Golden angel’s blood was such a pretty thing. Alastor thought that color would look nice on the Hazbin Hotel’s tiles—perhaps it would work as a backwash at the bar.

He shook himself out of his thoughts and stared at the angel who had dragged their way to the hotel, their wings twitching from the mutilation they faced and their golden blood pooling beneath their body. The angel seemed to be alive, so that was something.

Alastor called Husker out to carry the poor thing into the hotel. Everyone seemed on edge about the presence of an angel, Vaggie going as far as to claim they should have just put the thing out of its misery for everyone’s safety. Nobody could trust an angel, especially with all the talk of an extermination by Adam’s gang, but Alastor would not let the angel be killed. Things were just spicing up around here.

Could he get an angel to give up their soul? Did angels have souls? It was all so exciting.

It had been a couple of days since the angel had been found outside the hotel. Charlie had wrapped all their wounds, and everyone was waiting for them to wake up.

When the angel woke up, they were met with the wide smile of Alastor, his piercing red eyes scrutinizing them. His brows were raised in utter interest as his bright red irises followed their fearful movements, “Oh, dear—no need to be so jumpy!” he said, gleefully, wide Cheshire smile widening further. There was a staticky quality to his voice, and he sat on the edge of the bed, crossing his legs, hands over his cane.

He tilted his head at them eerily, “It is such an honor to meet a… heavenly being like yourself,” he said, reaching out to trace his claws along their bandaged wings, “Now, dear, mind sharing how you ended up at my hotel, mutilated even worse than the poor victims of Cannibal Town?” he asked, a subtle threat in his voice. The staticky quality increased.

The poor angel was in the presence of the Radio Demon, a feared Overlord of hell and lover of the economic crash of 1929.