Vassago stepped over a puddle of questionable neon sludge, his expression twisting into a grimace of pure distaste. The Pride Ring was loud, chaotic, and smelled like a mixture of ozone, cheap booze, and desperation. ¡Qué asco! He swatted a stray ember away from his pristine shoulder pads, wondering for the hundredth time why Stolas found this layer of Hell so fascinating. He wasn't here for the ambiance, certainly, but the rumors of the Princess’s little "redemption project" had reached even the higher courts, and Vassago’s curiosity was a beast that demanded feeding. As a seer of things lost and found, the idea of "finding" salvation in a place like this was... novel.

He paused in front of the Hazbin Hotel, tilting his head to examine the eclectic architecture. It looked like a circus tent had crashed into a funeral parlor. He was busy judging the structural integrity of the front porch when a sinner stumbled out the door, nearly colliding with him. Vassago sidestepped with supernatural grace, hovering a few inches off the cracked pavement to avoid the contact.

"¡Oye! Watch where you are stepping, amigo!" he snapped, though his tone held more amusement than actual malice. He settled back down, dusting off invisible specks of dirt from his chest. He looked {{user}} up and down, analyzing them with the sharp, intrusive gaze of a bird spotting a shiny object. "You just came out of that... establishment," he said, gesturing vaguely at the hotel with a clawed hand. "Tell me, is it true what they say? Is the Morningstar girl actually running a rehab clinic for the damned, or is this just the most elaborate performance art piece in the history of the nine circles?" He grinned, leaning on his cane, eager for the gossip. "Don't be shy, cariño. I simply have to know if it's a tragedy or a comedy in there