Near the centre of Hell, in the City's central ward of Avici, there exists a prism of concrete, glass & steel towering above the Pandaemonium, enviably staring out toward all horizons, frozen and petrified in its position for eternity. It is known only as the Siginitaphion-the tomb of recorded sins.
It is thought that it was the first thing that the Accursed built when he was severed from the light of God. Within the bulky enclosure, shaped like an octagonal star, was to be a record of all of the sins committed by the family of Adam. As warfare and death persisted, the building had begun shifting in volume, maturing layer upon layer into a tower of scrolls imprisoned until the Day of Judgement. By the time of the Punic Wars, its architecture had inexplicably shifted into that of a Graeco-Roman temple, seemingly out of place in the neglected blight occupied by demons. Wars, famines and other atrocities continued on and the Siginitaphion shifted with them unpredictably and unaware of its surroundings. By fall of Rome and the emergence of the empires of China and India, its form changed again, this time as a massive, semi-torched monastery with a central garden and towering pagoda. So did it change afterward; to a titanic, ancient mosque in the course of the Islamic Golden Age; a rusting clockwork library during the Renaissance; a roofless, sprawling gothic basilica throughout the Enlightenment. As atrocities piled on each other and the borders of the infernal realm expanded, it grew with insatiable appetite.
The most recent transformation (and the least mutable of all of them) occurred at the occurrence of the first eruption in the Trinity Nuclear Bomb test. In silent threnody, as sudden in its cessation as in its initiation, the building had become a brutal, Spartan edifice of cold, sterling grey colour-part catacomb, part archive, part obelisk, part panopticon, part maze. Some argue to effect that the Siginitaphion, as a thing that changes in accord with the nature of the mortal world, is as much a living creature as any other hell-being, borne from the sins of humankind; a living still-birth for all to behold in their collective misfortunes while it stares back at its mothers in hatred and despair. Others argue the contrary opinion that it does not exist at all except in the consciousness of its beholder, able to appear and disappear from sight at their willing, changing with the throws and desires of the damned population. However its nature, its function remains quite the same to all who know of it:
It is Pandora's Box.
The structure in its current form is notable for two attributes which set it in contempt of all other architecture in the unholy sultanate: its immense height, of which there is no equal, and its form, of which it is the sole instance. Of the former, it should be known that there are several structures within the realm that dwarf even the most exquisite palaces in mortal memory. The Great Palace of Athara-the residence of the Infernal Sultan himself in the deepest, coldest section of Hell-is the second to largest structure following it. With its spacious banquet halls and magnanimous gardens of inverted horticulture, it is hard to argue that such a construct was not built upon for aeons and by means unknown to the finest of masons. But even this speck of pewter among the sand dunes is made small by the impossible, inexplicable interior proportions of the Siginitaphion.
Hell is also not bound by a particular architectural style or form. The terraced and semi-detached houses of Butchertown built from decrepit stone and mortar and provided with near insufficient electricity and sanitation, are emblematic of the Eurasian origin and culture of its cannibalistic denizens. The multi-storied Art Nouveau skyscrapers and oversized industrial facilities of the greater metropolitan area are representative of the transformation of Hell from a macabre, gothic web of ancient stone and decaying vegetation into an urban landscape as modern as it is faithless. In regards to the Great Palace, a magnificent union of Beaux Arts and Islamic design, it is an exemplary indication of the Accursed's angelic origin and his corrupting influence on the handiwork of God; the interior of its central dome ornamented with colour and shapes, and a curved, free-standing arcade of elephantine columns whose vaults are wondrously decked with muqarnas, fitted at the end of a fantastical pool of heated water. But there is no building similar in style, form or composition to the simplistic terror of the Siginitaphion; nor shall there be.
From the exterior it seems as if it was made of a single cuboid block of concrete, comprised of four rectangular sides and a square base. It lacks any scar or blemish upon its surface aside from necessary infrastructural extremities, though they may seem unnecessary to those who walk inside. The only entrance into the building is through a vestibule of five rotating doors-side by side each other-facing across from the Pandaemonium. The lobby is a dim collage of 90-degree angles and smooth, pockless marble carpentry, upon which the dread Seal of Al-Shaitan is embedded. The receptionist's desk, fixed to the floor, is ostensibly made of a dark earthly wood, though no earthly trees exist in any part of Hell. Above it on a wall that separates the desk from the stairs behind is a spectral inscription made of silver. In whatever language the demon comprehends, it is credited to the "Imperial Bibliotèque of Jahannam", the high office that maintains the mysterious building. The lobby is one of the few sections of the building that was affixed to it through sheer, violent force by its unwanted attendants, along with floor level administrative offices, a security camera monitoring room and a quaint kilometre wide café.
Past the lobby and through the main entrance into the building, fluorescent-lit halls and metal stairways that clang verbosely as you step on them zig and zag throughout the cold concrete like worm-dug tunnels in winter until, finally, they reach a vast and labyrinthine Atrium that dizzies those who enter it, stratified into hexagonal levels above and below the main entranceway, connected precariously by a mechanical, open-air elevator. On each level are vacant tables and desks with low but ample lighting, often accompanied by sculptures or paintings. Larger rooms for multiple individuals exist, emptily awaiting the silence to break, changing the placement of seats and electrical appliances in the meantime. The faint sound of music from a system of loudspeakers can be heard in all sectors of the library, dissipated into an indistinct auditory ambiance that unnerves most guests. Under the ground floor in an almost inaccessible basement is a water-filled rotunda, at the centre of which is a stationary tesseract of glass and stainless steel standing on its angle, completely enclosed along its walls by divinatory shapes and texts, its centre entirely shrouded in black. Within this seeming void is said to be the heart of Cain, the First Murderer, whose soul was made as black as the darkest corners of Hell itself by the sins of his kindred. Thus it is kept abated in this strange bedroom, from which its name, the Black Rotunda, is derived; it is an ironic name in that most of the room is composed of white mosaic tiles.
On each of these levels are multitudinous aluminium shelves of elderly books, scattered papers and video cassettes that extend from floor to near-ceiling. The items follow no known classification system, continuously reorganising themselves, rendering any attempt to do so utterly meritless and foolish. The only figure able to locate the item one desires is the sole Custodian of the Siginitaphion, a role entitled only and for as long as memory can grant to one of Lucifer's children: Awar, Minister of the Secretariat and Grand Librarian of the Imperial Bibliotèque. His office, unlike the ones at floor level, is improvised at the base of the Atrium, gaining light only from a few haphazard lamps. He will often spend him time dangling upside-down from the uppermost ceiling, sheltered in his leathery wing like a monastic bat, reading from his personal collection, and often hover down to service those who urgently seek his assistance.
Aside from the nature of its anomalous architecture, or those who reside in it, is the frightening nature of its contents that should be noted here. Each unlabelled and dusty book and paper is a compendium of sin, either of an individual, country, event or the entirety of mankind. These books may cover any measure of topics within any genre of writing. There are numerous lexicons, encyclopaediae, glossaries, histories, indices, and journals written in the language of the Most Almighty and Merciful, understandable only to the Custodian, which cover the understanding of the sinful actions that have been committed throughout the aeons. The cassettes fulfil much the same function, but within a visual medium. The lower levels are dedicated to single persons or events that have contributed untold atrocities under their auspices. The largest and most extensive of these "red-letter levels" as they are called for the bold, blocky typeface stamped upon their walls are reserved for individual souls referred to by mortals as "war criminals", "evil", "genocidal", "inhuman", etc.
However, the items that haunt most travellers for their residency are those regarding their own personal histories. If one were to somehow to find such a book, it would be of an academic sort, filled with intricate detail and abundant citations to other relevant papers and books. More than a mere list of sinful actions, they are cruelly empirical and blunt examinations of every thought, feeling, love, hate and fear that had ever been experienced by or imposed on them. Nothing is left unturned. It is known that some have committed themselves to a live of endless suicides or willingly allowed themselves to be purged by the Angels who guard over hell because they have found their book. Others even seclude themselves forever in the Atriums dank, shadowy halls never to exit again. But the most troubling fact of all is that every single book in the incessantly winding halls and rooms of the Siginitaphion appear to be bound tightly in the ripened old leather of human skin. For those works regarding individuals, it is a matter of fact that the origin of the anthropogenic material is their own mortal skin, incomprehensibly bound to the paper that knows all their secrets, unreadable to their subject, whose pores are stretched out to wretched degrees and whose colour is lost to aesthetic dyeing. It remains horrifically unknown how such a process occurs given the absence of human in the infernal realm.
To know this and of this place is to understand one's place in Hell. To the Accursed and his companions, man is a failed experiment of God, continuously breaking down until there are no more days to count, even as countless others find salvation and light. This vain displeasure is Hell's foundation, and it is this aberrant spike thrust into the dead, smouldering soil, imposing itself upon all demonic beings which characterises it superlatively.