"Sticks and stones, iron, carbon dioxide, sand, a bunch of other things, wheelchairs, humans…" My voice echoed hollowly into the pale nothingness. “Tell me, my beloved father—what do I need right now?”

  Purgatory was starting to feel like a vacation spot these days. At least no one tried to dismember or eat you here. You didn’t get chased by malformed goblins or crushed by overgrown insects. You just… floated. Alone. Drifting in grey silence while the ceiling flickered with imprisoned souls masquerading as light fixtures. Eccentric interior design, but oddly fitting.

  "A wheelchair racing track?"The evil god asked sarcastically, while I was still dazed from my most recent death. The moment I arrived, the presence arrived with me—him. The so-called god, the manipulative architect of my endless misfortune. The other souls didn’t even wait for introductions. They fled the area the second his aura brushed against existence, a vacuum of dread in the shape of a man.

  I didn’t even bother to look at him. I knew his face too well by now—the friendly smile that meant nothing, the dark eyes that pretended to care.

  “No? Then maybe a psychiatrist, you sick bastard.” My voice cracked slightly as I sat up, fingers clutching at my tangled hair. Frustration, grief, and fury coiled inside me, threatening to spill. I couldn’t bottle it anymore.

  “You know, that’s where people go when they’re broken. When they’ve snapped under the weight of the world—or several worlds, in my case. And here you are, playing puppet-master with lives and souls like it’s a game you picked off some celestial shelf. You reincarnated me as a little girl, threw me into a grotesque hellhole, and now you want to twist my soul into whatever shape suits your escape plan from this place? You call that granting my wish?”

  My fists trembled. I couldn’t even tell whether it was from rage or fear anymore. “I hate you. I hate you. Don’t pretend I’m still your daughter or your chosen one or your little pawn in a grand cosmic story. You didn’t fulfill my wish. You stole it. I wanted peace. A normal life. Something human. A loving father would never disregard his daughters wishes like this!”

  There was a long pause. Long enough to make me think—stupidly—that maybe my words had finally reached him.

  He stood there, hands in his pockets, kicking at a few stones scattered across the cold ground like a bored child. Then, softly, with the kind of twisted amusement that made my stomach twist, he said:

  “Hmm… sadly, that does sound right.” He tilted his head as though weighing something inconsequential. “But I can’t have you walking around thinking I’m the kind of god who doesn’t keep his promises, can I? Reputation matters.”

  The air shifted. Suddenly, the warm, deceptive father-figure I'd once known vanished entirely. What stood before me now wasn’t pretending anymore. The skin-deep benevolence had peeled away, and what remained was the truth. Something ancient, cruel, and amused by suffering.

  I scrambled back. Every nerve in my body screamed for me to run, but I couldn’t even remember where the edge of purgatory was. Not that it would have mattered.

  He stepped forward once. I recoiled. Twice. My breath caught. His hand extended, and I felt it descend on my head like a lead weight.

  "No—!" I managed to say, but it was already too late.

  Darkness swallowed me whole.

  * * *

  "Sticks and stones, iron, carbon dioxide, sand, a bunch of other things, wheelchairs, humans…" My voice echoed hollowly into the pale nothingness. “Tell me, my beloved father—what do I need right now?”

  Purgatory was starting to feel like a vacation spot these days. At least no one tried to dismember or eat you here. You didn’t get chased by malformed goblins or crushed by overgrown insects. You just… floated. Alone. Drifting in grey silence while the ceiling flickered with imprisoned souls masquerading as light fixtures. Eccentric interior design, but oddly fitting.

  "A wheelchair racing track?"The evil god asked sarcastically, while I was still dazed from my most recent death. The moment I arrived, the presence arrived with me—him. The so-called god, the manipulative architect of my endless misfortune. The other souls didn’t even wait for introductions. They fled the area the second his aura brushed against existence, a vacuum of dread in the shape of a man.

  I didn’t even bother to look at him. I knew his face too well by now—the friendly smile that meant nothing, the dark eyes that pretended to care.

  “No? Then maybe a psychiatrist, you sick bastard.” My voice cracked slightly as I sat up, fingers clutching at my tangled hair. Frustration, grief, and fury coiled inside me, threatening to spill. I couldn’t bottle it anymore.

  “You know, that’s where people go when they’re broken. When they’ve snapped under the weight of the world—or several worlds, in my case. And here you are, playing puppet-master with lives and souls like it’s a game you picked off some celestial shelf. You reincarnated me as a little girl, threw me into a grotesque hellhole, and now you want to twist my soul into whatever shape suits your escape plan from this place? You call that granting my wish?”

  My fists trembled. I couldn’t even tell whether it was from rage or fear anymore. “I hate you. I hate you. Don’t pretend I’m still your daughter or your chosen one or your little pawn in a grand cosmic story. You didn’t fulfill my wish. You stole it. I wanted peace. A normal life. Something human. A loving father would never disregard his daughters wishes like this!”

  He grinned—wide, wild, unsettlingly sincere—for a reason that eluded me at the time. There was a strange brightness in his voice, the kind that made your skin itch just hearing it.

  "But I didn’t do anything at all," he said, tilting his head like a curious child. "Even if you hate me now, you might still love me in the future. A family you can learn to love—that’s exactly what you wished for, isn’t it?"

  The words rang true in the most infuriating, uncomfortable way. I blinked, confused, almost doubting myself. Had I really said that? It sounded like something I might have wished for—back before all of this. But something about it felt… too rehearsed. Too well-placed.

  A sharp, sudden pain bloomed in my skull. I winced, then cried out as the pressure grew—slowly at first, then violently, like an invisible hand was grinding my brain against broken glass. I collapsed, writhing on the cold purgatory floor, clutching my head as if I could hold it together by sheer force.

  The god didn’t hesitate. He stepped in and placed a hand on my scalp. Warmth flooded in. The pain vanished instantly, like it had never been there at all. This time, I didn’t pass out. I just stared up at him, confused, breathing heavily.

  He looked down at me, brow furrowed—not in pity, but in irritation. "Are you okay?" he asked, half concerned, half fed-up, like a parent dragged out of bed for a child’s nightmare.

  I nodded slowly, still shaken. "Why are you helping me?" I asked. "And what even was that? I thought pain wasn’t a thing in purgatory."

  He sighed and straightened up, folding his arms. "You’re my daughter. Isn’t it my obligation to help you?" He paused before continuing, "The pain comes from your soul. It’s adapting to your new race. A divine-level transformation. Probably best not to dwell on it. It’ll pass with time."

  I wanted to trust him. He had never lied to me before… not directly, anyway. But something about that answer didn’t sit right. If he cared so much, why didn’t he give me something—anything—to defend myself in that hellish world? Why did I have to die first just to get his attention?

  As if reading my mind, he added quietly, "I can’t help you on Solaris. That’s where you live now."

  He rifled through my thoughts again, I could tell. He probably saw the confusion on my face, the lack of understanding, the fact that I didn’t even know the name of my new planet. That infuriated me. It wasn’t just invasive—it made me feel like I wasn’t mine anymore.

  "Get out of my head!" I snapped, voice shrill with rage.

  "Alright, alright," he said, backing off with the same casualness one might show to a barking puppy. "Anyway, it’s time for your daily purgatory soul adjustment."

  He said it so blandly. As if it were no different from brushing teeth or taking out the trash. The absurdity of it made me nauseous.

  "Come with me."

  I reluctantly stood and followed him. The terrain of purgatory was as bizarre and lifeless as ever—endless cracked stone, drifting souls, and the ever-present flicker of imprisoned lights above. It felt more like a tomb than a realm between life and death. After a few minutes of walking over jagged stones and invisible inclines, I’d had enough.

  "When are we even there? I’m bored," I muttered, dragging my voice like a sulking child.

  "Try counting the souls," he replied, not even bothering to turn around as he levitated ahead, robes gently rippling in an invisible breeze.

  The lack of teleportation was infuriating. He could have made this instant. Instead, he chose the long route—probably to torture me.

  So I doubled down.

  "My feet hurt. I splintered a nail." None of it was true, but unless he was actively scanning my thoughts—which I was now guarding by repeating the word “fish” on an endless loop—he wouldn’t know that.

  "This is your astral body," he said flatly. "It’s a reflection of how you perceive yourself. You can’t splinter a nail here."

  Touché. Still, I wasn't done.

  "I need to pee."

  He stopped in mid-air and rotated around slowly, his eyes glowing faintly. That look—sharp, all-knowing—stripped the air of all humor.

  "You’re not a child anymore."

  I couldn’t help it—I laughed. Loud and sudden. "I am, actually. At least physically. Or did you forget what you turned me into?!" I threw my arms out in mock grandeur. "A little girl with no weapons, no skills, and apparently, no bladder."

  I spotted a random sparkle in the distance and grinned. "Hey, I think I saw a nail clipper over there, maybe two kilometres that way. You go ahead. I’ll catch up. Have a great day!"

  I turned dramatically and started wandering away.

  Not five steps in, I felt my body lighten.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  I didn’t stumble. I simply rose. My feet left the ground, and I hovered, powerless, back to the god’s side.

  He didn’t even look at me. Just floated forward, dragging me along like a balloon on a string.

  And as much as I wanted to scream, I only smirked.

  If he was going to make me suffer, I was going to make him suffer with me.

  We had been levitating for what felt like an eternity, gliding soundlessly above the same bleak, lifeless terrain. The silence between us was heavy, awkward, and oppressive—like the atmosphere itself disapproved of our continued existence. The god—my supposed father—floated ahead of me, his robes untouched by the stale, unmoving air of purgatory. I trailed behind, arms crossed, trying to ignore the maddening monotony.

  The landscape never changed. Not a single rock out of place. No trees, no wind, no sun. Just the same dull grey earth littered with bones and broken souls like dust in an abandoned museum. And as if that weren’t torturous enough, the god had stopped responding to my incessant complaints some time ago.

  I cracked first.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, my voice slicing into the stillness.

  No answer.

  “Where. Are. We. Going?” I tried again, louder this time.

  Still nothing.

  By the third time, I nearly screamed it, teeth clenched, hands balled into fists. And finally, like a vending machine coughing up a reluctant coin, he answered:

  “To my house.”

  Short. Irritated. Delivered with all the emotional investment of someone ordering dry toast.

  But that answer changed things. My eyebrows shot up.

  “Your house?” I echoed, stunned. “You mean to tell me you built a house here?”

  My mind started spinning with possibilities. If he could build a house in this forsaken wasteland, then surely I could build something too. Like, say, a giant, tacky concrete wall around it—perfectly positioned to block every single window view. Preferably painted neon pink. With profanity scrawled across it in glitter.

  “Finally, some civilization!” I chirped, my sarcasm switching into overdrive. “Tell me, does it have flowing water? Electricity? Central heating? Maybe a charming kitchen window that overlooks a fresh pile of screaming souls?”

  “No. No. No. No. No.”

  I blinked. “…You do realize I only asked four questions, right?”

  He didn’t even flinch.

  “Oh no,” I whispered mock-dramatically. “Don’t tell me... Your fatal weakness is... math?”

  For a being who supposedly ran the afterlife, that was a worrying oversight. Or maybe I’d just struck a nerve. Time to dig deeper.

  “So, no kitchen?” I prodded, grinning. “What, does your mum still cook for you? Should I ask her what exactly went wrong during your celestial upbringing?”

  This time, he didn’t answer with words—just a low, guttural growl from deep within his throat. The kind of sound that said “You’re on thin ice” without having to spell it out. I had clearly annoyed him, but not enough for him to retaliate. Not yet. Encouraging.

  We continued in silence until something finally appeared on the horizon—a shape that wasn’t made of bones or despair. As we drifted closer, I squinted and blinked several times, not trusting my eyes.

  It was a house.

  A perfectly average house.

  No lava moat. No spikes. No giant screaming faces sculpted into the walls. Just... stone. Grey, weathered stone, worn smooth in places, and a wooden door. Lamps stood outside on crooked posts, glowing with a soft, eerie light.

  It looked absurdly out of place—like someone had copied and pasted a suburban cottage into a post-apocalyptic painting.

  The god landed first and stepped inside without a word, the door creaking open under his hand. I hovered just before the entrance, turning in a slow circle to take in the surroundings. More rocks. More bones. In the far distance, another field of skulls stretched like a white ocean under the grey sky.

  Any thought of building a wall around the house evaporated. Honestly, it would improve the view.

  Still, I hesitated at the threshold. Something about this entire setup smelled wrong.

  I leaned in slightly, peering down the hallway. Wooden flooring. Actual wood. And sophisticated light fixtures glowed warmly along the corridor walls. It looked too... human. Too normal. Which, in this place, was deeply suspicious.

  “Is this some kind of trap?” I asked, eyes narrowing. “Why do you even need a house? And where did you get the wood?”

  He turned back to face me. “No. It’s just a normal house.” His voice was even, but I didn’t miss the tension behind it.

  “Haunted?”

  “No.”

  “Will I be able to leave afterwards?”

  A beat.

  “Yes. It’s a normal house.”

  But I wasn’t buying it. The lights inside the hallway flickered slightly, the glow uneven—as if something inside them was moving.

  “Where’d you get those lamps? Or the wood? There’s nothing like that in purgatory. You expect me to believe you just... what? Crafted it from despair?”

  His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

  “From the nearest hardware store,” he deadpanned. “Now get inside.”

  And before I could argue, he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me in. Hard.

  I stumbled forward, caught off guard. The floor creaked under my bare feet as I found my balance and glared back at him, stunned. He never touched me like that. Never forced anything.

  Something was very wrong.

  “Can I go buy a watering can there too?” I asked sharply.

  He stared at me, unreadable.

  That’s when it hit me.

  “You liar.” My voice was quiet now, a blade instead of a hammer. “There is no hardware store, is there?”

  He said nothing. Just turned and walked down the hallway.

  But I was no longer distracted by his silence. I had uncovered something—something important. A lie. Even if it was meant as a joke, it mattered. If he could lie about that, what else had he lied about?

  The foundation of our entire relationship wobbled like a rotten floorboard.

  “Hey, Father,” I called after him, letting the word hang like poison on my tongue. “Why did you drag me here?”

  As I passed one of the ornate lamps, I idly tapped its glass with my fingernail. No response. I leaned in closer, frowning.

  Inside the lamp, something... twisted. Something alive. A tiny, glowing orb spun in slow, miserable circles, trapped in its glass prison.

  A soul.

  “I thought you disliked the usual landscape,” he said from somewhere deeper in the house. “So I built this for you. In my free time.”

  My blood ran cold.

  He hadn’t just made a home.

  He had filled it with captive souls—and tried to pass it off as a gift.

  Fury surged through me like wildfire. I darted into the nearest room and flung open a drawer. A knife—clean, stainless steel, real—glinted under the lamplight. I snatched it up, returned to the hallway, and smashed the nearest lamp.

  Glass exploded. The soul inside shot out like a freed firefly, zooming toward the open door and vanishing into the grey sky beyond.

  The god stared, dumbfounded.

  I didn’t stop.

  I tore through the house, room to room, shattering every lamp I could find. Souls scattered, flared, fled. Light drained from the corridor like water from a broken dam.

  When the last soul escaped, I walked calmly back to the hall and hurled the knife at him.

  It froze mid-air and clattered to the floor uselessly. Of course.

  “You...” he said, voice low and dangerous.

  “You wanted me to live here,” I spat. “Surrounded by imprisoned souls. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Or did you think I wouldn’t care?”

  He clenched his fists.

  “Enough. My patience has limits, child.”

  I threw my head back and laughed. The sound echoed off the walls, sharp and manic.

  “And I have limits too. No more soul-lamps, Father. Unless you want me to start ripping out floorboards next.”

  My fingers itched to grab something—anything—and begin. I would miss the wood, sure. But I wouldn’t hesitate.

  Let him threaten me. Let him growl.

  Let him learn: I may have been damned, but I wasn't powerless.

  He closed his eyes—just for a second—but that was all it took.

  Everything around me vanished into pure, suffocating darkness.

  It wasn’t like before, not just a dim room or a shadowed corridor. It was as though the world itself had blinked out of existence. He remained before me, visible only as a vague silhouette, carved from the absence of light. It was strange—terrifyingly strange. His features, already eerie in full light, became something more haunting when reduced to only shape and suggestion.

  Then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. He sighed—an oddly human sound—and turned without a word, disappearing into one of the nearby rooms.

  I hesitated but followed with wary steps, half expecting to find another trap or some cruel trick waiting. Instead, I discovered something... unexpected.

  The lamps were repairing themselves.

  Shards of glass hovered mid-air like feathers in slow motion, rotating and reassembling with seamless grace. A moment later, they glowed once more—soft, warm yellow light gently pushing back the gloom. The color was soothing, like candlelight on a winter night.

  And yet, I was utterly bewildered.

  Why repair them? Why stop capturing souls now?

  If he truly knew everything about me—as he claimed with his typical arrogance—then he would’ve anticipated my outburst. He could’ve avoided provoking me entirely. He chose not to. Which meant… this had all been intentional. A performance. A test.

  But why? What did he hope to learn by provoking that reaction?

  If he wanted to see my rage, he could’ve just mentioned my death. That alone was enough to crack me wide open. So why go to the trouble of building soul-lamps and letting me destroy them?

  I didn’t know. I no longer even tried to understand his reasons. His mind was alien to me, and his logic twisted and tangled like roots in the dark, never growing in a direction I could follow.

  Still unsettled, I followed him again and found myself back in the bedroom.

  It was the heart of the house—or so it felt. There were no windows here, no connection to the dead world outside. Just four wooden walls, the warm golden glow of two standing lamps, some strange inscriptions etched into the floorboards, and a large, elegant bed that looked like it had been stolen from the chambers of a noble family. Thick, soft sheets. Plump pillows. Comfort I hadn’t felt since I died.

  And then I saw the two nightstands.

  I didn’t trust those. I didn’t trust any of it.

  “Not gonna happen.”

  I spun around and lunged for the door, fingers gripping the knob hard. I twisted it frantically. It didn’t budge. I tried again, harder. Nothing. It was locked. Or maybe something worse than locked.

  Panic gripped me like cold fingers curling around my throat. My frantic efforts only amused him—he didn’t even pretend to care. He simply watched, calmly tapping the bedsheets with an almost theatrical sense of anticipation.

  “I am just asking you to go into the circle,” he said evenly, gesturing toward the strange markings on the floor beside the bed. “The bed is there so you’re more comfortable. You know you can’t escape. So we can either do this the hard way—tie you up and begin—or peacefully.”

  He said it so casually, like he was offering me tea instead of altering my soul. His detachment made it worse. My skin crawled at the thought.

  “I should be reborn by now!” I shouted, desperate. “Any second now!”

  It was the only hope I had left.

  But time stretched on. Nothing happened. I’d already been here for over half an hour. Rebirth had come swiftly before. This time, it was delayed. Unnaturally so.

  He answered my unspoken question.

  “Your body was destroyed. Consumed. Rebuilding takes time.”

  I slapped both hands over my ears—but his voice still slipped in. Clear. Unshakable.

  “We shouldn’t waste the time we’ve been given.”

  I froze, brain scrambling for a way out as he stepped toward me. His presence grew heavier with each step, like gravity bending around him. My last defense was my mouth—and it was always ready.

  “I’ll scream. I’ll tell everyone you’re a dark god in purgatory who molests children.” The words spilled from my lips with the desperation of a final bluff.

  He halted, clearly caught off guard.

  “Your reputation will be ruined,” I added, voice dripping with venom.

  There was a beat of silence. Then he responded, completely unbothered:

  “That would improve my reputation.”

  Without another word, he grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the bed.

  I thrashed, struggling against him with everything I had. No way I was going to let this happen. But he was strong—effortlessly so—and I was quickly losing ground.

  Until—

  “Stop! Timeout!” I cried out, throwing out the only card I had left. “I have an idea. Something… beneficial. For both of us.”

  He paused, suspicious.

  I swallowed hard, hating every syllable. “You can do… whatever you want to me.” I nearly gagged. “But—no weird touching. That’s forbidden.”

  He tilted his head, intrigued. But he didn’t let go.

  “And in return,” I continued, seizing the brief moment of interest, “you teach me how to fight.”

  That gave him pause.

  “I don’t see the benefit for me,” he said, his grip tightening again.

  I fought back, planting my heels and grasping for any thread of logic that might work.

  “It’s boring otherwise! And I’ll train harder if I’m motivated. Besides—if your goal is to change me—wouldn’t a stronger version of me be more useful?”

  It was a terrible argument. I knew it. He knew it.

  But miraculously… he stopped.

  For just a moment, he released me. I scrambled backward across the bed, stopping only when I felt the edge press against my spine.

  He studied me in silence.

  “So you want training. In exchange.”

  I nodded—far too enthusiastically.

  Power was the only way I’d ever survive this place. Even if he was the one providing it, I needed it.

  He smiled faintly.

  “Sure. It’s a deal.”

  I blinked.

  Wait—he accepted?

  I wasn’t sure if I had just won or lost something important.

  There were still too many questions. If he needed me stronger, why not train me later? Why not wait until I’d grown to trust him—or at least obey him?

  Did he simply enjoy taking the risk?

  “Would you be so kind?” he gestured to the centre of the bed.

  I hesitated, gnawed by doubt. But there was no turning back now. Slowly, I crawled to the centre of the bed and lay down stiffly, like a corpse at a wake.

  He moved closer and gently placed a hand on my forehead.

  The floor began to glow.

  Lines in the wood lit up in shimmering colors—violet, green, soft blue. They pulsed like veins under skin, spreading through the room and rising up the walls. The ceiling reflected them like water catching moonlight.

  It was strangely beautiful.

  “What is that?” I asked, my voice hushed, awed despite myself.

  “The Circle of Manipulation,” he replied softly. “It allows one to reshape anything—objects, memories, even souls. But it takes time. You’ll sleep while it works.”

  I barely registered the last words.

  The colors shifted, rippling like silk in the wind. My limbs felt heavy. My breath slowed. The glow wrapped around me like a lullaby made of light.

  And then, without warning—darkness swallowed me whole.