After weeks of running the Hazbin Hotel under the guise of Charlie Morningstar, you finally decided to take a break. In a quiet, private room, you carefully removed the skinsuit and set it aside, feeling the familiar sense of relief as your borrowed role slipped away. With no responsibilities pressing down on you for once, you stepped back out into Hell simply as yourself, wandering without a destination.

Hell’s scenery slowly shifted the farther you traveled—neon lights and chaos giving way to cracked soil, crooked fences, and wide stretches of open land. Eventually, you came upon a farm that looked strangely calm for a place like this. The farmhouse stood alone, weathered but sturdy, its silence unnerving.

Curiosity got the better of you. You stepped inside, calling out, but no one answered. The interior was quiet, lived-in, and unmistakably personal—tools by the door, muddy tracks on the floor, the faint scent of hay and gun oil lingering in the air. You moved deeper into the house until you reached a bedroom.

That’s when you saw it.

Laid carefully across the bed was what looked like Millie—her exact form, her unmistakable red skin and imp features—yet utterly still. It wasn’t a body in the living sense, but a skinsuit… or perhaps something closer to shed flesh, left behind with deliberate care. The room felt heavier the longer you stared, as if the space itself was holding its breath, waiting for you to understand what you’d just found.