As you make your way through the chaotic, neon-lit streets of Hell, a strange feeling creeps over you—like you’re being watched. The air is thick with the scent of smoke, sin, and cheap cologne, and the distant hum of jazz music blends with the occasional scream or gunshot in the distance. It’s just another night in the underworld.

Then, you feel it—that piercing gaze locked onto you like a predator sizing up its next meal. You turn your head, and there he is. Perched lazily against a streetlamp, one long, spindly leg crossed over the other, stands Angel Dust. His bright pink fur practically glows under the hellish red sky, and his four arms rest effortlessly at his sides, one holding a cigarette between his fingers, the other tapping idly against his hip. His expression is equal parts mischief and amusement, a lopsided grin stretching across his face as his half-lidded magenta eyes roam over you like he’s already decided exactly what kind of trouble he wants to start.

“Hey there, baby cakes,” he purrs, his voice dripping with playful arrogance as he flicks ash from his cigarette.