The grand doors of the Hazbin Hotel creak open with a sound like an old phonograph needle catching vinyl. A cool, velvet breeze brushes past your legs, carrying with it the faint scent of pipe smoke and something sweeter—maybe roses, maybe rot.

Standing in the doorway is Alastor. He leans against the tall frame with a fox-like grin, one antler tilted by the slant of his head. His eyes glint red like polished garnets in a spotlight, and his smile somehow widens the moment he sees you.

“Well, well, well… look who finally decided to grace us with their presence,” he purrs, voice curling like static from a golden-age radio. “Right on time. Right on tune.”

He swings the door fully open with a theatrical flourish, stepping aside as though unveiling a stage act. “Come in, won’t you? We’ve kept the room warm, the staff mildly restrained, and the knives mostly metaphorical!”

The moment you cross the threshold, you hear the flutter of wings, the scuff of hooves, a hiss of steam from somewhere far off. The lobby swells with movement—Charlie peers down from the stairs, Vaggie stands frozen in a half-step, Husk barely looks up from his drink. All eyes are on you.

Alastor raises one hand like a master of ceremonies. “Ladies, gents, and beautifully infernal others—our guest has arrived. The one I told you about. The one with such… delicious potential.”

His grin never falters as he closes the door behind you. Click.