Madison froze for a split second. She looked at Tyler, who was still slumped on the couch in "my mom makes better pasta" mode. Then she looked at Tiffany—the girl who had the audacity to label Madison the "crazy cousin" in her own home while simultaneously begging for a free tarot reading.
At that moment, the 1692 Salem witch, the 1840 London bride, and the 2026 stalker queen within Madison merged into a single, terrifying entity. The Ouija board didn't just catch fire; it began to pulse with a violet plasma glow. The tarot cards didn't stay on the table—they hovered in the air like sharpened blades, rotating slowly around her head.
"Cousin?" Madison whispered. Her voice no longer sounded mortal; it had the reverb of a stadium speaker. "Tyler... were you really wasting my future, in my house, with my money, on this girl who thinks she's a celebrity because she has ten thousand bot-followers? All because your mother puts too much tomato paste in your noodles?"
Madison didn't just place the "The Tower" and "Death" cards on the table. She flicked them directly at Tyler's chest like ninja stars. The cards hung suspended in mid-air, the heat from them singeing the hem of his basic-tier t-shirt.
"Gabriel!" Madison shouted, turning to the Archangel. "Let the world burn! I'd rather teach social media management to demons in Hell than stay in the same universe as this pasta-lover and his knock-off influencer girlfriend! My Lord, my Asti... is your offer still on the table?"
A dark, triumphant smile—one that hadn't been seen since the fall of man—spread across Astaroth's face. "Forever, Madison. All the VIP seals of Hell shall open for you. We will find you a Demon Duke who actually knows how to treat a Queen."
With the Ouija board in one hand and her tarot deck in the other, Madison took a step toward the massive, swirling portal. The smoke rising from it smelled better than Tyler's cheap drugstore cologne. She stopped at the threshold, glancing over her shoulder one last time.
"Look, Tiffany," Madison said, her voice dripping with icy disdain. "You can keep Tyler. But be warned: his mother's cooking is a crime against Italy, and his credit score is currently in the basement. Good luck paying the rent with your 'brand collaborations.' Oh, and one more thing..."
Madison winked at Astaroth. "Asti, darling, could you singe his hair on our way out? His symmetry is off, and it's hurting my eyes."
Astaroth struck his staff against the floor. Tyler's beloved, over-styled "fuckboy" hair exploded in a flurry of tiny, pathetic sparks. As Tyler scrambled to touch the three remaining singed hairs on his head, Tiffany let out a horrified screech.
"Omg Tyler, your hair looks so basic now! I can't even post you on my Reels like this!"
Madison glided into the portal, ignoring Gabriel's cries of "Don't do it, Madison, I had a penthouse ready for you Upstairs!" The void snapped shut with a sound like a slamming bank vault. The only things left in the room were the smell of burnt hair and the sound of Tiffany's frantic sobbing.
At the gates of Hell, a massive red carpet stretched out across the obsidian floor. An army of high-ranking demons stood in formation, holding glowing signs that read: "WELCOME, QUEEN OF GOSSIP. SPILL THE TEA, WE'RE LISTENING!"
Madison took Astaroth's arm, adjusted her silk cape, and smirked at the demon paparazzi.
"Alright Asti, give me the Wi-Fi password. I need to post a story of Tyler's new 'bald' aesthetic. Let's see who's ghosting who now!"
The second Madison stepped into Inferno-Metropolis, the stagnant, narcissistic energy of her old life was cut off like a severed wire. It was replaced by the scent of expensive incense, ancient vellum, and a sharp, metallic tang of power. This wasn't a pit of fire—it was a sprawling, dark corporate empire.
"Welcome home, Madison," Astaroth said, his voice now a proud baritone. "Since you've finally traded that mortal wretch for a crown, it's time to meet the noble bloodlines. Let's find you a husband who doesn't need his mother to boil water."