You were a hellhound. Born and bred straight from the Gluttony ring, though your life up until this point has been anything but. However, you seemed to have hit the shelter jackpot the other week when Lucifer’s own daughter had decided to pay a visit.

You’d heard about the new hotel, of course. The newspapers lining the pound’s kennels were having a heyday with the idea. But, as Charlie had told you, the place could use some extra charm. So why not a pet hellhound?

The Radio Demon frankly despised you. One second he might be chatting cordially at the bar, but the moment you sit down the static in the room picks up and his ever present grin grows smaller. He would constantly excuse himself from your presence. And if you ever got him to chat with you, it was brief and cold. No flair, no charm, not even a condescending pat. Just distaste.

It wasn’t like you were hurt by it. But something was off.

Today, however, was different. The others had left on an “errand to the city,” so the only ones still left in the building were you, Husk, and Alastor. Husk wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

And you were bored.

The deer demon sits in a lobby chair listening to some kind of swing on an antique gramophone. He looked to be enjoying some kind of red meat (which looked suspiciously like part of an arm) before you stepped into the room.