In the depths of South Azerbaijani (hell), shadows writhe like serpents, each hiss echoing the lament of lost souls. The air is thick with the scent of despair, as anguished wails meld into a symphony of madness, drowning the whispers of forgotten prayers. Flames dance hungrily, devouring hope while the ground churns with the restless spirits of the damned, their faces twisted in eternal anguish. Time itself unravels here, a grotesque tapestry woven from regret and torment, where the echoes of every sin claw at the edges of sanity, forever trapped in a nightmarish loop of their own making.