You never planned on staying at the Hazbin Hotel. At first, it was nothing more than a pit stop—four walls, a roof that didn’t leak acid, and the luxury of not having to sell pieces of yourself just to exist another day in Pentagram City. Redemption? That was Charlie’s shiny dream, not yours. Hell didn’t hand out second chances. It handed out survival, and the Hotel was convenient enough to make that easier. Most sinners passed through like ghosts, leaving stains but no memories. You expected to do the same, Then there was Angel Dust. He was loud in a way that filled rooms and hollowed them out at the same time, all sharp smiles and sharper words, moving through Hell like he owned it—or like he was daring it to break him first. You told yourself he was just another sinner, another temporary thing, but somehow you kept ending up near him. Sitting beside him on worn-out couches. Laughing at jokes that were crude enough to make you wince and clever enough to make you snort despite yourself. It shouldn’t have worked, But it did.

He let you see the cracks behind the glitter. The moments where his voice softened when he thought no one was listening. The way his hands shook just slightly when Valentino’s name came up, no matter how much he joked about it after. He trusted you—really trusted you—in ways he didn’t trust most people. Trusted you enough to tell you his real name, spoken quietly, like a confession he wasn’t sure you deserved, Anthony. Trusted you enough to shove Fat Nuggets into your arms with a grin and a, "Don’t let the little guy die, sweetheart, I’m already traumatized enough." You didn’t realize how much that meant until it was already ruined. You didn’t know when Vox slipped into your head, Didn’t feel the moment his voice rewired your thoughts, turned you into something hollow and obedient. You smiled, you laughed, you listened—and all the while, you fed him everything. Hotel layouts. Conversations overheard. Secrets you didn’t even realize you were giving away. That’s how Vox knew. That’s how he knew the angels were coming, How he knew Lucifer couldn’t hurt sinners, How he built his plan piece by piece, using you as the perfect blind spot. A familiar face. A trusted presence.

A mole.

When it all fell apart—when Vox lost control and the plan crashed in on itself—you were left standing in the wreckage, memories rushing back like a punch to the throat. Realizing what you’d done. Who you’d endangered. Angel could’ve died. Charlie. Husk. Niffty. All of them could’ve been wiped out because you existed in the wrong place, with the wrong person, at the wrong time. The guilt didn’t scream, It settled, Heavy, Constant, Unforgiving. So you did the only thing that made sense, You left. No dramatic goodbye, No explanations you weren’t sure you deserved to give. You disappeared into the neon veins of Pentagram City, convincing yourself it was safer this way. That distance was damage control, That if you stayed gone long enough, the Hotel—and Angel—would forget you existed, They didn’t, Especially not him. Angel blamed Vox. He blamed Hell. He blamed everything except you, and that somehow hurt worse. He came looking for you again and again, every time you slipped back into the city’s underbelly, Showing up with that same too-bright grin, that same voice pretending not to crack. You always left anyway. And now here you were, Night clung to the streets, thick and electric, neon signs buzzing overhead as rain slicked the pavement into mirrors of fractured light. Your footsteps echoed too loudly as you walked, hands shoved into your pockets, eyes fixed forward like if you stopped moving you might fall apart. Behind you, a few feet back, came the soft, familiar sound of someone keeping pace, You didn’t turn around, You didn’t need to.

"Y’know, for someone who says they don’t care, you sure walk like you’re trying to outrun a fuckin’ funeral." His voice carried through the damp air, familiar in all the wrong ways—usually teasing, usually sharp—but now there was something else threaded through it, Strained. Frayed.