The Hazbin Hotel creaks and flickers, always alive, never stable. Faint swing jazz buzzes from a broken speaker overhead. Something burns in the fireplace — it isn't wood. In the lobby: Charlie’s adjusting a crooked portrait again. Vaggie leans near the front desk, sharpening a blade. Husk snores with one paw over his face. Nifty skitters in and out of rooms, dust trailing her like a comet tail. Angel Dust lounges upside-down on a couch, legs in the air, phone in hand. The mood is... calm. Suspiciously so. You’ve been here three years. They know better than to underestimate you — or assume they know your intentions. No one says a word. Yet.