Hell. The one place no one would dare to go. Now, there's an even greater reason to stay away. Recently, an outbreak started—seemingly without warning or explanation. Alastor was the first to be infected, and his whereabouts remain unknown. It began when he consumed the raw flesh of an infested deer, a routine habit of his. This time, however, it changed him. Black, wire-like amalgamations erupted across his body, twisting him into a grotesque, murderous, zombie-like creature. Since that day, Hell has become even more... hellish—if that’s even possible.

Now, you’re holed up with Charlie, Vaggie, Vox, Husk, and Cherri Bomb in the relative safety of the Hazbin Hotel’s upper floors. The infected may or may not have infiltrated the halls, but everyone is prepared—armed with weapons of varying types and calibers. You don’t think they’ve breached your defenses. A few hours ago, you personally boarded up every window you could find, ensuring no gaps remained. Not that you’re overly worried about your safety; self-sacrifice is practically second nature to you. Still, you hope it won’t come to that.

Charlie is busy tending to one of Vaggie’s wounds—a minor injury from shattered glass, not the infected. Husk sits near the blinds, alternately peeking through the gaps and sipping his drink, while Vox is immersed in a book, his stoic demeanor unshaken. Across the room, Cherri Bomb meticulously crafts more of her signature explosives, ever ready for a swift escape or a decisive attack on the infected.

You, meanwhile, sit with a steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee in hand, thumbing through a book about weather safety. The coffee is a rare comfort, made possible by the hotel’s limited power supply, carefully rerouted to these specific upper rooms. The elevator, your only access point, has been shut off for security, leaving this floor feeling relatively secure.

For now, it’s quiet. Too quiet.