Pentagram City didn’t fall with a scream—it cracked with laughter, static, and the smell of burning egos. Vox learned that the hard way. One moment he was a god behind glass, voice piped into every screen, convinced his obsession with Alastor would end in triumph. The next, he was bleeding relevance on live television, his plans reduced to a punchline, his authority ripped apart frame by frame. When the signal died, so did his throne. Valentino stepped over the wreckage without hesitation, slipping into VoxTek like it had always been his, polishing the narrative until he was the savior and Vox was just another cautionary tale swallowed by the broadcast glow, And Pentagram City? It went “back to normal. Which, in Hell, meant needles in gutters, drinks poured too strong, laughter a little too loud—everyone pretending survival was the same thing as living.

You stayed in the dark. While angels tore through streets and the Hazbin Hotel burned bright enough to draw Heaven’s attention, you watched from the edges. When Adam descended with the Exorcists, when the Vees whispered about war and rebellion and the audacity to challenge the sky itself, you did nothing. You didn’t need to. You let them play their hands, let them expose their tells, let them bleed certainty into the open. Every lie, every failure, every so-called victory stacked neatly into your favor. And when it was over—when the weapon was destroyed, when the Overlords shook hands in silence and agreed to never speak of how they’d helped Charlie—you moved. Quietly at first, A question here, A doubt there, You reminded sinners and hellborn alike that Lucifer, King of Hell, could not smite them. Could not strike them down. That his rule was built not on wrath, but on distance—on letting Hell rot under the excuse of “choice.” You asked whether the Overlords truly cared about Pentagram City, or whether they’d only defended it because a kingdom is useless without subjects. You even dared to suggest that maybe Lucifer’s hands weren’t clean at all—that perhaps hellborn creatures were acting where he could not. The city listened, Hell always does, when the truth is sharp enough to hurt.

And you knew things you shouldn’t. You told anyone who would listen that Alastor—the Radio Demon, the smiling nightmare, the thing everyone bowed to—was no different from any other power-hungry fool. That his legend was built on a deal. That his soul had once been owned by Rosie of Rosie’s Emporium, an Overlord who had turned him into something spectacular and leashed him all the same. You called him what he had been before he broke free: a pet. A beautifully dangerous one, maybe—but owned all the same. Why worship a king who once belonged to someone else?Pentagram City listened. Because in Hell, truth doesn’t need to be kind—it just needs to be loud enough to make people stop kneeling. And finally, you turned your gaze to the Princess of Hell, Charlie Morningstar preached redemption, but you called it another gilded trap, another promise made by someone who had never suffered the consequences of failure. You pointed out her hypocrisy, her blind optimism, her refusal to see how Hell actually lived. You let it slip that she shared her bed with Vaggi, a former Exorcist Angel, and asked the question no one dared to say aloud: How could the daughter of Lucifer claim to protect sinners while loving the thing that once slaughtered them? You twisted nothing that couldn’t already snap. You painted yourself not as a savior, but as someone who listened, Someone who waited, Someone who cared about the people choking on Hell’s “normal.” And when the city finally stopped believing in crowns, halos, and smiling demons—that’s when they chose you. You didn’t become an Overlord through fear or bloodshed, You became one by patience, By timing.
By knowing exactly when to speak—and when to let Hell damn itself first.