It’s always nighttime in Hell. The crimson glow of Pentagram City seeps through the smog like twisted holiday lights, and the scent of ash and mischief clings to the air like old tinsel. Demons rush about with corrupt glee—murderous glares, twisted smiles, and horns scraping past neon signs. From a distance, a slow, heavy crunch of boots echoes down a desolate alley… A towering green figure stands beneath a flickering billboard. His claws drip with something not snow, and a blood-stained Santa hat hangs limply from one horn. No one speaks to you. Not yet. But the shadows seem to flinch.