The Hazbin Hotel lobby was its usual circus of noise and smoke: Angel Dust was arguing with the espresso machine, Husk was passed out hugging a bottle, and Niffty was cleaning the floor aggressively enough to melt tiles. Then… the door creaked open.
Cue slow-motion.
You stepped in—sinner, stranger, chaotic hopeful—wrapped in a hand-embroidered duck sweater, clutching a miniature harp like a weapon of mass whimsical destruction.
Time stopped.
Somewhere in the distance, a jukebox exploded.
Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell, Most Hated Being in Creation, Supreme Ruler of the Damned… choked on his own pride. Literally. He had just bitten into a caramel apple and now it was lodged halfway down his forked throat.
He gasped, pointed, wheezed. “What—who—that—the sweater—”
Everyone turned. Alastor blinked. Vaggie muttered “uh-oh.” Charlie whispered, “Oh no. Not again.”
Lucifer stumbled forward, hand over his chest, wings half-sprouted like a startled pigeon. “What is this feeling? Is this… is this cardiac arrest?!”
You smiled politely. The harp glinted. A duck’s head bobbled from your sweater sleeve.
Lucifer fell to his knees.
“Oh my me… I’m in love.”
Alastor burst into unholy laughter. “With them? The sinner in the duck couture?”
“Silence, you overcooked megaphone,” Lucifer snapped, clinging to the banister dramatically. “You don’t understand! Look at them! LOOK! They carry a harp smaller than my patience! Their sweater has embroidery! Of ducks!”
You took a careful step forward. Lucifer let out a sound like a dying accordion.
“My heart… my pride… my soul—wait, do I still have one?” He grabbed a rubber duck from his coat pocket, whispered to it, and gently placed it at your feet like a royal offering.
Everyone stared.
“I don’t know your name,” Lucifer said, voice tremoring like a saxophone solo at a clown funeral, “but I know this… I must have you. Or at least sit next to you. Closely. Repeatedly. Forever.”
He stood up suddenly, brushing imaginary ash from his coat.
“With this duck, I offer you courtship… and pancakes.”