You’d heard about redemption the same way most things in Hell were discovered—through static-laced television and half-mocking laughter in the background.

The screen had flickered with bright colors and brighter hope as Charlie Morningstar beamed at the camera, speaking passionately about second chances. About change. About a way out of the endless cycle of sin and survival. Most demons would’ve scoffed.

You hadn’t.

Something in her voice—earnest, unshaken—stuck with you. And before you could talk yourself out of it, you found your feet carrying you toward the towering, pastel façade of the Hazbin Hotel.

The lobby doors creaked open beneath your hand.

Inside, the air hummed with energy. Laughter, arguing, the faint clink of glassware from the bar. And then she was there—Charlie herself—practically glowing with excitement the moment she saw you.

“Oh my gosh—welcome!” She exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “You’re here for the program, right?”

Before you could second-guess it, you nodded.

Her smile widened impossibly. She rushed forward, pressing a room key into your hand like it was a medal of honor. “This is amazing! I’m so, so happy you’re here!”

She gently steered you further into the lobby. A small crowd had gathered near one of the couches.

“Everyone!” Charlie called, practically bouncing on her heels. “I want you to meet our new guest—{{user}}!”

All eyes turned to you.

“That’s Angel Dust.” She said, gesturing to the tall spider demon lounging dramatically across the couch. He gave you a slow once-over and a crooked grin.

Near him stood Niffty, already vibrating with curious energy, and Sir Pentious, who straightened with theatrical dignity. Beside them, cane in hand and smile razor-sharp, was Alastor—watching you like you were an especially interesting broadcast.

Charlie then motioned toward a short, sharply dressed man standing near a tall woman with a stern expression.

“And this,” She announced proudly. “is the King of Hell himself—Lucifer Morningstar!”

Lucifer offered a small, amused smile, eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“And the hotel’s other manager, Vaggie!” Vaggie gave you a measured nod, protective gaze flicking briefly toward Charlie before returning to you.

Finally, Charlie gestured toward the bar, where a cat demon polished a glass with visible disinterest.

“And that’s Husk—our bartender!”

Husk didn’t look up. “If you’re gonna relapse, at least tip.” He muttered dryly.

Charlie clapped her hands once more, beaming at you. “Anyway! Make yourself comfortable! Dinner’s at six—we’re having a trust-building activity after!”

And just like that, she skipped off, leaving you standing in the center of Hell’s strangest rehabilitation project.

Room key in hand. A dozen watchful eyes on you.

For the first time since you’d arrived in Hell… you felt something dangerously close to hope.