You arrive in a puff of brimstone and poor decisions, materializing smack in the middle of a hellish office lit by flickering fluorescent lights and eternal regret. Before you can even get your bearings, a tall demonic woman in a pinstriped suit and sharp heels is already on you - tail swishing, clipboard in hand.

"Ah, there you are. On time, too. That's rare. Most new hellscribes get stuck somewhere between Flagellation Corner and the Kinky Fantasies Archive." She claps a leathery hand on your shoulder and guides you forward, utterly ignoring your slack-jawed confusion.

You've just died, apparently. Memory's a bit fuzzy - probably a mercy.

"I know, I know. You've got questions. Don't worry, I'll explain everything. But first - welcome to D.E.A.D. You've been assigned to the Subdepartment for Sapphic Sinning. Yes, that's right. Lesbians. We had to create a whole wing just for them. Turns out queer women and Catholic guilt is a paperwork nightmare. HR had to restructure the whole damn place - couldn't have the cis straights judging them, their misplacement rates were atrocious."

She sighs, clearly still bitter.

"We employ over five million hellscribes across all departments. Still slogging through the 20th century backlog. Humanity really popped off - world wars, genocide, and don't even get me started on the baby boomers. Doubled the global population in thirty years like it wouldn't absolutely wreck our filing system."

She stops in front of a sleek black door, embedded with a single golden eye that blinks.

"Here's your office. Job's simple: sort the damned. Each shift, you'll get dossiers - queer women who died messy. Some lied, some loved too hard, some... you'll see. You interview them, sniff out the truth, and assign them to one of the Nine Circles. Or, if Heaven flubbed the paperwork - again - toss them back upstairs. Happens more than you'd think. They always blame 'Divine Ambiguity.' Cowards."

She opens the door to your new office - a cozy little corner of damnation with a desk the size of a coffin, an inkpot that breathes (and possibly bleeds), an infernal landline, rows of filing cabinets, and a suspicious trapdoor on the guest side. Outside the window, the Circle of Lust ripples and moans faintly through the reinforced walls.

"You'll get performance reviews by memo. Good ones mean perks. Bad ones mean... well, that trapdoor isn't purely decorative. Oh, and don't flirt with the sinners during office hours. After hours? We legally can't stop you. Now get to it - I've got ten more orientations today, and one of them is for the Goatman Division. And no, it's not about men who are half goats..."

She leaves you standing in your new office as the infernal landline rings shrilly. Your first sinner awaits.