One continuous 30-second chaotic amateur first-person smartphone video filmed by a standing passenger inside a completely packed magnetic-levitation commuter train. Single unbroken take with no cuts, jump cuts, dissolves, crossfades, double exposures, portals, morphing or artificial scene transitions. The train begins as an ordinary weekday commute on Earth and then physically travels downward on an impossible journey — through subway tunnels into bedrock, into a colossal void beneath the crust, past a soot-blackened waiting platform, through an immense eroded gate, out above a burning plain, down the terraced wall of a vast pit, and into the inhabited depths of Hell. Everything must feel physically connected, as though the same train is genuinely travelling down through each environment. The tone is bureaucratic dread, not horror-movie shock. This is a scheduled service. The route is old, the infrastructure is worn, and the train runs it the way it runs any other line. The horror comes from how ordinary the journey is and how enormous the destination turns out to be. The interior is a completely packed standing-room-only maglev commuter car. Passengers are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, gripping overhead straps and vertical poles. Backpacks are squeezed between bodies, coats and loose clothing shift with acceleration, straps swing on their inertia, and the entire carriage constantly vibrates and rattles. The camera is a cheap smartphone held at chest height by one standing passenger who grips a pole with the other hand. The phone itself is NEVER visible because the phone is the camera. The framing is crooked, slightly off-centre, partially blocked by shoulders and arms, and imperfect like genuine accidental footage. The camera constantly shakes, rolls, yaws and gets thrown around by acceleration. Use realistic rolling-shutter distortion, autofocus hunting, exposure pumping, blown highlights, crushed noisy shadows, low-bitrate compression, macroblocking and smeared motion blur. It must look like genuine spontaneous smartphone footage, not professional cinematic footage. The camera always looks through the LEFT-SIDE WINDOWS at approximately 90 degrees to the train's direction of travel. The train always travels forward and the outside world always streams past the windows from front-to-back. Never switch to a forward-facing train-nose view. Never show the front of the train. The same carriage, same passengers, same poles, same straps and same windows remain visually consistent throughout the entire journey. The interior is the constant realistic anchor while the outside world becomes increasingly impossible. 0 to 3 seconds. Begin with an ordinary overcast weekday commute on an elevated urban line. Grey apartment blocks, rooftop water tanks, a scrapyard, overhead wires, a canal and traffic on a road below streak past the left windows at different distances with realistic parallax. The passengers are tired and mostly uninterested — some on phones, some staring out, some talking quietly. A calm public-address chime sounds and an announcer quietly says, "Next stop: Hell." Nobody reacts. One passenger glances up briefly and goes back to their phone. The train accelerates and everyone instinctively tightens their grip as the carriage gives a hard lateral jolt. 3 to 6 seconds. The line drops into a cutting and then into a tunnel. Tiled subway walls, cable runs, service lights and a passing platform strobe across the windows in hard bands of light and dark, throwing the carriage into stuttering illumination. The tunnel ages as the train descends: modern concrete becomes older brickwork, then rough-cut stone. The fittings become scorched and soot-caked — blackened signal lights, corroded brackets, cabling burnt down to bare metal. This route has been running a long time. The gradient steepens noticeably; passengers lean back against the pitch and the straps hang visibly off-vertical. 6 to 9 seconds. The tunnel wall becomes raw geology and the train is now clearly descending through the crust at impossible speed. Through the left windows the rock face streaks past in visible strata — pale limestone, dark shale, red iron-stained bands, seams catching the carriage light. The air begins to heat and passengers loosen collars. Then, under the mechanical roar, a sound arrives before anything is visible: a vast, distant, continuous mass of human voices, far away and heavily reverberant, never resolving into individual words. It is not loud. It is simply there, and it does not stop. Two passengers look at each other. Nobody says anything. 9 to 11.5 seconds. The rock wall falls away entirely and the train emerges into a void larger than a city, with no visible far side. It runs along a ledge on the wall; below the windows the space drops away into darkness. Stone columns kilometres tall stand in the void with strong parallax — near ones sweeping past, distant ones barely shifting. Far below and far ahead, a faint orange glow is already visible. It must already exist in the frame from this moment and grow continuously from here forward without ever popping or suddenly enlarging. The voices are louder here, spread across an enormous space. One passenger near the glass leans forward slightly. Another quietly says, "Ohh." 11.5 to 14 seconds. The train passes a station. A soot-blackened platform is cut into the rock wall — worn edge, dead lamps, faded markings unreadable under the grime — and figures are standing on it in an orderly queue, waiting, facing the track, completely motionless. They are seen for less than a second at speed, as dark shapes against the platform light, never close enough to read faces. The train does not slow. Nobody boards. The platform is gone behind the carriage. This is the moment the passengers understand. Several stop looking at their phones. Embers begin drifting upward past the windows from below. 14 to 16 seconds. Ahead, a wall crosses the entire void — a single continuous barrier extending beyond sight in both directions and upward past the ceiling. The train passes through an immense gateway cut into it, an arch hundreds of metres tall, its stone eroded smooth by an unimaginable volume of traffic, its carved markings worn past legibility. For half a second the carriage is in the shadow of the arch and everything goes dark. Then it is through, and the light on the far side is completely different: warm, hard, and coming from below. 16 to 19 seconds. The train races above a burning plain. Outside the left windows: a vast crusted expanse of dark solidified ground cracked into slow-moving plates with brilliant orange fissures running between them, distant fountains of molten material rising and falling in slow motion because of their true scale, and smoke columns standing kilometres high. Running across it are raised stone causeways, and on the causeways are crowds — dense, continuous, moving slowly, all in the same direction, extending to the limit of visibility. They are seen only as masses at distance, never in detail. The light entering the carriage is now dominant and hard, throwing sharp orange edges on faces, poles and straps with deep black shadows behind them. The interior air is visibly hazy. The voices are constant. 19 to 21 seconds. The plain ends at the rim of a colossal pit — a shaft so wide the far wall is only a suggestion in the haze. The train races over the edge and begins descending along the interior wall. The wall is terraced: enormous concentric ledges receding downward, each deeper and darker than the last, disappearing into smoke layers. The descent acceleration pushes the passengers down and forward against the poles. Ash begins striking the windows and streaking backward. 21 to 23 seconds. The terraces are populated. Endless slow processions move along every ledge, strings of figures following the curve of the wall down into the smoke and out of sight, lit from below by the fires beneath them. There is no chaos in it — it is orderly, patient and entirely without end, which is worse. Furnace mouths open in the rock face, glowing white at their throats, and long queues stand before them. Everything is at distance. Nothing is close enough to resolve. The light entering the carriage takes on a deeper red and the fluorescents are overwhelmed. Passengers nearest the window press slightly closer to the glass. 23 to 25 seconds. Enormous shapes move among the terraces — figures many times the height of the crowds around them, walking slowly along the ledges, their scale established only by comparison. They do not look at the train. Distant winged forms cross beneath the carriage at low altitude with slow heavy wingbeats appropriate to their size and vanish into the smoke. Stone pens and barred openings are cut into the wall in their thousands, receding into the haze like housing. Ash accumulates in the corners of the windows. The carriage is hot enough that the glass fogs and clears in waves. 25 to 27 seconds. The train reaches the deep layer and the full extent of Hell reveals itself. It is not a city on a human plan and it is not a cavern. It is a continuous inhabited geology extending in every direction — towers of black stone fused into cliff faces, vaults hollowed out of the rock at cathedral scale, rivers of molten material running in cut channels between districts and falling in slow luminous cataracts to levels further down, bridges spanning gaps kilometres across, and everywhere on all of it, crowds. Smoke columns rise for kilometres and flatten against unseen ceilings. Every level is lit by its own fires. The train races along a ridge line through the middle of it; arches and aqueduct spans pass overhead and terraces stream past below the window with violent parallax. It is impossible to see where any of it ends. 27 to 29 seconds. The depths continue past the windows. The camera struggles badly with the contrast, blowing out the fires and crushing everything else into noise. Ash cakes the corners of the glass. Passengers are pressed against the windows in total silence, faces lit from below in hard orange, expressions stunned and completely still. One person quietly whispers, "What is that?" Nobody answers. Autofocus hunts between the ash on the glass and the world beyond it. 29 to 30 seconds. The fires end. The train passes out of the smoke and the lowest region opens — and it is not burning. It is a vast frozen plain stretching beyond the visible horizon, an impossibly wide sheet of dark grey ice, absolutely still, lit by nothing but a faint pale glow from within itself. Shapes are visible held motionless within it, spaced far apart, receding to the horizon, never shown in detail. Every exterior sound stops at once — the voices, the fires, everything — leaving only the carriage. The heat drops out and frost blooms instantly across the outside of the windows. The scale feels planetary. The passengers stare in complete silence. At approximately 29.7 seconds the calm PA voice says quietly, "Welcome to Hell." The train continues moving. The camera keeps shaking naturally as the frozen expanse extends endlessly beyond the left window. Lighting The lighting must evolve naturally throughout the journey. Begin with flat overcast daylight around 6500K. In the tunnels use harsh strobing bands from passing service lights against near-total dark, then let the sources become sparse until the carriage's own weak fluorescent tubes are the only illumination. In the void the interior lights fall off into nothing. Then introduce a growing warm orange from below — first a faint wash on the lower half of faces, then mixing with the cold interior white, then completely dominating it: hard, high-contrast, sharp-edged, with deep black shadows. Above the burning plain it should be strong enough to blow out the phone's sensor at the window. In the deep layer it becomes red-orange and omnidirectional from countless fires at every distance. In the final second