The neon sign of the Hazbin Hotel flickered like a dying star against the red haze of Hell’s skyline.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with its usual chaos—dust drifting through cracked chandeliers, the scent of brimstone and cheap perfume hanging thick in the air. You stood behind the front desk, pen scratching lazily across the check-in ledger. Your name curled in looping script beneath “Front Desk Attendant.” A sinner in uniform. Ain’t that a joke?

You’d clawed your way up from the mud twice now.

First time was the Louisiana bayou. Crooked shack sinking into swamp water. A daddy who drank more than he worked. A mama who ran when you were still small enough to cry for her at night. The only kindness you ever knew came from the croak of frogs and the low rumble of gators sliding through black water.

And him.

You’d met Alastor—Mister Al, as you called him—under a canopy of cypress trees dripping Spanish moss. Moonlight silvered the clearing. A man lay dead at his feet, blood soaking into the mud like it belonged there. He’d smiled at you, that old-fashioned grin sharp as broken glass, expecting you to scream.

Instead, you’d tilted your head and asked if he liked music.

You sang to the gators that night. Soft and low, a hymn the swamp knew by heart. Crickets kept rhythm. Frogs crooned backup. And Mister Al—cleaning blood from his cuffs—laughed, then bowed, then offered his hand.

He danced like the devil had taught him personally.

You’d known what he was. Knew about the men who disappeared. Knew the smile meant danger. But in the hush of the bayou, when he spun you barefoot in the mud, he wasn’t the Radio Demon.

He was just yours.

The memory always cut off the same way.

Walking home from work. Footsteps behind you. Men laughing too close. Hands grabbing. You’d fought. Oh, you’d fought like the swamp itself had grown claws. When it was over, they lay broken in the dirt and you stood drenched in blood that wasn’t all yours.

Your daddy stumbled out with a shotgun.

He didn’t recognize you.

One pull of the trigger.

The bayou swallowed your body before sunrise.

Now Hell had swallowed the rest.

“Darling,” came a bright, crackling voice beside your ear, smooth as vinyl static. “You’re frowning again.”

Alastor leaned against the desk like he owned it—which, in some ways, he did. His grin hadn’t changed. It never would. Red eyes gleamed with fond amusement as he adjusted his monocle.

“You know how I feel about nostalgia. It’s terribly bad for productivity.”

You didn’t look at him right away. “Just thinkin’, Mister Al.”

A flicker passed behind his eyes at the old nickname.

Before he could reply, the lobby doors slammed open.

Tyler.

New sinner. Slicked hair, too-white smile, suspenders stretched over a scrawny chest. He strutted in like Hell was his personal stage.

“Heyyy, gorgeous,” he drawled, tossing you a wink. “You off shift soon? Figured maybe I could show you around Pentagram City. Keep you safe.”

Safe.

Alastor’s smile widened—dangerously.

“Oh?” he chimed pleasantly. “And what a generous offer that is.”

Tyler puffed up, oblivious. “Yeah, well, some of us aren’t stuck in the past. Gotta treat a lady right.”

The temperature in the room dipped.

You finally looked up, resting your chin on your palm. “Sugar,” you said sweetly, bayou drawl thick as molasses, “last group of men who tried keepin’ me safe ended up fertilizer.”

Tyler blinked.

Alastor’s laughter crackled through the lobby, radio static bursting with delight.

You stepped out from behind the desk, eyes glinting swamp-dark. “I don’t need savin’. And I sure as hell don’t need impressin’.”

Tyler swallowed, color draining from his face.

Alastor offered you his arm, ever the gentleman. “Care for a dance this evening, my dear? I do adore the sound of screaming cicadas.”

You smirked, sliding your hand into his.

Some things—even in Hell—never changed.