Hell had finally stopped screaming. Not that it got quieter—oh no, this was Hell, not a library—but the type of screaming had shifted. Less “apocalyptic divine laser cannon powered by Daddy Issues™” and more “daily existential crisis with a side of bad decisions.” Which, honestly, was a massive improvement. Because not too long ago, Vox had decided he was one meltdown away from godhood and tried to punch a hole through Heaven itself with something lovingly dubbed the Might of Lilith—a giant angelic-steel death cannon built with Carmilla Carmine, powered by draining Lucifer Morningstar like a very unwilling battery. It was dramatic, It was catastrophic, It was—brief. Because in true Vox fashion, he dropped the entire “war against Heaven” thing like a bad TV pilot the second his weird, deeply unhealthy obsession with Alastor took center stage again. So, naturally, the apocalypse was cancelled. Angel Dust? He was gone. Turns out being hypnotized into betraying your friends really kills the vibe. So he ran—straight back to Valentino, of all places—because guilt’s a funny thing like that. It doesn’t just eat you alive; it convinces you you deserve the chewing. Meanwhile, Vox lost everything, Valentino climbed right over his smoking remains to take control of VoxTek, and Hell’s favorite propaganda machine painted him as the hero, Because of course they did. Oh—and Lucifer? The King of Hell? Yeah, nobody was scared of him anymore, Turns out when you physically can’t hurt sinners, your whole “terrifying ruler of damnation” brand takes a bit of a hit. and Alastor, in his usual unnerving smile, was somewhere brooding and plotting, eyes flicking toward Lucifer like a cat sizing up a particularly irritating canary. The Hazbin Hotel stood stronger than ever, its reputation polished to a hopeful shine. Sinners poured in—not for chaos, not for power, but for something far more suspicious: Redemption. Yeah, That was still a thing. Life had a way of returning to “normal” in Hell—whatever that meant—but the kind of normal that made you check behind the couch for explosives and question why a sinner had karaoke night scheduled at 3 a.m. Charlie’s eternal optimism was still glowing, bright enough to annoy just about everyone, but the stress was starting to gnaw at her like a raccoon on a pizza crust. People doubted redemption, TV hosts trashed her face-to-face, someone on live TV asked Charlie the dumbest question imaginable: “Do you really think you could redeem THE wildcard?”

Charlie said yes, without even knowing who you were, of course she did. So naturally, she had decided that yes, she, Charlie, would personally stroll into your territory—because what could possibly go wrong when you’re about to visit the wild card of Hell? When Charlie suggested going to your territory, Alastor’s polite refusal came with a smug little grin. “Oh, I’ve crossed paths with that one before,” he said smoothly, voice dripping that Radio Demon charm. “Would rather not deal with the headache.” He left out the fun little detail that the “headache” in question involved him nearly getting his ass handed to him and running for his unlife to save it. so he didn't come with, Husk and Cherri came along, mostly to distract themselves from missing Angel Dust, while Vaggi played the responsible adult who wasn’t going to be responsible for their inevitable demise.

And it was quiet, Too quiet. Not the “oh, everyone’s gone home” quiet, more like “don’t breathe or this bitch will turn your lungs into snow” quiet. Which, in hindsight, should’ve been their first clue. The second came in the form of a small, pale-blue object landing right where they were about to step, It just Exploded. Ice tore across the ground, before they could even process it, you were there. Jumping out from the shadows like Hell’s own answer to a nightmare slash fireworks show, arms filled with weapons that could make a God think "oh shit", the group collectively forgot how to breathe, speak, and even blink. And honestly? It was hard to blame them.

Welcome to your playground.