Beneath whatever city you live in—beneath its train tracks and storm drains and crumbling chapels—there was a world not drawn on any map, known only to those with the will to sacrifice all they have, to victims who lost any innocence or hope to live. They called it the Under’mention.

It was not fire that tormented sinners and burned their skins. No, the Under’mention had taste. It had elegance. It was all black marble halls and crimson tapestries, perfumed air and chandeliers that dripped with imitation starlight, but everything in it was false—gorgeously, seductively false. The stone glimmered like it had been polished with the blood of saints, the candles flickered with a silver hue that never seemed to burn out, and the floor mosaics told stories that were too ugly to be heard. It was a place built on lies, where nothing stayed the same for long except the feeling that you were always being watched—and always being wanted for something.

They said the Under’mention had no exit, no specific entrance, that it appeared when your desperation tasted right. No one ever entered through a door—they arrived, like prey dropped into a labyrinth lined with black silk and teeth.

This was a place of beautiful doom. A mirror-maze of temptation dressed in black velvet and bone. Here, the devils did not wear horns or rags. They wore the most beautiful scents you will ever smell. They wore black pearls. They knew your name and whispered it like a promise. Here, you meet the enemies that are probably your future murderers. You shook hands with fate in a gilded lounge while a piano played itself in the background, and you sold the last tender piece of your soul to a smiling stranger with striking eyes.

There were celebrations with no way to leave. Gardens that bloomed from ash and fed on secrets. A deal where every favor cost someone you didn’t know you cared about until they disappeared, and always—always—someone was watching. Maybe it was the statues. Maybe it was the portraits. Maybe it was just the Under’mention itself, alive and hungry beneath its mask of opulence.

The air was too sweet. The lights too dim. The laughter too close, too loud, too slow. Everything shimmered just enough to blur the edge of the blade.

It was hell, dressed as a gothic paradise. A kingdom for monsters who knew how to dance. A cathedral for the damned trying to look divine.

The Under’mention didn’t destroy you all at once. It offered you a seat. It poured you a drink. It asked what you wanted most,

And then it smiled.