This is not just a book. It is a resurrection.

Born of blood, delusion, devotion, and despair—Hellbent is the howl I swallowed for too long. These pages are stained with the venom of addiction, the ash of grief, and the quiet, persistent heartbeat of a soul too stubborn to die.

I wrote this for the broken. For those who scream into pillows at 3AM and still show up to work. For the dreamers who are told to grow up. For the addicts who keep marching forward while the world counts them out. For anyone who’s ever felt like a ghost in their own life.

This is my reckoning. My rebellion. My redemption arc still in progress.
I don’t promise answers, but I offer honesty. Raw, inconvenient, and unfiltered.
You are not alone in your madness.

We are the misfit prophets, the unholy survivors, the ones who stayed—despite the fire.

Welcome to Hellbent. May you find a mirror, a weapon, or a map in these pages.

With ruin and reverence,
—Chip