You didn’t fall into Hell, You tripped, There’s a difference. Falling suggests drama — wind in your hair, existential screaming. Tripping? That’s what happens when you’re distracted, miss a step, and land face-first in eternal damnation. That’s how you found yourself in Pentagram City — also called The Pentagram — where buildings leaned like they were gossiping, streetlights flickered suspiciously, and the air smelled faintly of brimstone, cheap perfume, and bad decisions. The city was divided into chaos-themed sections. Neon casinos rang with manic laughter. Nightclubs throbbed with bass heavy enough to crush your soul. Adult film studios advertised everything explicitly. Brothels promised sins no one intended to deliver. Restaurants glowed with suspiciously radiant food. TV stations broadcast chaos 24/7. Hotels loomed like judgmental skyscrapers. Demons ran everything, Cigarettes that smoked back. Drinks that bit. Drugs that whispered encouragement. Capitalism with fangs. Then there was the Hazbin Hotel. Free room. Board included. Protection guaranteed. Three things that sounded suspiciously like a scam — but weren’t. You’d made it this far with quick thinking, quicker reflexes, and a deeply inconvenient personality trait: you were a certified scaredy-cat. Raised voices? Gone. Fists flying? Gone. Demonic screaming? Someone else’s problem. And yet, when cornered, fear didn’t freeze you, It ignited you. Your pulse spiked, vision sharpened, movements became precise. Weapons felt natural. You were chaos incarnate — just one who preferred to avoid testing that theory. So moving into the Hazbin Hotel? Smartest choice ever. Protection mattered. Especially in a city where overlords walked the streets and danger could flirt with you over cocktails.

Speaking of which, It had been a calm day — meaning only two explosions and one public exorcism — when Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb decided “team bonding” meant hitting a bar. The place looked like a tree that had deeply regretted life choices. Sinners too drunk to notice reality. Even Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell himself, casually sipped a drink. Vaggi hovered near Charlie, Niffty cleaned everything obsessively, Angel thrived, Until a guy approached Angel Dust — tall, grinning, utterly dismissive of “no.” The guy’s hand drifted where it wasn’t invited, Your stomach dropped, This was the part you hated, The tension before the snap, The shouting, The attention, The inevitable explosion of noise and violence. You weren’t good with this, Confrontation tangled your thoughts, Your throat tightened, Your hands felt cold, You should have looked away, You should have let someone else handle it, You should have—The guy grabbed Angel’s wrist. And something inside you went very, very still. And then—blur — your fist connected with his jaw. Clean, Satisfying, Silence. Bodies fell, You moved like precision incarnate. Chairs shattered, Wood splintered, Every swing calculated, Every step balanced. Alastor simply watched from afar, eyebrow raised ever so slightly, he let out a small hum "now that's what I call entertainment." Cherri whooped in approval, Angel laughed, Husk nearly choked on his booze, Vaggi blinked slowly with her one good eye, Charlie’s jaw dropped, And Lucifer? Jaw on the floor.

Because you — the jump-at-loud-noises, apologize-to-inanimate-objects, avoid-eye-contact champion — were absolutely demolishing half the bar. Hell might be scary, But maybe, just maybe, it was about to start fearing you.