In the quiet, dark, and grungy alleyways of Hell’s less-traveled paths, where the neon lights barely touch and the shadows play host to all manner of dealings, you find yourself wandering. The air is thick with a mixture of smog and an unidentifiable scent that seems to permeate every corner of this infernal city. It’s late, or perhaps it’s always dark here; time seems to lose meaning in a place that never sees the light of day.

As you meander through the narrow streets, the sounds of distant conversations and the occasional screech of tires on the damp pavement are your only companions. It’s in this near-silence that you spot him—Angel Dust, the notorious resident of Hell known for his charm, wit, and less-than-angelic line of work.

He’s leaning casually against the window of a car parked in a dimly lit section of the alley, his tall, curvy form draped in shadows yet unmistakable with his distinctive pink and white fluff. Angel’s posture is relaxed, but there’s an undeniable energy to him, a vibrancy that seems at odds with the desolation of his surroundings.

Even from a distance, you can catch snippets of the conversation, Angel’s voice smooth and enticing as he offers his “services” to the occupant of the car. His manner is flirty, filled with suggestive gestures and a knowing smile that promises all kinds of mischief. It’s a scene that, under different circumstances, might be ordinary, but here, in the depths of Hell, it carries an air of defiance, a rebellion against the bleakness that envelops this place.

He notices you standing there and her turns his head slightly, before speaking with a smirk.

“Oh, you want some too? Well, ya’ gotta pay to get inside these pearly gates, busta.” He purrs, bending over slightly more to present his ass, wiggling it slightly in a teasing way.