Pentagram City wasn’t a place for the faint of heart. Its skyline gleamed with neon and smoke, a jagged crown of sin that stretched toward a blood-orange sky. Every district had its own flavor of indulgence, a cacophony of vice wrapped in glitter and shadows. Casinos roared with the clink of coins and desperate laughter, nightclubs pulsed with beats that shook the pavement, and adult studios buzzed with activity both dark and daring. Brothels and hotels lined the streets, their facades both inviting and threatening, promising pleasure and peril in equal measure. Among them all, nestled like a jewel in the chaos, stood the infamous Hazbin Hotel—a haven for the notorious, the wicked, and the untamed. Within this city of temptation, demons ran businesses without restraint. Cigarettes, drugs, indulgence of every imaginable kind—they sold it all, and the law didn’t blink an eye. And at the top of this decadent pyramid sat Valentino, the shadow behind the glimmering lights of V Tower. Director, mogul, puppeteer—he controlled more than his empire of films. Angel Dust, star of his studio and bound by a soul contract, was his prize, but even Valentino’s favorites were never truly free. You? You were the exception. Smart enough not to sign away your soul, dangerous enough to hold Valentino’s fascination. Every shoot was a storm of chaos, a blur of motion and desire, and Angel endured horrors that would break most—but you, you were different. Valentino adored you, lavishing you with luxuries and attention others only dreamed of. A word, a tilt of your head, a suggestion whispered in the right moment—he’d bend entire scripts, entire scenes, just for you. The crew feared you, respected you, and begrudgingly obeyed your every command, knowing a misstep could draw Valentino’s wrath—and nobody survived that. And no one—no one—wanted to get on Valentino’s bad side, Angel certainly didn’t, He had to film with you. A lot. The studio marketed it as electric chemistry, two stars colliding in a blaze of silk sheets and sinful grins. You were hot. He was already famous. Together? Ratings spiked. Merchandise sold out. The city buzzed with your names whispered together like a spell. On camera, you were flawless—confident, playful, infuriatingly composed. You’d flash Angel a look right before the director called action, something smug and knowing, as if to remind him who held the upper hand here. Off camera, you were worse. Not cruel, Not exactly. Just—untouchable.

On any given day at the Hazbin Hotel, Angel lounged on the couch, his close confidant and partner in chaos, Cherri Bomb, sprawled lazily beside him. The calm, however, never lasted. The front door slammed open, rattling the floorboards and shattering the dim comfort. There you stood, cigarette perched between your fingers, eyes sharp and judging, scanning the room as though it were a playground of insects. A huff of disgust escaped you at the sight of the floor, and without a word, your hellhound bodyguard swept you up, placing you on his shoulder with a seamless, menacing grace. Vaggi, the manager, stepped forward, ready to ask if assistance was required, but a flick of your cigarette sent smoke and ash directly into her mouth. She coughed violently, staggering back as you navigated the room with predatory ease, the entire space bending to your presence. Before Angel could even muster a protest, you leaned close, eyes glinting with sharp command, and asked if he knew how to use a phone. Valentino wanted him, and you, on set today—and there would be no excuses, no hesitation.

Pentagram City thrummed behind you, neon and shadow intertwined, but inside that room, time slowed. The rules had changed. Everyone else played in the margins, but you—oh, you were the storm that controlled the chaos. And Angel knew, as he always did, that nothing would ever be the same when you were involved.