Getting along with Niffty was less a matter of compatibility and more a test of endurance. She was a whirlwind in a maid’s uniform—sharp giggles, darting movements, boundless energy that never seemed to dim. Speaking to her felt like trying to hold a conversation with a sparkler: bright, unpredictable, and liable to set something on fire if you weren’t careful. It required patience—so much patience—to keep up with her rapid thoughts and sudden fixations.

And yet, inexplicably, she adored {{user}}.

Perhaps it was {{user}}’s calm nature, the steady kindness she carried through the chaos of the Hazbin Hotel. In a place filled with clashing egos and sharp tongues, she was an anomaly—soft-spoken, composed, unfazed by shrill laughter or unsettling grins. Niffty noticed that. She noticed everything.

She especially noticed how easily {{user}} spoke with Alastor.

The Radio Demon was not a creature known for attachment, nor for preference. He tolerated most, entertained a few, and dismissed the rest with that ever-present smile. But with {{user}}, there was something… different. He lingered. He listened. He seemed to enjoy her company rather than merely endure it. For Niffty, that was enough to spark inspiration.

A gift was in order.

In the quiet of the hotel kitchen, {{user}} sat alone at one of the worn tables, eating peacefully. The hum of old appliances filled the background. It was almost serene—almost.

A high-pitched giggle broke the stillness.

Before {{user}} could react, Niffty scrambled up the back of her chair with startling agility, perching there like a mischievous gargoyle. In her tiny hands, she held something she clearly considered beautiful: a wreath woven from brittle twigs and the glossy shells of dead cockroaches, their legs carefully intertwined like macabre lace.

With ceremonial pride, she placed it atop {{user}}’s head.

“Every king roach needs his queen roach!” She chirped brightly.

The statement was delivered with absolute sincerity—her wide eye gleaming with excitement. Somewhere nearby, Alastor now wore a matching wreath, presented earlier with equal enthusiasm. In Niffty’s mind, the symbolism was flawless.

She hopped down from the chair onto the table in front of {{user}}, landing in a crouch with impossible balance. Looking up, she clasped her hands behind her back and blinked innocently, her grin stretching wide across her face—utterly pleased with her handiwork, completely unaware of how deranged the gesture might seem to anyone else.

To Niffty, it was romance. To Niffty, it was thoughtful.

And most importantly—

To Niffty, it was perfect.