52 Damn, I died, huh?

You know when you open your eyes, but it feels like you're still trapped in some bizarre episode of "Inception"? Eyelids heavy as if they've been replaced with lead curtains, and your mind, oh, that mischievous mind, still wandering through the recesses of a crazy dream. In my case, it was one of those educational dreams, you know? The kind where you learn that letting a stranger pierce your stomach with their arm is not a good idea. Educational and slightly painful, I would say. And well... everything started to get foggy after that "hands-on lesson."

So, in the headquarters of the High Court, which resembles one of those gothic horror movie settings — a rustic and huge mansion that probably would have ghosts of former residents doing the guided tour — I opened my eyes, feeling the unexpected comfort of the mattress. Must be one of those premium mattresses that promise to relieve life's pains, or at least the pains of being stabbed by a ghost arm. My vision was as blurred as the morality of the characters in "Game of Thrones," while I stared at the brownish wooden ceiling.

"Great, I'm not dead... unless the afterlife has a rustic chic decor that I wasn't expecting."

And then, of course, the moment of recognition. Where you realize you're not in Kansas anymore, or in any crazy dream your brain might have decided to conjure up. You're lying in an unknown place, probably wondering if there's a stay fee or if breakfast is included. I wondered whether I should ring for room service or just get up and face the day, hoping there wouldn't be anyone else planning to use my abdomen as an entryway.

I blinked my eyes a few times, in a desperate attempt to readjust the focus. After a few failed attempts, which, to be honest, made me consider the possibility of having gone blind (no, not literally), my vision finally decided to stop playing hide and seek and returned to normal. "What a relief," I thought, "I wouldn't like the idea of having to wear glasses. Although, come to think of it, Alva could just snap her fingers and heal me, right?" Ah, the wonders of having friends with superpowers.

And speaking of the devil (or angel, depending on your perspective), I tilted my head to the right and who do I find? A girl with hair and eyes as white as snow, wearing an elegant black women's suit. Not just any suit, but one of those that scream "I could be on a fashion runway, but I chose to save the world."

She was staring at me with that typical look of an owner to their dog when it decides to turn the Persian carpet into its new bathroom area. A look that said "Really, Dean? Again?". I could almost hear the disappointment mixed with a hint of "I'm going to give you a lecture you'll never forget."

"Alva," I said, trying to appear indifferent, "always a pleasure to wake up to your judgmental face saying good morning." I smiled, the kind of smile you give when you know you're about to be scolded but still try to throw charm into the situation. "So, what's the issue this time? Is the universe about to implode, or did you just come to visit because you missed me?"

Because, you know, nothing says "good morning" like a discussion about potential universal catastrophes before even having coffee.

Alva, with that look mixing exhaustion and a touch of resignation, finally broke the silence, not with a rebuke but with a simple "Sorry." Surprised, I arched my eyebrows. "Now she knows how to apologize?" I thought, wondering if I should mark the date on the calendar. Ladies and gentlemen, before us, an occurrence as rare as a solar eclipse on a rainy day.

"I should have known this would happen," she continued, and I, seizing the opportunity to add a bit more drama to the moment, commented: "You're talking about me 'accidentally' sending the president's daughter to the other side? Well, I suppose I'll have plenty of material for nightmares in the coming weeks, but..." I paused, my curiosity overcoming the sudden apprehension. "Why are you apologizing?"

I was expecting anything—a lecture, a rescue mission in hell, maybe even a suggestion for a spiritual spa to cleanse my karma. But apologies? Now, that was new. I could almost imagine an imaginary scoreboard lighting up above us: "Dean 1, Universe 0."

The situation was so unexpected that for a moment, I found myself wondering if I was, in fact, still dreaming. Perhaps, in some corner of my mind, a cynical scriptwriter was having fun at my expense, weaving a plot worthy of a prime-time soap opera with supernatural twists.

"I underestimated the mission. I thought it would be just another mission you could handle," Alva confessed, her eyes shifting towards the window, as if she hoped to find some redemption on the horizon. That glow of pride, typical of someone who rarely admits faults, seemed to have evaporated.

"People who couldn't die, died. The High Court was blamed, and you ended up dying," she continued, with a frankness that was as rare as... well, as her apologizing. And if you think I had already reached my limit of surprise, think again.

"If I died, how did you bring me back? Given my nature, I'm sure my soul would be organizing a poker tournament in hell right about now," I inquired, genuinely interested. After all, it's not every day you get a second chance at life, especially when your last memory involves an arm going through your stomach.

"It's intriguing that someone your age knows how our world really works, but know that I did it, and that's that. You're back, and that's what matters," she replied, with that "don't question the methods of magicians" tone.

I had to smile. "Well, I hope at least my 'trip' racked up some miles. You know, for the next time I decide to take involuntary vacations in the beyond."

Humor might not be the best defense mechanism, but it definitely makes coming back from the dead a bit less dramatic. And look, if hell really did organize poker tournaments, I'm sure I'd have some interesting stories to tell. But, for now, I was more concerned with finding out what the hell (pardon the pun) had happened while I was "away."

"Only you would make jokes after just finding out you died," Alva retorted with a long sigh, clearly surprised by my ability to treat my own death as if it were a mere stumble. Perhaps she expected a bit more drama on my part, but let's be honest, if you can't laugh at your own death, what can you laugh at?

And, seriously, it would be fascinating to know what happened to me in hell. I imagine my soul must have gathered some stories worthy of an action movie, but unfortunately, it seems to have decided to keep it all to itself. Apparently, I don't have access to that part of my post-life experience. Who knew that even in death there are bureaucracies and access restrictions?

"Well, crying over spilled milk isn't interesting to me," I declared, deciding to focus on the present and not on possible hellish tours I don't remember. "So, how are things? Did you manage to kill that viper called Scarlet?" I asked, curious about the outcome of our mission.

After all, if you're going to come back from the dead, it's good to return to a reality where at least one of your problems has been resolved. And, between us, if Alva really managed to deal with Scarlet, maybe my brief stint in hell was worth it. I wouldn't say no to a celebratory beer for having survived death and the near-apocalypse that followed.

"She's alive," Alva declared, dousing my hopes for a happy ending without Scarlet... or rather, Lilith's presence. I huffed in frustration, feeling like a puppet whose strings had been masterfully pulled from the start. The following revelation, however, made me choke on air: "Her real name is Lilith, a demon."

"Huh?" was the eloquence I managed to muster, in a moment that felt like an automatic reaction from finding out the person you were holding the door for was actually the villain of the movie. And look, this wasn't just any villain. Alva noticed my expression of someone who just found out Santa Claus doesn't exist and asked, "Do you know what that name means?"

I swallowed hard, trying to process the information and what it implied. "Lady of hell. One of the primordial demons. Empress. An incredibly powerful demon that now only makes me question even more." I paused, trying to organize the thoughts that scattered like cockroaches when the light comes on. "What was she doing in the United States? I mean, why was she hiding her identity? She could decimate everyone."

Now that I think about it, my life had turned into one of those TV series that mix comedy with demonic apocalypse. And me? I was in the middle of it, trying to understand how an empress of hell decides to do an exchange program in the human world and, for some reason, ends up getting involved with me. "Didn't she have an empire to rule? Or is hell now so well-managed that even the primordial demons are taking vacations?"

At this point, acid humor was my only defense against the reality unfolding before me. If Lilith was out there, disguised and plotting, who knows what else was hidden beneath the surface of our seemingly tranquil reality? I just hoped that, whatever it was, it included a decent health plan because, by the looks of it, I was going to need it.

Even being, theoretically, the screenwriter of this whole madness, there were things about which I was more in the dark than a bat in a cave during an eclipse. Because, you see, I had written the story from Sam's perspective, so a plot involving a casual visit of a primordial demon to Earth was definitely a twist I didn't have in the script.

"I also don't know why she's here. But it seems she was given the mission to execute the President of the United States," Alva shared, dropping another bomb in my lap. "But what intrigues me is hell caring about the president..." She pondered, as if trying to unravel the mystery of the century. And honestly, if hell was eyeing American politics, maybe it was time to review some of my life choices.

She stood there, lost in her thoughts, until she finally threw the question at me: "What do you think, Dean? Any ideas?"

Ah, of course, now I was the special consultant on infernal affairs. "Well, if I had to guess," I began, adopting my amateur detective stance, "I'd say maybe hell is trying to expand its tourist domains. Who knows, maybe the current administration offered an attractive tax incentive package?"

She gave me that "now is not the time for jokes" look, but I continued, "Seriously now, maybe it has something to do with the balance of power. If hell is meddling in earthly politics, it must be for something that offers a significant return. Maybe they're not after the president, but what he represents or some decision he's about to make."

I shrugged. "Or maybe Lilith is just bored. I mean, ruling hell must get kind of monotonous after a while. Maybe she just wants a bit of political drama for entertainment."

Alva didn't seem entirely convinced by my theory of infernal boredom, but I was just trying to make sense in a world where primordial demons get involved in political assassinations. Really, who needs Netflix when your life is a screenplay waiting to be adapted?

"Your idea about the demons being interested in the president's leadership actually makes sense, but we need to explore this further," Alva agreed, and I, seizing the opportunity to inflate my ego a bit, flashed that smile accompanied by the expression "I'm always right." Of course, with all the modesty a 'recently resurrected' guy can muster.

Then, one of those silences fell upon us. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, but the kind that seems to carry weight, a moment of collective pause to process the roller coaster of recent events. In the meantime, I adopted a more reflective stance and launched one of those existential questions you usually ask yourself while staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night: "Alva, am I really strong?"

"Hmm," she pondered, with that sound you make when weighing the pros and cons before answering a complicated question. "You are strong, for someone your age. But why this now?"

"Ah, I don't know," I said, trying to seem casual as I shrugged. "Just that, the feeling of knowing there's someone who can kill you, it's somewhat suffocating to me." I admitted, perhaps for the first time allowing a glimpse of vulnerability to show. After all, facing one's own mortality — and a literal death, in my case — has a way of making you somewhat philosophical.

"Okay, let's stop thinking about this now..." She stood up, perhaps sensing that the moment called for a change of scenery, or maybe just wanting to avoid a downward spiral of self-reflection. "I'm going to take you to see the headquarters of the High Court."

Getting up and doing something definitely sounded like a better plan than dwelling on my recent trip beyond. Besides, if I was looking for a way to feel stronger, maybe getting to know the heart of the High Court was a good start. "I hope they have a good life insurance policy," I joked, following Alva. Because, let's be honest, if my week continued at this pace, I would probably need it.