The Unbroken
The squad’s joyful reunion was overshadowed by the news that the last soldier was still missing. There wasn’t the slightest clue or hint as to where to look for him. Thorough questioning of the three missing members led to nothing—trio had been together the whole time and hadn’t seen even a trace of anyone else from the squad.
Andrew pored over the map of hell, trying to find some pattern in the random teleportation that had scattered the squad after what, he was told, was a critical portal malfunction. He had been working with the maps for hours on end, listening to reports from his soldiers in parallel, hoping to find even a shred of information, the smallest lead. Charlie, noticing his tension, tried offering him coffee. The captain didn’t even resist, which only emphasized how troubled he was.
The lines on the map offered no answers. The sectors of hell, marked as possible locations for the squad’s appearance, seemed scattered without any logic. Andrew frowned, replaying everything he had heard in his mind.
"You’re saying the portal malfunctioned right after the first group went through?" he asked, looking at David.
"Yeah. Everything around us started crackling, and we got thrown in different directions," David confirmed. "The three of us ended up in some alley. Not far from us, there was one of the MRAPs. While we were driving around the city looking for the rest, a few identical vehicles started tailing us. We had to fight back, and in the end, our vehicle got hit, so we fled into the ruined district."
"Wait, you said the vehicles were identical?" the captain asked his subordinate.
"That’s right, same color. They also had some kind of emblem on the sides, but I didn’t get a good look in the heat of battle," David replied.
That was unsettling information, but still, it was a lead. An armed group had been chasing the squad—possibly a faction of some kind. Maybe they were after Levon too, and now he was on the run. Alone...
Harper sat inside the MRAP, absently rolling a dog tag between her fingers. The mission was complete—or rather, this part of it. Three of the missing were found, or rather, they had found their way back. But the fourth was still out there, in this godforsaken hell.
She looked up at the commotion outside. Soldiers were talking, checking their weapons, some were tending to themselves. A normal ritual after a shitty day. But her thoughts were stuck on something else.
Civvy.
Harper leaned back in her seat, meticulously piecing together the logic. She had high-level combat training—not something you’d guess at first glance. Sure, she was in good shape, but no one would have assumed she could fight like that. Then there were the gestures—not just common hand signals, but the kind used in many police units in El Salvador. It could have been a coincidence. Maybe someone had taught her. But that theory fell apart with the next oddity—her knowledge of Spanish.
For fuck’s sake, Harper hadn’t even realized right away that she was speaking in her native language. And not just speaking—it was fluent Spanish, not learned, but native.
Three separate details. On their own, they meant nothing. But together?
Harper narrowed her eyes, her fingers tapping nervously against the armrest.
"Civvy… are you really a civvy?" she muttered under her breath.
There was only one way to test her theory. The only reliable, time-tested method. Harper pulled on her combat gloves, took a deep breath, and stepped outside.
A strike—and another splash of blood hit the floor. Levon clenched his teeth; the pain was hellish, but he held on with everything he had. The chains gave him no chance to fight back, so all he could do was endure. Every breath came with effort. He could feel blood trickling down his lips, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. With a hoarse exhale, he lifted his head and stared at his tormentor.
A demon with a TV for a head, dressed in a stylish yet excessively colorful suit, grinned, revealing a row of razor-sharp teeth. He was clearly enjoying the show. Vox had always loved watching people break—especially those who seemed unbreakable.
Another hit—this time to the ribs. Levon choked on a cough, his vision blurring from the overwhelming pain, but the captain’s training had not been in vain. He endured.
Suddenly, Vox raised a hand, and his brute of a henchman halted.
"How did you get here, how many of you are there, and how do you open the portal?" the TV-headed demon asked, stepping closer.
Levon seized the brief moment of respite, took a deep breath, and once again rasped, "S…P…2…9."
The answer infuriated the demon. He swiftly closed the distance, delivering the next blow straight to Levon’s face. Blood dripped from his nose. Suddenly, a sinister smile appeared on the screen of Vox’s head. He extended his claws and slashed across Levon’s torso.
The soldier cried out in pain, and the demon’s grin only widened.
"You know, watching torture is one thing... But doing it yourself—now that’s true pleasure," Vox murmured, repeating the motion.
Levon wheezed, his body convulsing from the sheer agony. Each fresh wound tore through his flesh, filling the air with the scent of iron and copper. Vox continued his gruesome work, dragging his claws over the soldier’s battered body, savoring every movement.
"You’re a stubborn one," the TV-headed demon leaned in, his glowing red eyes locking onto Levon’s. "It’s almost amusing. Let’s see how long you can keep silent."
He took a step back, extending his hand, and one of his thugs immediately passed him a metal rod. The tip glowed faintly—it was searing hot.
"You still have too many untouched spots," Vox mused, admiring the tool.
Levon gritted his teeth, bracing for another surge of pain.
The scalding metal pressed against his skin, filling the room with a sinister hiss. A muffled, agonized groan escaped his lips. His muscles involuntarily tensed, but the chains didn’t allow him even an inch of escape.
Vox dragged the iron across Levon’s chest, leaving a trail of charred flesh. The smell of burning skin clogged his lungs, nausea churned his stomach—but he didn’t scream.
"Still holding on?" the demon’s voice was almost impressed. "Let’s see how long that lasts."
The iron pressed down again. God, it hurt like hell—but Levon clung to his resolve.
"You know, you could end this suffering. Tell me everything you know about the living in hell, and how to get to Earth, and I’ll let you go."
"SP…2…9," Levon repeated once more.
Vox narrowed his eyes, then smirked, savoring the moment.
"Numbers and letters—like some nameless cog in a machine. You cling to your discipline as if it means anything here, in hell. But you know, even machines break…"
He picked up a pair of pliers and methodically clamped them around Levon’s little finger.
"Let’s see how tough you really are."
Levon didn’t flinch. His eyes burned with defiance, his jaw clenched so tightly it creaked. But when the metal crushed bone, the pain exploded like a white-hot flare. Blood gushed down his wrist, but Levon only exhaled sharply through his teeth.
Vox whistled.
"Resilient. I like that." He set the pliers down leisurely, picked up a hammer, and weighed it in his hand. "But even steel becomes brittle over time. Let’s see how long you last."
A dull crunch echoed. Levon reflexively jerked, but the chains held firm. Agony spread from his shattered hand like venom, pulsing through every nerve. Sweat blurred his vision—but he didn’t make a sound.
"Still holding on?" Vox almost purred. "Such stubbornness…"
He grabbed a thin needle and drove it beneath Levon’s fingernail. Yanked it out. Pushed it back in, deeper.
Levon clenched his teeth, but this time, a low groan escaped.
"Oho, now we’re getting somewhere," Vox grinned.
He lifted another needle, bringing it toward a different finger.
"Tell me about the living in hell. About the path to Earth. And this all ends."
Levon lifted his bloodshot gaze, veins bursting in his eyes. Slowly, with a ragged breath, he whispered:
"SP…2…9."
Vox’s expression darkened.
"Well then… Let’s try something new."
He snapped his fingers, and two of his henchmen entered the room, carrying a wooden frame. They set it up nearby, securing it to the floor. Vox stepped closer and, smirking, picked up a large hook.
"People love hanging pieces of meat on hooks. Oh, how my father used to love curing it back in the day. Let's try it now, shall we?"
Slowly, with meticulous cruelty, he drove one hook into Levon’s shoulder. Then another—into his side. The soldier flinched, his lips turning white, but he only exhaled through clenched teeth.
"You know I won't stop." Vox crouched in front of him. "Is your loyalty really worth this pain?"
Levon barely lifted his head. His eyes were clouded, his lips trembled, but he whispered again:
"SP…2…9."
Vox sighed, rolling his eyes.
"Alright then. We have quite a long night ahead…"
The hotel had only recently opened, and Charlie and Vaggie still hadn’t managed to bring it to perfect order. While the hallways and other rooms became cleaner by the day, the atmosphere inside had grown much more tense.
One visit was all it took for the soldiers to turn Hell upside down: first, they stormed through Doomsday District, leaving chaos in their wake, then they launched an extensive search for their missing comrades, scouring every corner of the underworld. Now, their stubbornness was off the charts—they searched tirelessly, allowing themselves neither rest nor doubt.
Despite her outward toughness, Vaggie understood all too well what it was like to lose those who had become family over the years. She could see that these soldiers wouldn’t stop until they found their brother-in-arms—alive or at least a body to bury with honor. And if they discovered someone had killed him, the grave of that damn bastard would be as far from their comrade’s final resting place as possible.
Yet, as noble as their intent was, Vaggie also knew that their presence in the hotel could lead to unpredictable consequences. If all of Hell learned that living humans were staying in the very hotel they had painstakingly restored from ruins, it could spark a full-blown war. And it wasn’t even the soldiers’ fault—they hadn’t ended up in Hell by choice. Though… they never did explain how they got here. Maybe… No, if that were the case, they would’ve called for reinforcements from the world of the living. But instead, they were barely scraping by, constantly running low on ammo and fuel. And their relentless search efforts only drained their resources further.
But above all, it was the Captain who raised the most questions. Stern, unyielding, yet genuinely caring for his soldiers. He was always on edge, ready for any conflict. Of course, he didn’t trust the denizens of Hell—who could blame him? The circumstances were anything but normal for a human. Hell, Vaggie would bet that even the atheists among them—if there were any—had started believing by now.
But the Captain… Something was off about him.
At first, she hadn’t noticed it, but when the doctor pierced his arm with a needle to draw some blood, Vaggie felt something strange. It was impossible to describe, but it was eerily familiar. Maybe it was just the fact that it was the blood of a living person. But Charlie didn’t feel anything. Then again, unlike Charlie, Vaggie was an angel—maybe that was the reason. Yeah, that made sense. But… the wounded soldier was bleeding too…
Lost in thought, Vaggie walked down the corridor, piecing together theories and trying to answer her own questions. She barely paid attention to the sounds around her.
So when quick footsteps sounded behind her, her reaction was a second too late—a brief moment of hesitation, and she failed to dodge in time.
The strike was sharp and powerful, breaking through her guard before she even registered what was happening.
"¡Mierda! What the hell are you doing?!" she demanded, spinning to face Harper, who had just attacked her from behind.
Harper’s only response was another strike—this time, Vaggie managed to evade it. But Harper lunged forward again, swiftly closing the distance between them.
Vaggie caught her wrist, but Harper reacted instantly, using the momentum to twist into a counter-move, trying to throw Vaggie off balance.
Vaggie stepped sideways just in time, breaking free and striking back with a palm strike aimed at Harper’s chin. Harper blocked it with her forearm and immediately retaliated with a sharp knee strike. Vaggie recoiled, but Harper didn’t let up, pressing forward with a relentless series of fast, precise attacks. Each one followed the next in perfect rhythm, executed with the precision expected of an experienced fighter.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Vaggie gasped, dodging a direct punch and grabbing Harper’s wrist. She twisted it sharply, trying to force her arm behind her back, but Harper slipped out at the last moment and kicked her in the ribs.
Vaggie winced at the pain, but her body moved on instinct—she immediately counterattacked, unleashing a rapid series of strikes, forcing Harper onto the defensive.
Vaggie wasn’t weak—she had combat experience. She had been one of the best exorcists, and even in life, she had more than enough fighting skills. She could hold her own. But Harper… she wasn’t easy either.
Gradually, Vaggie started recognizing Harper’s style—precise, calculated movements, disciplined strikes. Classic technique. It was familiar, and once Vaggie adjusted, she began blocking the attacks with more confidence. She deflected Harper’s blows, redirecting them aside, even managing to counterattack at times, pushing Harper back step by step.
And then, everything changed.
Harper suddenly closed the distance, and her movements shifted—more erratic, more ruthless. Gone was the academic precision, the restraint of a trained officer. Now, she moved differently—wild, unpredictable, like a chaotic dance, yet every strike became even more dangerous.
Vaggie didn’t immediately understand what was happening. Harper had changed her stance, attacking from strange angles, her strikes flowing in waves—smooth, rapid, with sudden bursts of raw power. She used knees, elbows, even grabbed at Vaggie’s clothes to yank her into the next attack. One of her elbow strikes clipped Vaggie’s temple, sending sparks through her vision.
Vaggie tried to fall back into defense, but Harper had already seized the initiative. Her hands moved with blinding speed, mixing real strikes with feints, forcing Vaggie to react to false attacks. Her defense crumbled.
One sharp movement—Vaggie felt her shoulder being grabbed. Harper swept her leg, knocking her off balance, and Vaggie crashed onto the floor, hitting her back hard.
She immediately tried to roll away, but Harper was already looming over her, ready to deliver the final blow…
But then, she stopped.
"Who the hell are you?!" Harper demanded.
"You're tough, I'll give you that," Vox smirked, leaning in closer. "But you know, even the toughest ones break sooner or later. You can make it easier on yourself if you just start talking. I'll ask one more time. How. Do you. Open. The portal?"
Levon didn’t answer. He simply spat blood onto the floor, making the demon exhale in irritation. "Hmph, alright then. Guess we'll continue our 'fun'," Vox said, a sinister grin spreading across his face.
An incoming call notification appeared on his screen. The caller ID showed a creature resembling a moth or some kind of insect, wearing pink heart-shaped glasses. Its outfit was drenched in shades of red, and the fur on its collar—or whatever it was—was white. Below the image, the contact name read: "Val."
A few seconds later, the call was answered, and a voice came through. "Voxie, I'm working. Is this urgent?"
"Get your skinny ass over here, Val. Drop whatever you’re doing. It's time to have some 'fun' with our prisoner," Vox said, his grin widening.
"Ooooh, I thought you'd never invite me to the fun. I'll tell Angie to swing by too."
A short while later, the heavy thud of boots echoed down the hallway. The door swung open, and a tall figure stepped into the cell—Valentino. His fur collar was dusted with a faint trail of white powder, and his pink heart-shaped glasses gleamed under the dim light. A familiar smirk stretched across his lips, and his fingers twitched slightly—whether from anticipation or the substances he'd taken earlier was unclear.
"Well, Vox, where’s our guest?" he purred, glancing around the room until his gaze landed on Levon. "Ooooh, you're not even broken yet… What a tough little thing. But you know, I prefer my toys when they break quickly." His voice was sweet, but the sheer, twisted cruelty in it was unmistakable.
Valentino stepped closer, grabbing Levon’s chin and forcing him to lift his head. The soldier didn’t even flinch—he simply spat again, this time in the direction of Vox’s associate. For a split second, the moth’s face twitched, but instead of anger, something even more sinister flashed across his features—excitement.
"You do realize I’m going to get what I want either way, right?" Valentino whispered, dragging a claw along Levon’s neck. "Some start talking when they’re in pain. Others crack from fear in the end. And then there are people like you… Oh, you’re always the most fun."
Suddenly, as Val leaned in too close, Levon lunged forward, slamming his forehead into the moth’s face.
"AAARGH! YOU FUCKING BASTARD, MY GLASSES! DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH THESE COST?!" Valentino roared, clutching his now-broken nose. "VOX, HE BROKE MY NOSE AND MY GLASSES! I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL HIM!"
"DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT! We need him alive," Vox snapped. Then, he chuckled, eyeing Levon with newfound interest. "Hmph. You really are tough. But no worries, I think I know just what to do."
He reached toward a small surgical tray nearby, selecting a syringe filled with a strange, cloudy liquid. Leaning in close, he smirked.
"You know, drugs can do wonders. Sometimes they make people talk. Sometimes they make them forget. But most of the time…"—he slowly pushed the needle into Levon’s vein, pressing down on the plunger—"they turn even the strongest men into broken toys."
Levon shuddered but didn’t make a sound. His body tensed, muscles tightening, veins bulging against his skin. Valentino took a step back, watching as the substance took effect.
"Ooooh, I like this," Vox murmured, dragging a claw across his own lip before glancing at Valentino. "Let’s give it an hour. Maybe two. Let’s see how long he holds out."
Valentino grinned, taking a slow drag from his cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke in the prisoner’s direction. "Fine by me. Let’s wait."
Vaggie let out a sharp breath, staring up at Harper. The pain from the fall still lingered, but she was already forcing herself to focus. Harper, however, didn’t step back, her gaze locked onto Vaggie with intense scrutiny.
"What… do you mean?" Vaggie asked, catching her breath.
"Don’t play dumb. Where did you learn those moves?!" Harper’s tone was aggressive. "Your stance, your movements, your combat skills, your gestures. Civilians don’t learn this. Who trained you, demon?!"
"My instructor, years ago. When I was still alive," Vaggie replied.
"What kind of bullshit is that? You’re a demon. A spawn of Hell," Harper snapped, bewildered.
"First of all, ouch. Second, yes, I was alive. I died, and for my sins, I ended up in Hell. Hell isn’t just for hell-born demons. Sinners go here after death too. You should’ve studied your Bible better. And believe it or not, despite this being literal Hell, not everyone here is, as you put it, 'a hellspawn.' Even among the Hellborn, there are exceptions," Vaggie said.
"Let’s say I believe you," Harper muttered, still skeptical. "Who trained you? Where did you learn those gestures? That kind of training only comes from one place…"
"The police force in El Salvador. I served for years before I died in the line of duty, during an operation to capture a high-profile drug lord from Mexico. From what I was told after my death, I was listed as missing for weeks, along with several others. A lot of good people died that day."
Harper’s eyes widened. This… This didn’t make sense. So this was Hell. The real Hell, just like in the Bible. She had assumed it was just a name, some parallel reality, but no. That wasn’t even the most shocking part.
This demon… had once been human. She had served in the El Salvadoran police. And…
Gunfire. Explosions. The scent of blood and burning flesh.
Comrades dropping dead.
Realization slamming into her—an ambush.
A flash—
She was outside now, her uniform soaked in blood, her body riddled with shrapnel and cuts. She wasn’t alone. Others were with her. Wounded. Dying.
She was struggling… Dragging someone. Someone barely clinging to life…
The memory ended abruptly.
Harper inhaled sharply, forcing herself to push past the flashback. That day had never left her. And now… Now she realized why the demon had seemed so strange. It wasn’t her stance, or her training, or her gestures.
It was her.
"Which unit were you in?" Harper asked suddenly, her voice cold.
"Third Division, First UTEP Squad," Vaggie answered.
Harper froze.
That was the squad assigned to assist them. The squad that had gone in alongside them. The squad that had died with them. And in that moment, Harper understood. The first thing that had seemed familiar about this demon wasn’t her skills, her combat—
SHE KNEW HER!
But… No. That was impossible.
Seconds of silence stretched between them before Harper finally asked, "What’s the last thing you remember… before you died?"
Vaggie furrowed her brows, thinking. "I remember getting shot. Several times… Blood everywhere. Then there was an explosion. It was a trap… After that, nothing. Except… Someone was dragging me…"
"F1-4," Harper interrupted.
Vaggie stared at her, eyes wide. "What?" she asked slowly, disbelief creeping into her voice. She hadn’t heard that designation in years.
"F1-4. Your number," Harper said firmly. "I was there."
Levon didn’t immediately understand where he was. The world around him crumbled into pieces, and he was falling into the void, but suddenly, he hit something solid. His ears were ringing, blurry silhouettes flickered before his eyes.
"Private Levon! Get up, goddammit!" — a booming voice barked inside his head, making everything inside him tighten.
He lifted his gaze — in front of him stood an officer in uniform, whose face blurred into a shapeless stain. Levon suddenly realized he was back on the training grounds. His body felt like lead, his legs refused to move, and beside him, Ares was breathing heavily, clenching his fists. The officer was shouting something about discipline, about how they were both worthless scum who would never become real soldiers.
"Go to hell…" — Levon muttered, but at that moment, a punch slammed into his stomach. The air rushed out of his lungs, he collapsed to his knees, tasting blood.
The world distorted again.
Now he and Ares were sitting in solitary confinement. The dim light of the lamp stung his eyes. Levon blinked, trying to regain his senses. Ares chuckled beside him, leaning his head against the wall.
"You think we’ll ever graduate?" — he asked.
"Who the hell needs us?" — Levon rasped in response.
Everything trembled. A sudden jolt — an explosion. A deafening roar. Levon fell, hitting his head. Around him — the wail of sirens, screaming. He lifted his head — Ares was wounded, blood covering his face, but he was smiling.
"Come on, brother, get up!" — he reached out his hand.
Levon grasped for it, but his fingers passed through empty air. Ares vanished, dissolving like smoke. In his place, grotesque, twisted figures emerged. They whispered, their voices muffled as if underwater, calling his name. Levon tried to scream, but his mouth filled with sand. He choked, convulsing.
Reality flared. His body jolted as if struck by electricity. He realized his hands were bound, his muscles burned with tension. Somewhere nearby, laughter echoed — cold, cruel, unfamiliar.
"Vox, did I overdo it?" — a mocking voice asked.
"Let him watch some more," — another voice answered. "Maybe he’ll start talking."
Levon fell back into the nightmare.
He stood in the middle of a scorched field. The sky above him was dark, starless, and all around were shattered wreckage and mangled bodies. From the distance came the sound of grinding metal. He took a step forward, but the ground beneath him turned viscous, like a swamp, slowly pulling him down.
"Levon, get over here!" — someone called. The voice was familiar, yet distorted beyond recognition.
He lifted his head and saw Ares — standing on a hill bathed in crimson light. His face was shadowed like a mask, his smile stretched unnaturally.
"You're late, brother."
Levon wanted to speak, but instead of words, black sludge poured from his mouth. He clutched his throat, choking, but Ares only shook his head and turned away.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
A loud crack. Something heavy slammed into Levon, wrenching him out of the nightmare. He was back in reality, but his body ached, and blurry figures loomed before him. A boot roughly kicked him in the side.
"Awake, soldier boy? Come on, tell us what your little squad is planning," — the voice was amused, but laced with menace.
Levon blinked, trying to focus, but his mind still teetered between hallucination and reality. Nausea crept up his throat, and in his ears, he could still hear Ares’s distant voice:
"Don’t give in, brother."
Levon took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. Vox and Valentino were already rubbing their hands together, expecting him to finally break. Instead…
"Go… fuck… yourself…" — Levon croaked weakly before slipping into unconsciousness.
Behind the one-way glass, a man in an orange jumpsuit stood with his arms folded behind his back. His face remained impassive, but a predatory glint flickered in his eyes. He watched as Levon writhed in steel chains and hooks, his body arching from the pain.
Vox stepped closer, glancing briefly at the prisoner before turning to the observer.
"Well? What do you think?"
The man smirked.
"He’s tough. Pain alone won’t break him. Guys like him don’t hold on because of strength — they hold on because of sheer stubbornness."
Vox narrowed his eyes.
"So we dig deeper?"
"Exactly," — the inmate tilted his head. "Everyone has a weakness. Judging by his reactions, he’s not afraid of pain. That means you need to hit his mind."
Vox grinned.
"Aren't you insightful. Is this professional solidarity or something personal?"
The prisoner slowly shifted his gaze back to Levon.
"Personal," — he growled with disdain. "That bastard escorted me to the portal."