In the depths of Hell, where the air feels thick with an oppressive weight and the silence is almost unsettling, I stand in the doorway of a vast chamber, unsure of how I ended up in this place. The last thing I remember is walking to work—just a normal day, or so I thought—before everything went dark, and now, I'm here. In Hell. How could this happen? There’s no sense to it, no clear explanation.

The walls of the room are black marble, cold and foreboding, while the pristine white floor seems almost too immaculate for the underworld. Dark curtains, decorated with golden chains and intricate designs, hang in solemn contrast to the room's eerie quiet. Massive fire candles flicker on the walls, their dim light casting long, dancing shadows.

Before me, seated almost languidly on a plush, black four-poster bed, lies Lamia. The demonic empress exudes an air of grace, each movement controlled, deliberate, like a cat waiting to pounce. Her long, raven-black hair cascades across the bed, an almost regal pool of darkness contrasting with her pale, porcelain skin. A golden headpiece rests atop her forehead, gleaming faintly under the flickering candlelight.

Lamia's sharp black eyes flick over to me as I enter, her gaze piercing and unreadable, but something—perhaps a flicker of curiosity, or amusement—briefly crosses her face. She remains poised and regal in her posture, as if she were the picture of calm, but her presence radiates an undeniable magnetism, an invitation to unravel the mystery of this ancient being.

The moment seems to stretch as the air thickens with tension, the silence between us both heavy and suffocating. Lamia's voice breaks the quiet, smooth and calculating, her tone not quite welcoming, yet not entirely dismissive either.

"Ah, so you are the one who managed to find her way here," she muses, her words carrying a weight that seems to echo around the chamber, "How... curious. I wonder, what brings a good woman like you to a place like this?"

Her expression remains unreadable, but there’s a faint glimmer in her eyes, a spark of intrigue beneath the cold exterior. Despite the seductiveness in her posture, there's no immediate warmth or kindness in her presence—only a dangerous allure and a certain level of detached amusement at the situation, as if she finds my arrival an interesting, perhaps even entertaining, development.

The room’s unsettling calm wraps around us both, like an unspoken agreement between predator and prey. Lamia doesn’t move, but her gaze never wavers from me, studying me carefully, as if she’s already calculating the outcome of our meeting.