The CEO of the Dead

I deal with souls for a living.

I welcome them, sort them, condemn them.

You probably think that makes me the bad guy.

But I’d ask that you politely hold your judgment.

Because this isn’t the life I wanted.

I didn’t have a choice.

***

My first memory?

My father — Kronos — holding me in the air, smiling up at his newborn son.

And then he swallowed me whole.

(Yeah. You read that right.)

He’d heard whispers of a prophecy — that one of his children would rise up and overthrow him, just as he had overthrown his father (turns out daddy issues are generational).

So, Pops did what any reasonable Titan would do:

He ate all his kids.

One by one.

I spent generations trapped inside his stomach, miserably stewing in divine bile with five of my siblings and a rock.

We had been cast away into the dark, seemingly forgotten.

Until Zeus — my unbearably horny younger brother who somehow avoided getting eaten — finally showed up and fulfilled the prophecy.

He slayed our father and set us free.

And for a moment, we were grateful — blindly, stupidly grateful.

To the miracle boy. The golden child.

We were so wrapped up in the fireworks of freedom that we didn’t notice what a pompous little prick he was.

The remaining Titans — Kronos’ pissed-off siblings — didn’t take the murder and dismemberment of their brother lightly.

So, we had ourselves a war.

Gods versus Titans.

It was brutal. Ugly.

We barely won.

And with the Titans gone, the world was suddenly leaderless.

Unbalanced.

A divine power vacuum.

Naturally, Zeus — newly crowned “King of the Gods” and drunk on victory — decided he should determine how we’d decided our fates.

Which domains we would rule.

For all eternity.

Like some cosmic guidance counselor.

He ordered that we draw straws.

I was excited. Foolishly so.

After a lifetime of abandonment and stomach-acid therapy, I finally had a chance to live — to command the oceans, to dance through nature, to maybe experience love or sunlight without gagging on sulfur.

Zeus pulled the skies.

(Because of course he did.)

Poseidon got the seas.

(I suppose it was fitting, considering his obsession with polo shorts and nautical cologne.)

And then it was my turn.

Hades.

I drew the short straw.

The one that drained the color from my face and whatever hope I had left.

The one that condemned me to shadowy caves and eternal coupons for Hot Topic.

I got the underworld.

***

“Isn’t this great?!” Zeus beamed, gesturing to the chaotic wasteland of souls swarming around us — crying, panicking, shouting, and tripping over one another like it was Black Friday.

“Business is booming thanks to the Titanomachy,” he added with a wink.

I stared at the mass of the dead, horrified.

This is awful, I thought.

It was chaos.

No order.

Souls wandered aimlessly, screaming or sulking, with nowhere to go.

There were no walls. No gates. No separation between the damned and the decent.

Just billions of souls loitering in the darkness — like the world’s saddest afterparty.

Zeus looked at me expectantly, waiting for a reaction. Like I was supposed to be impressed.

“…It’s a little cramped,” I muttered.

Thunder rumbled through the caverns as he laughed. “You think this is cramped? Just wait until the wars start!”

Wars?

Before I could ask, he shoved a heavy ring of keys into my hands and clapped me on the back like we were good buddies.

“This place matches your personality perfectly, Hades! I just know this was meant to be.”

“Meant to be?! This place is a disaster. I can’t—”

Zeus’s eyes crackled with lightning. The air went hot, fast.

His voice dropped like a blade.

“This mess is your domain.

And you are going to fix it.”

And just like that —

he vanished, presumably to throw an orgy in the clouds.

Leaving me alone.

In the dark.

Again.

Only this time, there was no Kronos.

No siblings.

No rock for company.

Just me. And the dead.

I looked out over them.

Among the masses, I saw good souls trying to help others… and cruel ones exploiting the chaos.

Heroes and murderers — all jumbled together.

It didn’t matter who they were in life. They were all here.

Forgotten. In the dark.

No.

This isn’t how it ends.

Not for them.

And not for me.

If I was to be King of the Dead —

then I would make death mean something.

I would craft a system.

A structure.

A place of judgment, order, and purpose.

I would bring justice to the afterlife.

***

It wasn’t easy.

I spent more nights than I care to admit curled up next to the River Lethe — the river of forgetfulness — sobbing into my knees and occasionally dunking my head in just to forget the last five minutes of crying.

Then I’d start all over again.

Therapeutic, in a self-erasing sort of way.

The Underworld took generations to build.

But I’m fairly satisfied with how it turned out.

So, allow me to explain how it works:

One day,

you’ll die.

I don’t control how or when — you can thank the Fates for that.

They’re the ones with the scissors.

But once you go, a young frat boy with winged shoes will show up —

his name’s Hermes —

and he’ll gently scoop up your soul and carry it down to my domain like an Amazon delivery.

Honestly, the whole thing’s pretty peaceful.

Dying feels a lot like falling asleep.

Your eyes open, and you’re standing on the shore of a vast, dark river:

The River Styx.

Smells like pennies and panic.

You won’t be alone.

There’ll be dozens of other souls beside you — confused, quiet, waiting for their ride.

Eventually, a boat will appear from the mist.

Old, creaky, definitely haunted.

It’s captained by a passive-aggressive guy in a robe that looks two sizes too big for him.

His name is Charon.

He’ll offer to ferry you across —

but only if you’ve got a coin.

(Yeah. I didn’t set that up. The bastard insists on tips. Claims I underpay him. Says rowing “takes an emotional toll.”)

If you’ve got your fare, he’ll grunt, roll his eyes, and let you aboard.

The ride’s quiet.

Misty.

Beverage service included.

The boat will drift through the Gates of the Underworld — towering slabs of obsidian wrapped in chains and carved with curses.

They groan open like the world's most dramatic elevator.

Inside, you’ll be led to your judgment.

Where three old men sit behind a stone table, looking like they’ve been stuck on the world’s longest jury duty rotation.

Rhadamanthus — stickler for rules

Minos — dramatic and weirdly theatrical.

Aeacus — hasn’t smiled since the Bronze Age.

They’ll review your life, flipping through it like a highlight reel, and decide where you go next.

You’ve got three options:

Elysium — for the glorious dead, heroes, and anyone with abs who died saving puppies.

The Asphodel Fields — for average folk who paid their taxes on time and never yelled in traffic.

Tartarus — for traitors, monsters, and people who clap when the plane lands.

That’s where you’ll stay.

Forever.

Unless you qualify for reincarnation.

A second chance.

One I can offer.

But never take for myself.

So, there you have it.

The Underworld.

In all its glorious inevitability.

With yours truly as CEO.

So now I ask you—

do you think I’m the bad guy?