, huh? Nice name. Roderich's nice too, but Edelstein's one hell of a surname." Gilbert chuckled. "Can I call you Rod? Roddy?" He looked up to glance at the man, but he was silent, calm almost, not even seeming to mind the restraints on his wrists and ankles keeping him bound to his chair. Gilbert shrugged. "Okay then. Rod it is."

"Anyway, Rod, I'm just gonna go over the basics for you. You're in Hell, obviously, and I'll be the doctor treating you during your eternal damnation, or however much time you got here. Doesn't really matter how long. Of course, you probably wanna know what landed you here, so lemme just go over your file and we'll find out, 'kay?"

As he fished out the list of sins, Gilbert paused. His eyes narrowed, face falling into a confused frown. As the silence persisted, the man, Roderich, spoke, his voice soft, like a songbird trapped amongst ravens.

"...Is something the matter, Doctor?"

And Gilbert, a look of utter befuddlement on his face, thought that maybe, just maybe, for the first time since creation, that Hell had made a mistake.

Roderich's file was empty.