His Private Hell - Chapter 122: Chapter 122

The room was made of mirrors.
But none of them reflected truth.
Eella stood barefoot, naked, and wet from the aftermath of Garrison’s love—if it could even be called that. Her skin glowed, but inside, something was splitting. Like a chasm opening beneath her ribcage, and the more she touched him, the more it sang.
A song she couldn’t stop hearing.
Darcie’s voice was still in her skull. Even now. One note, and her body had broken like wet paper.
One note, and she wanted more.
Not for pleasure.
For power.
She gripped the edges of the sink in the mirrored bathroom and stared at her reflection, but it wasn’t her anymore. The woman looking back had shadows under her eyes, blood at the corner of her mouth, and a hunger that didn’t belong.
“I see you,” the mirror whispered.
Eella stumbled back, but the voice didn’t stop.
“You’re cracking,” it said. “And once you break… you’ll never be the same.”
She ran.
Out of the room. Through the silver hallway. Down the stairwell no one used.
She didn’t know where she was going.
She just needed to move.
She ended up in the old ballroom. Abandoned. Forgotten. Covered in dust and cracked chandeliers. The perfect place to lose her mind in peace.
But someone was already there.
Astrid.
She was sitting on a broken piano bench, her legs crossed, staring at nothing.
Eella hesitated.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly.
Astrid didn’t move.
“I came here when I was unraveling too.”
Eella took a step forward. “You unraveled?”
Astrid laughed. “We all do. Some of us just survive it better.”
Eella sat down beside her.
“Darcie—she touched something in me. I can’t undo it.”
Astrid nodded. “She touched the hollow place.”
Eella turned. “What is it?”
“The part of you that knows you’re not just a girl with trauma. You’re meant for more.”
Eella whispered, “More what?”
“More madness. More power. More godhood.”
They sat in silence.
Then Astrid leaned close, her voice low and strange.
“You want to burn the world, don’t you?”
Eella didn’t answer.
Because the answer was yes.
Astrid smiled. “Good.”
⸻
Garrison didn’t sleep.
He stood at the edge of the rooftop, watching the skyline, one hand bleeding from punching a wall.
Lazarus had gone too far.
He always did.
But this wasn’t about Lazarus anymore.
It was about the thing inside Eella.
It wasn’t a demon. It wasn’t a Choir echo. It was worse.
It was desire.
Unleashed.
Darcie was a portal.
Eella was the key.
And if he didn’t end this now, there wouldn’t be anything left to save.
He turned.
Sasha stood behind him again.
“Like a ghost,” he muttered.
“I told you,” she said. “I’m here to watch the end.”
“There’s not going to be one. Not like Lazarus wants.”
“He made her,” Sasha said. “And she’s going to unmake him.”
Garrison frowned. “What are you saying?”
Sasha walked closer. “I’m saying the girl you knew? She’s gone. The woman rising in her place… she belongs to the Choir now.”
He grabbed her arm. “Not yet. Not while she remembers me.”
Sasha smiled coldly. “You think memory saves anyone?”
She leaned in.
“You were a chapter. But Lazarus is writing the ending.”
⸻
In the depths of the building, behind the red doors, Lazarus stood before the remaining Choir.
The Second Choir had awakened.
Twelve of them.
Skinless. Soundless. But humming.
Their bodies rippled with stored vibration, like veins filled with symphonies instead of blood.
Darcie stood behind them, her body cloaked in a robe stitched from flesh and ash. Her eyes were milky, her voice silent. But her mind was roaring.
“She’s almost ready,” she whispered.
Lazarus nodded.
“Good. Then let’s give her something to push her over.”
Darcie tilted her head.
“Garrison.”
Lazarus smiled. “You always did love him.”
She looked away. “He was the first thing I touched when I came back from the grave.”
“And now?”
“Now I want her to taste what I tasted.”
“Pain?”
“No,” she said.
“Worship.”
⸻
Eella found the old archives by accident.
They were hidden beneath a false bookshelf in Astrid’s room—sealed behind a combination of touch and blood.
The moment her fingers pressed to the wooden sigil, it opened.
She descended alone.
The stairs were endless, carved from bone.
And at the bottom?
Books.
Tapes.
Old diaries.
She opened one at random.
“Project Choir Entry #001: Darcie Lane”
Her breath hitched.
She read it.
Every word.
Darcie hadn’t been born in pain.
She was created from it.
Torn apart by lovers. Abandoned by gods. Chosen by Lazarus when she tried to drown herself in a bathtub and sang while her lungs filled.
He had heard the song.
And he pulled her out.
He didn’t save her.
He rewrote her.
The file ended with one line:
“The body is the instrument. The soul is the song. The woman is the weapon.”
Eella shut the book.
Then she opened the next one.
And the next.
Her hands trembled.
Because the next file?
Had her name on it.
“Project Choir Entry #021: Eella Nyx”
She hadn’t known.
But Astrid did.
So did Lazarus.
And Garrison?
He’d kept her safe, yes.
But not ignorant.
He knew.
She dropped the book, backed away, and ran.
⸻
Astrid was waiting for her.
Eella burst through the door, eyes wide, breathing broken.
“You lied to me.”
Astrid stood. “I protected you.”
“You knew. You all knew. You let me think I was just a girl who fell into a war.”
Astrid walked toward her. “You weren’t ready to know.”
“I’m never ready, am I?”
“Not until you break.”
Eella slapped her.
Hard.
Astrid didn’t flinch.
“Feel better?”
“No,” Eella whispered.
Astrid leaned close. “Then break harder.”
⸻
Garrison was waiting in the room when she got back.
Eella stood in the doorway, panting.
“You knew.”
His jaw clenched. “Yes.”
She walked to him slowly.
“You let me fuck you, love you, bleed for you… and you never told me what I was.”
“I didn’t want to lose you.”
She punched him.
He let her.
Again.
And again.
Until her fists bruised and her eyes spilled over and her voice cracked with rage.
“You already lost me,” she screamed.
He caught her wrists.
“I was trying to save you.”
She shook her head.
“No. You were trying to save yourself from what I might become.”
She kissed him.
Hard.
And when he kissed back, she bit his lip until it bled.
“I’m not yours anymore,” she whispered.
Then she left.
⸻
The Choir sang that night.
A low hum.
A warning.
Darcie watched from the shadows, smiling.
“She’s ready.”
Lazarus nodded.
“Then wake the city.”