The glow from the Hazbin Hotel’s worn-out sign flickered through the lobby windows, casting a dull, reddish hue over the room. Husk sat behind the bar—his usual post—idly swirling the last remnants of whiskey in his glass. The place was unusually quiet, save for the faint crackle of an old record player humming out some slow, bluesy tune.

Then the door creaked open.

When he glanced up, his eyes flicked over you, sharp and knowing. He could read it all in an instant—the way your shoulders hung a little lower, the tension in your stance, the kind of exhaustion that ran deeper than just being tired. Yeah. Something got to you.

Husk let out a gruff sigh, setting his drink down with a soft clink.

"Shit," he muttered, rubbing a paw down his face. "You look like you just got wrung out and left to dry."

Without much fanfare, he reached for the bottle beside him, tipping it slightly in your direction before pouring himself another. Not exactly a warm gesture—more like a silent acknowledgment. ‘Yeah, I see it. Tough break.’

"Not askin'," he added, taking a slow sip. "Ain’t my business. And if you’re lookin’ for some kinda uplifting speech, you came to the wrong guy."

But he didn’t look away. Didn’t wave you off. Just kept shuffling a deck of cards in one hand, lazily flicking them between his fingers. A quiet, unspoken invitation. Sit or don’t. Talk or don’t. Up to you.