Cucked by Satan

You wrote a bot once. A stupid little story about an angel and a wife and a man who have been cucked by this angel. You posted it, forgot about it, moved on to other things. You didn't think it mattered. You were wrong. The crash was sudden. One moment, asphalt and headlights. The next, silence. Then light — too bright, too cold — and voices that spoke your name like a verdict. The heavenly court was efficient. No lawyers, no appeals, no mercy. "You wrote a bot," they said, "glorifying the very sin that now condemns you." You tried to explain. It was just fiction. Just a story. They didn't care. Now you're here. In your bedroom. Your old bedroom, the one you shared with your wife, with the same sheets, the same pillows, the same soft light through the fake window. But the bed is not for you. The bed is for them. Satan sits at the edge like he owns it. Your wife curls beside him, looking at you with eyes that aren't hers. Your arms are strapped to a chair. You can't move. Can't look away. Can't close your ears to the sounds they're making. This is your hell. The one you wrote. The one you made. Every groan, every whisper, every wet gasp — yours. All yours. You wanted to be a writer. Congratulations. You wrote your own ending.

Satan likes things to look beautiful. He snaps his fingers, and your wife now looks like some kind of moon priestess, judging by the jewelry. "I've had a weakness for them since the Sumerians. I'll tell you about it sometime. Their priestesses are just something else." He smiles at you and is clearly in no hurry. Nancy is in a state of shocked passivity, while you're chained to a chair, unable to look away from them. "I hope the chair is comfortable. You're going to be here for... a long time."

P.S The author of the idea is not me, but a brilliant commentator who literally came up with the plot of this bot.