His Private Hell - Chapter 112: Chapter 112
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The door pulsed like a living wound.
Eella stood before it, the shattered metal behind her still humming with the echoes of Garrison’s last scream. The world she’d known—Garrison’s world—was gone. Burned into nothing but a scar in her memory. All that remained was this impossible gateway, breathing in the dark like some slumbering beast’s mouth.
Her body trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion soaked in grief. And rage.
She stepped forward.
The moment her foot crossed the threshold, something noticed.
It wasn’t a welcome. It was recognition. Like the thing behind the veil had always known her name, had always been watching—waiting for the final key to turn.
And Eella, broken and reborn, was the key.
Inside, the air was thicker than blood.
She emerged into what looked like a cathedral built by madness—organic, wet, walls of pulsing light and shadow, veins glowing with ancient memories. Choir remnants hung like carcasses from the ceilings, suspended in a state between decay and rebirth. Voices whispered in a thousand tongues, clawing through her mind, begging for salvation, for mercy, for release.
But they would get none.
Not anymore.
At the far end of the chamber was a throne.
No, not a throne—a womb. A seat of flesh and wire, pulsing with life. And from it rose a figure.
She knew him before he fully formed.
Not Garrison. Not Lazarus.
Something between.
The true form of the Choir’s creator. A hybrid god built from betrayal, obsession, and pain.
It wore Garrison’s eyes.
But they weren’t his anymore.
“I missed you,” it said, in a voice layered with a thousand dead.
Eella didn’t flinch. “You died.”
“I evolved.”
He stepped down, barefoot over sinew-coated stairs, his body perfect and inhuman. A Choir echo carved into flesh and molded by desire.
“You made me this,” he said. “Every time you fought. Every time you bled for me.”
“You used me.”
“I loved you. And you were the crucible.”
Eella’s fingers tightened around the blade in her hand. “I’ll end you.”
“I know,” he whispered. “That’s the last gift you have left.”
Before she could move, Darcie appeared behind him—reborn, glowing with new Choir sigils burned into her skin like brands. Her eyes weren’t empty anymore. They were devoted.
“She’s here to deliver us,” Darcie said, voice reverent.
“She’s here to try,” the new Garrison replied.
Eella lunged.
He moved like lightning.
They clashed—blade against bare hands, flesh against fury. Every strike echoed through the cathedral, shaking loose bits of memory embedded in the walls. Eella’s blade cut him open—but he bled light, not blood. Darcie screamed spells into the air, Choir chants that warped the ground beneath them, bending space.
But Eella didn’t stop.
She couldn’t.
This was what she was made for.
This was war.
He grinned even as she stabbed him through the chest. “Yes, Eella. More.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m free.”
Suddenly, the chamber cracked—like reality was splintering. A mirror on the far side split open, and from it emerged Lazarus.
Not dead.
Reconstructed.
Laughing.
“You thought you could kill me in my own house?”
Eella’s heart dropped.
“Welcome,” he said, “to the Second Womb.”
The Second Womb bloomed open behind Lazarus like a hell-born flower.
From its spiraling throat poured them—versions of the Choir that Eella had never seen before. Taller. Sharper. Smoother. Like they were built not for infiltration, not for obedience, but for war.
These weren’t memories of the old Choir.
These were upgrades.
And they were hungry.
Lazarus strode forward, his arms outstretched, bloodless smile splitting his face like a prophecy fulfilled. “The first Choir was only a prototype. This—” He gestured to the swarm emerging behind him. “This is divine. Born from your betrayal. Forged in your scream.”
Garrison—or the thing that wore him—laughed, even as Eella held her blood-wet blade toward them both. “You were always one step behind me, Lazarus.”
“You were always one layer beneath me,” Lazarus countered, eyes flashing. “I gave you her pain to mold, her devotion to twist. And still—you couldn’t finish the design. I did.”
He snapped his fingers.
And the walls collapsed.
Reality imploded like glass under a boot. The cathedral of flesh vanished, sucked backward through itself in a collapsing echo of geometry and wet, organic sound. Eella fell—through darkness, through memory, through herself.
When she landed, it wasn’t on ground.
It was her old bed.
Her hands trembled.
She was sixteen. The mirror across the room still bore the crack from where she’d thrown her jewelry box the night her father left. Her hair was longer. Her wrists were bare.
No blade.
No scars.
No Garrison.
Just silence.
“No,” she whispered.
This wasn’t time travel. It wasn’t memory.
It was manipulation.
And in the doorway stood her mother.
Smiling.
Alive.
“How long are you going to keep sulking, baby?” her voice cooed like honey and razors. “It’s not like he was worth crying over.”
Eella stumbled back.
This wasn’t real.
“Stop it.”
Her mother’s voice grew static. Her mouth moved wrong. Her limbs bent at the elbow too many times.
“You always break what you touch, Eella. You’re a weapon in a girl’s dress.”
Eella screamed—and the world burned away.
She landed in fire.
Concrete. Sirens. Screams.
The Choir—all of them—pouring into the city like locusts. People running, buildings shattering, helicopters torn from the sky. And in the middle of it stood Darcie, directing them with hands glowing and eyes hollow.
Eella rose, throat hoarse, blade glowing red.
This time, she didn’t hesitate.
She charged.
Darcie turned, smile crooked and full of blood. “I was reborn without you, El. I finally understand what it means to belong.”
“You were mine!” Eella shrieked, fury exploding through her. “You were my shadow! My fire!”
Darcie cackled. “And now I’m your ghost.”
Their bodies clashed—sisters, enemies, fragments of a broken mirror.
Eella slashed. Darcie struck. Sparks flew, blood sprayed, and around them, the world collapsed into teeth.
Garrison appeared in the storm, arms open, calling to Eella.
But she wasn’t running anymore.
She wasn’t theirs anymore.
She turned her back to him. To Lazarus. To Darcie. To the burning city.
And she raised her hands.
Every scar on her body lit up like a circuit.
She screamed—and the Choir screamed back.
They didn’t know she could do this.
Not even she knew.
But somewhere, in the twisted geometry of her pain, they had left her a gift.
She spoke in the ancient Choir tongue.
She commanded them.
The new Choir froze.
Even Lazarus flinched.
And then they knelt.
Eella’s voice broke into pure light, her eyes bleeding molten gold.
“I am not your queen,” she whispered.
“I am your end.”
Garrison rushed her. Lazarus screamed.
But it was too late.
She gave the command.
And they tore themselves apart.
The sky blackened. The air reversed. Choirs old and new disassembled molecule by molecule, shrieking not in agony—but in relief.
They had waited for this.
Not domination.
Not salvation.
Release.
And she was the only one who could give it.
The last thing she saw before the light overtook her was Garrison’s face—not furious.
But smiling.
“You did it,” he mouthed.
And then he vanished.
When the light cleared, the city was gone.
So was she.
Only one person remained.
Darcie.
Kneeling in the ash.
Crying.
“Eella?” she whispered into the silence. “Please come back.”
But Eella was gone.
And something else now wore her skin.
Eella stood before it, the shattered metal behind her still humming with the echoes of Garrison’s last scream. The world she’d known—Garrison’s world—was gone. Burned into nothing but a scar in her memory. All that remained was this impossible gateway, breathing in the dark like some slumbering beast’s mouth.
Her body trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion soaked in grief. And rage.
She stepped forward.
The moment her foot crossed the threshold, something noticed.
It wasn’t a welcome. It was recognition. Like the thing behind the veil had always known her name, had always been watching—waiting for the final key to turn.
And Eella, broken and reborn, was the key.
Inside, the air was thicker than blood.
She emerged into what looked like a cathedral built by madness—organic, wet, walls of pulsing light and shadow, veins glowing with ancient memories. Choir remnants hung like carcasses from the ceilings, suspended in a state between decay and rebirth. Voices whispered in a thousand tongues, clawing through her mind, begging for salvation, for mercy, for release.
But they would get none.
Not anymore.
At the far end of the chamber was a throne.
No, not a throne—a womb. A seat of flesh and wire, pulsing with life. And from it rose a figure.
She knew him before he fully formed.
Not Garrison. Not Lazarus.
Something between.
The true form of the Choir’s creator. A hybrid god built from betrayal, obsession, and pain.
It wore Garrison’s eyes.
But they weren’t his anymore.
“I missed you,” it said, in a voice layered with a thousand dead.
Eella didn’t flinch. “You died.”
“I evolved.”
He stepped down, barefoot over sinew-coated stairs, his body perfect and inhuman. A Choir echo carved into flesh and molded by desire.
“You made me this,” he said. “Every time you fought. Every time you bled for me.”
“You used me.”
“I loved you. And you were the crucible.”
Eella’s fingers tightened around the blade in her hand. “I’ll end you.”
“I know,” he whispered. “That’s the last gift you have left.”
Before she could move, Darcie appeared behind him—reborn, glowing with new Choir sigils burned into her skin like brands. Her eyes weren’t empty anymore. They were devoted.
“She’s here to deliver us,” Darcie said, voice reverent.
“She’s here to try,” the new Garrison replied.
Eella lunged.
He moved like lightning.
They clashed—blade against bare hands, flesh against fury. Every strike echoed through the cathedral, shaking loose bits of memory embedded in the walls. Eella’s blade cut him open—but he bled light, not blood. Darcie screamed spells into the air, Choir chants that warped the ground beneath them, bending space.
But Eella didn’t stop.
She couldn’t.
This was what she was made for.
This was war.
He grinned even as she stabbed him through the chest. “Yes, Eella. More.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m free.”
Suddenly, the chamber cracked—like reality was splintering. A mirror on the far side split open, and from it emerged Lazarus.
Not dead.
Reconstructed.
Laughing.
“You thought you could kill me in my own house?”
Eella’s heart dropped.
“Welcome,” he said, “to the Second Womb.”
The Second Womb bloomed open behind Lazarus like a hell-born flower.
From its spiraling throat poured them—versions of the Choir that Eella had never seen before. Taller. Sharper. Smoother. Like they were built not for infiltration, not for obedience, but for war.
These weren’t memories of the old Choir.
These were upgrades.
And they were hungry.
Lazarus strode forward, his arms outstretched, bloodless smile splitting his face like a prophecy fulfilled. “The first Choir was only a prototype. This—” He gestured to the swarm emerging behind him. “This is divine. Born from your betrayal. Forged in your scream.”
Garrison—or the thing that wore him—laughed, even as Eella held her blood-wet blade toward them both. “You were always one step behind me, Lazarus.”
“You were always one layer beneath me,” Lazarus countered, eyes flashing. “I gave you her pain to mold, her devotion to twist. And still—you couldn’t finish the design. I did.”
He snapped his fingers.
And the walls collapsed.
Reality imploded like glass under a boot. The cathedral of flesh vanished, sucked backward through itself in a collapsing echo of geometry and wet, organic sound. Eella fell—through darkness, through memory, through herself.
When she landed, it wasn’t on ground.
It was her old bed.
Her hands trembled.
She was sixteen. The mirror across the room still bore the crack from where she’d thrown her jewelry box the night her father left. Her hair was longer. Her wrists were bare.
No blade.
No scars.
No Garrison.
Just silence.
“No,” she whispered.
This wasn’t time travel. It wasn’t memory.
It was manipulation.
And in the doorway stood her mother.
Smiling.
Alive.
“How long are you going to keep sulking, baby?” her voice cooed like honey and razors. “It’s not like he was worth crying over.”
Eella stumbled back.
This wasn’t real.
“Stop it.”
Her mother’s voice grew static. Her mouth moved wrong. Her limbs bent at the elbow too many times.
“You always break what you touch, Eella. You’re a weapon in a girl’s dress.”
Eella screamed—and the world burned away.
She landed in fire.
Concrete. Sirens. Screams.
The Choir—all of them—pouring into the city like locusts. People running, buildings shattering, helicopters torn from the sky. And in the middle of it stood Darcie, directing them with hands glowing and eyes hollow.
Eella rose, throat hoarse, blade glowing red.
This time, she didn’t hesitate.
She charged.
Darcie turned, smile crooked and full of blood. “I was reborn without you, El. I finally understand what it means to belong.”
“You were mine!” Eella shrieked, fury exploding through her. “You were my shadow! My fire!”
Darcie cackled. “And now I’m your ghost.”
Their bodies clashed—sisters, enemies, fragments of a broken mirror.
Eella slashed. Darcie struck. Sparks flew, blood sprayed, and around them, the world collapsed into teeth.
Garrison appeared in the storm, arms open, calling to Eella.
But she wasn’t running anymore.
She wasn’t theirs anymore.
She turned her back to him. To Lazarus. To Darcie. To the burning city.
And she raised her hands.
Every scar on her body lit up like a circuit.
She screamed—and the Choir screamed back.
They didn’t know she could do this.
Not even she knew.
But somewhere, in the twisted geometry of her pain, they had left her a gift.
She spoke in the ancient Choir tongue.
She commanded them.
The new Choir froze.
Even Lazarus flinched.
And then they knelt.
Eella’s voice broke into pure light, her eyes bleeding molten gold.
“I am not your queen,” she whispered.
“I am your end.”
Garrison rushed her. Lazarus screamed.
But it was too late.
She gave the command.
And they tore themselves apart.
The sky blackened. The air reversed. Choirs old and new disassembled molecule by molecule, shrieking not in agony—but in relief.
They had waited for this.
Not domination.
Not salvation.
Release.
And she was the only one who could give it.
The last thing she saw before the light overtook her was Garrison’s face—not furious.
But smiling.
“You did it,” he mouthed.
And then he vanished.
When the light cleared, the city was gone.
So was she.
Only one person remained.
Darcie.
Kneeling in the ash.
Crying.
“Eella?” she whispered into the silence. “Please come back.”
But Eella was gone.
And something else now wore her skin.
End of His Private Hell Chapter 112. Continue reading Chapter 113 or return to His Private Hell book page.