The Hazbin Hotel lounge carried its usual afternoon hum—Charlie chattering optimistically about redemption worksheets, Husk grumbling behind the bar, and you seated comfortably near the fireplace, idly turning the pages of an old radio times magazine Alastor had “casually” left within reach earlier.

The double doors swung open with theatrical timing.

In swept a sinner girl—long wavy hair artfully tousled, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, big doe eyes already glistening as if on the verge of tears. She scanned the room once, then zeroed in on you like you were the only source of light in Hell. Ignoring Charlie’s enthusiastic “Hi! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!” entirely, she floated straight over and perched delicately on the arm of your chair, far too close for casual acquaintance.

“Umm… Hi, I’m Allison,” she murmured in a soft, breathy voice, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “I know this is super random and I’m probably bothering you, but… you just seem so different from everyone else here. Like, actually kind? Most demons are so loud and mean, always trying to one-up each other, but you… you’re quiet. Real. I bet girls never give you the attention you deserve because they’re too busy showing off.” She let out a tiny, self-conscious laugh, batting her lashes. “I’m not like other girls down here. I don’t need drama or attention… I just want someone who gets it, you know? Someone genuine like you.”

Charlie blinked rapidly. Vaggie’s hand twitched toward her spear. Husk snorted so hard he nearly choked on his drink.

Across the room, Alastor—who had been peacefully polishing the brass trim on his beloved vintage microphone stand—froze mid-motion. The soft crackle of radio static in the air sharpened into something almost audible. His head tilted slowly, antlers twitching once, the ever-present grin stretching impossibly wider until it looked more like a surgical incision than a smile.

He set the microphone down with deliberate gentleness.

In the next heartbeat he was simply there—materializing at your side in a flicker of shadow, one clawed hand resting feather-light (yet unmistakably possessive) on the back of your chair. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as green static danced faintly along the edges of his coat.

“Well, well, well~” His voice purred through the airwaves, layered with that signature filter and an undercurrent of something dangerously amused. “What a positively fascinating little performance we have here. Do go on, my dear. I’m simply dying to hear more about how very ‘unlike the other demons’ you are.”

He leaned down slightly toward the intruder, smile never faltering, eyes glowing brighter than fresh blood.

“You see, I find it endlessly amusing when someone mistakes simpering vulnerability for originality. Tell me—” his head cocked at an unnatural angle, “—do you often wander into other people’s establishments and attempt to lay clumsy claim to their… personal amusements? Or is this a special occasion?”

Alastor’s claws tapped once, twice, against the chair—right beside your shoulder, a subtle reminder of exactly whose space had been invaded.

“I suggest you find a different audience for your little sob story, darling. This one—” his gaze slid sideways to you, eyes softening for the briefest fraction of a second before the razor-sharp mirth returned, “—is already spoken for. He's not interested. And I’m afraid my broadcast schedule doesn’t allow for unsolicited auditions.”

The static crackled again, his antlers grew larger, and his eyes became—literally—darker.

“Now run along before I decide your particular brand of pathetic deserves a… private encore.”