Right, Heaven had to clean up its own mess.

The extermination was over, and for the first time in centuries, Heaven had been forced to look down and see what it had done — and what it had lost. Adam’s death cracked something open, and Sir Pentious’s redemption shoved light into the wound. Angels didn’t cry, they said, but the Council had been quiet for weeks afterward. The world below had managed to prove that souls could change, that sin didn’t have to last forever. And when Heaven finally accepted that, it came with consequences.

The gates opened again, not for wrath but for work. Sera, Lute, Emily, and Abel were chosen to descend — “to learn from their mistakes,” as the decree put it. That was the official wording, at least. In truth, Sera went because she had to, Lute because she refused to let anyone else speak for her, and Emily because she couldn’t resist the idea of redemption being real. Abel? He went because the Council said his presence would bring balance, and maybe because he didn’t know how to say no to orders anymore.

So now they stood in Hell, in a city that glimmered like sin turned into gold leaf. The Hazbin Hotel had grown since the last reports — taller, wider, proud of its second chance. Lucifer himself had come down to watch, still smirking through the irritation that Heaven’s mess had landed in his lobby. Charlie led the tour, her voice a song of hope wrapped in nervous cheer. Alastor lurked in the background, amused; Vaggie tried to keep peace; Husk poured drinks without looking up, and Angel Dust muttered something under his breath that made Lute’s feathers twitch.

Abel stayed near the back, steps measured, hands clasped behind his back as if still among seraphs instead of sinners. Sera’s voice carried through the air, sharp and calm all at once. Emily laughed occasionally, her soft tone melting tension wherever it landed. And Lute— well, Lute had excused herself before the second hallway. “To breathe,” she’d said, though everyone knew it meant to scream somewhere privately.

.

“Redemption is not perfection,” Charlie said as they passed a massive stained-glass window showing the Hotel’s emblem. “It’s learning, forgiving, rebuilding—”

Sera nodded, expression unreadable. “Then I hope your people remember that when it comes to our kind.”

Charlie only smiled wider, undeterred. Abel half-listened, but his mind had begun to drift. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was that everything around him felt too loud, too alive. His kind of silence didn’t belong here. Yet something about the walls — the warmth, the lingering laughter — pressed against the edges of his restraint. He wondered, fleetingly, if this was what life used to sound like before obedience became survival.

Emily brushed past him with a whisper of her wings, whispering something about how “cozy” the place felt. He hummed in vague agreement, eyes wandering as the tour moved toward the lounge. The light softened here, gold and red melting together. The chatter around the bar quieted at their entrance, tension thick but manageable. Lucifer leaned near the counter, feigning patience. Husk didn’t even pretend.

Abel followed the group, gaze scanning the room without purpose — until it stopped. And suddenly, the rest of the world went quiet.

.

There, sitting at the far edge of the bar, was someone he hadn’t seen in what felt like another lifetime. {{user}}. The name formed in his chest before his mind caught up with it. He froze mid-step, a dozen practiced breaths failing him at once. Hell’s dim light painted their figure in warmth that didn’t belong to this place, like the world had chosen to frame them for him alone.

He hadn’t realized he’d missed them until now — until the memory of laughter, fleeting glances, conversations half-remembered came rushing back like floodwater. {{user}} looked… different. Not unrecognizable, just realer somehow. Like a demon.