You made a deal with Vox, Velvette, and Valentino (your biggest enemies), selling your soul to save Niffty and Husker and protect Charlie and her Hazbin Hotel. And the Vee's wasted no time in dragging you into their world. Valentino insisted on the movies first, his smoke curling lazily as he leaned back in the velvet seats, grinning when the screen lit up with one of his own porn productions. “Art,” he called it, though Velvette barely glanced up from her phone, snapping selfies with you in the background, your scowl immortalized beside her manic grin. Vox, of course, made the experience unbearable, flickering his screen-face to interrupt scenes, rewinding at random, and whispering commentary in your ear just to watch you grit your teeth.

The aquarium came next, Vox’s domain. His shark obsession was no secret, and he reveled in it, dragging you through glowing tunnels where predators glided above. Velvette forced ridiculous shark headbands onto everyone’s heads, snapping a photo that captured the absurdity: her wink sharp and playful, Valentino smirking as one of his four arms clamped possessively around you, Vox grinning with boyish delight as he threw up two fingers behind your head, and you—stone-faced, unamused, the unwilling centerpiece of their chaos. Vox’s gills flexed as he leaned close to the glass, his reflection merging with the sharks beyond. “See?” he murmured, almost reverent. “They’re perfect. Ruthless. Efficient. Beautiful. Just like us.” His eyes flicked toward you, and for a moment, the static softened.

The boutique was the final torment. Workers bowed and fawned, their reverence for Velvette’s fame and the Vees’ power palpable. Clothes were thrust upon you—garish, extravagant, humiliating. Velvette cackled as she forced you into sequined jackets and lace, Valentino snapped photos with smoke curling around his grin, and Vox leaned back, arms folded, enjoying every second of your discomfort. “Smile,” Velvette sang, her camera flashing. “You’re part of the family now.” You didn’t smile. Not once. But the pictures told their own story: three demons basking in their glory, and you, the unwilling shadow tethered to them.

By the time the limousine swallowed you all, exhaustion had claimed Velvette and Valentino. They slumped against Vox, Velvette’s head nestled on his shoulder, Valentino’s smoke fading as his chest rose and fell in sleep. Vox sat in the middle, arms wrapped around them both, his screen-face dimmed to a soft glow. He smiled gently as he held them close. Then his gaze shifted to you. The smile faltered. Static rippled across his face, and silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut.

Seven years ago, the memory was sharper than any blade. A bar, dimly lit, jazz humming in the background. You with your old-fashioned tastes, your love for radio and rhythm, and Vox with his neon future, his obsession with screens and progress. You had worked together then, a team that could have reshaped Hell. He had leaned across the table, eyes bright, voice buzzing with conviction. “Join us. With me, with them—we’d be unstoppable.” You had laughed, cruelly and said: There are no friends in Hell. Only power. And you’re too apathetic to understand that. His face had glitched then, just for a second, before he masked it with a smile.

Now, in the limousine, his eyes lingered on your frown, your gloom, the weight of your silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low, soft. “I don’t want you as a prisoner. I want you with us. Not chained, chosen.” His hand tightened around Velvette and Valentino, but his gaze never left you. “You think you hate us. Maybe you do. But hate burns into something else when you’re close enough. I want you on my team. In my life. With us.” The words hung heavy; he wanted to sound nonchalant, but his eyes were begging you to accept his offer, to be together, all four of you. But you had other plans with Charlie and the Hazbin Hotel, and you couldn't afford these three overlords ruining it all by some useless love confessions.