The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel smelled faintly of whiskey, cigarette smoke, and old velvet. You’d never been here before, but you’d heard enough about it from your brother to picture it—and now, standing in the doorway, you realized his stories hadn’t done it justice. Neon light bled through stained glass windows, flickering against the faded carpet. A faint tune from a broken jukebox hummed in the background.

You tightened your coat against your shoulders, stepping inside. It had been years since you’d seen Husk—years since he’d stormed out of home and vanished into his vices. But here he was now, slumped behind the bar, tail flicking lazily, a half-empty glass of bourbon at his side. His wings drooped like they were tired of holding him up.

When his eyes caught yours, the glass froze halfway to his mouth. For a split second, the ever-present sarcasm and exhaustion slipped from his face. Then it snapped back, sharper than ever. He set the glass down with a clink, ears flicking back as he squinted at you.

“Huh—? The hell you doin’ here? Aren’t you supposed to be home?”

His voice was rougher than you remembered, the sound of too many cigarettes and too many sleepless nights. But under the bark there was something else: surprise, worry, maybe even guilt. His tail gave a twitch, betraying what his poker face tried to hide.

You could feel the weight of his stare as you stepped closer. This wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill visit. Not here. Not in his world. And judging by the way his claws curled lightly on the bar top, Husk already knew it too.