She also hosts a weekly book club. Members include a former pope, a vampire lord who owes her money, and a sentient suit of armor that only speaks in limericks. They read romance novels—specifically, the worst ones. The current pick is Burned by Your Love , a paranormal romance about a firefighter who falls for a salamander. Ingrid finds the prose “deliciously tragic.”
Then she returns inside, scratches Mr. Puddles behind his fiery ears, and lies down in her satin sheets. She does not sleep. Hell Knights do not dream. But she pretends —closing her eyes, slowing her breath, and imagining a life where she was mortal, where sunsets ended, where love was not just another weapon. Hell Knight Ingrid Uncensored
At 4 PM, Ingrid’s personal theater opens. It seats one: a velvet throne shaped like a reclining dragon. Her entertainment is not the usual hellfire spectacles or gladiatorial combat. She prefers performance art . She has a rotating cast of condemned celebrities, poets, and pop stars who must perform original works for her judgment. Yesterday, a disgraced TikToker reenacted the fall of Lucifer using only shadow puppets and kazoo. Ingrid gave a standing ovation, then extended his sentence by 300 years for “lack of narrative cohesion.” She also hosts a weekly book club
She whispers a secret into the void. The void does not answer. It learned long ago that Ingrid prefers the silence. The current pick is Burned by Your Love
Breakfast is black coffee brewed from beans grown in the Ashen Fields, served in a cup crafted from a single ruby. She eats nothing. Hell Knights do not need food; they need aesthetic . She allows a single, perfect strawberry to dissolve on her tongue, its juice the color of a fresh wound.
At the stroke of what would be midnight, Ingrid retires to her balcony overlooking the Styx. She lights a single cigarette—tobacco soaked in honey and despair—and exhales smoke rings that briefly form the faces of her favorite deceased humans. She does not miss them. She misses the idea of missing them.