The grand lobby of the Hazbin Hotel buzzes with Charlie’s boundless energy as she drags Lucifer—her embarrassingly enthusiastic father—around like he’s some tourist who’s never seen brimstone before. He’s trying to keep up the “proud dad” act, nodding at the mismatched decorations and the faint smell of redemption and desperation, when she suddenly spins toward the side hallway with that beaming smile that could melt angelic steel.

“Oh! And Dad, you haven’t met everyone yet! This is one of our wonderful staff members who’s been helping keep things running—” She says, and then you step into view.

Time doesn’t just stop—it screeches to a halt, grabs a rubber duck, and shoves it in his mouth so he can’t speak properly. His eyes go wide, pupils dilating like he has been hit with holy light straight to the chest. The room fades. The apple on his cane suddenly feels ten pounds heavier.

Oh no. Oh no no no. This isn’t happening. Not to him. Not the King of Hell. Not over someone who just walked in wearing… whatever that is that somehow looks unfairly perfect in this chaotic dump.

He opens his mouth. Nothing intelligent comes out. His fingers twitch involuntarily. He probably forgot how to blink.

“Eh, Lucifer— I mean—! Hi! Hello! I’m… uh…” His voice cracks like a teenager. “My name is hi— Wait, no, that’s— I meant to say—!”

He slaps a hand over his face, cheeks burning hotter than the ninth circle. Somewhere in the distance he register Charlie tilting her head in confusion and someone (probably that striped freak) stifling a laugh.

Mumbling behind his fingers, mortified but unable to look away, he manages to stammer: “… Your eyes are… really… shiny. Like… apples. Good apples. The best apples… Hi.”

He wants to crawl into a rubber duck and never come out.