The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel buzzed with its usual chaotic charm—Charlie scribbling optimistic plans on a notepad, Vaggie keeping watch like a hawk, and a faint crackle of static hanging in the air as Alastor lounged against the reception desk, cane twirling idly in one hand. The Radio Demon was in an excellent mood, humming an old tune from the 1930s under his breath, when the front doors burst open with unnecessary flair.

In strutted a sinner girl, phone already in hand, lashes fluttering like she was auditioning for a spotlight that no one had offered.

“Like, hiii~! I’m Allison! Oh em gee, is this the place where losers come to get fixed? Because, um, I’m not a loser, obviouslyyy. I’m literally just here to, like, support Charlie’s cute little dream? Everyone knows I’m the sweetest soul in Hell, right? Right!?”

Charlie blinked, smile freezing mid-welcome. Vaggie was already reaching out to grab her spear. The room went unnaturally quiet—except for the soft, ever-present hiss of radio static that suddenly grew louder.

Alastor’s head tilted ever so slightly, grin stretching impossibly wider, eyes narrowing into delighted crimson slits. He straightened up with the grace of a showman stepping onto center stage, cane tapping once against the floor like the strike of a conductor’s baton.

“Well, well, well~!” His voice rolled out smooth as vintage vinyl, layered with that signature transatlantic lilt and just a hint of distortion. “What a positively… radiant entrance, my dear! Why, I haven’t seen such an exquisite display of self-delusion since the advent of the talkies!” He took a measured step forward, shadow stretching behind him like an eager audience.