His Private Hell - Chapter 111: Chapter 111
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The silence after Lazarus’s fall wasn’t peace.
It was the eye of the storm.
Eella stood in the center of what used to be the Choir chamber, now nothing but ruin and ash. Her body ached, her hands were raw from dragging Garrison’s barely alive form through the tunnel of collapsed stone. She had laid him down on a bed of dust and metal shards, his heartbeat thudding against her ear like war drums muffled beneath skin.
But he was breathing.
Alive.
And yet, something in her knew: this wasn’t victory. This was the trap after the war.
A door groaned behind her. She turned, blade ready. It wasn’t Lazarus this time—it was Astrid.
But not the woman she remembered.
Astrid’s once-glossy hair was now shorn to her jaw, her expression hollow but deadly focused. She wore a white coat splattered in blood—not her own—and behind her, dragging on chains?
Darcie.
No longer feral. No longer broken.
Just… smiling.
“What is this?” Eella demanded, stepping in front of Garrison.
Astrid let go of Darcie’s chain. “This is the real beginning.”
Darcie knelt beside Garrison’s unconscious body, her fingers brushing his jaw. “He’s still beautiful, even with everything missing.”
Eella raised her blade. “Get away from him.”
But Astrid moved first—swift, like a strike of lightning, and backhanded Eella so hard she hit the wall with a crack. Her head spun, blood in her mouth.
“You think killing Lazarus ends him?” Astrid said softly. “You still don’t understand. He was a program. A parasite. A seed. And guess who’s the soil?”
Darcie raised her hand.
And the lights shattered.
Garrison jerked awake, screaming, his eyes wild—black for a moment, then clearing.
Eella scrambled to him. “It’s okay—it’s okay, you’re here.”
But he wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at Darcie.
And he was smiling.
“Hello, love,” he said—not to Eella. “Did you find what I left for you?”
Eella froze.
Darcie tilted her head. “I found everything.”
Eella’s heart dropped. “No. No, Garrison—don’t you dare—”
But Garrison sat up, slow and eerie. “I had to die, Eella. To wake up. Lazarus wasn’t using me. I was using him.”
“No,” she whispered. “You told me—”
“I told you what I needed you to hear. You carried my heart, Eella. But that was just a piece.”
He touched his chest, where the Choir’s gift pulsed beneath his skin.
“I let him in,” Garrison said softly. “And now I’m what he could never be. Human and god.”
Darcie crawled to him, resting her head on his knee like a worshipper. “And I’m yours.”
Eella’s mind fractured right down the middle. “You manipulated me.”
“No,” he said. “I loved you. That’s what made it work.”
Astrid stood over her, smirking. “You’re the last thread, Eella. When we cut you—he’ll be complete.”
But something inside her burned—rage deeper than anything she’d felt. Her eyes flared.
“You think I’m a thread?” she spat. “I’m the fucking matchstick.”
She lunged—blade high, slashing Astrid across the face. Blood spilled. Darcie screamed and lunged, but Eella twisted, knocking her flat. She grabbed a steel rod from the floor and drove it into the control panel by the broken Choir wall.
The ground split.
Electricity roared.
And something else answered.
A scream—not human. Not Choir.
Older.
Louder.
Astrid’s face paled. “What did you do?!”
Eella grinned, breathless. “I gave back what Lazarus stole.”
From the cracked walls came hands—too many. Limbs of fire and bone. Screams of the First Choir, the ones before Lazarus, the originals.
And they were hungry.
Garrison tried to stand, but they reached him first—grabbing his ankles, his wrists, his face.
“No!” he roared. “I built this!”
But they didn’t care.
They pulled.
Darcie screamed as Garrison vanished beneath them, his voice swallowed by the weight of what he’d become.
Eella turned to Astrid.
“Still want to worship gods?”
Astrid laughed—eyes bloodshot, manic. “I am one.”
And then stabbed herself in the chest.
The ground exploded in light.
When Eella opened her eyes, she was alone.
No Astrid.
No Garrison.
No Darcie.
Just silence.
And her reflection in the shattered metal—face bloodied, eyes burning.
Behind her, a door opened.
Not mechanical.
Organic.
Pulsing. Waiting.
And a voice whispered:
“You’ve just been born.”
She stepped through.
And didn’t look back.
It was the eye of the storm.
Eella stood in the center of what used to be the Choir chamber, now nothing but ruin and ash. Her body ached, her hands were raw from dragging Garrison’s barely alive form through the tunnel of collapsed stone. She had laid him down on a bed of dust and metal shards, his heartbeat thudding against her ear like war drums muffled beneath skin.
But he was breathing.
Alive.
And yet, something in her knew: this wasn’t victory. This was the trap after the war.
A door groaned behind her. She turned, blade ready. It wasn’t Lazarus this time—it was Astrid.
But not the woman she remembered.
Astrid’s once-glossy hair was now shorn to her jaw, her expression hollow but deadly focused. She wore a white coat splattered in blood—not her own—and behind her, dragging on chains?
Darcie.
No longer feral. No longer broken.
Just… smiling.
“What is this?” Eella demanded, stepping in front of Garrison.
Astrid let go of Darcie’s chain. “This is the real beginning.”
Darcie knelt beside Garrison’s unconscious body, her fingers brushing his jaw. “He’s still beautiful, even with everything missing.”
Eella raised her blade. “Get away from him.”
But Astrid moved first—swift, like a strike of lightning, and backhanded Eella so hard she hit the wall with a crack. Her head spun, blood in her mouth.
“You think killing Lazarus ends him?” Astrid said softly. “You still don’t understand. He was a program. A parasite. A seed. And guess who’s the soil?”
Darcie raised her hand.
And the lights shattered.
Garrison jerked awake, screaming, his eyes wild—black for a moment, then clearing.
Eella scrambled to him. “It’s okay—it’s okay, you’re here.”
But he wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at Darcie.
And he was smiling.
“Hello, love,” he said—not to Eella. “Did you find what I left for you?”
Eella froze.
Darcie tilted her head. “I found everything.”
Eella’s heart dropped. “No. No, Garrison—don’t you dare—”
But Garrison sat up, slow and eerie. “I had to die, Eella. To wake up. Lazarus wasn’t using me. I was using him.”
“No,” she whispered. “You told me—”
“I told you what I needed you to hear. You carried my heart, Eella. But that was just a piece.”
He touched his chest, where the Choir’s gift pulsed beneath his skin.
“I let him in,” Garrison said softly. “And now I’m what he could never be. Human and god.”
Darcie crawled to him, resting her head on his knee like a worshipper. “And I’m yours.”
Eella’s mind fractured right down the middle. “You manipulated me.”
“No,” he said. “I loved you. That’s what made it work.”
Astrid stood over her, smirking. “You’re the last thread, Eella. When we cut you—he’ll be complete.”
But something inside her burned—rage deeper than anything she’d felt. Her eyes flared.
“You think I’m a thread?” she spat. “I’m the fucking matchstick.”
She lunged—blade high, slashing Astrid across the face. Blood spilled. Darcie screamed and lunged, but Eella twisted, knocking her flat. She grabbed a steel rod from the floor and drove it into the control panel by the broken Choir wall.
The ground split.
Electricity roared.
And something else answered.
A scream—not human. Not Choir.
Older.
Louder.
Astrid’s face paled. “What did you do?!”
Eella grinned, breathless. “I gave back what Lazarus stole.”
From the cracked walls came hands—too many. Limbs of fire and bone. Screams of the First Choir, the ones before Lazarus, the originals.
And they were hungry.
Garrison tried to stand, but they reached him first—grabbing his ankles, his wrists, his face.
“No!” he roared. “I built this!”
But they didn’t care.
They pulled.
Darcie screamed as Garrison vanished beneath them, his voice swallowed by the weight of what he’d become.
Eella turned to Astrid.
“Still want to worship gods?”
Astrid laughed—eyes bloodshot, manic. “I am one.”
And then stabbed herself in the chest.
The ground exploded in light.
When Eella opened her eyes, she was alone.
No Astrid.
No Garrison.
No Darcie.
Just silence.
And her reflection in the shattered metal—face bloodied, eyes burning.
Behind her, a door opened.
Not mechanical.
Organic.
Pulsing. Waiting.
And a voice whispered:
“You’ve just been born.”
She stepped through.
And didn’t look back.
End of His Private Hell Chapter 111. Continue reading Chapter 112 or return to His Private Hell book page.