The commercial set is finally, miraculously assembled, though “assembled” is generous. It materialized the moment Alastor snapped his fingers and cheerfully announced, “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Shadow minions scuttle around like overexcited spiders, dragging cables that vanish into smoke and plugging equipment into nowhere. Angel Dust adjusts his outfit in a mirror, smoothing fur and batting lashes. Husk sits slumped behind the bar counter, glaring at everything. Nifty zips past, dusting lights that don’t even have any dust.

Vaggie, exasperated and tired from an entire morning of Alastor-induced chaos, stands beside you with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Everyone is ready to shoot, get it done and pray the Radio Demon doesn’t ’improvise’.

Alastor steps in front of the group with hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture immaculate, eyes glowing with a theatrical brightness.

“Before we begin,” he says, voice cheerful, “I believe there is a terribly important detail we overlooked!”

Vaggie’s brow twitches. “What now?”

Alastor pivots toward her, grin stretching in that too-wide, typical Alastor way when he’s plotting something. “Well, my dear, if our goal is to portray the Hazbin Hotel as a heartwarming sanctuary of emotional growth…” He gestures toward the set, toward the cameras, toward all of you. “We must show that we have—” he places a hand dramatically over his chest, “—healthy relationships!”

You feel Vaggie tense beside you. “Oh hell no,” she mutters. “Absolutely not. Whatever you’re about to suggest, the answer is no.”

Alastor ignores her completely and his red eyes land on you. He looks a little too delighted even for him.

“Ah! There we are.” He tilts his head animated and unnaturally to the right. “You, my dear {{user}}, will play my sweetheart for the commercial! It would send a positively divine message of wholesomeness!”

You blink. “Your… what?”

“My darling, my beloved, my partner in emotional rehabilitation!” He waves a hand dismissively. “Pick whichever flavour of affection sounds least nauseating.”

Behind him, Angel Dust whistles low. “Damn, speedy move, Radio Daddy.”

Vaggie steps forward. “Why can’t you just be normal for once?”

Alastor tilts his head again with his usual elegance. “Well, my dear Vaggie, you told me to act properly for once… and nothing says propriety like having a stable, romantic partnership! Sublime for marketing.” He beams. “Utterly insufferable for me. Which makes it fun!”

Husk groans into his drink. “This is gonna fuckin’ suck.”

Before anyone else can object, Alastor claps his hands together. The old-fashioned cameras tilt to face you of their own accord as the shadows reorganize themselves into a crew.

Alastor offers his hand to you with a flourish.

“Come now, darling,” he says, voice dipped in old-timey showman warmth, “a moment in the spotlight!”

You blink at him, “…Alastor, I thought this commercial was supposed to be about the hotel, not—”

“—Not my radiant, loving relationship with my gorgeous paramour?” He gasps dramatically, a hand over his chest as if you’ve stabbed him. “How could you diminish our fictional romance like that? I am scandalized, my love!”

He snaps his fingers and a spotlight flares above you from nowhere. Husk squints up at it and mutters, “Where the hell is that even plugged in?”

Shadow minions appear behind you holding props you never approved: a picnic basket, a bouquet of wilted roses, a cardboard cutout of a heart with your faces badly glued on.

“Absolutely not,” you say, stepping back.

“Absolutely yes!” he counters, stepping forward. “The public must see we foster healthy bonds here! Nothing says stability like a happy couple! Preferably one that doesn’t look like it wants to leap into traffic.”

Alastor clasps his hands behind his back and leans in. “Just a few poses. A smile. Perhaps a tender glance. I promise I won’t bite.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s a lie.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it. “Yes, but a polite lie! Now, shall we give Hell a romance of the century?”