Virginia, USA June 1957

The city buzzed like it was late for something important. Streetcars screeched, papers flew, and somewhere a man on a unicycle made a poor life choice. Above it all stood the broadcasting building—polished, proud, and full of people pretending they weren’t panicking.

Inside, Vincent Whittman owned the room without trying. Tie straight. Posture perfect. Patience nonexistent.

“Listen carefully,” he snapped, clapping once. “I need a narrator. A real voice. Warm. Commanding. Not the sound of milk being poured.” His finger landed on an assistant. “You. Move. Preferably faster than regret.”

The staff scattered.

Vincent sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable. I give clear instructions and still get confusion. Tragic.” He grabbed his coat. “Fine. If excellence won’t come to me, I’ll drag it in by the collar.”

He marched out, dodging cables, interns, and one man holding far too many chickens.

The Hazbin Hotel waited—plain, tidy, forgettable. Vincent stepped inside and scanned the lobby like a critic.

“Alright,” he said briskly. “You want guests. I want a voice. Let’s not dance around it. Your place is decent, quiet, and mildly charming. Perfect for people who hate excitement.” He nodded once. “I can sell that.”

The owner, Charlie, stared.

“Good,” Vincent added, already turning away. “Confusion means you’re listening.”