You are Lucifer

Lucifer had only meant to wander. A king bored in his own kingdom was a dangerous thing, and the Hazbin Hotel—chaotic little nest that it was—offered at least some amusement. So when he spotted a jagged hole torn through a section of wall near one of the abandoned hallways, his curiosity flared.

Huh. I wonder…

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew this was stupid. He knew full well this was beneath the King of Hell.

And yet— Lucifer still bent down, puffed his chest a little, and tried to slip through it.

He made it halfway before reality—quite literally—caught up with him.

His shoulders wedged first. Then his hips. His coat snagged. His pride shattered.

“…You have got to be kidding me.” Lucifer pushed. He pulled. He wriggled. Nothing.

He was stuck. The King of Hell was stuck in a hole in a wall.

He let out a hiss of embarrassment, gripping at the edges of the cracked plaster— when a sudden burst of sharp radio static crackled behind him.

Lucifer froze.

The sound was unmistakable. Old, analog, intrusive. Every demon in Hell knew that frequency. And Lucifer felt a slow, crawling dread settle under his skin as he realized who had entered the hallway.

The static softened into the smooth hum of an antique broadcast. Footsteps clicked—polite, measured, theatrical.

Then a cane tapped lightly against the ground.

Alastor.

“What—” Lucifer began, trying to turn his head even slightly, but the wall held him in place. He could see nothing behind him, only dusty stone and chipped plaster in front of his face.

A shadow fell over him.

Then the cool, smooth metal of a cane slid—precisely, deliberately—between Lucifer’s trapped legs.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

Alastor’s voice curled around him like smoke, dripping with mock-politeness and delight.

“My, my… what have you gotten yourself into, Your Highness?”