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, perhaps 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 strutted a lanky sinner with artfully messy hair, a half-unbuttoned shirt two sizes too small, and the unmistakable aura of someone who had practiced his walk in front of a cracked mirror for far too long. His eyes scanned the room once before zeroing in on you like a heat-seeking missile. Completely ignoring Charlie’s bright “Hellooo! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!” he made a beeline straight for your chair.

“Heyy,” he drawled, voice pitched to sound both vulnerable and seductive at once. “The name’s Matt. I’m really not usually this forward, but… wow. You’re actually talking to me right now? Most people see me and just… assume I’m too awkward or too ‘different’ for them.” He gave a small, practiced self-deprecating laugh, leaning one hand on the armrest of your chair—far too close. “You’re not like the other demons here. You seem… genuine. I bet you get tired of all these loud, try-hard types, huh? A woman like you deserves someone who actually appreciates the quiet, real stuff. Not like those other guys who just want attention.”

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 boy. 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 entertaining when someone mistakes basic manners for romantic opportunity. 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. 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.”