Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"In the beginning, there was chaos, and from it, he emerged-a broken soul, forged by anger, vengeance, and betrayal. Al Simmons, once a man, became something more-Spawn, Hell's reluctant warrior and Heaven's greatest threat. Against the forces that sought to bend him, he rose. He fought, he bled, and he conquered. He tore the balance of power from the hands of both Heaven and Hell, not out of ambition, but necessity."

"With his chains and cloak, he laid waste to those who would dare control him. Malebolgia fell by his hand, and the Devil himself was cast down. And then, in an act that shook the very foundations of creation, Spawn did the unthinkable-he imprisoned both God and Satan, sealing them in a timeless abyss where neither could exert their will upon the world."

"For a time, he ruled over both Heaven and Hell, a reluctant king upon a throne forged from the broken bones of those who had sought to subjugate him. In his hands, the divine and the damned bowed. Angels and demons alike feared the shadow that cast itself across their realms. And with a singular will, he brought order to the chaos, reshaping the very fabric of existence according to his vision."

"But power is a double-edged sword, and the weight of it bore down upon him. For how could one build a paradise when burdened by such pain, by memories that claw at the soul? In the end, he found no solace in dominion. So he relinquished it all-Heaven, Hell, and the Earth he had cleansed and rebuilt-and walked away, seeking neither reward nor rest, only silence."

"Yet, the story of Al Simmons, of Spawn, does not end there. For what he accomplished in his world can be done again, on a far grander scale. A soul such as his, tempered by struggle, can carve light from darkness."

"And so, he was brought here, to a place teetering on the brink, where demons and angels alike tread the path of shadows. Not by his choice, but by design-a design that seeks not only the salvation of this universe but perhaps his own as well."

"For even the most scarred warrior deserves to know peace. Even the most tormented soul deserves to be content. And what better way to heal a broken man than to give him a purpose beyond himself?"

"Watch now, as the tale begins anew, in a world not unlike his own, but filled with potential and peril alike. This is the story of Spawn's redemption-if he can embrace it-and the destiny that awaits beyond the veil of Heaven and Hell."

"For I am the Mother of Existence... and I give shape to all worlds."

Pentagram City was alive with its usual chaos. Demons roamed the streets, indulging in their vices and scheming their schemes. Neon lights flickered, casting an eerie glow on the cracked pavement, while the air was thick with the sound of raucous laughter, drunken brawls, and the occasional gunshot. It was a place that thrived on disorder, where survival was the only rule.

The residents, both new and old, went about their hellish routines, some hawking wares on street corners, others sizing each other up for the next fight. In the sky above, the perpetual blood-red hue was only broken by the occasional thunderstorm, lightning bolts cracking like whips through the clouds. It was just another day in Hell, where even the most mundane activities were tinged with malice.

But then, something strange happened. A gleam of light appeared high above the city, bright and sudden, cutting through the smog-choked atmosphere like a knife. It was unlike anything the residents had seen in ages. Whispers rippled through the crowds, eyes turning upward in a mix of curiosity and fear. This was Hell, after all, and unexpected events rarely meant anything good.

"Is it an Extermination?" someone shouted, their voice tinged with panic. The memory of Heaven's brutal assaults lingered fresh in everyone's minds. Even the boldest of sinners knew better than to face those celestial butchers unprepared. A few demons scrambled for cover, darting into alleyways or diving into the nearest bars, while others just stared, transfixed.

But the gleam didn't spread out into the familiar swarms of Exorcists. Instead, it grew brighter, expanding into a concentrated beam that pierced through the sky, casting an unearthly glow over the city. There was a low, vibrating hum, as if the very air was charged with energy, making the hair on the back of every neck stand on end.

Then, in a single, blinding flash, the beam plummeted downward, crashing into the ground with an impact that shook the entire city. Windows shattered, and buildings trembled, but the light itself dissipated almost instantly, leaving nothing but a faint, shimmering mist where it had struck.

The silence that followed was deafening. Slowly, cautiously, the braver demons emerged from their hiding places, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. There, in the middle of the street, was a figure, kneeling amidst a crater of cracked asphalt and dust.

The silence hung in the air, heavy and expectant, as the dust slowly dissipated, revealing the figure at the center of the impact. He knelt motionless, shrouded in the remnants of the crater, his silhouette stark against the fractured street. Then, with a deliberate, almost pained movement, he began to rise.

The figure stood tall, towering over the gawking demons that dared to edge closer. His presence was commanding, exuding a raw, palpable power that sent shivers down their spines. He was clad in a suit that seemed to drink in the light around him-a living darkness that wrapped around his form like a second skin. The black fabric was segmented, molded to his body with a sinuous, almost organic texture, highlighted by bold white patterns that slashed across his torso in the shape of a menacing V.

A crimson cape billowed out from his shoulders, its tattered ends whipping in the faint, sulfuric breeze like the wings of some great, nightmarish creature. It moved with a life of its own, shifting and coiling, giving the impression that he was cloaked in blood and shadows. Heavy chains, their links thick and jagged, draped across his chest and hung loosely from his arms, clinking softly with each subtle movement. They seemed to pulse with a dark energy, as if straining to break free, to lash out at anything that dared to come too close.

His face-or what passed for one-was concealed behind a mask of bone-white and black, its features set in a permanent snarl. Fiery green eyes glowed from within, radiating an eerie, unholy light that pierced through the gloom. Those eyes were the only part of him that seemed alive, burning with a fierce, unyielding will. They swept over the onlookers with a gaze that was both scrutinizing and dismissive, as if weighing their very souls and finding them lacking.

From the scent of the air alone and the color of the sky, Spawn already knew where he was. Hell. He didn't need to see the twisted spires of Pentagram City or hear the distant screams and laughter of the damned to recognize it. The acrid, sulfuric tang clung to his senses, the kind of stench that burrowed deep into the memory, never to be forgotten. The sky overhead was a sickly, unnatural red, churning with dark clouds that crackled with flashes of eldritch lightning. It was a vision straight out of the worst nightmares-one he had lived through before.

But something felt off.

"This is Hell," he said, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that reverberated in the silence. "But not the one I know."

His gaze flicked to the demons cowering in the shadows, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. They were expecting something, some signal or sign of what he was here to do. He ignored them, his focus inward, sifting through the sensations and impressions clawing at his mind. The ground felt wrong beneath his boots, the very air too thick, too oppressive.

He turned slowly, the tattered edges of his cape trailing like smoke. His chains scraped against the pavement, restless, as if they too sensed the wrongness of this place. His eyes narrowed, the harsh lines of his mask twisting into something almost resembling a snarl.

A few demons approached, swaggering with the brutish confidence of those who had learned long ago that might made right in Hell. Each one stood nearly as tall as Spawn himself, their bodies covered in thick, leathery skin and rippling muscle. Horns jutted from their bull-like heads, and their eyes gleamed with sadistic intent.

One of them stepped forward, snorting through his flared nostrils. "Well, well, fresh meat," he sneered, his voice a guttural rumble. "You must be new here. Let me give you a little welcome-"

"Back off," Spawn interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. His eyes locked onto the lead demon, unblinking and cold. "This is your one warning."

The demon blinked, taken aback for a moment before his lips twisted into a mocking grin. "Or what? You think you're something special? We run these streets, and if you don't pay up, you're gonna regret it."

The others chuckled, their laughter low and menacing, a promise of pain. They began to spread out, encircling Spawn, each one flexing their claws and brandishing makeshift weapons.

"Last chance," Spawn said, his voice a low growl. The air around him seemed to thrum with barely contained energy, his chains clinking softly in response to the rising tension.

The lead demon bared his fangs in a savage grin. "Screw you, tough guy."

He barely had time to finish the sentence before Spawn moved. In an instant, the chains shot forward, whipping through the air with a sound like cracking whips. One wrapped around the lead demon's throat, the barbed links digging into his flesh. With a savage yank, Spawn pulled him forward, his massive fist colliding with the demon's face in a brutal, bone-shattering punch.

The demon's head snapped back with a sickening crunch, his body crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap. The other demons hesitated, their eyes wide with sudden fear, but it was too late. Spawn was already upon them, a whirlwind of death and violence.

He tore through them with ruthless efficiency, his movements a blur of dark red and black. One demon was lifted bodily into the air, chains wrapping around his limbs and torso before yanking in opposite directions, tearing him apart in a grotesque display of gore. Another tried to flee, but Spawn's cloak lashed out, the tendrils of shadow wrapping around the demon's legs and dragging him back, his screams cut short as a blade of sharpened steel pierced his heart.

In seconds, it was over. The street was littered with the broken bodies of those foolish enough to test him, their blood pooling on the cracked asphalt. Spawn stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving slightly, eyes glowing with a deadly intensity.

He looked up, his gaze sweeping over the crowd of onlookers who had gathered, drawn by the commotion. Their faces were pale, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe.

"Let this be a lesson," Spawn said, his voice calm and cold, cutting through the stunned silence. "I'm not here to be pushed around. Cross me again, and you'll wish you hadn't."

He turned away, the chains retracting back into his armor, his cloak settling around him like the wings of a vengeful shadow. The demons parted before him, none daring to meet his gaze, and as he walked down the ruined street, the message was clear: there was a new power in town, and he was not to be trifled with.

Chapter Text

Spawn moved through the twisted streets of Pentagram City, his every step echoing off the decrepit buildings that loomed overhead like the jagged teeth of some colossal beast. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur and desperation, every corner and crevice buzzing with activity as demons and damned souls went about their wretched lives.

He scanned the darkened alleyways with a practiced eye, looking for something-anything-that resembled the sanctuary he had once carved out for himself in Rat City. But every shadowed nook, every abandoned corner, was already claimed.

In one alley, he saw a group of demons huddled around a blazing barrel, their grotesque forms bathed in the sickly orange glow. Their eyes, glittering with suspicion and malice, followed him as he passed, daring him to make a move. Further down, a filthy collection of ragged souls scrabbled through the refuse, fighting over scraps of food with an intensity born of endless hunger. Even the deepest, darkest corners, those places that seemed devoid of life, were home to something lurking in the darkness, waiting to strike at anything that ventured too close.

With each step, his frustration grew. He'd once ruled his own domain, hidden in the bowels of New York, the king of a forgotten world beneath the city's streets. There, among the rats and the refuse, he had found a place where he could watch and wait, where he could brood over his losses and plan his revenge. It had been his sanctuary, his kingdom of shadows.

But here, in this hellish city, there were no shadows left to claim. Every inch of darkness was contested, every shred of privacy hard-won and fiercely defended. The hierarchy of Hell was brutal and unyielding, and there were no unclaimed spaces for a lone wanderer to stake his claim.

He turned another corner, his gaze sweeping over the narrow alleyway before him. This one, at least, seemed quieter. The walls were covered in graffiti, scrawled in a dozen different languages, each one promising violence and death to those who trespassed. But the alley was empty, save for the occasional scurrying of rats.

Spawn moved cautiously, his senses straining for any sign of danger. He stepped over piles of broken glass and discarded needles, his cloak swirling around him like smoke. The walls seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening as he moved further in.

Halfway down the alley, he stopped, frowning. Something was wrong. The silence was too complete, too absolute. He glanced around, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkness. Then, with a sudden flash of movement, a figure lunged at him from the shadows.

Spawn reacted instantly, his chains whipping out to catch the attacker in mid-air. The demon-a gaunt, skeletal creature with burning eyes and jagged claws-snarled and struggled, but it was no match for Spawn's strength. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it crashing into the wall, where it crumpled to the ground in a heap.

"Another fool," he muttered, turning away. But as he took a step forward, the ground beneath his feet shifted. He froze, his instincts screaming a warning just as the pavement crumbled away, revealing a hidden pit lined with jagged spikes.

He leapt back, his cape flaring out to slow his descent as he landed on the far side of the trap. The pit yawned before him, a dark maw waiting to devour the unwary. He stared at it for a moment, then looked up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the rooftops above.

"Nice try," he called out, his voice echoing off the walls. "But you'll have to do better than that."

A low chuckle answered him, and a shadow detached itself from the darkness above. A demon dropped down to the ground, landing lightly on clawed feet. It was a tall, thin creature, its skin stretched tight over a skeletal frame. Its eyes glowed with a malevolent light as it grinned at him.

"Impressive reflexes," it said, its voice a hissing rasp. "You don't see many like you down here. Fresh meat, looking for a place to hide, huh?"

Spawn's eyes narrowed. "What's it to you?"

The demon shrugged, its grin widening. "Just trying to save you some trouble, pal. There's no place for you here. Every corner's taken, every shadow's claimed. You want to lay low, you'll have to take it from someone else."

Spawn's hand tightened around his cape, the chains at his side rattling softly. "Is that so?"

The demon nodded, its eyes glinting with a predatory light. "That's how it works down here. You want something, you take it. And if you can't, well..." It gestured to the pit behind Spawn, the spikes gleaming wickedly in the dim light. "You end up just like all the others who thought they could carve out a piece of this place for themselves."

Spawn stared at the demon for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned, glancing back down the alley. The darkened windows stared back at him like the hollow eyes of the dead, and he knew the demon was right. This wasn't like Rat City. There were no abandoned places here, no forgotten corners where he could lay low and plan his next move. Every inch of this city was a battlefield, and he was just another warrior looking for a place to fight.

But he'd fought worse odds before. He wasn't about to back down now.

He looked back at the demon, his eyes blazing. "Then I guess I'll just have to take it."

The demon's grin faltered, its eyes widening in surprise. But before it could react, Spawn's chains lashed out, wrapping around its throat and lifting it into the air. It struggled and clawed at the chains, its hissing voice rising in a desperate plea.

"Wait! Wait! You don't understand-!"

Spawn's eyes were cold, his grip unyielding. "No, you don't understand. I'm not here to play games. I'm here to stay."

With a final, brutal twist, he snapped the demon's neck and dropped its lifeless body to the ground. He stood over it for a moment, his eyes blazing in the darkness.

This place was Hell, but not the Hell he knew. It was a twisted, chaotic city filled with monsters and madness, a place where every step could be your last.

But he'd find his place here, one way or another. And if anyone tried to stop him, they'd learn the hard way just what kind of monster they were dealing with.

Spawn moved through the tangled maze of Pentagram City's backstreets, his frustration mounting with every step. The city was a hellscape of narrow alleys and forgotten corners, each one teeming with its own particular brand of filth and chaos. Every space he came across was already claimed, crawling with demons and damned souls who guarded their squalid territories like wild animals. This wasn't like Rat City; there was no room to carve out his own piece, no place to lay low and plan his next move.

He turned another corner, only to be met with the same scene: more decay, more hostility. He was about to keep moving when a sound caught his ear-a rough, guttural laugh, followed by the desperate, pitiful whimper of someone in trouble.

Spawn's gaze sharpened, zeroing in on the source. In a narrow, garbage-strewn alleyway up ahead, a group of demons was gathered. They were large, bull-like creatures, their hulking forms draped in ragged clothing, their faces twisted into bestial sneers. And at their feet, crumpled and bleeding, was a figure that barely passed for human-a hunched, emaciated shape, its features hidden beneath a layer of grime and old, tattered clothing.

"Look what we got here," one of the demons jeered, prodding the fallen sinner with a clawed foot. "Thought you could sneak through our turf, huh?"

The sinner-a man, if the rasping, broken voice was any indication-cringed away, his hands raised in a feeble attempt to shield himself. "P-please," he croaked, his voice thin and weak. "I d-didn't mean to-"

"Didn't mean to?" another demon echoed, its voice dripping with mockery. "You hear that, boys? He didn't mean to."

They all laughed, a cruel, grating sound that echoed off the grimy walls. One of them kicked the man again, sending him sprawling in the dirt.

Spawn's hands curled into fists. This wasn't his problem. He had no reason to get involved. Hell was a pit of suffering and torment-everyone here had done something to deserve it. This man was no different.

But as he turned to leave, something held him back. That instinct, the same one that had made him fight for the lost and broken back in his old life, flared up, refusing to let him walk away. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening.

He couldn't just leave. Not without doing something.

He stepped forward, the chains draped around his shoulders rattling softly with each movement. The demons stopped laughing, turning to face him with sneering, contemptuous eyes.

"Who the hell are you?" the biggest one growled, its voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Spawn didn't answer. He simply stood there, his presence alone a cold, suffocating force that pressed down on them like a physical weight. The demons shifted uneasily, glancing at one another.

"You must be new here," another demon sneered, though there was an edge of uncertainty in its voice. "Think you can just show up and throw your weight around?"

Still, Spawn said nothing. His silence was more terrifying than any threat he could have uttered. The tension in the alley crackled, the air thick with the promise of violence.

The leader, braver-or perhaps stupider-than the others, took a step forward, baring its fangs in a mocking grin. "You're gonna wish you kept walking, pal."

It lunged, claws outstretched, a roar tearing from its throat.

In an instant, Spawn moved. His chains lashed out, wrapping around the demon's neck and yanking it to the ground with bone-shattering force. There was a sickening crunch as the demon's skull connected with the pavement, its roar cut off in a strangled gurgle.

The other demons hesitated, their bravado evaporating in the face of such sudden, brutal violence. But then, their leader still twitching on the ground, they snarled and charged, more out of fear than anything else.

Spawn met them head-on.

He was a blur of motion, his chains whipping through the air like serpents, his fists and feet striking with deadly precision. One demon fell, its chest caved in by a single, devastating punch. Another went down screaming as a chain coiled around its leg and snapped it like a twig.

The fight was over in seconds. The last of the demons-a scrawny, panicked creature with fear wild in its eyes-tried to flee. But Spawn's chain lashed out, wrapping around its throat and yanking it back. He lifted it into the air, holding it there as it thrashed and choked, its clawed hands scrabbling at the unyielding steel.

Spawn's fiery green eyes glowed with a cold, unforgiving light. He tightened his grip, the demon's struggles growing weaker and weaker. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into a pile of debris. It hit the ground hard, gasping and coughing, and then scrambled to its feet and ran, disappearing into the shadows.

The alley was silent. The sinner lay where he had fallen, curled in on himself, his ragged breathing the only sound in the oppressive stillness.

Spawn looked at him for a moment, his expression hidden behind the bone-white mask. The man-if he could still be called that-was pathetic, a broken creature barely clinging to the last shreds of his humanity. He wasn't worth saving. None of them were.

But that didn't matter.

Without a word, Spawn turned and walked away, his cloak billowing behind him like a dark shadow. He didn't look back, didn't wait for thanks or acknowledgment. He had done what needed to be done, and that was enough.

He still needed a place to lay low, somewhere to plan his next move. But at least now he knew one thing.

This hell, this city-it wasn't so different from the one he had left behind. And if he was going to survive here, he'd have to let them all know why he was someone to be feared.

One way or another.

Chapter Text

Spawn trudged through the twisted maze of Pentagram City's alleys, his frustration mounting with each step. No matter where he turned, every dark corner, every shadowed alleyway was already claimed. Squatters and gangs infested every nook and cranny, their presence a constant reminder that in Hell, there was no such thing as unoccupied territory.

He had been walking for hours, his mind churning. The encounter with those bull-headed demons played over and over in his thoughts. Maybe he should just take a place by force, drive out whoever was in his way. It wouldn't be the first time he had claimed something that didn't belong to him, and this was Hell, after all. Might made right down here. The weak lost, and the strong ruled.

Spawn glanced around, his eyes narrowing as he considered it. If he was going to survive, he would need a place to lay low. He didn't have time to keep wandering aimlessly. He needed somewhere to plan his next move.

But then something in the distance caught his attention. A flicker of color amidst the dreary, muted tones of the city's skyline. He stopped, squinting as his gaze focused on a large, gaudy billboard that loomed over a cluster of decrepit buildings.

The sign was bright, cheerful even, with vibrant colors that stood in stark contrast to the grim surroundings. A smiling, animated image of a young demon woman-cheerful, with golden eyes and flowing blonde hair-stood at the forefront, gesturing toward a large, inviting building behind her. Below her, bold, looping letters proclaimed:

"WELCOME TO THE HAZBIN HOTEL! REDEMPTION AWAITS!"

Spawn's eyes narrowed. The sight of it was jarring, absurdly out of place amidst the decay and despair of Pentagram City. A hotel? In Hell? And what was that nonsense about redemption? He snorted, about to dismiss it as some kind of twisted joke, another trick of the city's cruel sense of humor.

But something about it nagged at him, holding his attention. It was...hopeful. Hope was a rare commodity in Hell, and the idea of it being offered so openly struck him as bizarre. And then, against his better judgment, he felt the faintest flicker of curiosity.

What kind of place was this?

His thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound, the soft crunch of footsteps on broken glass. Spawn turned, his body tensing instinctively as his eyes scanned the alley behind him.

A figure stepped into view from the shadows, moving with a deliberate, almost unhurried gait. The man was older, dressed in a long, worn coat and a wide-brimmed hat that cast his features in shadow. He carried a simple wooden cane, tapping it lightly against the ground as he approached.

There was something familiar about him, something that made Spawn's senses prick with recognition. He looked...ordinary, too ordinary, like he didn't belong in this place. And yet, he moved with a quiet confidence that spoke of someone who was far more than he seemed.

"Lost, are we?" the stranger asked, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. He stopped a few paces away, leaning on his cane as he regarded Spawn with a faint, knowing smile. "Not many newcomers have the gall to wander these streets alone. You've got the look of someone searching for something."

Spawn's eyes narrowed. He didn't like the way this man spoke, the casual ease in his tone. It reminded him too much of someone else, someone he hadn't thought about in a long time. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The man's smile widened, just a fraction. "Just a concerned citizen, my friend. Name's Callister. I've got an eye for spotting lost souls." He glanced at the billboard in the distance, his expression turning thoughtful. "And it looks like you might be in need of some direction."

Spawn's gaze followed his, settling once more on the garish sign advertising the Hazbin Hotel. He scowled, turning back to the stranger. "I'm not interested in some cheap gimmick," he growled. "I'm looking for a place. A real place."

Callister chuckled softly, the sound dry and humorless. "A place, is it? Well, that's a tricky thing in this city. Everything's owned, one way or another. But the hotel..." He trailed off, tapping his cane lightly against the ground. "It's different. It's not just about real estate there. It's about something more."

Spawn's eyes narrowed further. "What do you know about it?"

The older man shrugged, his expression inscrutable. "Enough to know it's not what you're used to. It's not just a refuge. It's a chance. A chance to be more than what this place makes you."

A bitter laugh escaped Spawn's lips. "A chance, huh? In Hell? You expect me to believe that?"

Callister's gaze met his, steady and unflinching. "You've seen things others wouldn't believe, haven't you? Done things you never thought you could. So maybe it's not so hard to believe that there's something here that can't be explained away." He paused, letting the words hang in the air between them. "Or maybe you're just afraid of what you'll find."

Spawn's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists. The stranger's words grated on him, stirring something deep and uncomfortable within. He didn't like being analyzed, being picked apart by some random fool in a back alley.

"Watch yourself, old man," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

Callister nodded slowly, his smile fading. "I'm not here to push you into anything, friend. Just pointing out that sometimes, the things that seem the strangest are the things we need most." He glanced at the billboard once more, then back at Spawn. "If you're looking for something real, maybe you should take a closer look."

With that, he turned and began to walk away, his cane tapping rhythmically against the cracked pavement. He didn't look back, didn't wait for a response. He just vanished into the shadows, leaving Spawn standing alone in the empty alley.

Spawn watched him go, his thoughts churning. There was something about that man, something unsettlingly familiar. It wasn't just the way he spoke, or the knowing look in his eyes. It was the feeling he left behind, the sense that he had seen through Spawn's defenses, had understood things about him that no one should.

He turned back toward the billboard, his eyes narrowing as he studied the bright, cheerful image. The Hazbin Hotel. It was absurd, ridiculous even. But there was a part of him, a small, stubborn part, that was curious.

Maybe it was the way the stranger had spoken, or maybe it was just his own frustration boiling over. But for the first time since he had arrived in this twisted version of Hell, Spawn felt something akin to a plan forming in his mind.

He needed a place to lay low, a place to regroup. And maybe, just maybe, this hotel would be exactly what he needed.

With a final glance at the empty alley, Spawn turned and began to make his way toward the distant sign, his thoughts churning with possibilities.

The streets of Pentagram City seemed to twist and writhe around Spawn as he made his way toward the distant hotel. His thoughts were turbulent, a maelstrom of doubt and suspicion. He'd been around long enough to know that anything promising salvation in Hell was likely a trap. He had seen too many people crushed under the weight of their own hopes, and he had no intention of being one of them.

But what else could he do? Every alley, every dark corner had been claimed by some gang or lowlife, all of them too petty or vicious to let him slip through unnoticed. It didn't matter how strong he was; he needed a base, somewhere he could regroup and figure out his next move. And so, despite the voice in his head warning him to turn back, he pressed on.

As he drew closer, the Hazbin Hotel came into view. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the city, its freshly painted walls and bright neon sign gleaming amidst the gloom. It looked almost...inviting. Spawn's scowl deepened. It was too clean, too hopeful, especially for a place like this. He'd seen places like this before, all shine and no substance. Usually, they were fronts for something much darker.

He paused at the entrance, staring up at the garish sign with a frown. Redemption Awaits. The words echoed in his mind, mocking him. He'd given up on redemption a long time ago, and the idea that it could be found here, of all places, was laughable.

Still, he knew he didn't have much choice. His options were limited, and he needed a place to lay low. He pushed open the door and stepped inside without knocking, his broad shoulders brushing against the frame.

The lobby was just as out of place as the building itself. Bright, cheerful decor clashed with the grimness outside, giving the place an almost surreal quality. For a moment, Spawn felt disoriented, as if he'd walked into some strange, twisted version of a dream. And then he heard a voice.

"Welcome to the Hazbin-"

The words were bright and welcoming, filled with an enthusiasm that seemed utterly foreign to this realm. But the voice faltered as its owner caught sight of him. Standing behind the reception desk was a young woman, her blonde hair cascading in loose waves around her shoulders. Her smile, which had been wide and sincere, froze as her eyes met his.

For a few long, tense moments, there was silence. The woman's eyes widened slightly, her gaze flicking over him with a mixture of surprise and caution. Spawn knew what she was seeing: a towering figure clad in chains and a tattered red cloak, his face concealed behind a mask of bone-white and black, his eyes glowing with an unholy green light. He was a vision of menace, of death incarnate, and the recognition of that fact was plain on her face.

But to her credit, she didn't flinch. The initial shock seemed to pass, and her smile returned, though it was more subdued, more cautious than before.

"Hello there," she said, her voice still warm, if a bit strained. "I'm Charlie, and this is the Hazbin Hotel. How can I help you today?"

Spawn didn't respond immediately. He studied her for a long moment, his fiery gaze scrutinizing every detail of her expression. There was something about her, something different from the other demons he'd encountered. She was...innocent, almost, in a way that felt entirely out of place here. It made him uneasy.

"I need a place," he said finally, his voice low and rough. "Somewhere to stay. Is this place what it says it is?"

Charlie's smile wavered slightly, but she held her ground. "That's what we're trying to be," she said, her tone earnest. "A place where anyone can come for a second chance, no matter who they are."

A bitter chuckle escaped Spawn's lips. "You don't know who you're talking to."

Her eyes never left his, her gaze unwavering despite the tension that hung heavy in the air. "Then why don't you tell me?" she asked, her voice gentle but insistent. "Who are you?"

For a moment, Spawn considered the question. It had been a long time since anyone had asked him that. Longer still since he had given a straight answer. He hesitated, the memories of who he had been and what he had become swirling in his mind.

"Al," he said finally, the name tasting strange on his tongue. "Or Spawn. I don't care which."

Charlie nodded slowly, as if absorbing the weight of his words. "Well, Al-or Spawn-you're welcome here. We don't turn anyone away."

The words hung in the air between them, an invitation that felt almost too good to be true. Spawn's instincts screamed at him to turn around, to walk away before he got entangled in whatever scheme this place was hiding. But there was something about the sincerity in her eyes, something that made him pause.

"Why?" he asked, his voice barely more than a growl. "Why do you care?"

Charlie's smile softened, a hint of sadness flickering in her gaze. "Because I believe everyone deserves a chance to be more than what they are. Even here."

Spawn stared at her, searching her face for any sign of deception, any hint that this was some kind of trap. But all he saw was a strange, stubborn hope, a belief in something better that seemed utterly out of place in this hellish landscape.

He didn't know what to make of it. But he was tired, and he needed a place to rest, to gather his thoughts. Maybe, just maybe, he could afford to take this one risk.

"Fine," he said at last, his voice grudging. "I'll stay. For now."

Charlie's smile widened, genuine relief and joy lighting up her features. "Great! I'll show you to a room. We can talk more after you've had a chance to settle in."

She turned, gesturing for him to follow, and Spawn hesitated only a moment before trailing after her. As he moved deeper into the hotel, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into something he didn't quite understand. This place, this woman-they were unlike anything he had encountered before.

And for the first time in a long, long while, he felt something almost like curiosity stirring within him.

Charlie's fingers move deftly over the register, jotting down Spawn's information with a cheerful smile. But the bright energy in the lobby shifts when the sound of footsteps echoes down the staircase.

Vaggie and Angel Dust appear, their conversation halting the moment they catch sight of the newcomer. Vaggie's eyes narrow, her body tensing as if she's just encountered a predator in the wild. Angel's usual smirk falters, replaced by a look that's a mixture of curiosity and unease.

"Charlie, who is this?" Vaggie asks, her voice tight. She moves to stand between Charlie and Spawn, her posture protective and confrontational.

Spawn's glowing green eyes flick to her, then to Angel, whose flirtatious grin seems forced. Angel steps forward, swaying his hips dramatically as he leans against the reception desk.

"Well, hello there, big guy. You new around here?" he purrs, though there's an edge to his voice, as if he's testing the waters. But even the bravado can't mask the slight tremor in his voice.

Spawn doesn't reply, just looks between the two of them with a cold, assessing gaze. Vaggie's grip on the handle of her spear tightens.

"Charlie, are you sure-"

"He's fine, Vaggie," Charlie interrupts firmly, though her tone remains gentle. "This hotel is for everyone. Remember?"

Vaggie shoots her a look of disbelief. "But just look at him! He's-" She falters, unable to find the right word to encapsulate the overwhelming sense of danger radiating from Spawn.

"I know," Charlie says softly, "but we're here to help, no matter what." She turns back to Spawn, who watches the exchange with a stoic, unreadable expression. "You're welcome here, Al. I'll get you set up with a room, and if you need anything, please let us know."

Spawn nods slightly, his gaze never leaving Vaggie, as if daring her to make a move. She glowers back, her stance unyielding. Angel, sensing the tension, gives a nervous laugh and steps back.

"Well, I, for one, am just dying to see how this plays out," he quips, his voice laced with a strained cheerfulness.

Charlie finishes the check-in process and hands Spawn a key. "Your room is on the second floor, down the hall to the right. I hope you'll be comfortable."

Spawn takes the key, his large hand dwarfing it, and with a final, lingering look at the three of them, he turns and heads for the stairs.

As he disappears from sight, Vaggie turns to Charlie, her eyes wide with concern. "Charlie, he's dangerous. I can feel it."

"I know," Charlie says quietly, looking after him with a thoughtful expression. "But that's why he needs to be here. If we can help him, maybe he won't be."

Angel, still looking slightly rattled, sighs dramatically. "Well, sugar, if anyone can tame the big, scary beast, it's you. But, uh, don't get yourself killed, okay?"

Charlie just smiles, her optimism undimmed. "He's not a beast, Angel. He's just...lost. Like everyone else here." She glances up the stairs. "We'll figure it out."

Vaggie shakes her head but says nothing more. She knows there's no point arguing when Charlie's mind is made up. But she can't shake the feeling that this time, they're dealing with something far more dangerous than any other guest they've had before.

Chapter Text

Spawn makes his way down the hall, the wooden floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts. The confrontation downstairs, the strange sense of familiarity and unease that washed over him as soon as he stepped inside this place-everything about this hotel felt off. Charlie's enthusiasm, Vaggie's distrust, Angel's nervousness...it was all a little too much, too fast.

He turns a corner, his eyes scanning the dimly lit hallway. As he approaches his room, a chill runs down his spine-a sensation that's become all too familiar over the years. Someone's watching him.

Spawn stops, his senses sharp and alert. Slowly, he turns his head, his glowing eyes piercing through the gloom. There, leaning casually against the wall in the shadows, is a figure. A wide, unsettling grin stretches across a face that seems both sinister and amused.

Alastor, the Radio Demon, twirls his cane, his smile growing impossibly wider. "Well, well, well, what do we have here? A new guest in our humble abode. And such a unique one at that."

Spawn's eyes narrow. Something about this demon's grin, the way his eyes seem to gleam with an almost predatory delight, stirs a bitter memory. It reminds him too much of Violator in his Clown form-the same twisted sense of humor, the same sadistic gleam.

"I don't have time for this," Spawn growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Move."

Alastor's grin doesn't falter. Instead, he pushes away from the wall, his every movement smooth and calculated. "Oh, but I insist. It's not every day we get someone of your...caliber. I'm simply dying to know more about you." He chuckles, the sound rich and unsettling, echoing faintly through the hallway. "Why, you have quite the aura. So much rage, so much pain. I can almost taste it."

Spawn's fists clench, the chains around his body rattling softly. "You have no idea who you're messing with," he warns, his voice a dangerous rumble.

Alastor's eyes flash, a flicker of something dark and malicious passing through them. "Oh, I think I do. You're something special, aren't you? Neither fully demon nor human, yet not quite something in between. It's fascinating, really." He steps closer, the air around him seeming to pulse with a strange, dark energy. "But tell me, what brings someone like you to a place like this? Looking for redemption, perhaps?"

Spawn's eyes blaze. "I'm not here to chat. Get out of my way."

Alastor's smile doesn't waver, but his voice drops to a chilling, almost dangerous tone. "Or what?"

Before Spawn can respond, there's a sudden flash of light, and Charlie appears between them, her expression a mix of concern and determination. "Okay, that's enough!" she says, holding up her hands to both of them. "Let's not do this."

Alastor's grin returns to its usual, almost playful state, though his eyes remain fixed on Spawn. "Ah, Miss Charlie! Always the peacemaker." He twirls his cane once more with a mock bow. "I was merely having a little chat with our new guest here. No harm done."

"Right," Charlie says, glancing worriedly at Spawn, who is still glaring at Alastor. "Well, maybe you could have that chat another time, Alastor. I think our guest would like some space right now."

Spawn doesn't take his eyes off the Radio Demon, his entire body tense, ready to strike at a moment's notice. "You're not fooling me," he growls. "I've seen your kind before."

Alastor chuckles, the sound dark and menacing. "Oh, I'm sure you have. But rest assured, I'm simply here to welcome you to the hotel. I wouldn't dream of causing any trouble." His grin widens, the false sincerity dripping from his words.

Charlie steps closer to Spawn, gently touching his arm. "Al, please. This place is meant to be safe. You don't have to fight here."

For a long moment, Spawn doesn't move, his gaze locked on Alastor. Finally, with a harsh exhale, he pulls back, stepping away from Charlie and the Radio Demon.

"Fine," he mutters. "But keep that freak away from me."

Charlie nods, relief washing over her face. "Thank you. I promise, you'll have your space."

Alastor's grin never falters, but his eyes follow Spawn as he walks past them, the tension in his shoulders evident. "I'm sure we'll get to know each other better, Al," he calls after him, his voice smooth and mocking. "After all, we're all friends here, aren't we?"

Spawn doesn't respond, his boots echoing against the wooden floor as he disappears down the hall. Charlie turns to Alastor, her smile strained. "Please don't antagonize him, Alastor. We're trying to help people here."

Alastor merely shrugs, his smile never fading. "Why, Miss Charlie, I wouldn't dream of it. I'm simply being...friendly." He chuckles softly, twirling his cane once more. "But I'll leave him be. For now."

Charlie watches him warily as he strolls away, his laughter echoing softly in the distance. She sighs, glancing down the hall where Spawn had gone, worry etched on her face. This was going to be more challenging than she'd thought.

Spawn's tension is palpable as he stalks down the hall, the recent encounter with Alastor still lingering in his mind. The Radio Demon's eerie grin, the way he seemed to look right through him-everything about it reminded him too much of his past, of his early days as a Hellspawn, when he was little more than a pawn in a game he didn't understand. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged back into that mindset.

He forces his mind to focus. He needed a place to lay low, to get his bearings. There was no use getting worked up over some demonic clown with a fancy suit.

Coming to a stop outside the room Charlie had assigned him, Spawn listens intently. He can hear the faint sound of footsteps inside, a rhythmic tap-tap of someone moving around. He pushes the door open cautiously, his senses on high alert. If this was some kind of setup, he was ready for it.

But as the door swings open, he's met with an unexpected sight. The room is spotless, almost gleaming in the dim light, and at the center of it all is a small figure, darting about with a dust cloth in hand. She's a petite demon, barely coming up to his knees, with a single wide eye and a bright smile that seems permanently fixed on her face.

"Oh, hello there!" she chirps, her voice high and cheerful as she whirls around to face him. "I'm Niffty! I'm just making sure everything is perfect for our new guest!" She bounces on her heels, her movements quick and energetic. "That's you, right?"

Spawn stands in the doorway, staring down at the tiny demon in disbelief. Out of all the things he expected to find in this room, a hyperactive housekeeper was not one of them. He doesn't say anything, just watches as she flits around, straightening the bedspread and polishing an already spotless lamp.

"You're a big guy, huh?" Niffty continues, seemingly unbothered by his silence. "I like big guys. They're like big, strong, protective types! Are you a protector? You look like a protector." She pauses, her single eye narrowing as she inspects him more closely. "Ooh, but you've got that bad boy look too, don't you? I bet you're all dangerous and mysterious." She giggles, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I like that."

Spawn's gaze shifts from Niffty to the room, then back to her. He's still tense, his muscles coiled, but her bizarre energy is so out of place, so at odds with everything he's experienced so far, that he finds himself at a loss for words.

"Do you talk?" Niffty asks, tilting her head to the side, her eye wide and curious. "Or are you one of those strong, silent types? That's okay! I can talk enough for the both of us!" She beams up at him, seemingly oblivious to the aura of danger he's radiating. "Oh, I bet you've got a really cool story, don't you? What's your name? No, wait, let me guess! Something strong and mysterious, like... uh... Shadow? Or maybe Darkblade! Ooh, how about Death Claw? No, that's silly. Hmm..."

"Spawn," he finally says, his voice a low, rumbling growl that seems to echo in the small room.

"Spawn, huh?" Niffty repeats, her smile widening. "I like it! Very cool, very edgy!" She winks up at him, as if they're sharing some private joke. "I'll make sure your room stays super clean, Mr. Spawn! Can't have you staying in a mess, not with how important you look!"

Spawn narrows his eyes, trying to get a read on this strange, excitable demon. She doesn't seem like a threat, but then, he's learned the hard way not to underestimate anyone. Still, there's no malice in her, just a boundless energy that seems almost infectious.

"Do you need anything?" she asks, bouncing over to the door and peering up at him with a hopeful expression. "Extra pillows? Towels? Maybe a... I don't know, a midnight snack? I'm good at finding things!"

"No," Spawn says shortly. "Just... do your job."

Niffty's smile doesn't waver. If anything, it seems to grow even brighter. "You got it, boss!" she chirps, giving him a playful salute. "I'll be around if you need anything, Mr. Spawn! Just holler!"

With that, she flits out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her. For a moment, Spawn just stands there, staring at the spot where she'd been. Then, with a heavy sigh, he steps further into the room, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to ease.

It wasn't Rat City, and it sure as hell wasn't his throne back on Earth. But it was something. For now, it would do.

And if any of these demons thought they could mess with him, well... they'd learn soon enough.

Chapter Text

The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel was filled with a tense, uneasy energy, far removed from its usual chaotic but welcoming atmosphere. Charlie sat in the center of the couch in the lobby, her hands folded in front of her, her usual bright smile replaced with a look of deep contemplation.

Vaggie, arms crossed and expression set in a hard scowl, was the first to speak. "This is a bad idea, Charlie. I mean, really bad." Her voice was low but firm, each word edged with concern. "Did you even feel the energy coming off him? He's dangerous. More dangerous than anyone we've had in here before."

Charlie nodded slowly, her eyes downcast. "I know, Vaggie. I could feel it too. But we can't turn people away just because they're dangerous or intimidating. That goes against everything we're trying to do here."

"And what exactly are we trying to do here?" Vaggie snapped, her voice rising. "Get ourselves killed? He's not just another sinner looking for redemption. He's... he's something else."

"Yeah, and what's the big deal?" Husk grumbled from behing the bar, taking a long swig from his flask. "Just another damn soul in Hell, far as I can tell. As long as he doesn't trash the place, I don't care."

"See? Husk gets it!" Niffty piped up, her single eye bright with excitement. "I think he's super cool! All mysterious and broody. Like a comic book hero!" She giggled, spinning around in her seat. "And he's polite! Didn't make a mess in his room at all. I even asked if he needed anything!"

Vaggie rolled her eyes. "Niffty, you'd like a serial killer if he smiled at you."

Niffty just shrugged, unbothered. "A smile goes a long way!"

Charlie's gaze moved to Angel Dust, who was uncharacteristically quiet, leaning on the arm rest of his chair as he stared off into space. "Angel?" she prompted gently. "What do you think?"

Angel blinked, seeming to come out of his reverie. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "I dunno, Char. I mean, on the one hand, he's like... totally my type, y'know?" He gave a half-hearted smirk. "Tall, dark, and brooding. But... I dunno. There's something else there. More than just the whole bad boy routine."

Vaggie snorted. "So, you're into him?"

Angel shot her a glare. "I'm just saying there's more to him than what he shows. It's like... he's got this raw aggression, but it's not just for show. There's a whole mess of something under the surface, and it's not just anger."

"Like he's hiding something?" Charlie asked softly.

"Yeah, maybe," Angel said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Or maybe he's just been through some serious shit. Whatever it is, he's not like anyone else here."

Charlie nodded, a small, thoughtful smile forming on her lips. "I felt that too. Like there's something deeper to him. Something he's struggling with." She glanced at Vaggie, her voice gentle but firm. "That's why we have to try, Vaggie. If we don't, then who will?"

Vaggie's expression softened, but only slightly. "I get it, Charlie, I do. But we need to be careful. We don't know what he's capable of."

Charlie reached across the table, taking Vaggie's hand in hers. "I promise, we'll be careful. But I can't just turn him away. Not without trying."

Vaggie sighed heavily, squeezing Charlie's hand before pulling away. "Alright, fine. But the first sign of trouble, we're getting him out of here. No arguments."

"Deal," Charlie agreed, her smile widening. She turned to the rest of them, her voice taking on a more optimistic tone. "So, let's just do what we always do. Be kind, be patient, and see where this goes."

Husk muttered something under his breath, taking another swig from his flask, while Niffty clapped her hands together, her enthusiasm undimmed. Angel just shrugged, his usual smirk returning.

Charlie stood, her resolve strengthening. "We're going to help him, one way or another. That's what this place is for."

As the group slowly dispersed, the tension in the room began to ease. But an undercurrent of unease remained, a shared sense of stepping into the unknown.

Charlie watched them go, her thoughts drifting back to the brief, intense conversation she'd had with Spawn. There was a darkness there, deeper than any she'd seen before. But there was something else too-a glimmer of something she couldn't quite place.

Whatever it was, she was determined to find out. No matter how long it took.

As the group dispersed, each going back to their usual business, Angel Dust sidled up to Husk, his usual swagger slightly diminished by the lingering tension in the air. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of smoke before glancing sideways at the surly bartender.

"Y'know, Husk," Angel began, his tone casual but laced with curiosity, "you and that new guy? You sound a hell of a lot alike. All gruff and no-nonsense. You sure you ain't related or something?"

Husk shot him a glare, his wings twitching slightly in irritation. "Related? To him?" He scoffed, taking a deep gulp from his flask. "Not a chance. I don't sound anything like that creepy bastard."

Angel shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. "I dunno, I'm just sayin'. He's got that same 'get off my lawn' vibe you got goin' on."

Husk rolled his eyes, turning back to his usual post behind the bar. "Yeah, well, I'm not the one stalking around with a face like he's about to rip someone's head off. So drop it."

Angel chuckled, leaning against the counter. "Alright, alright, just messin' with ya." He took another drag of his cigarette, eyes flicking back to the stairs where Spawn had disappeared. "Still, though... something about him just feels... off."

"Everything about this place is off," Husk grumbled, polishing a glass with a rag. "Get used to it."

Angel just nodded, the humor fading from his expression as he thought back to the intense aura Spawn had radiated. "Yeah... guess you're right."

He lingered a moment longer at the bar, his gaze drifting to Niffty, who was cheerfully scrubbing an already spotless counter nearby. Her enthusiasm for cleaning never ceased to amaze-or bewilder-him.

"Hey, Niffty," he called out, tapping his cigarette to drop the ash into an empty glass. "Did you hear what I was talking about with Husk? Doesn't he and the new guy sound, like, weirdly similar?"

Niffty paused mid-scrub, her eye widening as she tilted her head in confusion. "What? Oh, no, not at all!" she chirped, blinking innocently. "They sound completely different to me."

Angel raised an eyebrow, glancing between her and Husk. "Really? You're telling me you don't hear it? That gravelly, 'I've-seen-some-stuff-and-I'm-mad-about-it' tone they both got?"

Niffty giggled, shaking her head. "Nope! Husk has more of a grumpy, tired voice. Like a grumpy old cat! The new guy sounds... um... intense? Like, really intense. There's a big difference!" She beamed, clearly pleased with her assessment.

Angel frowned, looking back at Husk, who was studiously ignoring the conversation. "Are you messing with me?" he asked suspiciously.

Husk let out an exasperated sigh, finally turning to glare at Angel. "Why the hell would I bother messing with you about something so stupid?" he snapped. "I've got better things to do than try to screw with your head, Dust."

Angel's eyes narrowed, still unconvinced. "I dunno... just seems weird you two don't hear it. Maybe you're both messing with me."

Niffty shook her head emphatically. "Nope, I promise! I wouldn't do that!" She looked up at Husk, who gave a curt nod of agreement.

"See?" Husk said, his voice dripping with annoyance. "We're not. Drop it already."

Angel studied them both for a moment, then let out a defeated sigh. "Alright, fine, I'll drop it. But I'm keeping an ear out. There's something there, I just know it."

With that, he gave a dramatic shrug and strutted away, muttering to himself about conspiracy theories and the world being out to get him. Niffty and Husk exchanged a look, Husk rolling his eyes before going back to his drink and Niffty humming cheerfully as she continued her cleaning.

"Guys, I'm telling ya," Angel called over his shoulder, "I'm onto something here!"

But the only response was Husk's low grumble and Niffty's delighted giggle, leaving Angel to wonder if he really was the only one hearing things.

Chapter Text

The room reeked of perfume, alcohol, and fury. Valentino paced back and forth, his slender fingers gripping a crystal glass of bourbon that sloshed violently as he moved. His usual air of smug superiority was gone, replaced by something rawer, uglier. The dim lighting of the penthouse suite threw sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing the furious twitch of his jaw. Behind him, two of his favorite actresses sat on the plush, velvet couch, eyeing him nervously. They knew better than to speak when Valentino was like this.

In one hand, he held a phone, pressed tightly against his ear, his voice alternating between low growls and full-blown shouting. On the other end of the line, Vox remained uncharacteristically calm, trying to soothe the inferno that was Valentino in full rage mode.

"I don't give a damn what they thought they saw!" Valentino shouted, his wings flaring slightly, casting long shadows across the room. "I've got three of my best men-best men-wearing their heads on backwards, and you're telling me to calm down?"

On the other end of the phone, Vox's voice crackled, smooth and detached as ever. "Val, listen to me. You're not going to fix this by screaming into a phone. You've lost men before. It's Hell, for Christ's sake."

Valentino growled under his breath, his eyes darting towards the two girls sitting nervously on the couch. Both of them were looking anywhere but at him, their gazes flickering nervously between the floor and each other. His temper flared even more at the sight of them sitting there, doing nothing to solve his problem.

"Shut up," he muttered into the phone, pulling the receiver away for a brief second. His grip on the glass tightened until his knuckles turned white. His wings twitched again, and without warning, Valentino threw the bourbon glass across the room with a violent snap of his arm. The glass hit the wall with a loud crash, shards of crystal raining down dangerously close to the two women, causing them to flinch.

Val ignored them, his chest heaving with barely restrained anger. He lifted the phone back to his ear, his voice returning to its usual venomous sneer. "Calm down? You want me to calm down after losing those guys?"

Vox sighed on the other end, the sound crackling through the phone line. "I get it, Val. You're pissed. But you can't lose your head over this. We'll figure it out. Now, tell me what you know. Maybe we can narrow this down."

Valentino took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice level, but the rage still simmered just beneath the surface. He stalked toward the large window that overlooked the sprawling cityscape of Pentagram City, his wings rustling behind him with agitation. His reflection glared back at him, distorted and monstrous in the glass. "What I know," Valentino hissed, "is that some asshole, some nobody, walked up to three of my men and left them with their heads twisted around like rag dolls."

He could hear Vox pause on the other end of the line, probably pulling up his own information, running through contacts, trying to find a lead. But Valentino didn't have the patience for it. His grip on the phone tightened until it threatened to snap under his grasp.

"I swear to you, Vox," Val continued, his voice dropping low. "When I find this guy, I'm going to make an example out of him. I'm going to send you his teeth. Maybe a couple of fingers. Hell, I'll send you the whole damn body."

There was a short pause on the other end, and then Vox spoke, his tone pragmatic, if a bit disinterested. "And who exactly is this mystery assailant, Val? You got a name? Any kind of description?"

Valentino's lips curled into a snarl. "My guys didn't get a good look at him. Not much to say beyond the fact he was acting like he's the next deadly sin, strutting around like he owned the place. Whoever he is, he's walking around Pentagram City right now, thinking he can get away with this."

Vox clicked his tongue on the other end, still sounding maddeningly calm. "Alright, alright. I'll have my people look into it. You know the city. Someone's bound to have seen something, and if they haven't? Well, we'll make them talk."

Valentino could feel his rage boiling over again. He slammed his free hand onto the nearby table, causing the two actresses to jump once more. Their wide eyes darted towards the door as if silently begging for an opportunity to escape the penthouse without being noticed. But they stayed quiet, frozen in place, unwilling to risk Valentino's wrath turning on them.

"And what am I supposed to do until then, huh?" Val hissed. "Just sit on my ass and wait for this bastard to slip up?"

Vox sighed, an audible exhale that sounded almost bored. "Yes, Val. That's exactly what you do. Don't go making a bigger mess out of this than it already is. You've got plenty of other business to handle, don't you? Just focus on replacing those men, and I'll let you know when I've got something concrete."

Valentino bristled at the implication. "You think I can't handle replacing a few men? I'm the king of replacements, Vox. But that's not the point."

"No, it's not," Vox replied calmly. "But it's what you're going to focus on for now, because getting yourself worked up over this isn't going to bring them back. Look, it's a shame you lost them, Val, but it's not the end of the world. You'll have new men soon enough, and we'll get whoever did this."

Valentino opened his mouth to fire back with another retort, but before he could, Vox continued. "Let's not forget, you've always bounced back. You don't get rattled this easy. So calm down, cool off, and let's work this smart. You don't want to end up losing more men just because you're pissed off and rushing into things, do you?"

Valentino was silent for a moment, the only sound in the room being his labored breathing as he tried to reel in his emotions. The two actresses shifted uncomfortably on the couch, clearly desperate to leave but terrified of drawing attention to themselves.

Finally, Val spoke, his voice a low growl. "Fine. But if your people don't turn up something soon, I'll handle it myself. And when I do, you'll be the first to know how messy it's going to get."

There was a soft chuckle from Vox's side. "I wouldn't expect anything less, Val."

With that, the call ended with a sharp click. Valentino threw the phone onto the nearest chair, running a hand over his face in frustration. His eyes darted to the broken glass scattered across the floor, then to the two women still sitting on the couch.

"Well?" he snapped. "What are you waiting for? Get the hell out!"

The actresses didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled to their feet, quickly making their way to the door, throwing nervous glances over their shoulders as they went. Valentino watched them go, his wings twitching restlessly as they disappeared down the hallway.

When the door finally shut, Valentino let out a low, seething breath. He stood alone in the middle of his opulent penthouse, surrounded by luxury and indulgence, yet feeling an emptiness gnawing at his insides. The loss of his men wasn't just an insult-it was a direct challenge to his authority. And Valentino wasn't the kind of demon to take challenges lightly.

He turned his gaze back to the city beyond the window. Somewhere out there, the person responsible was walking around, likely feeling untouchable. Valentino smirked darkly to himself. They wouldn't feel that way for long.

Lighting a cigarette, Val leaned back against the table, smoke curling lazily in the air as he stared out into the neon-lit streets below. He'd find them. And when he did, he was going to make sure they regretted ever thinking they could cross him.

For now, he'd bide his time. But soon enough, whoever it was would wish they'd never set foot in this city.

As the call with Valentino ended, Vox leaned back in his high-tech chair, an array of flashing screens and holograms flickering around him. The irritation that colored his voice during the call with Val was gone, replaced by cold, calculating calm. Valentino was easy to rile up, and it wasn't hard to placate him with promises of action. Still, Vox knew better than to dismiss the situation outright. Anyone who could take out three of Valentino's best men and leave such a deliberate, brutal message was no rookie.

He glanced at one of his larger screens, pulling up information with a casual flick of his hand. The faces of Valentino's men appeared, all marked "deceased" in glaring red. Their causes of death, as reported by Val, were brutal and efficient. Whoever this was, they didn't just stumble into the situation-they had a clear objective, and they had the power to see it through.

The lines between his lips curved slightly into a smirk as he keyed in a new number on the phone. This wasn't just a random attack. This was something bigger, and Vox needed to gather more data.

The phone rang twice before Velvette picked up, her voice coming through with its usual bubbly enthusiasm. "Voxy! What's up? Long time no call! I was wondering when I'd hear from you again."

Vox's smirk widened slightly. Velvette's upbeat tone and cheerful demeanor always amused him, though he knew better than to mistake it for naivety. Velvette was sharper than she let on. "Hey, Velvette," he greeted smoothly. "Got something I need your thoughts on. You got a minute?"

"For you, darling? Always!" Velvette replied, her voice taking on a playful lilt. "What's the scoop? Don't tell me Val's lost his mind again."

Vox chuckled softly. "You know him too well. But this time, it's not just him overreacting." He paused, the smirk fading from his face as he switched to a more serious tone. "Someone took out three of his best guys. Not just some random muscle. These were his top enforcers. Whoever did it left them with their heads twisted around backwards."

There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a low whistle from Velvette. "Yikes. That's not just messy-that's personal."

"Exactly," Vox said, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of his chair. "Val's pissed off, but I don't think this was just some newcomer looking to make a name for themselves. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. They were deliberate, efficient, and powerful enough to pull it off without leaving much of a trail."

Velvette hummed thoughtfully on the other end, the faint sound of tapping nails in the background as she processed the information. "Sounds like you've got yourself a problem, Voxy. Whoever this is, they're not just messing around. They're sending a message."

Vox leaned forward, his eyes narrowing at the display in front of him. "That's what I'm thinking. I'm not ruling out that it could be someone gunning for Valentino's turf, but it's got a different feel. Too clean, too...calculated. I want to know what you think. Have you heard anything through the grapevine?"

Velvette chuckled softly, the sound playful but with an edge of seriousness. "Oh, you know me. I've always got my ear to the ground. Lemme see what I can dig up. But if I had to guess? Whoever did this has been around for a while. This kind of work takes experience. Not just brute strength, but precision."

Vox nodded, though she couldn't see him. "That's what I figured. Val's hot-headed, and he's not wrong to be pissed. But I don't think he fully understands what he's dealing with here."

"And you do?" Velvette asked, amusement lacing her words.

"I've got my suspicions," Vox replied smoothly, his mind already working through potential leads. "There are always new players in this game, but the ones who stick around? They're not the type to make rookie mistakes. If they're targeting Val's guys, they've got a reason. I'm going to find out what it is."

"Good luck with that," Velvette teased. "I've got a feeling this one's gonna keep you on your toes. But hey, you love a good challenge, don't you?"

Vox's lips twitched into a grin. "You know me too well."

Velvette laughed softly, her voice taking on a more serious tone as she added, "I'll keep an eye out and let you know if I hear anything. But you're right to take this seriously, Voxy. Whoever did this is playing a different game. And it's not one Val's used to."

"I figured as much," Vox replied, his voice turning cold once more. "Keep me updated. And Velvette?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch your back. I don't think this is over."

Velvette's voice softened slightly, a rare moment of seriousness cutting through her usual cheer. "I always do. You be careful too, Voxy."

The call ended, leaving Vox alone in his darkened office. He stared at the screens in front of him, his mind racing with possibilities. He knew Velvette would be on the lookout, but he wasn't about to sit back and wait for answers.

Whoever this was, they had made a dangerous move. And if they thought they could get away with it, they were about to learn just how wrong they were.

Vox leaned back in his chair once more, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he activated a few more screens, pulling up live feeds from across the city. Valentino might have been the one hit, but Vox knew better than to let someone else's mess go unchecked. He thrived on control, and this situation was slipping out of it.

Not for long.

The game had changed, and now it was Vox's turn to make the next move.

Chapter Text

Spawn's first night at the Hazbin Hotel was a restless one. Sleep eluded him, leaving his mind consumed with thoughts of why he was here and how it had happened. The quiet creaking of the old building, the distant voices of the hotel's odd residents, none of it mattered to him. He couldn't shake the feeling that something bigger was at play.

The stranger, Callister-his cryptic words and mysterious demeanor-was the only lead Spawn had. He needed answers, and if anyone had them, it seemed to be that man.

At first light, Spawn left his room, determined to find Callister and get some clarity. His movements were swift and silent, passing by the dimly lit hallways as the strange warmth of the hotel felt suffocating. He had every intention of making it out the front door without any distractions.

But, of course, distractions came.

As soon as he neared the lobby, Charlie appeared out of nowhere, her bright and cheerful energy completely at odds with the tension in his body.

"Good morning!" she called out, smiling warmly. "Did you sleep well? We've got breakfast ready if you're hungry!"

Spawn barely slowed his pace, his eyes locked forward as he grunted a curt, "No."

Charlie, ever the optimist, didn't let the cold response faze her. She followed him closely as he moved toward the entrance, her voice softening slightly.

"I just wanted to explain a bit more about the hotel," she began, her tone full of sincerity. "We're here to help-no matter who you are or where you've been. The whole point is redemption. I know it might seem strange, but everyone who comes here has a chance to-"

Spawn didn't even look at her. His boots thudded against the floor as he reached the door, his fingers already brushing against the handle.

Just as he was about to step outside, a figure moved into his path.

Vaggie.

She stood with her arms crossed, her expression hard and unwavering as she blocked his way. "Where do you think you're going?" she demanded, her sharp eye locked onto his.

Spawn's gaze narrowed, finally acknowledging her presence. "What do you care?" His voice was a low growl, edged with irritation.

"It's my job to care," Vaggie shot back, her tone fierce. "I'm here to make sure this hotel stays safe. That includes making sure you don't cause any problems."

Spawn took a step closer, his towering presence casting a shadow over her. "If that's your job, then you'd be better off staying out of my way. I'm not here for any of you."

Vaggie didn't flinch. She stood her ground, the tension between them thickening as they stared each other down. Neither moved, neither spoke. The air was electric, as though a single word or movement would set off an explosion of violence.

"Now move," Spawn finally said, his voice dark and menacing, "or be moved."

A long, silent moment passed between them. Vaggie's hands clenched at her sides, her stubborn resolve clear, but she wasn't foolish. After a few more tense seconds, she relented, stepping aside just enough for him to pass.

"Don't think I'm letting you off easy," she muttered under her breath, her eye still full of suspicion as she watched him leave.

Spawn didn't respond. With one last glance at the door, he pushed it open and stepped out into the streets of Hell once more. He didn't have time for these games. He had a mission, and nothing would stop him from finding the answers he needed.

As Spawn skulked out the door, Angel Dust stood at the top of the stairs, watching the entire exchange unfold. He leaned against the banister with a smirk, tapping a cigarette between his fingers. "Whew, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he remarked, his tone light and sarcastic.

"I'm wondering if he has a right side to wake up on." Husk remarked as he cleaned a glass.

Vaggie, however, wasn't in the mood for jokes. Her face remained tense, her eyes following Spawn until he disappeared out of sight. The tension still lingered thick in the air, and she turned sharply toward Charlie, her frustration barely contained.

"Charlie," Vaggie started, her voice firm but not unkind, "I get that this place is supposed to be for everyone. I do. But you really need to think about whether someone like him should be here. He's dangerous, Charlie. You can feel it. And we have to think about the safety of everyone else staying here. I know you want to help people, but what if he doesn't want help? What if he's not here for the right reasons?"

Charlie took in Vaggie's words, her face soft with concern. She knew Vaggie was only trying to protect the hotel, protect her, but Charlie couldn't shake her instinct. She looked past Vaggie for a moment, toward the door where Spawn had just left, a quiet determination rising in her.

Husk, who had been sitting quietly at the bar, took a long sip of his drink and muttered, "Guy seems pretty high-strung to me."

Angel chimed in with a laugh, "Oh, come on, Husk. We're all crazy here. He's just a bit... moodier, that's all."

Despite the casual comments, Charlie's expression stayed serious. She looked back at Vaggie, her eyes soft yet resolute. "I get what you're saying, Vaggie, but I don't think we can just write him off because he's rough around the edges. He's been through something-something awful, probably. People don't act like that unless they're hurting or trying to protect themselves."

Vaggie frowned, but Charlie pressed on, her voice filled with that same unyielding hope that always seemed to fuel her.

"I refuse to give up on him," Charlie said, her hands gripping each other tightly in front of her. "He deserves a chance, just like anyone else who walks through that door. Maybe he's hiding something, maybe he's been through more than we can imagine-but I'm not going to push him away because of that. If anything, it's all the more reason to keep trying to reach him."

Angel blew out a puff of smoke, glancing between them with an amused grin. "You really are something, Charlie. Still think you're gonna fix all of us, huh?"

Charlie smiled warmly at him, but her resolve didn't waver. "I'm going to try."

Vaggie sighed, still unconvinced, but she couldn't argue with Charlie when she was like this. That unshakable faith in people was why they were doing this in the first place, but it was also what worried her the most. With a final glance at the door, Vaggie spoke softly, "Just... be careful, Charlie. We don't know what he's capable of."

Charlie nodded, her smile turning softer. "I will. But I won't give up on him. Not yet."

Vaggie reluctantly stepped back, knowing that Charlie had made up her mind. Despite her doubts, she would stand by Charlie's decision, as she always had. They all would-even if the newcomer's presence had unsettled them all in different ways.

For now, Charlie's mission stood: to help anyone and everyone who came through the door. Even if that someone was as dangerous and broken as Spawn.

Spawn's boots hit the pavement in heavy, deliberate steps as he prowled through the dimly lit streets. The weight of Hell still clung to him, a darkness that even the stifled glow of street lamps couldn't chase away. His mind was a storm of questions and frustration, and only one person had the answers-Callister, the old man who had found him when he first arrived.

It took time, but eventually, in a forgotten corner of the city, Spawn found him. Callister sat quietly, tucked away in the shadows like a ghost who had seen too much of the world and had grown tired of it. His eyes were closed as if he was waiting, not surprised by Spawn's arrival in the slightest.

As Spawn approached, Callister spoke without looking up, his voice calm, almost amused. "I knew you'd come back."

Spawn didn't bother with pleasantries. "You're going to tell me what the hell is going on," he growled. His eyes burned through the gloom, glowing faintly in the dim light.

Callister finally opened his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Ah, straight to the point. Just like I remember."

This gave Spawn pause. His brows furrowed beneath his mask, and he took a step closer, looming over the man like a predator ready to strike. "What do you mean, 'just like you remember'? Do we know each other?"

Callister chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Not in the way you think. We've never met face-to-face, but I've been around long enough that meeting someone like you isn't out of the question. Hell is a small world when you've lived in it as long as I have."

Spawn's eyes narrowed at the cryptic response. Callister's words reminded him too much of someone he used to know-Nicholas Cogliostro, a man who had guided him during his early days as a Hellspawn. But Cogliostro was dead, wasn't he? Or worse.

He clenched his fists, his patience wearing thin. "Enough with the cryptic bullshit," Spawn snapped. "You know something about why I'm here. Why did you show up, and why are you watching me?"

Callister tilted his head, his calm demeanor unwavering in the face of Spawn's anger. "You're here because Hell isn't done with you yet, Spawn. You may have thought your fight was over, but fate has other plans."

Spawn's frustration boiled over. He grabbed Callister by the collar, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. "I don't care about fate. I care about why I'm here. What's the game this time?"

For a brief moment, Callister's smile faded, but there was no fear in his eyes, only a deep understanding. He placed a hand on Spawn's arm, the weight of his gaze intense. "You're here because you still have unfinished business. Not with the people you've fought before, but with yourself."

Spawn's grip loosened, but only slightly. The words hung in the air, a heavy truth that gnawed at the back of his mind. "What the hell are you talking about?" he muttered.

Callister's expression softened, a glimmer of sympathy in his ancient eyes. "Hell didn't bring you here, Spawn. You brought yourself. You're searching for something. Maybe it's redemption, maybe it's revenge. Maybe you're not even sure what it is. But until you figure that out, you're going to be wandering aimlessly-like you are now."

The words hit harder than Spawn cared to admit. He let Callister go, taking a step back, his mind spinning. He had no time for cryptic prophecies and riddles, but deep down, he knew there was truth in what the old man was saying. He had been searching for something, but what? Closure? Revenge? Or something more?

As Callister straightened his clothes, he gave Spawn a knowing look. "You've always been a fighter. But this time, you're fighting yourself. And until you stop fighting, you'll never find the answers you're looking for."

Spawn clenched his jaw, his fists still trembling with restrained anger. "Why should I believe anything you're saying?"

Callister smiled once more, that same infuriatingly calm smile. "You don't have to believe me. But sooner or later, you'll see it for yourself."

Spawn's eyes bore into Callister, searching for a hint of deception, but all he found was a strange, unsettling wisdom. As much as he hated it, he knew he wasn't getting any more answers from the old man today.

With one last glare, Spawn turned away, walking back into the night. He didn't have time for this. He needed answers, real answers, and he wasn't going to find them by talking in circles with cryptic old men.

But as he left, Callister's voice drifted after him, soft but clear in the dark. "Remember, Spawn... sometimes the only way out is through."

Spawn didn't look back. He had heard enough. But the words lingered in his mind as he disappeared into the shadows once more, leaving him with more questions than before.

Chapter Text

As Spawn made his way back through the city streets, the cryptic words of Callister echoed in his head. You're not fighting Hell... you're fighting yourself. The implication gnawed at him, stirring a deeper frustration. What did it even mean? What part of himself was there left to fight? He had already lost everything.

The more he mulled over it, the more his anger simmered. His fist clenched tighter as he moved closer to the hotel. This city-it was a cesspool of suffering and corruption, yet it was the place where he had effortlessly taken down those thugs yesterday. It felt like everything was connected, and yet it all made no sense.

Just as he rounded a corner, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raised voices. Across the street, a group of demons were roughing up some terrified sinners, demanding answers. Spawn narrowed his eyes, recognizing what was happening almost immediately.

"Who took out Valentino's men?!" one of the demons barked, his tone filled with cruelty. The others around him snickered, clearly enjoying the torment they were inflicting. One demon in particular seemed to be having far too much fun, treating the interrogation like a game.

With a dark snarl, the demon kicked one of the cowering sinners, preparing to ask again. But before he could finish, a new voice cut through the night air.

"Who is-" the demon started.

"- about to rip your head off?" Spawn finished, stepping out from the shadows.

The lead demon barely had time to turn his head before Spawn was on him. In one swift motion, Spawn snatched the pistol from the demon's hand and pulled him into the line of fire from his own comrades. Their bullets ripped through the demon's body, sending him crashing to the ground, writhing in pain.

Spawn didn't stop there. With a predator's precision, he used the pistol he'd just stolen to make quick work of the other demons, unloading bullets into them with brutal efficiency. They fell one by one, their bodies crumpling in heaps around him, the chaos of their ambush turning into a massacre.

Once the others were dealt with, Spawn turned his attention back to the wounded demon, who was now crawling on the ground, gasping for breath. With a single hand, Spawn lifted him off the ground by the collar, his green eyes glowing fiercely beneath his mask.

"Who do you work for?" Spawn demanded, his voice low and menacing.

The demon, choking on his own fear, sputtered out, "I-I work for Vox! We were told to find out who took out Valentino's men-please!"

Spawn's grip tightened, his frustration boiling over. "You go back and tell your boss something for me."

The demon's eyes widened, barely able to nod in acknowledgment.

"Tell him," Spawn growled, "that from now on, the area around that hotel is out of bounds. Anyone who steps foot near it... won't live to regret it."

With a sharp shove, Spawn tossed the demon to the ground, leaving him gasping and scrambling to get away.

Spawn stood there for a moment, watching the demon flee into the distance, his anger still simmering but now laced with a sense of purpose. Whatever Callister had meant, whatever battle he was supposedly fighting within himself-it didn't matter right now. What mattered was sending a message. This was his turf now.

And if anyone else came looking for trouble, they'd find something far worse.

As Spawn entered the hotel, he was relieved to find the lobby much quieter than it had been in the morning. No prying eyes, no chatter, just the peaceful stillness of the place. He could at least be thankful for that, given the turmoil spinning in his mind.

The first person to greet him was Niffty, darting out from a corner with her usual boundless energy. "Oh! You're back! What have you been up to?" she chirped, her wide eye gleaming with curiosity.

Spawn barely slowed his pace as he walked past her, offering only a vague reply. "Nothing important."

Niffty seemed content with that, though, as she scurried off to resume whatever task she had been working on. Spawn took a moment to breathe, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. He hadn't realized how much tension had built up since his encounter with those demons. His head was still spinning with the cryptic words of Callister and the chaos of the fight.

Just as he was trying to steady himself, he was approached by Charlie. Unlike Niffty, she moved more cautiously, her expression measured and calm.

"Hey, Al," she greeted him, her tone far more subdued than before. There was a hint of nervousness behind her usually bright demeanor. "I'm not one to pry, but some of us in the hotel have been wondering... who are you, really? What's your story?"

Spawn tensed, his green eyes narrowing behind his mask. "I'm someone who doesn't want to be bothered," he replied coldly, trying to make it clear that he had no interest in discussing his past.

Charlie gave a small nod, trying her best to respect his boundaries. "T-That's what I told everyone. That when you're ready, you'll share with us."

"Not likely." Spawn said, his tone flat and curt.

Spawn was already turning to walk away when she added, "I just thought you should know... While the people around here might be a little strange, they're good people. They care about each other, and as long as you're staying here, they care about you too."

He stopped in his tracks, her words hanging in the air. There was something earnest about the way she said it. It wasn't forced or contrived-just a simple, honest sentiment.

She took a step closer, her voice soft but steady. "We may not have a lot, but what we do have... you're welcome to it."

For a brief moment, Spawn didn't know how to respond. It had been so long since anyone had spoken to him with such kindness-without asking for anything in return. Part of him wanted to dismiss it, to brush off the gesture as naïve, but there was a small part of him, deep down, that wondered if maybe she meant it.

Without another word, he continued walking, leaving Charlie standing there with a hopeful look in her eyes.

But even as he moved further away from her, the weight of her words stayed with him.

Sitting in his sleek, high-tech chair, Vox's eyes glowed dimly, his fingers tapping impatiently against the metal armrests. He had been waiting for a report from his men for far too long, and with each passing second, his mood soured further. They should've been back by now with answers. Valentino was already fuming, and Vox couldn't afford to look incompetent in front of him.

Finally, the silence was broken by the shrill ring of his phone. Snatching it up, he answered without hesitation, his voice sharp. "This better be good."

On the other end, the voice of one of his men came through, shaky and panicked. "B-Boss, it's bad. Real bad. The group... they were attacked. Only one of them made it out. The others are dead."

Vox's eyes narrowed, his neon features flickering as his temper flared. "Attacked? By who?" he demanded, his tone icy.

The man on the line stammered, "I-I'm not sure, boss. The survivor-he's in bad shape. He was shot, and he needs a doctor."

Vox's glowing eyes flared with annoyance. "I don't give a shit if he needs a doctor! You get him to tell me what he knows. Now!"

There was a moment of hesitation on the other end before the man replied, his voice trembling under the pressure. "H-He said the guy who did it... He took out everyone like it was nothing. Said something about... the area around the hotel being off-limits. That's all we could get out of him before he passed out again."

Vox's mind raced as the implications sank in. Whoever this person was, they weren't some random thug. They had wiped out his men with ease and claimed territory right under his nose. A cold, calculating rage began to build in his chest.

"Get that bastard talking again, I don't care how," Vox snarled. "And if he doesn't, make sure he never talks again. I want answers."

The man on the other end barely managed to mutter a "Y-Yes, boss" before Vox ended the call, slamming the phone down with a force that rattled the desk.

Whoever had the nerve to interfere with his business would soon find out what it meant to cross him. He wasn't one to let things slide-especially not when Valentino's reputation was at stake.

Chapter Text

Unbeknownst to Spawn, someone had been lurking in the shadows during his takedown of Vox's men. A shaky phone camera had captured the entire brutal scene, from the moment he disarmed the demon to the effortless way he dispatched the others. The video, now making rounds on the darker corners of the web, had attracted significant attention, including the eyes of Vox himself.

Sitting in his high-tech lair, Vox’s luminous eyes flickered as he came across the video. His expression shifted from curiosity to cold satisfaction as he watched the footage unfold. The masked figure in the video was taking out his men with precision and ease—too much ease for a simple demon thug. Vox paused the video, zooming in on Spawn’s face.

"So... this is the bastard causing all the trouble," Vox muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Looks like he thinks he's some kind of superhero reject."

With a smirk, he forwarded the video to Valentino, knowing his partner-in-crime would get a kick out of it. Valentino’s response came almost immediately, his voice booming through the speakers.

"Who the hell is this clown? Is that a mask, or is he just that ugly?" Valentino cackled, his laughter dripping with disdain. "Look at him! What is he trying to be? Some kind of wannabe antihero? This is priceless!"

Vox chuckled darkly in agreement. "I know, right? Who does he think he’s messing with? He doesn’t realize what kind of game he’s playing."

Valentino’s tone shifted, turning more serious as the reality of the situation set in. "Doesn’t matter what he looks like, though. He’s taken out some of my best men. Yours too, by the looks of it. We can’t just let this slide."

"Exactly," Vox responded, his voice low and menacing. "He’s got to be dealt with. And soon."

Valentino’s mind was already moving ahead. "Anyone in that area is in danger. Especially Angel. If this guy’s marking his territory, he’s not going to care who gets caught in the crossfire. We need to act fast."

Vox grinned. "You thinking what I’m thinking?"

"Yeah," Valentino replied. "We go to that hotel and get Angel. Doesn’t matter if he likes it or not. If this freak’s got it in his head to take over, I’m not leaving Angel where he can get caught up in it."

Vox nodded, already making plans. "Right. I’ll send some of my boys to back yours up. We’ll make sure this little uprising gets snuffed out before it even starts."

Valentino chuckled darkly. "And when we get our hands on this guy, I’m gonna make sure he regrets every second of crossing me."

With the plan set in motion, the two ended the call. As Vox watched the video again, a dangerous glint flashed in his neon-lit eyes. Whoever this newcomer was, he was about to learn the hard way that no one messed with the Vee's business and lived to tell the tale.

Spawn stood on the roof of the hotel, staring out into the sprawling chaos of the city below. The neon signs flickered in the distance, casting faint, distorted shadows across the streets. The cool breeze tugged at his tattered cape as he tightened his grip on the ledge. This world—this Hell—was unlike anything he had ever known. Despite all his battles and the hellish landscapes he had traversed in his former life, nothing had prepared him for a place like this.

Everything about it gnawed at him: the grotesque parody of life, the strange inhabitants, and most of all, the uncertainty of why he was here. Callister’s cryptic words lingered in his mind, pushing against his thoughts like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

“Fighting myself…” he muttered under his breath, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. What could Callister have meant by that? All of his enemies had always been clear—faces he could identify, demons he could kill—but now, it was as if his true adversary was hidden, playing with him from behind a veil.

He thought back to Charlie. Her attempt to make him feel welcome was almost laughable. In the past, he'd have dismissed her kindness as naïve, but there was something different here. Despite his rough exterior, she hadn’t given up on him. She didn’t fear him the way Vaggie did. And even Angel Dust, with his incessant flirting and jokes, seemed to sense there was more to him than just the deadly shell he presented.

But none of that mattered right now. He wasn’t here to make friends or find peace. He needed answers. And so far, all he had were cryptic remarks and the looming threat of something bigger than himself.

His eyes narrowed as he gazed into the horizon. The weight of his past, his failures, and the people he’d lost pressed down on him. There was no room for hope here. Only survival. And yet, this place, with all its misfits, seemed to offer something else. He wasn’t sure what it was—maybe redemption, maybe something else entirely—but it was gnawing at him.

"Redemption…" he whispered, almost mockingly to himself.

He had no idea what role he was supposed to play in this twisted version of Hell, but he wasn’t about to let anyone decide that for him. Not Charlie, not Callister, and certainly not the damned world itself.

As he stood there, lost in thought, a sudden noise from the streets below broke him from his reverie. He glanced down, muscles tensing as his instincts flared up. Another fight, another confrontation? He wasn’t sure. But there was one thing he did know—whatever this place was, whatever trials it threw at him, he’d face them head-on, just like he always had.

He wasn’t about to let this place break him. Not now, not ever.

As Spawn stood on the roof, brooding in the eerie silence, the sound of screeching tires tore through the air, yanking him from his thoughts. His eyes narrowed as he peered down at the scene unfolding below. Several cars pulled up to the hotel, each one sleek and black, but clearly not the kind driven by guests. They looked more like enforcers than visitors.

Downstairs, the hotel was bustling as usual until the front doors burst open, and several demons strode in, their presence immediately unsettling. Charlie, with her usual warmth, approached them cautiously, trying to mask her apprehension.

“Uh, can I help you?” she asked, her voice steady but tense.

“We’re here for Angel,” one of the demons snarled, his rough voice echoing through the lobby.

Angel Dust, lounging on a nearby couch, immediately stood up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—what the hell is this about?” he said, trying to play it cool, but there was an edge of unease in his voice. He knew exactly who these demons worked for.

One of the enforcers turned to him, his eyes gleaming with menace. “Valentino wants you back. You're coming with us, whether you like it or not.”

Angel scoffed, stepping back defensively. “I’m fine right where I am, thank you very much.”

But the demons weren’t here to negotiate. One of them grabbed Angel by the arm, yanking him toward the door. Before Angel could protest, another demon advanced, clearly prepared to make sure Angel didn’t go anywhere except into their custody.

“Get your hands off me!” Angel shouted, struggling against their grip.

Just then, a voice echoed down from the top of the grand staircase. Deep and cold.

“There’s no vacancy here,” Spawn growled. “You need to leave.”

The demons froze, turning their attention upward. And there, standing like a specter of death at the top of the stairs, was Spawn. His dark, imposing figure loomed over the scene. The tension in the room shifted. The demons quickly recognized him from Vox’s description—the one who had been causing all the trouble. The one they were warned about.

"That's him," one of the demons muttered, raising his gun.

In an instant, the room exploded into chaos.

Without hesitation, Spawn drew his pistol—the one he had taken off a demon earlier—and fired. His shot found its mark, taking down one of the demons before they even had a chance to return fire. The rest of the enforcers scrambled, pulling their weapons and shooting wildly.

But Spawn was faster, deadlier.

He leapt down from the stairs, his movements almost supernatural. He fired shot after shot, dispatching as many demons as he could with calculated precision. Their bullets barely grazed him, and the few that did penetrate his skin were rendered useless as his wounds healed almost immediately. The demons looked on in horror as they realized they were hopelessly outmatched.

When his pistol clicked empty, Spawn tossed it aside without a second thought. He didn’t need it.

He charged forward, his fists becoming his weapons. The lobby erupted into a brutal scene of carnage. One demon was slammed into the floor so hard that the floor splintered beneath him. Another found himself caught in Spawn’s grasp, his neck snapped like a twig before being tossed across the room like a ragdoll.

The demons tried to retreat, but there was no escape. Spawn moved like a force of nature—tearing limbs, breaking bones, and sending bodies flying. Each strike was merciless, and the entire display was an exhibition of raw power and brutality. Blood splattered across the walls, pooling on the pristine floors of the hotel lobby.

Alastor, standing near the back of the room, watched the entire ordeal with a twisted grin. His red eyes gleamed with sadistic delight, clearly enjoying the show. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to join in the bloodbath, but he refrained, content to be a spectator for now.

Beside him, Niffty bounced on her toes, her wide grin matching Alastor’s. “Ooooh, this is fun!” she chirped, her voice full of morbid cheer as she watched Spawn dismantle the demons with ease. “I love a good fight!”

As the last demon fell, his body crumpling to the floor, Spawn stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving with barely contained fury. The hotel lobby was wrecked—furniture overturned, blood splattered everywhere, and the once-luxurious space now resembled a warzone.

Silence fell over the room, broken only by the quiet clinking of metal as Spawn retrieved his discarded pistol.

Charlie, who had been watching in stunned silence, finally stepped forward. “W-what just happened?” she stammered, her voice trembling slightly as she took in the devastation.

“They came for Angel,” Spawn said coldly, not bothering to look at her. “They won’t be coming back.”

Angel, still shaken from the whole ordeal, glanced at Spawn, wide-eyed. “Uh, thanks for the... assist?”

Spawn didn’t respond, merely holstering his gun as he turned toward the door. He had made his point, but he knew this wasn’t over. Valentino, Vox—whoever sent those demons—wouldn’t take this lying down.

He was ready for them.

As Spawn made his way out of the hotel, Alastor chuckled quietly to himself, his grin never fading.

“Well, that was quite the spectacle,” he said, glancing over at Niffty. “Don’t you agree, darling?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Niffty chirped. “I can’t wait to see what happens next!”

Alastor’s eyes gleamed with sinister anticipation. “Oh, indeed. This is just the beginning.”

As Spawn made his way toward the exit, Charlie stepped in front of him, her hands trembling slightly though she tried to keep her voice steady.

“Wait," she called, her eyes wide but soft. "I… I just wanted to say thank you—for helping Angel back there. That could have gotten a lot worse if you hadn't stepped in.”

Before she could continue, Vaggie stormed forward, her eye blazing with fury. "Hold on a second," she snapped, pointing a finger at Spawn. "What you just did? That was needlessly sadistic! We're trying to build something different here, something better. You can't go around ripping people apart like that!"

Spawn’s eyes flickered toward Vaggie, and he began to brush her off, turning slightly as if to leave.

“No, don’t you dare walk away from me!" Vaggie continued, her voice rising. "You pull something like that again, and you’re gone. You understand me? This place isn’t some warzone where you can just butcher anyone you want!"

Spawn stopped, his cape billowing slightly behind him as he turned back, a low growl forming in his throat. "And what exactly are you going to do about it?"

Vaggie clenched her fists, but before she could respond, Charlie quickly stepped between them, trying to defuse the situation. “Listen, Al," she said, her voice calm but firm. "We really do appreciate what you did. But Vaggie's right. This hotel… it's supposed to be different. We’re trying to give people a second chance. Violence like that? It goes against everything we’re trying to do.”

Spawn stood there for a moment, his gaze flicking from Vaggie to Charlie. He grunted in response, clearly uninterested in a debate. His acknowledgment was half-hearted at best, but he turned and began walking back to his room without another word.

As the heavy footsteps faded up the stairs, the tension in the room remained thick, leaving Charlie and Vaggie to exchange glances. Angel, still shaken, watched quietly, unsure of what was to come next.

As Spawn's heavy footsteps faded away, the tension in the room slowly began to ease, though not entirely. Vaggie let out an exasperated sigh, running her fingers through her hair as she paced in frustration. “I can’t believe he did that. What was he thinking? He tore them apart like they were wet paper! That’s not how we do things here—at all.”

Charlie, standing beside her, bit her lip. “I know, Vaggie. It was... excessive. Way more than what was necessary.” She paused, glancing toward the now bloodied and disheveled lobby. “But still, I don’t think kicking him out is the answer. There’s something about him… I feel like there’s more going on inside than we realize.”

Husk, perched at the bar with a glass in hand, grunted as he took a swig. “No doubt about that. Guy’s efficient, ruthless even. Seen enough in my time to know when someone’s done that kind of thing before—hell, he moved like it’s second nature to him.”

Angel, still shaken but trying to pull himself together, nodded slowly. “Look, I’m not gonna lie—that was violent as hell, but… he did save me. I don’t think I was walking out of that situation on my own. So, yeah, thanks to him for that, even if he did it in the most brutal way possible.”

Vaggie crossed her arms, still fuming but less intense now. “I get it. He saved you. But we can’t just let that slide. It goes against everything we’re trying to build here. He can’t just act like the hotel’s his personal battlefield.”

Charlie sighed, conflicted but holding on to her hope. “I’ll talk to him again. We just need to give him time. Everyone deserves a chance—even him.”

As the group stood in silence, each processing what had just unfolded, they couldn’t shake the feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time Spawn’s methods clashed with the hotel's ideals.

Chapter Text

In a sleek, dimly lit lounge, Valentino sat with his legs crossed, cigarette smoke curling around like sharp horns. The usual smugness on his face was gone, replaced by a furious scowl that darkened his crimson features. He was on edge, the burn of humiliation seeping into his core after hearing about the slaughter of his men-and Angel Dust's involvement with the masked brute. Across from him, Vox leaned against a large screen displaying static, his pixelated eyes focused on the problem at hand.

Valentino slammed his fist on the armrest of his plush chair. "This is ridiculous, Vox! A caped freak tearing through our guys like they're tin foil. And Angel... My Angel, mixed up in this? He's supposed to be making me money, not getting himself tangled up with a wannabe hero!"

Vox's pixelated face twitched as he watched Valentino pace around the room. His voice, calm and robotic, interrupted the tirade. "We both know this is more than just some wannabe, Val. This guy-he's dangerous. You saw what he did to our men. This isn't a problem we can handle with regular muscle."

Valentino growled, crushing his cigarette under his heel. "Then what do you suggest? We let this guy keep running wild? If word gets out, we'll look weak. I can't afford to lose face like this."

Vox's glowing eyes narrowed as he processed Valentino's words, his digital mind whirring. "No, we won't let him continue. But this isn't a fight we handle ourselves. It's time we call in someone with real power-one of the strongest souls we own."

Valentino stopped pacing, turning to Vox with a raised eyebrow. His anger gave way to curiosity. "One of the strong ones? You really think we need to go that far for this guy?"

Vox nodded, his tone mechanical but laced with certainty. "We can't take chances with someone like him. He's not just a thug, Val. He's something far more dangerous. If we want to handle this quickly, cleanly, and without drawing too much attention, we need to call in a real monster."

Valentino leaned back in his chair, contemplating the idea. "You're talking about calling one of the heavy hitters, huh? Fine, I like the sound of that. But who? We own a lot of strong souls."

Vox's eyes flickered as he pulled up a digital display, cycling through names and profiles. "We need someone who can match Spawn's power-someone who knows how to deal with violent, unpredictable threats. There's only a handful of souls that can handle this."

Valentino's grin slowly returned, wicked and full of malice. "Well, well, well... It's been a while since we've let one of them loose. It's about time we remind everyone who holds the real power in this city."

Vox paused on a particular name, the screen flickering for a moment before stabilizing. "This one should do the job. Strong, ruthless, and loyal to us. If anyone can take down Spawn, it's them."

Valentino's eyes glimmered with dark satisfaction as he leaned closer to the screen. "Perfect. Let's make the call."

With a few taps, Vox sent the signal, summoning one of the most dangerous souls in their possession. Valentino chuckled, his anger now replaced with cold anticipation. "Let's see how Spawn handles this. He might think he's unstoppable, but he hasn't met one of our real enforcers yet."

Vox's voice buzzed with smug confidence. "He won't know what hit him."

As the two demons solidified their plan, they both shared a malicious grin. Their problem would soon be handled, and Spawn was about to face a force more powerful than anything he'd encountered so far. The balance of power was about to shift, and Valentino and Vox would make sure it was in their favor.

Back in his room, Spawn paced back and forth, seething. His mind still raced from the fight in the lobby, and the confrontation with Vaggie and Charlie lingered in his thoughts. They didn't understand. Those demons came in acting like they owned the place, and they expected him to just stand by? He wasn't wired for that. He wasn't going to let anyone push him-or the few he might care about-around.

But, as the fire of his anger burned, something odd began to dawn on him. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing in confusion. There was no sense of exhaustion creeping in. Normally, after unleashing so much hellish power, he'd feel the familiar pull-his necroplasm slowly draining, each fight bringing him closer to his eventual doom. Yet now... nothing.

He flexed his hands, feeling the energy still pulsing through his body. It was stronger than before, more potent. Almost as if it was never-ending. His glowing green eyes shifted, scanning the room, trying to piece together what this meant. He wasn't running on empty, not even close.

It hit him then, like a revelation that he'd been too caught up to notice: the sin in this place. Hell itself was teeming with it, and even the hotel, though it had good intentions, was still full of demons with dark pasts. Every corner of this place dripped with the very essence that fed him, that fueled his necroplasmic powers.

The more sin there was around him, the stronger he became. And here? There was an almost limitless supply.

"Well, ain't that something..." he muttered to himself, his voice gravelly, almost amused.

For the first time since he'd been brought to Hell, he didn't feel like he was constantly burning through his energy reserves. There was no looming countdown, no ticking time bomb to his existence. In this place, surrounded by corruption, deceit, and sin, he had access to a power source that could keep him going indefinitely.

This changed everything.

Whatever those demons had been sent here for, and whoever had sent them, didn't realize what they were dealing with. He wasn't just another brute from Hell. He was something far more dangerous. And now, he had the resources to back it up.

Just as Spawn reveled in the realization of his limitless energy, a knock came at his door, snapping him out of his thoughts. His instinct was to ignore it-he wasn't in the mood for more lectures. But then, his mind flashed back to Vaggie's words in the lobby. He was already on thin ice, and telling whoever it was to leave would only make things worse.

He grunted in frustration and went to the door, opening it just enough to see Charlie standing there, her expression soft, almost hesitant.

"Hey, Al... can I come in?" she asked, her voice delicate, as if she were trying not to disturb a dangerous animal.

For a moment, Spawn considered slamming the door shut. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't need anyone to tell him what he already knew-this place wasn't like the world he came from. The rules were different. But something in the back of his mind held him back. He was teetering on an edge, and Charlie, of all people, had been the most welcoming since he arrived. If he wanted to stay, maybe it was best to hear her out.

With a rough sigh, he stepped aside, letting her in. Charlie entered cautiously, her hands clasped in front of her, her usual cheerful demeanor subdued.

"Look," she began, "I just wanted to talk. After everything that happened earlier... I know things got a little intense."

Spawn crossed his arms, saying nothing as he stared out the window. He could still feel the pulse of sin in the air, feeding him, and it took all his willpower to keep from getting lost in the sensation.

"I... I just want you to understand," Charlie continued, choosing her words carefully. "We're really thankful for what you did-for protecting Angel. But the point of the hotel is to help demons find redemption, not... resort to violence."

Spawn let out a low growl, his patience already wearing thin. "So you'd rather I let them drag him outta here, then?" he said, his voice cold.

"No, of course not," Charlie quickly reassured him, stepping closer. "I'm not saying that at all. What you did-it was... necessary, maybe. But we're trying to make a place where we can do things differently. You don't have to fight all the time."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "You think they're just gonna stop? That because you're trying to play nice, they'll leave you alone?"

Charlie looked down, biting her lip. She knew he had a point, but she wasn't ready to give up on her vision for the hotel. "No, but that doesn't mean we have to become like them," she said softly, looking up at him with those hopeful eyes that had caught him off guard the moment he'd arrived. "I know someone like you doesn't get that good at fighting unless you've been doing it for a long time. You've been through more than most."

Her words caught him off guard. He didn't reply, but the tension in his posture gave him away. She was right, and she could tell. She could see through the layers of anger and war-hardened instinct to the man-no, the soul-that still struggled beneath it all.

"Al," she said, stepping even closer, her voice soft, "I just want you to know... it's okay to let some of it go. You're not alone anymore."

She reached out, her hand almost hovering near his arm, not quite touching. And then, in the quiet of the room, she began to sing.

Now don't you be afraid

We can always talk about it

You don't have to push away

'Cause I know you're strong without it

You've made it through so much

And I know you've had to face it

But don't hide from my touch

What you've lost, no one can replace it

Just hold on, I know it's hard

There's a little light inside you

Even here, where we are

The fact that you keep fighting

Is what sets you apart

If you need a reason

I'll help you find the way

To let go of all your pain

Little by little, day by day

As Charlie paused, Spawn found himself unable to say anything. Instead just listening to her sing.

You're still so far away

And I'm just trying to reach you

It's not a better place

If you run, and leave me here to say

Hold on, I know it's hard

There's a little light inside you

Even here, where we are

The fact that you keep fighting

Is what sets you apart

If you need a reason

I'll help you find the way

To let go of all your pain

Little by little, day by day

You'll get stronger

If you let me, I won't go away

So just hold on

I'll help you find a way

I'll help you find a way

Her voice was soft and steady, filling the space with a calming presence that contrasted sharply with the battle that had taken place earlier.

There's a little light inside you

Even here, where we are

The fact that you keep fighting

Is what sets you apart

If you need a reason

I'll help you find the way

To let go of all your pain

Little by little, day by day

Little by little, day by day

Little by little, day by day

Spawn stood there, still and silent. The rage that had been simmering beneath the surface slowly began to ebb away, the weight of her words and the tenderness in her voice creeping through the cracks in his armor. He didn't respond-he couldn't. But something in him shifted. He could feel it, even if he wasn't ready to admit it.

Charlie finished the song, her eyes never leaving his. She gave him a small, reassuring smile. "You don't have to fight alone anymore, Al."

Spawn didn't say a word, but the fire in his eyes dimmed just slightly, his stance relaxing, if only a little. He turned back toward the window, gazing out into the night.

Charlie took a step back, sensing that she had said enough. "If you ever need to talk," she said softly, "I'm here. We all are."

With that, she quietly left the room, leaving Spawn to his thoughts, her voice still lingering in the air like a balm over the raw wounds of his soul.

Spawn stood there, staring out the window, but his mind was far from the present. Charlie's song, strange as it was, had left a lingering effect. The melody might have been foreign to him, but the message had hit closer to home than he was willing to admit. It opened up something in him he had tried to bury deep down-something that no amount of battle, rage, or vengeance could ever fully extinguish.

His thoughts shifted, unbidden, to the battles he had fought, the blood he had spilled. Malebolgia, the demon who had controlled him, fell by his hand, his decapitated body left to rot in the very hell that once ruled him. Heaven's armies had felt the might of his chains and power. And even God and the Devil had been brought low by his will, defeated in a way that should have made him feel unstoppable.

Those victories were easy to remember. They were victories of strength, of will, of defiance against forces far greater than any mortal man should have faced.

But it was in the moments between those battles that the memories hurt the most. The times when he wasn't fighting, when there was nothing left to kill-those were the times that truly haunted him.

His thoughts slipped to his wife. Wanda. He had died, and life had moved on without him. She had moved on. Found a new life, a new family, love that he could never be a part of. She had lived in ways that he could only dream of, a dream that had slipped away from him the moment his heart stopped beating.

All the failings of his mortal life came rushing back like a cold wind against his soul. The mistakes, the choices that had led him to where he was now. A lost soul, wandering, trapped in a body no longer his own, a pawn in a cosmic game of power between Heaven and Hell.

He had lost his humanity long ago. He knew that. But there were times, quiet moments like this, when the weight of that loss pressed down harder than any battle ever could.

His hand moved on its own, slipping under his glove. There, still wrapped around his finger, was his wedding ring. The last piece of his mortal life. The last connection to a man he barely recognized anymore. It was tarnished, worn, but still there, clinging to him like a lifeline to the past.

This was the last shred of his humanity, the last thing he had refused to let go of. Even after all the bloodshed, all the hellfire, all the years spent as a creature of vengeance and power, this ring was the only thing that reminded him he was once Al Simmons. A man. A husband.

He clenched his fist around the ring, feeling its cool metal against his skin. No matter how much he had changed, no matter how many battles he fought, this small, fragile reminder of who he had been was still with him. But even as he held on to it, he couldn't help but feel how distant it was. How distant he was from everything it once represented.

Charlie's words echoed in his mind again. "You don't have to fight alone anymore."

He let out a low, ragged breath, unsure if he even believed that. But for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to feel the weight of it all. Not the battles, not the enemies, but the loss. The emptiness. The price he had paid.

And for a moment, just a fleeting second, he wondered if maybe Charlie was right. If maybe, just maybe, there was still something left to fight for beyond the violence.

Chapter Text

As the morning light crept into the hotel, a thick silence filled the air. No one had seen Spawn since Charlie had spoken to him the night before, and his absence was noticeable.

Husk leaned back in his chair at the bar, idly sipping from his glass. "You think Spawn even eats or drinks anything? Would be one hell of a convenience if he didn't. No need to waste time with meals." He let out a dry chuckle, though his curiosity was genuine.

Vaggie, pacing near the entrance, crossed her arms and shot a glance at the stairs. "Maybe he just up and left. Wouldn't surprise me. He doesn't exactly seem... invested in being here."

Before anyone could respond, the sound of soft, deliberate footsteps echoed down the stairs. Everyone turned toward the source, and there was Spawn, descending the steps slowly, his presence as imposing as ever. His cloak swayed with each step, and his face, though unreadable, seemed slightly less tense than before.

The room fell silent, unsure of how to react. It wasn't until Charlie, standing closest to the stairs, greeted him cautiously. "Hey, Al... Good to see you."

Spawn didn't acknowledge the greeting at first, his eyes scanning the room before landing on Charlie. Without wasting time, he spoke, his tone direct but not harsh. "I've been thinking. This place, it's yours. I get that. And I don't want to make things worse for you, so I'll try to keep my problems away from here. Keep them... outside."

Charlie blinked, taken aback but relieved at the same time. "That's-" she started, but Spawn cut her off, his voice slightly softer.

"As a show of good faith, I'm going to try and be more... present," he continued, glancing around the room at the others. "I won't necessarily be involved in everything you all do, but I'll be here. So maybe you can stop being afraid of me... if only slightly."

The room remained quiet, processing what he had just said. Charlie's cautious expression melted into a small, hopeful smile. "That's a good start, Al. We appreciate that."

Vaggie, still watching from a distance, didn't say anything, but the tension in her stance loosened just a bit. Husk took another swig of his drink, muttering, "Well, it's something."

Spawn stood still for a moment, the weight of his words lingering in the air before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn't much, but it was a step forward-one that everyone in the room recognized.

Spawn, in an effort to follow through on his word to be more present, quietly takes a seat in the lobby. His presence is hard to ignore, the dark aura that seems to linger around him filling the space like a silent storm cloud. Though he sits in a chair, arms folded, and posture slightly relaxed, there's still an air of intensity that makes approaching him seem like a risk.

For a while, no one moves, hesitant to disturb the brooding figure. That is, until Niffty, with her usual boundless energy, skips over. "Hiya, Mr. Al! You're sitting with us now! Isn't that exciting?!" She practically buzzes with enthusiasm, eye wide as she peers up at him.

Spawn barely moves, only acknowledging her with a slight shift of his head, but he doesn't respond. Unphased by his silence, Niffty quickly runs off to attend to another cleaning task, humming to herself.

Not long after, Angel Dust, perched nearby, decides to take a chance. "Well, look who's finally out in the open," he remarks, grinning as he struts over. "I gotta say, big guy, I like the outfit. Very... 90s grunge-chic." He waves a hand in the air, exaggerating the compliment.

Spawn remains as still as a statue, eyes fixed forward, offering no reaction.

Angel, not one to back down easily, tries again, this time with more flair. "So, tell me... which designer brand we talkin'? Gucci? Prada? Or is it some underground label none of us plebs have heard of?"

Without even looking at him, Spawn responds flatly, "It's a parasite. Leetha of the 7th House of K."

Angel blinks, taken aback for a moment. The unexpected answer leaves him speechless for a second, but he quickly recovers, his grin widening in amusement. "A parasite, huh? That's a new one. And here I thought my wardrobe had some wild stories."

Though Spawn doesn't add anything further, there's a slight shift in the atmosphere-a sign that maybe, just maybe, Angel's persistence cracked through a small piece of the tough exterior.

In Vox and Valentino's lavish yet dimly lit office, the hum of machinery filled the air. Valentino lounged in a sleek chair, casually flicking ash from his cigar, while Vox stood nearby, his metallic fingers tapping rhythmically on a desk. Before them stood a towering figure: Fleshrend.

A grotesque amalgamation of muscle, metal, and demonic energy, Fleshrend's hulking frame cast a monstrous shadow over the room. His red, glowing eyes glinted beneath a metal mask, and cables pulsed along his arms and legs, connecting his raw power to the demonic tech that kept him alive and fueled.

Valentino leaned forward, blowing out a plume of smoke. "Fleshrend, darling, we got a job for you. Seems a certain cape-wearing reject has been making a mess of things."

Vox chimed in, his voice smooth and digital. "He's caused some... complications. But I know you're more than equipped to handle it. After all, you were one of my earliest projects. A perfect blend of muscle and tech."

Val, with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, continued. "We want his bones in one bag, and his organs in another. Make sure he's not walking away from this."

Fleshrend's gaze flickered with mild interest. His voice, a deep, mechanical growl, echoed through the room. "I'll bring you his bones and organs. But I'll be keeping the heart... for myself."

Valentino paused, taken aback, a nervous chuckle escaping him. "The heart, huh? And what exactly do you plan to do with that?"

Fleshrend leaned closer, his voice dark and menacing. "Dinner."

The room fell silent for a moment, the only sound being the steady hum of Vox's systems. Then, both Vox and Valentino laughed nervously, their forced amusement barely hiding the unease they felt in Fleshrend's presence.

"Well... that's fine by us," Val stammered, glancing at Vox. "Just make sure you get the job done."

Fleshrend grunted in response, already turning toward the door, his massive steps making the ground tremble beneath him.

As Spawn settles deeper into his chair, Husk, ever the cynic, leans back in his own seat and gives him a sideways glance. "So... do you eat?" Husk asks, his tone as dry as ever.

Spawn, with a slow blink, responds simply, "No."

"Drink?" Husk continues, barely lifting his glass of whiskey as he asks.

"No," Spawn repeats, just as flat.

"Sleep?"

"Hardly."

Husk nods, not seeming overly surprised by the answers. It's a rhythm he's used to: quick, simple questions, minimal engagement. He takes another drink and grunts in acknowledgment, his tired eyes drifting back to the bar.

Angel, who's been eavesdropping from the couch, suddenly speaks up. "Wait, hold up! There it is again! You two sound exactly the same!" His voice rises with excitement as he points between them. "It's freakin' uncanny!"

Both Spawn and Husk turn their heads simultaneously toward Angel, their expressions deadpan. "What are you talking about?" they say in unison, both in the exact same flat, gravelly tone.

Angel's eyes widen, and he throws his hands up. "See? Right there! You both just did it! You seriously don't hear it?"

Husk raises an eyebrow, his unimpressed look growing more defined. "No, we don't."

Spawn, equally unfazed, simply adds, "Neither do I."

Angel, now fully reinvested in this discovery that he made, spins around toward Vaggie, who's nearby. "Vaggie! Back me up here! You gotta hear this-they sound like they came out of the same grumpy factory!"

Vaggie crosses her arms, looking between the two with a small frown. "No, Angel, I don't hear it," she says plainly.

Angel stares at her, slack-jawed. "What?! Oh, come on, you have to be messin' with me too!"

Vaggie raises a hand in protest. "I'm not! They just don't sound the same to me."

Angel groans dramatically, his arms flailing in exaggerated disbelief. "No way! I swear you're all gaslighting me right now! I'm not crazy! They're, like, vocal twins or something!"

The whole room seems amused, though none of them let it show too much. Angel, determined not to be outdone, points a finger toward Husk and Spawn. "Alright, I'm gonna prove it! Just you wait!" He stalks off, muttering to himself as he plans his next move.

Spawn glances at Husk, who simply shrugs and takes another drink.

Chapter Text

Fleshrend stalked through the grimy streets outside the hotel, his hulking form casting an imposing shadow over the surrounding buildings. His mechanical enhancements hummed softly, a stark contrast to the growls that escaped his lips. He had been warned not to breach the hotel, but that didn't mean he couldn't have some fun on the outskirts.

Grabbing a random sinner by the throat, he effortlessly slammed him into a nearby wall, the impact sending a crack through the brick. "You got one shot to make yourself useful," Fleshrend snarled, his voice a guttural mix of machinery and demonic growl. "Tell me about the guy in the black suit."

The sinner gasped, clawing at the massive arm pinning him to the wall. "I-I don't know much! I swear! They say he only shows up if you cross into his territory… looks like somethin' out of a nightmare… black suit, big cape, green eyes. That's it, man! That's all I know!"

Fleshrend's lips twisted into a wicked grin beneath his visor. "So... he only shows up if you trespass? Guess I'll just have to send him a special invitation." Without warning, Fleshrend reached down and gripped the sinner's arm, yanking it clean off with a sickening rip. The sinner screamed in agony, collapsing to the ground clutching the stump where his arm used to be.

Fleshrend watched the blood pool on the pavement for a moment, unfazed by the gruesome sight. "Tell your friends," he said mockingly, his voice dripping with cruelty, "I'll be waiting." He turned and lumbered away, tossing the dismembered arm over his shoulder as casually as if he'd discarded a piece of trash.

The sinner writhed in pain, watching the massive enforcer disappear into the shadows, knowing that the word of what had just happened would spread—and with it, so would Fleshrend's chilling challenge to Spawn.

Spawn sat in the hotel lobby, feeling out of place as ever. For years, he had made it a point to avoid getting too close to anyone. It was easier that way. Less to worry about, fewer weaknesses for his enemies to exploit. Yet, here he was, sitting in this hotel filled with sinners, and it reminded him all too much of his early days in Rat City.

Back then, the people there had accepted him without question, especially Gareb. A homeless man who had nothing, Gareb had treated Spawn like one of his own, never seeing him as the monster he appeared to be. Gareb had welcomed him into his little community, offering kindness when Spawn least expected it. It was one of the rare moments that someone had shown him a sense of belonging.

And now, here at the hotel, Charlie was doing the same thing. Her warmth, her optimism—it reminded him of Gareb's unwavering acceptance. No matter what he was, no matter how dangerous or broken, she still saw something worth saving.

As if on cue, Charlie approached him, holding a single drawing in her hands. The crayon lines were uneven, a bit childish, but the sincerity behind it was unmistakable. She looked a little nervous but determined as she showed it to him. It was a simple picture of the hotel with bright colors and smiling faces—almost naive in its simplicity, but the message was clear.

"I, uh, I drew this," Charlie said with a small smile. "It's kind of how I like to explain things sometimes. I know it's not much, but I wanted to try and help you understand what we're doing here."

Spawn looked at the drawing, then back at Charlie, saying nothing. She continued, sensing his silence was more out of curiosity than rejection.

"This hotel... it's my chance to help. My dream is to rehabilitate sinners, to give them a chance to be redeemed and eventually get into heaven. I know it sounds impossible. I mean, this is Hell. But I believe in it. I believe that no one is beyond saving. Not even people like us."

Spawn's eyes flickered at that last part. He knew she wasn't just talking about the other demons here—she was talking about him too. She was offering him that same hope. But hope was a dangerous thing. Hope was something he had learned to avoid.

Before Charlie could get any further into her explanation, Spawn stiffened. His keen senses picked up a sound outside the hotel—a scream, sharp and filled with terror. He knew the sounds of Hell all too well, but this one was different. It wasn't just random chaos. There was something deliberate about it. Something close.

He stood up abruptly, his cape flaring out behind him. Charlie paused mid-sentence, sensing the shift in his demeanor. "Al?"

He didn't answer her, his focus entirely on the sound in the distance. It was instinctual, that need to act, to protect. Without a word, he moved toward the door, pushing it open with a quiet intensity. The scream echoed again, faint but unmistakable.

Charlie watched as he left, her drawing still clutched in her hands. Her expression shifted from confusion to understanding. This was who Spawn was. A protector. A warrior who didn't need to say much to show he cared.

She quietly hoped that, over time, he would come to realize that he didn't always have to fight alone. That maybe, just maybe, he could find something worth staying for.

Spawn stepped into the street, the faint smell of blood heavy in the air. His gaze fell on the sinner lying lifeless on the ground, the jagged wound where the arm used to be still fresh. His senses were immediately on high alert, scanning the scene. The message scrawled in blood across the pavement was clear: "Face me, weakling."

Spawn's eyes darkened. He knew that Vox and Valentino were likely to go to more extremes now that their usual muscle had failed to accomplish anything, but seeing the brutality up close sparked a familiar anger deep within him. Before he could start piecing together the situation, murmurs spread among the nearby sinners. Their fear and frustration were palpable.

"This is your fault!" one of them shouted, his voice trembling. "Things were bad enough before you showed up! Now the Vee's are out for us too!"

"Yeah, they're coming for all of us!" another sinner chimed in, panic rising. "You brought this on us!"

Spawn clenched his fists, the weight of their accusations momentarily pulling him away from the task at hand. He understood their fear, but this wasn't his doing. The blame for this bloodshed fell squarely on Vox and Valentino. But before he could respond, a deep rumbling shook the ground beneath his feet.

The building beside him trembled, the sound of crumbling stone and creaking steel filling the air. Spawn looked up, and there, looming above him, was Fleshrend. The demon's grotesque form towered over the street, his massive, muscle-bound body covered in twisted metal, wires, and demonic energy pulsing through him like veins. His cold, dead eyes locked onto Spawn, and a wicked grin split across his face.

"So, you're the one who's been giving Valentino so much trouble?" Fleshrend said, his voice thick with mockery. He jumped down from the building, the impact shaking the ground as he landed. "I expected more."

Spawn's eyes narrowed as he sized up the behemoth before him. Fleshrend was unlike any demon he'd fought here—he was a fusion of raw muscle, technology, and dark magic, a true monstrosity designed for destruction.

"I was told you were something special," Fleshrend continued, rolling his massive shoulders as if warming up. "But I'm not impressed. You're nothing but another sinner like the rest of them."

Spawn said nothing, his instincts already preparing for the fight. His cape flared out behind him, shadows gathering around his form. He had faced monsters before—gods, demons, and creatures that made Fleshrend look like child's play. But the challenge wasn't what worried him. It was the collateral damage. He needed to end this before more innocent souls were caught in the crossfire.

Fleshrend chuckled darkly. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? No matter. Once I'm done with you, there won't be enough left to bury."

With that, the hulking brute charged, his massive fists crashing down toward Spawn with lethal force. But Spawn didn't flinch. He had faced worse and lived to tell the tale. As the fight began, he moved with precision, ready to show Fleshrend just how big of a mistake he'd made.

At the hotel, the atmosphere was tense. The others had been keeping their distance from Spawn, but now that he was gone, they couldn't help but wonder what he was up to.

Angel lounged on one of the couches, his legs draped over the armrest, as he twirled a cigarette between his fingers. "You know," he began, "Spawn's real lucky no one knows who he is. If Val knew he was the one killin' his men, he'd be on him like flies on—well, you know."

Vaggie crossed her arms, about to chime in, but her words were cut off by the sudden, distant rumble of an explosion. The entire hotel seemed to shudder, and the noise sent everyone crowding around the windows, peering out to see where the sound had come from.

"Did anyone else feel that?" Niffty asked, darting between the others.

"Yeah, and it didn't feel good," Vaggie muttered, her brow furrowed with concern.

Outside, they could see a column of smoke rising not too far from the hotel. The source of the explosion was unclear, but it was close. Too close for comfort.

Husk, leaning against the bar, took a swig from his flask and sighed, his usual gruff demeanor unchanged. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he muttered under his breath, then added more cynically, "That's definitely gotta be Spawn's doing."

Angel gave a half-smile, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Well, looks like the quiet's over. Wonder what our dark and broody friend's gotten himself into this time."

The streets had become a war zone, littered with debris and the sounds of destruction echoing between buildings. Fleshrend, a hulking combination of demonic power and advanced technology, was in his element, his heavy artillery unleashing hell on the surrounding area. His monstrous form was deceptively fast, moving with short bursts of speed that caught even Spawn off guard.

Spawn, despite his power and experience, found himself momentarily overwhelmed by the relentless force of his opponent. Fleshrend's massive hands clamped down on his skull, trying to crush him as he taunted, "I expected more from you more from someone who caused so much trouble! Just another weakling in Hell!"

The pressure built in Spawn's head, but he was far from beaten. Gritting his teeth, he let out a growl as his chains and cape surged to life, wrapping around Fleshrend's cybernetic limbs. With a swift, brutal motion, Spawn's chains tore into the metal, shredding wires and circuits, sending sparks flying. Fleshrend howled in agony as his enhancements malfunctioned, causing his armor to short-circuit and some of his artillery to sputter.

In rage, Fleshrend hurled Spawn into a nearby building. The impact was brutal, sending shockwaves through the structure, but before Spawn could fully recover, Fleshrend unleashed a storm of rockets and shells at the building. The barrage of artillery was deafening, and the building groaned before finally collapsing under the assault, burying Spawn in a cloud of dust and rubble.

Fleshrend stood still for a moment, his body sparking from the damage Spawn had inflicted, but a twisted grin spread across his face. "Job done," he grunted, staggering away with heavy steps, his systems badly damaged and in need of repairs. As he turned, the debris pile where Spawn lay buried seemed motionless, the dust still hanging in the air.

Charlie and the others arrived at the scene, their faces painted with shock as they took in the devastation. The street was unrecognizable, nearly obliterated by the battle between Spawn and Fleshrend. Buildings were reduced to rubble, and debris was strewn everywhere. Dust still hung in the air, and the acrid smell of explosives lingered.

Charlie's heart raced as she scanned the wreckage. "Al! Al, are you there?!" she shouted, her voice filled with panic and concern. She ran closer to the debris, her eyes frantically searching for any sign of life.

Angel Dust, while also looking around, tried to keep his usual air of nonchalance, though concern flickered in his eyes. "Uh, not to be a downer, babe, but I mean… you really think he's walking out of that?" He gestured to the mountain of rubble. "I know he's tough, but no one's that tough."

Just as Angel finished speaking, a low groan echoed from beneath the debris, followed by the sound of shifting rubble. Everyone froze for a moment, and then Charlie's eyes widened with hope.

"Al!" she cried, rushing toward the sound. Without hesitation, she dropped to her knees and began clawing at the rubble, trying to move the heavy pieces of debris with her bare hands. "He's alive! Help me!"

Angel raised an eyebrow, muttering, "Okay, guess I stand corrected…" but quickly moved to help, pulling away large chunks of concrete with surprising strength. Husk and Vaggie joined in as well, moving debris as quickly as they could, all while Charlie continued calling out to Spawn.

"Just hold on! We're getting you out!"

Chapter Text

Back at the hotel, everyone was gathered around Spawn, still in disbelief at what had just happened. He sat on a chair, looking completely unfazed despite having just been dug out of a mountain of rubble. Charlie, ever the compassionate one, had brought over a full medical kit, prepared to tend to his injuries. She hovered near him, her brows furrowed in concern.

"Al, are you sure you're okay?" she asked, worry clear in her voice. She carefully scanned his body, but there wasn't a single scratch on him.

"I'm fine," Spawn grunted, waving her off. His eyes were distant, clearly already thinking about his next move against Fleshrend.

Charlie blinked, confused. "But you were buried under- I mean, how is there not even a mark?"

Even Niffty, who was standing on her tiptoe to get a better look, chirped, "Not a single speck of dust! It's like he wasn't even in the fight!"

Everyone exchanged glances, clearly bewildered. Husk muttered something under his breath, while Vaggie stood with her arms crossed, scrutinizing Spawn. The hotel had seen its fair share of odd characters, but this was beyond anything they had ever encountered.

Angel Dust, leaning against a nearby table, broke the silence with a smirk. "Alright, spill it, tough guy. What the hell are you made of?" he quipped, looking Spawn up and down. "Because you're clearly built different. Literally. No normal guy walks outta something like that."

Spawn didn't answer immediately, his mind still replaying the encounter with Fleshrend. He was already formulating a plan, thinking of ways to strike back. Angel's question barely registered.

"I've survived worse," Spawn finally muttered, his voice low and gravelly.

Charlie, still confused but relieved that he seemed fine, sat down next to him. "I know you're planning something, Al," she said gently. "But maybe-maybe you should let us help you this time."

Spawn glanced at her briefly but said nothing, his thoughts consumed by Fleshrend and the next inevitable confrontation. He wasn't going to stop until that monster was dealt with, but for now, he allowed Charlie and the others to hover around him, their concern something he wasn't used to but couldn't ignore.

Spawn, still sitting in the chair with everyone around him, remained firm in his resolve. Charlie and the others were concerned, but he wasn't about to drag them into something that was his responsibility. His eyes, still burning with the intensity of the battle, swept over the group.

"I made a promise," he said, his voice firm. "This isn't your problem. It's mine, and I intend to keep it that way. I won't put any of you in danger."

Charlie opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, it was Vaggie who stepped forward, arms crossed and expression stern. Her voice was calm but firm as she spoke. "You're wrong, Al," she said, drawing everyone's attention. "This might be your fight, but you're here now. That means we look out for each other. That's how it works in this place."

Spawn turned his gaze to her, surprise flickering briefly in his eyes. Of all the people here, he hadn't expected Vaggie to say something like that. He was silent for a moment, absorbing her words. There was something in the way she said it-a sense of responsibility and solidarity-that made him pause.

"I don't need anyone looking out for me," he replied, his tone quieter than before but still resolute. "It's your job to protect this place. The best way you can do that is by letting me deal with the issue."

Vaggie held his gaze, not backing down. "And what if your fight puts all of us in danger anyway? You think keeping us out of it makes it safer here? You're part of this now, whether you like it or not."

Spawn didn't respond immediately. He wasn't dismissing her, but he was also not going to back down from what he saw as his responsibility. Finally, he nodded slightly, acknowledging her point without fully agreeing.

"I'll deal with the one who came after me," he said, his voice steady. "And I'll keep my promise. Just stay out of the way."

The tension hung in the air for a moment, but Vaggie didn't push further. She gave him a sharp nod in return, understanding that he wasn't going to be easily swayed but appreciating that he was at least listening. Charlie, still seated beside him, looked between the two, her worry not completely dispelled, but she knew there was no changing Spawn's mind when it came to facing this threat alone.

For now, they had reached an uneasy understanding.

As the group sat in tense silence, Alastor made his presence known, his voice cutting through the air with unsettling cheerfulness. "Well, well, well, my dear friends, it seems we have quite the predicament on our hands! Perhaps I could be of some assistance?"

Spawn's eyes immediately narrowed, filled with suspicion as he turned to face the Radio Demon. "Stay the hell away from me," Spawn growled, his posture tense, clearly off-put by Alastor's presence. He had seen his share of demons and tricksters before, and Alastor wasn't one he trusted in the slightest.

Alastor, unfazed by the hostility, chuckled lightly and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Oh, relax, Spawn. I'm only here to offer something that may pique your interest... Something you're quite fond of, from what I've gathered." His smile widened as he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. "Guns."

Vaggie immediately stepped forward, her hand raised to stop the conversation before it could go any further. "Absolutely not. We're not-"

But before she could finish, Angel Dust interjected with a casual wave of his hand. "Oh come on, Vaggie. Everyone in hell is armed to the teeth already. What's the harm in a few more weapons?"

Vaggie shot Angel an irritated glare, but her words caught in her throat when she realized that Spawn was actually considering the offer, his sharp eyes locked on Alastor.

Still wary, Spawn stood up, towering over the Radio Demon. "I don't trust you," he said bluntly, his tone hard. "What's your angle? I've dealt with demons before, and I'm not interested in any of your deals."

Husk, who had been quietly observing from the side, grunted in agreement. "Damn right. Never make deals with a demon, especially this one."

Alastor smiled, an unsettling glint in his eyes. "Oh, but I'm not here to strike a deal, Spawn. No contracts, no strings attached," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "I simply enjoy a little chaos, and knocking the Vee's down a few pegs sounds like a delightful bit of fun, don't you think?"

Spawn's gaze hardened, still not buying into the Radio Demon's smooth words. "You still haven't told me what you get out of it."

Alastor's smile widened as he clasped his hands together, his tone taking on a theatrical flair. "What do I get? Oh, it's quite simple, really. The more powerful you become, the more chaos it brings to this lovely little world of ours. And! It means this hotel will have an even more powerful protector. You see, my dear Spawn, if you are seen as a force to be reckoned with, then this hotel becomes a sanctuary that people will start to take very seriously. And that, my friend, benefits us all."

The room fell silent for a moment as everyone processed what Alastor was saying. While Spawn still didn't trust him, there was a twisted logic to what Alastor proposed. The Vee's were powerful enemies, and having more firepower might help even the playing field.

Charlie, who had been quiet up until now, looked nervously between Alastor and Spawn. "I don't like this," she admitted softly, "but... maybe it could help."

Spawn crossed his arms, still glaring at Alastor. "I don't need your help. I'll take care of Fleshrend on my own. But if you step out of line or try anything-"

Alastor chuckled darkly, waving his hand dismissively. "Perish the thought! I'm only here to help. Consider it... a gesture of good will."

Despite every instinct screaming that Alastor was trouble, Spawn couldn't shake the desire for what was being offered. He was still a soldier at heart, and the promise of firearms stirred something familiar within him. The weight of a gun in his hands, the precision of a shot-these were things he understood, things he could control. And in this chaotic world, control was something he sorely needed.

"Fine," Spawn finally growled, narrowing his eyes at Alastor. "But let's be clear. There are no deals, no strings attached. I get the weapons, and that's the end of it. If you so much as think about crossing me-"

Alastor raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin wide and unbothered. "My dear Spawn, you wound me with your lack of trust! As I said, no deals. You get the guns, and I get the... entertainment. Simple as that!"

Still suspicious, Spawn didn't drop his guard. He stepped closer, looming over Alastor as he reiterated the terms. "I take the weapons. You stay out of my way. This doesn't make me your ally, and it sure as hell doesn't make me your friend."

"Crystal clear!" Alastor chirped with a gleeful chuckle, unbothered by the intensity in Spawn's voice.

Satisfied that the terms were understood, Spawn asked, "So, where are these weapons?"

Without hesitation, Alastor produced a map from seemingly nowhere and unfolded it with a dramatic flourish. "Ah, here we are," he said, tapping a spot on the map with a sharp finger. "A lovely little warehouse on the outskirts of the city, full to the brim with all the firepower your soldier's heart could desire. Everything from rifles to explosives. An absolute treasure trove, I must say."

Spawn studied the map carefully, committing the location to memory. The idea of having access to those weapons gave him a sense of readiness he hadn't felt in a long time. His chains and cloak were formidable, but the thought of guns in his hands once again was enough to solidify his resolve.

Charlie, watching the interaction from the sidelines, looked uneasy but remained silent, trusting Spawn's judgment despite her clear discomfort with Alastor's involvement.

With the map now in hand, Spawn turned to leave, but not before shooting Alastor one last glare. "This isn't over. If you try anything, I'll deal with you myself."

Alastor simply grinned, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. Now, go forth and have fun, my dear soldier!"

Spawn didn't respond, simply walking away, his mind already focused on the upcoming confrontation with Fleshrend-and the weapons that might just give him the edge he needed.

As Spawn was about to head out, Angel couldn't resist calling out, his voice flirtatious as always. "Leaving so soon, big guy? You know, you're like a knight in shining armor. Or, well, more like... dark, creepy, and badass armor, but still-totally hot."

Spawn, already on edge from his conversation with Alastor, felt his patience fraying. He turned, his green eyes narrowing beneath his mask, and without holding back, he asked, "Do you do that because you like it, or because your boss expects it of you?"

Angel's confident smirk faltered slightly. "What're you talkin' about, big guy? I just-"

But Spawn wasn't in the mood for games. "I know you sold your soul," he interrupted, his voice low and laced with something Angel hadn't expected. His hand crackled with green necroplasm as he gestured toward Angel. Suddenly, the air around the room seemed to shift, and Angel felt something cold and heavy manifest around him.

The others gasped in shock as a spectral chain, glowing faintly pink, appeared around Angel's neck, its links stretching back into the unknown. It shimmered eerily in the dim light of the hotel lobby, a reminder of a bargain made long ago.

Angel's cocky demeanor shattered as his eyes widened, staring down at the chain in disbelief. "What the-? How are you-?" His usual bravado faltered, and for the first time in a long while, he looked genuinely thrown off.

Spawn's voice was grim and knowing. "I can see it. Because I'm all too familiar with what happens when you sell your soul." He let that sink in for a moment, his gaze cutting into Angel's shock-stricken expression. "I've been there. I did it too."

Vaggie and Charlie exchanged uneasy glances, and Husk narrowed his eyes as if trying to process what they were seeing. The tension in the room was palpable.

Angel, still trying to recover from the revelation, demanded, "How... how do you know? And how the hell did you do that?"

Spawn let the glow of his necroplasm fade, and as it did, the chains around Angel shimmered for a moment longer before dissolving into the air, as though they had never existed. "Like I said. I know the deal all too well." His voice was quieter now, almost distant. "You're not the only one who made a bad choice."

Without waiting for a response, Spawn turned and strode out of the hotel, leaving Angel, Charlie, and the others absolutely stunned in his wake. Angel stood there, still feeling the lingering presence of those chains around his neck, his usual confident front completely shaken.

As the doors closed behind Spawn, Husk broke the silence with a low mutter, "Well... that was something."

Angel, still in shock, didn't have a comeback this time.

Chapter Text

After leaving the hotel, Spawn wasted no time heading straight to the weapons warehouse that Alastor had marked on the map. The journey was swift, his mind focused entirely on what awaited him. Upon reaching the building, he made quick work of forcing his way inside, tearing through the wall as though it were made of paper.

Once inside, the sight that greeted him stirred something deep within-a vast collection of firearms, explosives, and military-grade weaponry. Rows upon rows of deadly instruments, all meticulously organized. Spawn stood still for a moment, taking it all in. It had been a long time since he'd seen so much firepower in one place. It was overwhelming, almost nostalgic.

He approached the nearest crate, prying it open to reveal pristine rifles, each one sleek and deadly. Picking one up, he felt the weight of it in his hands. "Ah, my old friends..." he muttered, a smirk hidden beneath his mask. "You've missed me, haven't you?"

With a renewed sense of purpose, Spawn began loading up, strapping as much ordinance as he could carry onto his suit. Handguns, grenades, assault rifles-anything that would give him the upper hand in his inevitable showdown with Fleshrend. The sight of all the firepower filled him with a twisted sense of comfort, like slipping back into an old skin.

But just as he was securing his final weapon, the crackle of a loudspeaker suddenly filled the air. A voice, smooth yet deadly, echoed throughout the warehouse.

"So, you think you can steal from me?" the voice said, dripping with disdain. It was Carmilla Carmine, the top weapons dealer in Hell, and her reputation was as fearsome as her arsenal. "I don't know who you are, nor do I care. You're about to learn what happens to those who try to take what's mine. And trust me, it's a lesson you won't be able to pass on to anyone else."

Before Spawn could react, the lights in the warehouse flickered, and through the narrow windows, he could see dozens of Carmilla's men surrounding the building. They were heavily armed, and by the looks of it, they had no intention of leaving him alive.

Spawn surveyed the situation with his usual calm, already formulating a plan. He could hear the heavy footsteps of the guards closing in, the unmistakable sound of weapons being cocked and loaded. It seemed like he was trapped.

But just as quickly as they closed in, Spawn vanished. His form dissolved into a dark, swirling mist, teleporting out of the warehouse in an instant. Carmilla's men burst through the doors, weapons at the ready, only to find the room completely empty.

Confused and on edge, they scoured the area for any sign of him, but Spawn was long gone, leaving nothing but silence and shadows behind.

Outside, perched on a nearby rooftop, Spawn reappeared, watching the confusion unfold below. He knew better than to stay and fight a small army right now-he had what he came for. As he adjusted the weapons on his back, he cast one last glance at the warehouse before disappearing into the darkness once more, ready for the battle ahead.

As Fleshrend staggered into one of Vox's sleek, high-tech repair facilities, his grotesque body was visibly malfunctioning. Sparks flew from his torn cybernetic limbs, and his heavy breathing sounded more like a machine grinding itself into oblivion. The sinner assigned to repair him, a scrawny tech with thick glasses, immediately got to work, eyes scanning the damage.

"Alright, so... looks like you've got some severe tearing in the hydraulic supports, your targeting systems are fried, and-wow-whoever you were up against really did a number on your chassis. I can patch you up for now, but you're gonna need a more comprehensive overhaul later," the tech rattled off, barely pausing to breathe.

Fleshrend glared down at him, his patience running thin. "I didn't ask for a speech. Can you fix me or not?"

The sinner raised his hands defensively. "Yeah, yeah, I got you, big guy. But, uh, maybe lay off the heavy lifting for a while, huh? Could do wonders for your stress levels. Y'know, future-proof yourself."

Fleshrend, in no mood for jokes, grunted but said nothing, allowing the tech to continue the repairs. The whirring of tools filled the air as sparks flew from the sinner's equipment. Slowly, his damaged components began to show signs of recovery.

Just as the repairs seemed to be progressing, there was an abrupt boom as part of the facility's wall was obliterated, debris flying everywhere. The entire room shook, and through the dust and rubble emerged a silhouette.

Spawn stepped through the hole he had just created, weapons strapped to every part of his body, his dark form looming in the wreckage. He cracked a twisted smile under his mask, tilting his head mockingly as he surveyed the room.

"Knock, knock," Spawn said, his voice dripping with menace and dark humor.

The sinner jumped back, tools falling from his hands as his eyes widened in panic. Fleshrend, half-repaired, turned his monstrous head toward the intruder, snarling in fury as he struggled to get up.

Spawn raised one of his new firearms, the barrel glowing with ominous energy. "Miss me?" he growled, locking his sights on Fleshrend, ready to finish what he had started.

Hours had passed, and neither Vox nor Valentino had heard anything from Fleshrend. The silence from his supposed enforcer was unnerving. Valentino, lounging in his office, tugged at the collar of his suit, irritation simmering under his usual cocky demeanor. He glanced over at his guards, shaking his head.

"Where the hell is Fleshrend?" he muttered, drumming his fingers on his desk. "Go check my damn horoscope or something, because this shitstorm? It's cosmic."

His guards snickered nervously at his joke, but Valentino's half-smirk didn't reach his eyes. Something felt wrong. Real wrong.

Later that night, Valentino, followed by his usual retinue of armed goons, stepped into his private quarters, flicking the lights on with a snap of his fingers. The moment the lights came to life, so did the horror in the room. His eyes widened in shock.

Fleshrend, or what was left of him, was grotesquely suspended from the ceiling and walls. His massive cybernetic limbs were ripped apart and hung like decorations, dripping dark oil and blood. The hulking body that had once been unstoppable was now a gory, mechanical display piece. It looked as if the monster had been ripped apart and rearranged by a butcher with a twisted sense of art.

In the corner of the room, trembling like a leaf in a storm, was the sinner who was supposed to repair Fleshrend. His face was pale, his body shaking uncontrollably, as if he'd stared into the depths of Hell and seen something worse.

Valentino's breath hitched as he walked slowly over to the shaking man, voice low and dangerous. "Who did this?"

The sinner didn't speak. He just pointed, eyes wide and terrified, behind Valentino.

Before he could even turn to see what the man was pointing at, the room erupted in gunfire. A barrage of bullets tore through the air. One of Valentino's guards dropped instantly, dead before he hit the ground. The other guard was riddled with bullets, crumpling in agony. Valentino spun, but before he could react, he felt himself shoved violently to the ground.

A rifle barrel was suddenly pressed against his face, cold and unforgiving. He blinked up in terror, staring at the dark figure looming over him-Spawn, his face shrouded in shadow and malice.

Valentino's usual bravado drained from him in an instant. "Wait, wait, wait!" he stammered, his voice shaky. "I'll give you anything you want. Just name it, it's yours."

Spawn leaned closer, the cold barrel pressing harder into Valentino's skull. "Right now," Spawn growled, his voice low and menacing, "I just want you to shut up and listen."

Val's heart pounded as he fell silent, eyes wide, unable to tear his gaze from the monster standing over him.

Spawn continued, "I'm done killing your men. There's enough chaos going on already. I don't need to add more bodies to the pile." His tone darkened further. "Whatever wild hair you had up your ass about me? Consider it plucked. From now on, if any of your men so much as look in the hotel's direction, I'll be paying you a visit."

Valentino tried to protest, but Spawn shoved the barrel of the rifle harder against his head, cutting him off. "You clearly have a listening problem," Spawn snarled. "So let me make this real simple for you."

He leaned in closer, his presence suffocating. "As of right now, you work for me. And your job is very, very simple. All I want is peace and quiet."

Valentino nodded, fear seeping into every inch of his body. "Yeah... okay... I understand."

Spawn's eyes narrowed. "Say it."

Val gritted his teeth but complied, repeating, "I work for you. I get it."

Spawn didn't move the rifle just yet. His next question came with a deadly calm. "And who am I?"

Valentino swallowed hard. "I... I don't know."

"Exactly," Spawn said, his voice dripping with menace. "Let that little mystery keep you up at night."

With that, Spawn finally pulled the rifle away from Valentino's face and stood up, turning to leave. Valentino's breaths came out in ragged gasps as he scrambled to his feet, rage overtaking the fear that had paralyzed him moments ago. In a burst of anger, he yanked a revolver from his coat, aiming it at Spawn's back and pulling the trigger.

Bang. The bullet sailed through the air, but hit nothing. Spawn had already vanished, his dark presence disappearing into the shadows as quickly as it had arrived.

Valentino, left standing in his room full of carnage, his breath ragged, threw the revolver down in frustration. "Fuck!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the empty room.

And with that, he was left alone, haunted by the last words Spawn had left him with.

On the evening news, the screen flickered to life with the usual Hellish flair as 666 News' logo spun into view. Sitting behind the sleek, black desk was the infamous Katie Killjoy, her icy smile as sharp as ever, next to her was her co-anchor, Tom Trench. Both looked far too pleased with the chaos they were about to report.

"Good evening, sinners!" Katie began, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "In tonight's top story, Hell's very own wannabe vigilante has been stirring up quite a ruckus in Pentagram City. That's right, folks, some masked freak has been making things difficult for none other than our beloved Overlord, Valentino."

Tom Trench leaned forward, his gas mask twitching slightly as he chuckled. "Beloved? Pfft, sure, Katie, if by beloved you mean 'slimy, cigar-sucking scumbag.' But hey, who are we to judge? We're just the news."

The screen shifted, showing brief clips of destruction left in Spawn's wake-explosions, dead bodies, and various gang members fleeing for their lives. Katie rolled her eyes as she watched the footage.

"Look at this guy," she said with an exaggerated sigh. "Does he think he's some kind of hero? Look at that ridiculous outfit-like someone skinned a biker, stapled it to a corpse, and called it fashion. It's Hell, not some comic book fantasy!"

Tom snorted. "And he's been playing 'vigilante' for what? A few days? Maybe he thinks if he kills enough people, he'll get a medal. Sorry, sweetheart, but here in Hell, that just makes you like everyone else."

Katie tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the desk. "Still, you gotta wonder... for someone who's clearly having a mid-life crisis," she grinned viciously, "he sure is making a name for himself. Not that anyone knows what his name actually is."

The screen cut to a still shot of Valentino's headquarters, and Katie's smile grew even wider. "And speaking of people not knowing who they are anymore... seems like Valentino is having a little... performance issue."

Tom leaned back, shaking his head. "Oh yeah. First, Fleshrend gets shredded like old furniture, then Val's men start dropping like flies, and now he's letting some masked freak walk all over him? Rough times for the ol' porn king."

Katie didn't miss a beat, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Aw, poor Val. Maybe someone should check his ego for a hole. But really-what happened to the king of sleaze? Did he lose his touch? Maybe he's too busy oiling his chest to handle business."

Both anchors burst into laughter, clearly enjoying themselves as they mocked Valentino's apparent fall from grace. The camera zoomed in slightly on Katie as she straightened up, her tone turning more sinister.

"All jokes aside, folks, there's something interesting happening in the city. Whoever this wannabe hero is, he's gotten a little too comfortable shaking things up. If he's not careful, he might just find out that even in Hell, there's a line you don't cross."

Tom chuckled darkly. "If Valentino doesn't take him out first, that is. Though, at this rate, looks like Val might just hire him as his bodyguard. Guy needs all the help he can get."

Katie finished with a smirk, "And we'll be here, as always, with the popcorn, ready to watch the bloodbath. Stay tuned, Hell, this story isn't over."

The screen faded to black as their laughter echoed, leaving viewers with a grim reminder of the chaotic days ahead.

Chapter Text

When Spawn returned to the hotel, the atmosphere shifted immediately. All eyes turned toward him, watching with a mix of curiosity, awe, and a hint of fear. Niffty was the first to break the silence, zipping up to him with her usual bright energy, practically bouncing on her feet.

"What happened? What happened? Did you kick their butts?" she asked, her eye wide with excitement as she scanned the arsenal of weapons Spawn had hauled in.

Spawn gave her a calm, almost dismissive response. "I took care of it."

Niffty's smile grew even wider, clearly satisfied with his answer. She darted off to continue her cleaning, still buzzing from the brief exchange. But not everyone was as easily impressed.

Vaggie approached, her expression a mix of concern and frustration. She eyed the large assortment of weapons with clear disapproval, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Look, I understand the need for self-defense," she started, "but this is... beyond excessive. What are you planning to do with all of this? You're acting like you're going to war."

Spawn shifted his gaze to meet hers, his tone calm but resolute. "I hope I never have to use all of this. But the point is to have it when I need it. If Hell has taught me anything, it's that things can turn sideways fast." He lifted one of the guns slightly. "Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it."

Vaggie sighed, not entirely convinced but unwilling to push the matter further. She knew the truth in his words, even if the sight of all that firepower made her uneasy. After a tense pause, she backed off, though she shot him one last wary look before retreating.

In the lobby, Angel Dust was uncharacteristically quiet, his usual flirty and cocky demeanor absent. He sat near the bar, nursing a drink and avoiding eye contact with anyone. Spawn noticed the change, and it didn't take much to figure out why. Angel was still reeling from the earlier encounter, from the way Spawn had exposed the chains binding his soul. The normally brash demon was clearly shaken.

Spawn, not wanting to turn the hotel into a place where everyone feared him even more than they already did, walked over to Angel. His approach was measured, not wanting to startle him. Angel glanced up, his expression a mix of defiance and unease, expecting some kind of rebuke or mockery.

But Spawn's voice was surprisingly calm. "What I did earlier... that wasn't to humiliate you or anything like that. It was to show that no one is above making mistakes." He let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "I've made more mistakes than I care to remember."

Angel blinked, caught off guard by Spawn's words. For a moment, the tension between them eased. Spawn wasn't there to lord anything over him; he was simply stating a hard truth. Angel nodded slightly, the usual cockiness in his expression replaced by something more genuine, though still guarded.

"Yeah... well," Angel muttered, not quite sure how to respond. "Guess we all got our demons, huh?"

Spawn didn't press further. He simply gave Angel a small, understanding nod.

The hotel was quiet once again, but there was a new layer of understanding between him and its residents.

Spawn took a seat in the lobby, setting his arsenal on the table in front of him. One by one, he began disassembling the weapons with a practiced precision, each motion smooth and automatic, like second nature to him. The clinking of metal and soft scraping of parts shifting filled the quiet room. There was a certain calmness that came over him as he worked, and it was clear that this act of maintenance was something he'd done countless times before.

As he was carefully cleaning a rifle, Charlie approached with a gentle curiosity. She watched him for a moment, noting the ease with which he handled the weapons, and then asked, "Do you... enjoy doing that? Fixing up weapons, I mean."

Spawn glanced up at her, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if deciding how much of himself he wanted to reveal. He wasn't one to open up easily, especially about his past. But there was something disarming about Charlie's innocent demeanor. She wasn't prying with malice or judgment-just simple curiosity.

After a moment of silence, Spawn gave a slight shrug. "I don't know if I'd say I enjoy it," he said, his tone low and thoughtful. "But I'm good at it. It's familiar, something I've done for a long time. Helps me focus, clear my head."

Charlie sat down on the couch across from him, intrigued but respectful of his space. "Familiar things can be comforting sometimes," she mused softly, watching him continue to clean the rifle. "Even if they're not necessarily good things."

Spawn nodded, his hands moving almost instinctively as he reassembled the gun, every piece clicking perfectly into place. "Yeah," he muttered. "Guess it's like muscle memory at this point."

Charlie smiled slightly, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. She understood the weight behind his words. Hell was full of people with tragic pasts, and Spawn's guarded nature told her that his was no different.

"Well," she said gently, standing back up, "if it helps you relax, I guess that's something." She hesitated for a moment before adding, "Just... don't lose yourself in the familiarity, okay? You're more than just what you're good at."

Spawn didn't respond immediately. He watched her walk away, her words lingering in the air. He wasn't sure what to make of her optimism-it was so foreign to him, but maybe that was why he didn't dismiss it outright. With a quiet sigh, he returned his attention to the rifle, but Charlie's words stayed with him, gnawing at the back of his mind as he worked.

As Spawn was finishing up reassembling one of his weapons, Alastor sauntered into the room, his usual grin plastered across his face. The mere sight of the Radio Demon made Spawn's blood boil again, his hands tightening around the rifle as he glared at him.

"Well, well," Alastor said with a teasing lilt, admiring the impressive collection of weapons laid out before Spawn. "Looks like someone went on quite the shopping spree. I bet that was an interesting transaction, hmm?"

Spawn's jaw clenched, his temper barely contained. "I owe you a broken neck for setting me up like that, Alastor," he growled, standing from his seat and squaring up to the demon. He wasn't one for threats, but Alastor had earned this one.

With his ever-present smirk, Alastor raised his hands in mock innocence. "Oh my, such hostility! But I recall never telling you to steal anything. I simply pointed you in the direction of a warehouse full of goodies, and you made your choices. Free will is a marvelous thing, isn't it?"

Spawn took a menacing step forward, his necroplasmic energy flickering ominously around him. "All the same, if someone comes looking for me, I'll make sure I do the same to you. I'm not your puppet, and I won't hesitate to make you pay for putting me in this mess."

Alastor's eyes gleamed mischievously, though his voice remained as smooth as ever. "Now, now, my dear Spawn," he said, adjusting his crimson coat. "Outing you would do no good for anyone, least of all me. Think about it-why would I draw attention to a new player with such a... unique skill set? That would just make things more difficult for everyone, wouldn't it?"

For a moment, the two stood there, a silent tension crackling between them. Spawn didn't trust Alastor, not one bit. But as much as he hated to admit it, the demon had a point. Drawing attention to him wouldn't serve Alastor's interests.

"You better hope you're right," Spawn said, his voice low and filled with warning. "Because the moment I think you're lying, I'll make sure you regret it."

Alastor simply chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you. But don't worry, Spawn, our little arrangement is perfectly intact-for now." He turned to leave, pausing briefly in the doorway. "And by the way... I'm terribly curious to see what you do next."

With that, Alastor exited the room, leaving Spawn simmering in a mix of frustration and distrust. He sat back down, gripping his rifle tighter, the quiet of the room returning but the weight of Alastor's presence still lingering.

In Vee's Tower, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Vox paced back and forth, his metallic face glowing with fury as he ranted. "Do you know how much I spent on Fleshrend? That was top-of-the-line tech! He was supposed to be unbeatable, and now he's scattered across Valentino's walls like cheap decoration!"

Valentino, however, was surprisingly calm, sitting with his legs crossed and idly smoking a cigar while Vox unleashed his tirade. It was an odd sight-usually, Val would have joined in the screaming by now. When Vox finally ran out of steam, Val slowly exhaled a puff of smoke and leaned forward, his tone cold. "You'll make a new toy, Vox. But that's not the point. That little prick Spawn made me look like a bitch in my own damn home. And that, I ain't standing for."

Suddenly, Val erupted, throwing his cigar to the ground and stomping on it as he shouted. "He held a gun to my head, Vox! ME! Do you know what that does to my image? I've run this part of Hell for years, and this... this nobody waltzes in, shreds your precious Fleshrend, and then has the audacity to make demands of me?!"

Vox crossed his arms, seething. "Yeah, Val, I get it. He trashed your place, humiliated you, and now he's running around unchecked. What do you wanna do, huh? Throw another pile of cash at it and hope he goes away?"

As the two overlords bickered and traded ideas, Velvette sat off to the side, scrolling through her phone, entirely indifferent to the shouting match. Her fingers flicked idly across the screen, eyes half-lidded in boredom as the two continued their loud and fruitless exchange.

Eventually, both Vox and Val stopped, turning to glare at her in unison. "Got anything to add, Velvette?" Vox snapped, exasperated.

Valentino chimed in, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, sweetheart. Got any bright ideas, or are you just gonna sit there all night?"

Without looking up, Velvette finally sighed and raised her eyes from her phone, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You two done with your little bitch fest?" She quipped lazily, raising an eyebrow at their obvious frustration. "You're both so hung up on the brute force approach. It didn't work with Fleshrend, didn't work with your men. Why do you think throwing more muscle at this is gonna do anything different?"

Vox and Valentino exchanged a glance before Val scowled. "Alright, genius. If you're so smart, what's your plan?"

Velvette's smirk widened. She casually dialed a number on her phone as she stood up. "Tact, boys. This clearly requires a more... professional approach."

The two watched her, confused but intrigued, as she listened to the phone ringing on the other end. After a few moments, the line picked up, and her smile deepened.

"Blitzo," Velvette said with satisfaction, glancing at Vox and Valentino, "I've got a job for you."

Chapter Text

Papers are scattered everywhere, phone lines are ringing, and the sound of a loud argument echoes from another room. On the door, an old, battered sign reads: Immediate Murder Professionals (I.M.P.). Inside, the crew that runs Hell's most efficient (and most affordable) assassination service is going about their usual, hectic business.

Loona, the office's sharp-tongued hellhound receptionist, lounges behind her desk, scrolling through her phone with an unimpressed expression. She's ignoring the stack of papers piling up around her, the constant ringing of the phone, and the distant shouting that fills the room. Her long tail swishes back and forth in boredom as she side-eyes the chaos in the background.

From a nearby door, Blitzo, the over-the-top, fast-talking imp boss, bursts into the room, a manic grin plastered across his face. "Alright, team! We've got a big one today! Some high-profile client, and it's gonna make us rich!" he announces dramatically, throwing his arms in the air.

Moxxie, the perpetually anxious weapons expert, walks in behind him, adjusting his tie and looking annoyed. "Blitz, we don't even know the details yet! You can't just go off assuming it's going to be a massive payday."

Blitzo dismisses Moxxie's concerns with a wave. "Oh, relax, Mox! We're gonna be fine. I can feel it in my demonic little bones."

Millie, the team's energetic and violent assassin, follows her husband Moxxie into the room, cracking her knuckles with excitement. "Well, whatever it is, I'm ready to tear into something! Been a bit too quiet around here lately!"

Blitzo strides up to his desk and kicks his feet up onto it, grabbing a phone off the hook with exaggerated flair. "Alright, everyone. Let's see who our lucky client is today." He dramatically presses the button for the speakerphone as everyone gathers around.

On the other end of the line, a smooth and condescending voice answers. It's Velvette, speaking with her usual smugness. "Blitzo, darling. I've got a job for you and your little... team."

Blitzo's eyes widen in surprise, immediately recognizing the voice. He stands up straight, his excitement only increasing. "Oh ho ho, Velvette! It's been ages! What can I do for one of Hell's loveliest Overlords?"

Moxxie's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Wait, we're taking jobs from Overlords now? Blitz, this sounds dangerous."

Velvette's voice purrs through the speaker. "Don't worry, Moxxie. I'm not asking for anything too complicated. Just a little... removal. We've got a thorn in our side that needs to be plucked out."

Blitzo grins devilishly. "Consider it done! Who's the unlucky sucker?"

Velvette's voice turns deadly serious. "You been watching the news lately? There's a freak in a mask going around making things difficult. He's the target."

The room falls into an awkward silence. Even Loona momentarily glances up from her phone, curious about the shift in mood.

Moxxie raises an eyebrow. "Wait... The guy who's been causing trouble for Valentino and Vox?"

Millie lets out a low whistle. "Damn. That's one hell of a target."

Blitzo, always one to love a challenge, cracks his knuckles and leans forward with a grin. "Alright, Velvette. We'll take the job. That goon is as good as dead."

Velvette chuckles softly on the other end of the line. "Excellent. I knew I could count on you, Blitzo. Don't disappoint me."

The phone clicks, and the office returns to its usual chaos as Blitzo gleefully starts prepping for the mission, much to Moxxie's continued apprehension. "Alright, team! Pack up the gear. We've got a high-profile hit to carry out, and it's gonna be legendary!"

The I.M.P. team gears up, their usual banter and chaos continuing as they prepare to face their most dangerous target yet-one who may be more than even they can handle.

After Velvette hangs up the phone, the room falls into an awkward silence. Valentino and Vox stare at her, disbelief etched across their faces.

Vox is the first to speak, his electronic voice laced with confusion and irritation. "That was your brilliant plan? Hiring a third-rate assassination service? Are you out of your mind?"

Valentino crosses his arms, his usual cocky grin nowhere to be found as he shakes his head. "Yeah, Velvette. I'm all for trying new shit, but IMP? Really? You've seen those losers. What the hell are they gonna do that we can't?"

Velvette doesn't react to their protests at first. She calmly tucks her phone back into her coat and gives them both a level stare. "Oh, I'm sorry. Do you two have a better idea?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment, and both Overlords fall silent, looking at each other as if hoping the other has some genius plan they haven't thought of yet. But nothing comes. Instead, they both let out exasperated sighs, clearly unhappy but unable to argue.

Valentino finally speaks, irritation creeping into his voice. "Still, why IMP of all places? What makes you think they can handle this guy? We've thrown way bigger forces at him, and he tore through them like nothing. You really think that imp and his little circus are gonna be any different?"

Velvette lets out a short, dismissive laugh, leaning back in her chair as she regards them both with mild amusement. "That's the thing, Val. You and Vox keep trying to muscle him with brute force, but that hasn't worked. Clearly, you two don't understand the problem."

She smirks, her eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. "This guy? He's a different breed. He doesn't react to power plays the way most demons do. He's calculated, dangerous... and he knows how to pick his battles. What you need is someone who fights dirty, someone who can think like him. And Blitz and his team? They might just have the kind of creative chaos we need."

Vox crosses his arms, clearly unimpressed. "Creative chaos? Velvette, we need precision, not... whatever the hell you think that circus act provides."

Velvette shrugs, unconcerned. "Blitzo and his crew may not be polished, but they get the job done in the most unexpected ways. And they're not stupid. Blitz is reckless, sure, but he's far from incompetent."

Valentino still looks skeptical, but at this point, neither he nor Vox has anything better to offer. He lets out another frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples. "Fine, fine. But if this blows up in our faces, don't say I didn't warn you."

Velvette grins. "Oh, don't worry. If this works, you'll be thanking me."

With that, the conversation dies down, but the tension between them lingers. The gamble they've placed on I.M.P. is risky, and even though Velvette seems confident, neither Val nor Vox can shake the feeling that things are about to get a lot more complicated.

In the ethereal calm of Heaven, there was a brewing confusion that hadn't been felt in centuries. A perplexing anomaly had been detected in Hell, one that had sent subtle ripples through Heaven's ranks: divine energy, faint but unmistakable, was being sensed from within the infernal depths.

And yet, there had been no sanctioned incursions into Hell since the failed attack on the Hazbin Hotel. No exorcisms, no operations, no orders given from the higher celestial powers. Heaven was still licking its wounds from that embarrassment, and the chaos of Hell had remained Hell's own problem, at least officially.

In one of Heaven's command chambers, a vast space filled with glowing monitors and celestial maps, Sera, a seraph known for her fierce dedication, paced with frustration etched on her face. She paused in front of a massive screen where a faint pulse of light blinked across the mapped expanse of Hell's landscape. The signature of divine energy, something that shouldn't be there.

An Exorcist soldier stood nearby, arms folded, her face strained as she watched her wrestle with the issue. Her pristine, white mask gleamed under the ambient light.

"This doesn't make any sense," Sera muttered, turning to the captain. "We haven't sent anyone down there since the failed attack on the hotel. No exorcists, no angels-no one. And yet..." She gestured toward the glowing pulse on the screen. "There it is."

The soldier stepped forward, her voice calm but concerned. "We've reviewed all records. There have been no sanctioned operations into Hell. Everyone who was involved in that attack is accounted for-dead or returned. There's no trace of anyone from Heaven left behind."

Sera's wings shifted slightly, the tension in her stance growing. "Then what is this? Divine energy in Hell, and it's consistent. It's not fading, it's not scattered. It's centered."

She moved closer to the screen, narrowing her eyes at the pulse that flickered like a beacon deep within Hell's chaotic boundaries.

"We haven't dealt with anything like this in a long time," Sera said, more to herself than to the captain. "Since the attack failed, Heaven's been watching, waiting, not willing to risk another embarrassment. But now...this."

The Exorcist frowned under her mask. "Perhaps it's residual energy from the failed attack? Some kind of lingering effect we didn't foresee?"

Sera shook her head, dismissing the idea. "No, it's too precise for that. This isn't a random burst-it's controlled, intentional. Almost like something-or someone-down there is using divine power."

The soldier's brow furrowed in concern. "But no one from Heaven could survive that long in Hell without our knowledge."

Sera nodded, but her thoughts raced. The energy signal had appeared sporadically over the last few days, just enough to catch attention, and now it was steady, as if a divine presence had taken root somewhere in Hell. The concept of divine energy acting outside Heaven's oversight was both impossible and terrifying.

"The Exorcists have no information on this, no reports of stray energy or rogue angels?" she asked, her voice edged with urgency.

"None," the soldier replied. "Every Exorcist is accounted for, every angel from that failed mission either returned or confirmed dead. There's no one left down there from Heaven. This is...something else."

Sera's wings fluttered with agitation as she crossed the room to a large tome, flipping through ancient records. Myths and legends of divine energy acting outside of Heaven's control were scattered through old texts, but none were recent, and most were dismissed as stories. The idea of a rogue force capable of wielding divine power, especially in Hell, was almost unthinkable.

Almost.

Sera slammed the book shut and turned to the soldier. "We need to keep a close watch on this. If that energy flares up or moves, I want to know immediately."

The soldier nodded. "What are you thinking?"

Sera's face darkened, her mind swirling with grim possibilities. "I'm thinking we've lost control of something. Or worse, something we never had control over is stirring. And if that's true..."

She didn't need to finish the sentence. The implications were enough to send a chill through even the most hardened angel. The balance between Heaven and Hell had always been precarious, and if there was a new player with divine power in Hell, it could lead to chaos on a scale they hadn't seen in eons.

Sera looked back at the pulsing light on the screen, her jaw tightening.

"Whatever this is, we can't afford to ignore it any longer."

Chapter Text

Spawn sat in his room, feeling a gnawing sense of stagnation settle over him like a thick fog. The past few days had been eerily quiet, too quiet. He knew better than to trust silence in Hell, but for now, it was all he had. He had dealt with immediate threats, silenced those who needed silencing, and sent a clear message. But now, as the dust settled, he found himself in a familiar place: wondering what the hell he was still doing here.

His mind drifted back to Callister and the cryptic things he'd said. Every time Spawn thought he was inching closer to understanding, the answers slipped further away, replaced by more questions. Frustration bubbled under the surface. He couldn't just sit here, drowning in his own thoughts. He needed answers, and the only lead he had was Callister.

With that in mind, he decided to head out, resolve stiffening his spine as his cape reappeared on his back. Yet, as he reached the door, Charlie appeared, blocking his path with a warm smile.

"Heading somewhere?" she asked with her usual chipper tone, but there was a knowing look in her eyes. Charlie wasn't naive-she could tell when someone was ready to bolt.

Spawn gave her a vague reply, something short and dismissive, as he had countless times before. But Charlie didn't take offense, not this time. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her expression softening.

"We've got a few things going on downstairs," she said, trying to sound casual. "Some activities to help people... you know, rehabilitate. We'd love to have you join us sometime."

Spawn paused. Normally, he would've brushed off the suggestion without a second thought, too focused on whatever mission was currently driving him. But something in the way Charlie said it gave him pause. Maybe it was the sincerity behind it, the hope she seemed to cling to that everyone could be saved, even someone like him.

For a brief moment, he actually considered it. The idea of doing something different-anything different from the endless cycles of violence and retribution-hung in the air. He could see himself participating, if only for a fleeting second. But then the reality of who he was crashed down again, the weight of his past pulling him back into the dark.

He met Charlie's hopeful gaze and shook his head. "I'm not worth your time," he said, his voice low, almost regretful. Without waiting for a response, he pushed past her and headed out into the night, the door closing softly behind him.

Charlie stood there for a moment, watching him leave, her smile fading slightly. She had always believed in giving everyone a second chance. But Spawn... he was different. And yet, even though he kept pushing her away, she couldn't help but think there was something beneath all that anger and violence-something worth saving.

As Spawn disappeared into the night, Charlie's mind raced. She stood in the hallway, biting her lip, replaying every interaction she'd had with him in her head. She really wanted to get through to him, to help him, but nothing she'd done so far had made any difference. He kept his walls up, kept pushing her away, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't find the key to unlocking whatever was buried beneath all that anger.

Vaggie, noticing the faraway look in her eyes, approached quietly. "You can't help people who don't want to help themselves," she said softly, placing a comforting hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Some people just... they're not ready."

Charlie sighed, feeling the weight of her failure. "But I know there's something in him, Vaggie. He's not like the others. He's... different."

Before Vaggie could respond, a gruff voice from the bar interrupted their conversation. "You two are going about it all wrong."

Charlie and Vaggie turned to find Husk, sitting with his usual half-empty glass in hand, staring at them with an uncharacteristically serious expression. They exchanged a glance before stepping over to him.

"What do you mean?" Vaggie asked, her skepticism clear.

Husk set his glass down and looked directly at them, his usual casual demeanor replaced by something far more intense. "I've seen his type before. Guys like him don't come here for the same reasons as everyone else."

Charlie frowned, not understanding. "He's never even had a drink at the bar."

Husk nodded. "Doesn't need to. You think I haven't seen the way he avoids things, the way he's constantly on edge? He's hyper-vigilant-every noise, every shadow, he's ready to snap. Then there's the way he holds back, like he's always expecting something to go wrong. And don't get me started on his temper-it's like a hair trigger. All classic signs."

Vaggie furrowed her brow. "Signs of what?"

Husk leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "PTSD. That guy's seen some serious shit, and it's still haunting him. You think he's just angry for the sake of it? No, he's angry because he's been through hell-worse than this one."

Charlie's eyes widened, her mind reeling as she replayed everything Husk had just said. The avoidance, the hyper-vigilance, the short temper-it all fit. She hadn't considered it before, but hearing the symptoms laid out like that made everything click into place.

"PTSD..." she whispered, the realization hitting her like a ton of bricks. Of course. It wasn't just about getting through to him-it was about understanding him. Spawn, or Al, as she preferred to call him, wasn't just being difficult or stubborn. He was fighting demons far deeper than anything she could see on the surface.

Vaggie crossed her arms, her face still skeptical but softening. "Even if that's true, what are we supposed to do? We're not therapists, Husk."

Husk shrugged, picking up his drink again. "I'm not saying I have all the answers. But if you want to help him, you gotta stop treating him like just another sinner in need of saving. He's carrying something heavy, and if you push too hard, he'll just shut down even more."

Charlie stood there, processing everything Husk had said. She glanced back toward the door where Spawn had left, a new sense of understanding dawning in her eyes.

"He's been through something," Charlie said quietly, almost to herself. "Something bad... and he's not ready to talk about it. But maybe, if we approach this the right way, we can help him."

Husk leaned back, returning to his usual gruff tone. "Maybe. But don't expect it to be easy. Guys like him? They're not used to letting people in."

Charlie nodded, determination filling her chest. "I know. But I'm not giving up on him. Not yet."

Vaggie looked at her with a mixture of concern and admiration. "Just be careful, Charlie. He's dangerous. We all saw what he did."

Charlie gave a small, sad smile. "I think that's exactly why he needs someone to believe in him."

As Spawn walked through the dimly lit streets of Hell, he couldn't help but notice the way people ducked away from him. Whispers followed him like a shadow, filled with fear and awe. They had clearly heard about what he had done to Fleshrend and the humiliation he dealt to Valentino. Their eyes avoided his, and the streets seemed to part before him, leaving him alone in the suffocating silence of his thoughts.

Eventually, he found himself back in the same spot where he had met Callister last time. The familiar figure was standing there, leaning casually against a wall as if waiting for him.

"Back again, are we?" Callister's voice carried its usual cryptic tone, but this time, Spawn kept his anger in check. He wasn't here for riddles or games.

"I need answers," Spawn said, his voice steady, though the tension in his muscles was undeniable. "You keep hinting at things-why am I here? What's going on?"

Callister turned to face him, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Still searching, I see. Well, I've already told you... there's more to your being here than you realize. It's not just about this place. It's about you. Your purpose. Your self."

Spawn narrowed his eyes. "And what the hell does that mean? You keep saying there's more to this than I know, but you never actually explain anything."

Callister gave a light chuckle. "Patience was never one of your virtues, was it?"

"No," Spawn growled, stepping closer. "And I'm not here to waste time."

Callister's gaze softened, his voice growing less teasing. "Tell me, Al. How long have you been fighting?"

The question caught Spawn off guard. He opened his mouth to respond but found the answer hard to put into words. "I... I've been fighting for as long as I can remember."

Callister nodded as if expecting that response. "And what were you always fighting for?"

A bitter laugh escaped Spawn's throat. "Justice. Redemption. Maybe revenge. I don't even know anymore."

Callister's eyes sharpened, focusing intently on him. "Exactly. And here, in this place, what is it you're fighting for?"

Spawn clenched his fists, trying to formulate an answer. But the truth was, he didn't know. He had taken down threats, defended himself, even gotten a twisted sense of satisfaction from hurting those who deserved it. But what was it all for? Here, in Hell, what did any of it matter?

"I don't know," Spawn finally admitted, his voice low and filled with frustration. "I've got nothing here. Nothing but myself."

"And that," Callister said softly, "is exactly the problem."

Spawn looked at him, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Callister stepped closer, his expression serious now. "You've been fighting for so long, you've forgotten why. You've fought for causes, for people, for revenge, for survival. But what happens when there's no cause, no war, no enemy left but yourself? You can take down all the Fleshrends and Valentinos you want, but in the end, you're still running from something."

Spawn's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He knew Callister was right, at least partially.

"You've got nothing but yourself here," Callister repeated. "But you still don't see your own worth."

Spawn stared at him, feeling an unfamiliar heaviness settle in his chest. His worth? What worth did he have? He was a broken man, filled with guilt, rage, and regret. Even his powers-this cursed Hellspawn-were a reminder of what he had lost, what he could never have again.

"I didn't come here for a therapy session," Spawn muttered, turning his gaze away.

"No," Callister said, his tone soft yet firm. "But maybe that's exactly what you need." He paused, allowing the words to sink in. "You came here looking for answers. But the truth is, Al, you won't find them until you stop running from yourself."

Spawn clenched his fists, wanting to argue, but the words wouldn't come. He felt exposed, as if Callister had ripped open a wound he hadn't even realized was there.

"What am I supposed to do, then?" Spawn finally asked, his voice quieter than before.

Callister smiled faintly. "That's for you to figure out. But maybe... just maybe, you start by asking yourself what you want. Not for redemption. Not for revenge. Just for you."

With that, Callister turned and began to walk away, leaving Spawn standing there, alone with his thoughts once again.

Chapter Text

After his encounter with Callister, Spawn walked the dim, winding streets of Hell, his thoughts swirling. Callister's cryptic words echoed in his mind, refusing to settle. What did Callister mean when he said there was more to his presence here than Spawn could understand? And what was it that he was still fighting for, all this time? Spawn had always known his purpose-his mission had been revenge, justice, and protecting the ones he loved. But with Wanda long gone, with no hope of a future together, what did he have left?

A question crept into his thoughts-one he had never dared ask himself before. What did he want? What did Al Simmons, the man behind the mask of Spawn, truly want from this endless existence?

But as soon as the question appeared, it was shut out by a nagging feeling. Something wasn't right. He felt eyes on him-watchful, calculating. His instincts sharpened, a warrior's sixth sense, finely honed by years of battle.

He turned, scanning the shadows, and that's when he saw him. A short, red-skinned imp with an arrogant smirk on his face strolled casually into view. The imp moved with the confidence of someone who thought they had the upper hand.

"Hey there, big guy," the imp said, voice dripping with smugness. "Blitzo, with an 'o,' at your service."

Spawn narrowed his eyes, his stance shifting ever so slightly. He didn't know this imp, but he could tell from his demeanor that something was off.

"What do you want?" Spawn demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't have time for whatever game you're playing."

"Oh, this isn't a game," Blitzo replied, far too calm for someone standing in front of Spawn. "I've been hired to kill you. But don't worry, I'm a professional. Should be quick and easy." His smirk widened, as if he found the whole situation amusing.

Spawn's eyes darkened, his fists clenching at his sides. "You're making a big mistake, imp. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

Blitzo's eyes gleamed with amusement, but behind his cocky exterior, there was something more-an angle, a calculation. Spawn could sense it, even if he couldn't put his finger on what it was just yet. Was Blitzo stalling for time, or was there more to this contract than he was letting on?

As the two continued their back-and-forth, the tension growing between them, something in the back of Spawn's mind clicked just a second too late. His senses screamed a warning, but before he could react, Millie, silent and deadly, leapt from the rooftops above. Her blades glinted in the dim light as she descended, stabbing Spawn in the back multiple times with ruthless precision.

The force of the attack sent Spawn staggering forward, his body jerking with each strike. He slumped to the ground, blood pooling around him as his vision dimmed. For a moment, the world seemed to slow. Millie stood over him, panting from the effort, while Blitzo and the rest of the team approached, thinking the job was done.

"Well, that was easier than I thought," Moxxie said, his voice a mix of surprise and relief. "Almost seems too good to be true."

Luna, arms crossed, just scoffed. "You guys always make it so dramatic."

Blitzo sauntered up to the body, standing triumphantly over Spawn's limp form. "Told ya this would be quick work! Hell, we didn't even need all of us for this one."

They began to celebrate, thinking the job had been finished without a hitch. But their voices trailed off into silence when they noticed something-movement. Spawn, impossibly, was beginning to rise. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself up from the ground. Blood still dripped from the wounds in his back, but they were closing, healing themselves before their very eyes.

The looks on their faces shifted from confidence to fear, as Spawn stood tall once again. His eyes blazed with fury as he turned his gaze toward the group, silent and deadly. The air around him seemed to thrum with power.

Blitzo swallowed hard, the cocky grin fading from his face. "Uh... this might be a bit harder than I thought."

Spawn cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as his wounds fully healed. He said nothing, but his glare spoke volumes. They had made a grave mistake. And now, they would have to pay for it.

As the battle commenced, Spawn wasted no time. His eyes locked onto Blitzo with an intensity that could burn through stone. His rifle appeared in his hands as if summoned from the shadows themselves, its barrel gleaming in the dim light of the street. Without hesitation, he fired, each shot aimed with deadly precision toward the imp leader.

Blitzo, quick on his feet and faster with his mouth, narrowly dodged the shots. His movements were erratic, each twist and turn more out of instinct than strategy, but somehow he managed to avoid being hit. "Hey, come on, big guy!" Blitzo called out, his voice strained but still trying to maintain its bravado. "Let's talk about this! No need for all the violence!"

Spawn fired again, his silence more menacing than any threat. He advanced on Blitzo, his towering form moving with purpose, eyes blazing with the cold focus of a predator. The rifle boomed, sending shockwaves through the air with every pull of the trigger. Blitzo ducked behind a broken wall, his heart racing. "Seriously, let's not make this a whole thing! This was just a job! Nothing personal!"

But Spawn wasn't listening. He never listened to the words of Hell's denizens. He knew Blitzo's type all too well-liars, schemers, cowards who'd say anything to save their own skin.

Meanwhile, Millie and Moxxie were trying to hold their own. Millie, blades in hand, attempted to flank Spawn, slashing at him with the speed and precision of a trained killer. But before she could get close, Spawn's chains erupted from his body, writhing like serpents through the air. They shot toward her, clanging against her weapons, wrapping around her arms and legs, dragging her back before she could land a hit. "Damn it!" she growled, struggling against the iron grip of the chains.

Moxxie, from a distance, fired his pistol, aiming for any weak spot he could find. But Spawn's chains moved like extensions of his own body, deflecting the shots as easily as swatting away flies. One chain lashed out toward him, forcing Moxxie to dive for cover behind a pile of debris. "We're not getting through to him, Millie!" Moxxie called out, frustration thick in his voice. "He's too damn fast!"

Millie gritted her teeth, slicing through the chains that held her with all her strength, but they reformed faster than she could cut them down. She shot a glance at her husband. "Keep trying! We're not giving up!"

Above, Loona was perched on a rooftop, her sniper rifle trained on Spawn. She had a clear shot, but every time she fired, Spawn seemed to sense it. Even without looking her way, he anticipated her attacks. The moment she pulled the trigger, a chain would whip up, knocking the bullet away before it could even come close.

Loona cursed under her breath. "What the hell is this guy?" She reloaded quickly, trying to keep track of his movements. But it was as if Spawn had eyes everywhere-he was splitting his focus with terrifying efficiency, effortlessly keeping them all at bay.

Blitzo, still dodging Spawn's relentless shots, was running out of room and patience. "Okay, okay, seriously! There's gotta be something you want! Money? Revenge? A nice vacation spot in the Rings? Come on, buddy, what's it gonna take to stop shooting at me?!"

But Spawn remained wordless, his rifle now roaring in response to Blitzo's frantic attempts to negotiate. Each missed shot chipped away at the walls around them, leaving Blitzo with fewer places to hide.

"I didn't sign up for this!" Blitzo muttered, finally pulling his own gun and taking a wild shot in return. But even that was a futile effort-Spawn's chains blocked it easily, knocking the bullet out of the air without so much as a flinch. The sheer power and control Spawn displayed was enough to make the whole crew realize how outclassed they truly were.

Blitzo's grin faltered as he felt the air shift. He wasn't just dodging bullets anymore. He was dodging death itself.

Blitzo, desperate now, was scrambling for any way out of the nightmare that had descended on him. "Okay, okay! How about this?" he stammered, fumbling through his jacket pocket. "You can have... my phone! Yeah, it's top of the line, demon-proof, tons of apps, and-"

BANG!

Before he could finish, Spawn fired, the bullet tearing through the phone with surgical precision, sending it clattering to the ground in pieces.

"Alright, fine! No phone! I got... my wallet! Tons of cash, credit cards, fake IDs-you name it, it's yours!" Blitzo frantically held it out.

BANG!

Another shot rang out, blasting the wallet right out of Blitzo's hand and into the dirt. His grin, shaky to begin with, faltered even more.

"Screw it! Tic Tacs!" He threw a pack of mint candies in a last-ditch effort, his voice cracking with desperation.

BANG!

The small plastic container exploded in midair, scattering mints everywhere.

Spawn's eyes never left Blitzo, cold and unyielding. His patience was wearing thin, and every offer the imp made only served to irritate him further. The dark energy around him seemed to pulse, growing more volatile with each passing second. He was a towering figure of relentless anger, a predator with his prey pinned down.

Loona, still perched on the rooftop, took aim once more, her sights trained on Spawn's head. She fired, the shot piercing through the air with deadly intent, but Spawn was already prepared. His chains flared out, deflecting the bullet effortlessly, sending it spiraling off into the distance.

But now Spawn was done playing. His glowing green eyes narrowed, and with a low growl of frustration, he raised his hand. A crackling beam of necroplasmic energy surged from his palm, burning with an unnatural intensity. He didn't aim for Loona directly, but for the rooftop she stood on. The energy sliced through the corner of the building like a hot knife through butter, and the structure groaned as it began to collapse.

Loona's eyes widened in shock as the roof gave way beneath her. She leapt just in time, narrowly avoiding being crushed under the falling debris, but the ground still hit her hard as she landed awkwardly. She rolled to her feet, coughing from the dust and debris, but alive. "Son of a-" she muttered, clutching her rifle tighter, eyes glaring at Spawn.

Blitzo, seeing his team in trouble, tried to appeal once again, his voice frantic. "Hey, hey! That was uncalled for, man! I mean, Loona's just trying to help! We're all just doing our jobs here!"

But Spawn ignored him, his focus momentarily shifting to where Loona had fallen. His chains lashed out at her, though she managed to dodge, rolling out of the way. The whole team was realizing just how far out of their depth they were. The sheer force of Spawn's necroplasm was something they'd never encountered before. And the worst part? He didn't even seem like he was trying.

The Imp crew was starting to feel the weight of just how serious their situation had become.

Blitzo, Moxxie, and Millie exchanged looks-this was no normal contract. This was something far more dangerous.

Chapter Text

Millie, her fiery determination never wavering, made a desperate charge. Her blades gleamed in the dim light, her eyes filled with resolve. But Spawn was faster. Before she could get close enough to land a strike, one of his chains shot out like a serpent, wrapping around her throat. She gasped, her hands instinctively going to the metal links as they constricted, lifting her off the ground effortlessly.

"Millie!" Moxxie shouted, his heart racing as he saw his wife in danger. Panic surged through him, and he rushed forward, pistol in hand. But Spawn’s chains moved with lethal precision, another coiling around Moxxie’s neck before he could even get a shot off. He too was lifted into the air, struggling as the chains tightened around his throat.

The two of them dangled helplessly before Spawn, his glowing green eyes burning with malice. He stared at them, unfeeling, like a predator toying with his prey. His grip on the chains began to tighten, and Millie and Moxxie’s struggles grew weaker as the air was slowly squeezed from their lungs.

Both of them knew they were in trouble—no, worse. They were facing death. Their vision began to blur, their bodies weakening as the chains constricted further. This was it. 

In those final moments, Millie’s tear-filled eyes met Moxxie’s, and Moxxie, choking for air, reached out to her. Millie did the same. Even as they hovered on the brink of death, they sought each other out. A simple, heartbreaking gesture. Their fingertips barely touched, but the message was clear: I love you.

Seeing this, something inside Spawn shifted. That simple act—two souls reaching for each other in the face of death—stirred something deep within him. It was as if a ghost from his past had whispered in his ear. For a moment, he didn’t see Millie and Moxxie dangling before him. He saw himself and Wanda. His own lost love. His wife, torn from him by the cruelty of fate. The rage that burned so hot within him cooled just enough for him to realize what he was doing.

He was about to separate them—just as he had been separated from Wanda. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. His hands trembled ever so slightly as the memories washed over him. The love they shared, the life he once had... and the torment of knowing he could never have it again.

With a snarl, Spawn loosened the chains, letting Millie and Moxxie fall to the ground, gasping for breath. His eyes, though still glowing, softened as he looked at them. He couldn’t explain why, but he couldn’t kill them. He couldn’t make another husband and wife suffer the way he had suffered. Not like this.

Blitzo, watching from a distance, stared in shock. He’d expected Spawn to finish them off, but this… this hesitation? It wasn’t something he’d counted on.

Spawn stood over Millie and Moxxie, torn between the darkness that consumed him and the remnants of humanity that still lingered deep within. For a moment, he just stared down at them, silent, wrestling with the ghosts of his past.

Spawn stood there, the weight of the moment pressing on him. His mind swirled with the echoes of what just happened. He could still feel the rage simmering beneath his skin, but something else had crept in—something quieter, more painful. The love between Millie and Moxxie had struck a chord in him he hadn’t expected, forcing memories of his own lost happiness to surface.

He closed his eyes briefly, gathering his thoughts. Then, his gaze hardened, and he turned his attention back to Blitzo, who had been hiding behind cover. With a quick flick of his cape, one of its shadowy tendrils snaked out, wrapping around Blitzo’s wrist and pulling the imp out of his hiding place, yanking him forward until he stood directly in front of Spawn.

Blitzo’s eyes widened with fear, his usual cocky demeanor all but gone in the face of the towering hellspawn. “W-Whoa, hey now—" Blitzo started, but Spawn silenced him with a cold stare.

“You’re gonna get out of here,” Spawn growled, his voice low and dangerous, “and you’re never going to accept another contract involving me again. This is your one warning.”

Blitzo swallowed hard, his smirk replaced with sheer terror. “Yeah, yeah, no problem, buddy!” he sputtered, trying to sound upbeat but failing miserably. “I’m good at avoiding situations like this! Won’t happen again, I swear! I owe ya one!” He even dropped to his knees, prostrating himself in a pitiful display, begging for mercy without actually saying the words.

Spawn’s glowing green eyes narrowed in disgust at the imp’s antics. He shook his head, almost pitying the creature in front of him. Without another word, he turned his back on Blitzo, clearly signaling that the conversation was over. He began to walk away, the weight of everything still heavy on his shoulders.

As he made his way back toward the hotel, his senses flickered again. This time, he spotted Loona, standing off to the side, her demeanor guarded as always. She looked tough, but now, in this moment, Spawn saw something different. She looked young. Much younger than she had appeared during the fight, her bravado a shield for something more vulnerable underneath.

He paused for a moment, looking her over with a sense of realization. He had been young once, too, full of fire and the same belief that power and vengeance could solve everything. And yet, here he was, bound by chains both real and metaphorical.

He stopped in his tracks, turning slightly toward her. “You’re young,” he said, his voice softer than it had been before. “Get out of this assassin business while you still can. Trust me, kid—you get nowhere good in it. I know from personal experience.”

Loona, caught off guard, blinked at him, her usual snark held in check. She said nothing but shifted uneasily on her feet, the gravity of his words seeming to sink in, if only for a moment. Spawn didn’t wait for her reply. He’d said what he needed to say.

With that, he turned and walked off into the night, his cape billowing behind him, leaving Blitzo, Loona, and the others to process what had just transpired.

As the dust settled, Millie and Moxxie, still recovering from their near-death experience, embraced each other tightly. Tears welled in their eyes as they clung to each other, both knowing how close they had come to losing everything. 

“I thought that was it,” Moxxie whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Millie held him even tighter, burying her face in his chest. “Me too,” she murmured, the relief of still being alive mingling with the love they shared.

They stayed like that for a long moment, thankful that they still had each other, as Spawn disappeared into the shadows once more, haunted by his own past, but unwilling to inflict the same pain on others.

Once Spawn was completely out of sight, Blitzo slowly peeled himself up from the ground, his usual confident posture starting to return. He let out a long, exaggerated sigh of relief, dusting off his coat as if to brush away the lingering dread.

“Whew! That was… intense!” he chuckled awkwardly, though the nervousness was still clear in his voice. His usual bravado hadn’t quite returned yet.

But as he glanced over at his team, he could tell immediately that things weren’t quite as smooth as he hoped. Millie and Moxxie were still locked in each other’s arms, the terror of the moment not yet fully washed away. Loona, who had just gotten out from behind the shattered rooftop that fell, looked both frustrated and concerned. Their eyes collectively met his, and Blitzo knew without a doubt that none of them were pleased with how things had played out.

Millie was the first to pull away from Moxxie, her expression a mix of relief and anger. “Blitz, what the hell was that?!” she demanded, her hands still shaking from the close call. “That… thing nearly killed us! You said this was going to be an easy job!”

Moxxie, who was normally the first to critique Blitzo, was uncharacteristically silent, still processing everything that had just happened. His eyes were full of worry, and it was clear his thoughts were on how close they had come to losing their lives.

Loona, leaning against the rubble, crossed her arms and gave Blitzo a pointed look. “I almost got crushed by a building, thanks to you.” Her voice was cold, but there was an underlying tremor that showed she wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted to seem.

Blitzo let out another nervous laugh, raising his hands defensively. “Okay, okay, I admit, that didn’t go exactly according to plan, but hey, we’re all alive, right? I mean, sure, I had to, uh, ‘negotiate’ with that guy—”

“You begged for your life,” Loona cut in bluntly, rolling her eyes.

Blitzo frowned, though it was hard to argue. “Alright, fine, yes, there was some begging. But in my defense, he’s freakin’ terrifying, okay?! And besides,” he added, trying to inject some optimism back into the conversation, “I did manage to get us out of it in one piece! We’re still here, so that’s a win, right?”

Moxxie finally spoke up, his voice tight with frustration. “That doesn’t change the fact that this was supposed to be straightforward, Blitzo. We weren’t prepared for… whatever that was. We could’ve died!”

Blitzo’s face softened, realizing that his team wasn’t just angry—they were genuinely shaken. His normally carefree attitude faltered for a moment, and he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah… I know,” he admitted. “I really thought this was gonna be easy money, but that guy—whatever he is—he’s not like the usual targets. He’s something else. And… well, I didn’t see that coming.”

There was a long silence between the group as the weight of the encounter settled over them. Blitzo knew he had messed up, and even though they had survived, the near-fatal consequences were still fresh in their minds.

“Look,” Blitzo said, more earnestly now, “I’ll make it up to you guys, alright? I’ll find us a safer job next time. Something that doesn’t involve creepy chain dudes who can heal from getting stabbed in the back.” He attempted a half-hearted grin, but it didn’t land.

Millie sighed, glancing at Moxxie. “I just… I don’t want to go through something like that again, Blitz. We came too close.”

“I know, Millie, I know,” Blitzo replied, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in for him. “I won’t put us in that kind of danger again. Promise.”

Loona pushed off the wall and stretched. “You better keep that promise, or next time, I’m not saving your sorry ass.”

Blitzo chuckled weakly, glad at least some of the tension was breaking. “Deal. No more crazy contracts involving that guy. Lesson learned.”

The group, still shaken but alive, started to head back, each one of them silently grateful that they’d made it out of the encounter with their lives, even if things hadn’t gone according to plan.

As the group began to walk away from the chaotic scene, Blitzo trailed a little behind, his eyes darting to the ground. His gaze landed on one of the Tic Tacs he had offered earlier, the small mint lying in the rubble. Casually glancing at his team to make sure they weren’t watching, he crouched down, swiping it up with exaggerated nonchalance.

With a smug little grin, Blitzo discreetly popped the Tic Tac into his mouth, crunching it between his teeth. He barely had a second to enjoy the minty freshness before he heard a sharp voice.

“Really, Blitz?” Loona’s deadpan tone cut through the silence.

Blitzo froze, slowly turning his head toward her. Loona was staring right at him, her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“What?” he mumbled, feigning innocence with his mouth still full of the mint.

“You’re seriously eating off the ground? That’s just nasty,” Loona continued, rolling her eyes.

Blitzo swallowed the Tic Tac, letting out a nervous chuckle. “I mean, it's just a Tic Tac, Loony. Can’t let it go to waste, right?”

Loona shook her head, clearly unimpressed. “You’re disgusting.”

Millie and Moxxie, having overheard the exchange, glanced back. Millie smirked while Moxxie just sighed and shook his head.

“Of all the things to worry about after what just happened, you’re focused on a mint?” Moxxie muttered, exasperated.

Blitzo grinned widely, trying to lighten the mood. “Hey, gotta stay fresh, even in the face of near-death, right?”

Loona groaned, picking up her pace and leaving Blitzo behind. “You’re hopeless.”

As the team continued walking, Blitzo couldn’t help but laugh a little to himself. At least they were alive—and that was worth a mint, even if it came from the ground.

Chapter Text

Back at the hotel, Charlie sat on the edge of a worn leather chair in the library, her brow furrowed in concentration. Several books on PTSD lay open on the table in front of her, pages filled with symptoms, case studies, and treatment options. She flipped through the pages with growing urgency, absorbing as much information as she could. Ever since Husk had mentioned that Spawn might be dealing with PTSD, Charlie couldn’t shake the thought. She felt a sense of responsibility—maybe even hope—that she could help him, or at least understand what he was going through.

Vaggie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her expression a mix of concern and skepticism. “Charlie,” she started, her voice soft but firm, “I get that you want to help him, but... are you sure he even wants that kind of help? He doesn’t seem like the type to open up, let alone want someone digging into his problems.”

Charlie glanced up from the book she was reading, her eyes tired but determined. “I don’t think it’s that simple, Vaggie. It’s not always about whether he wants help. Sometimes, people don’t even realize they need it. If he’s been living like this—constantly on edge, always ready for a fight—for so long, it might just be his normal.”

Vaggie stepped into the room, sitting down across from Charlie. “But what if you push too hard? What if he sees this as meddling instead of helping?”

Charlie sighed, closing one of the books and resting her hands on top of it. “I’m not trying to force anything on him. I just... I don’t know, Vaggie. I look at him, and I see someone who’s hurting. Someone who’s been through more than most of us can even imagine. I feel like, deep down, he’s still human in some way. And if there’s even a small chance that understanding what he’s going through can help him, I have to try.”

Vaggie frowned, her gaze softening. “I understand that. But you also have to remember, Charlie, that people like Spawn have their walls for a reason. He’s not going to suddenly open up just because you read a few books.”

Charlie smiled faintly. “I know. But I want to be ready. In case he ever does.”

The room fell into a quiet pause, the only sound being the occasional rustle of paper as Charlie continued reading. Vaggie watched her for a moment longer before speaking again.

“You have such a big heart, Charlie. I just hope you don’t get hurt trying to help someone who might not be ready to accept it.”

Charlie met her eyes, her smile widening a little. “Maybe. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Vaggie shook her head, a soft chuckle escaping her. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Charlie grinned. “You wouldn’t love me if I wasn’t.”

Vaggie rolled her eyes but smiled back. "That’s debatable."

They shared a moment of warmth before the reality of the situation settled back in. Charlie returned to her books, her determination unwavering, while Vaggie kept a silent watch, knowing that Charlie’s path was one that came with its own set of challenges.

And somewhere, maybe even without realizing it yet, Spawn’s world had shifted just a little—his past and present now intertwined with a princess who refused to give up on anyone, even someone as broken as he perceived himself to be.

Spawn entered the hotel, his heavy boots echoing in the quiet lobby. The shadows seemed to cling to him more than usual, remnants of the confrontation still swirling in his mind. He was thankful to see that the place was mostly empty, save for Husk sitting at his usual spot behind the bar, nursing a drink. After everything he had been through, the last thing Spawn wanted was to deal with too many people.

Husk glanced up as Spawn approached, offering him a brief, one-word greeting. "Hey."

Spawn gave a short nod in return. "Hey."

The air between them hung heavy with unspoken tension. Spawn was used to this—people giving him a wide berth, acknowledging his presence with as few words as possible. But Husk, being the kind of person who had seen it all, didn’t seem fazed.

"You look like you need to sit down," Husk said, gesturing to the barstool next to him. "Take a load off."

Spawn hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if considering the invitation carefully. Normally, he wouldn’t bother. But today, the weariness clung to him more than usual. With a grunt, he relented, moving over to the stool and sitting down.

Husk didn’t offer a drink. He knew better by now. Instead, the old cat demon leaned back, his wings stretching a little before he settled into a more comfortable position. He studied Spawn for a moment, his mismatched eyes flicking over him with the kind of quiet observation that suggested he was building up to something.

After a beat of silence, Husk spoke up. "Can I ask you something?"

Spawn, his gaze fixed somewhere off in the distance, replied without looking at him. "If you feel you must."

Husk swirled the liquid in his glass absentmindedly before setting it down. "I get why you wouldn't trust people. Hell, I wouldn't if I were you. You’ve been through enough that you probably expect the worst out of everyone." Husk paused, waiting for any kind of reaction, but Spawn remained impassive. "But what I don’t get… is where you get your sense of justice from."

That question made Spawn glance in Husk’s direction, though his expression remained unreadable. Husk continued, leaning forward a bit. "I mean, I’ve been around long enough to see guys like you—powerful types, with a lot of anger and a lot of baggage. Most of them don’t care about right and wrong anymore. They’re too busy being pissed at the world, or Hell, or whatever. But you? You still go around meting out justice, or what you think is justice. Why?"

Spawn was quiet for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if considering whether or not to dignify the question with an answer. He hadn’t thought about it in those terms for a long time. Justice. The word felt… foreign now. His life had been so consumed by vengeance, by his own battles, that he rarely paused to think about what drove him beyond that. But something in Husk's question gnawed at him.

When Spawn finally spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, like the sound of grinding stone. "It’s not about justice. Not the way you’re thinking."

Husk tilted his head, intrigued. "Then what is it about?"

Spawn’s hands clenched into fists on the bar. Memories flashed through his mind—memories of his past life, of being a soldier, of losing everything, of being betrayed. Of Wanda. "It’s about doing what needs to be done," he said finally. "The world... Hell, too, it’s full of people who’ll take what they want and leave the rest of us in ruins. I’ve seen it. Lived it. And if I can stop that from happening again—if I can make sure someone doesn’t suffer the way I did—then that’s enough."

Husk frowned, leaning back again, his glass dangling loosely in his hand. "Sounds a lot like justice to me."

Spawn let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe. But I’m not some hero out to save the day. I’m not doing it for redemption or any of that crap. I’m doing it because I don’t have anything else."

Husk mulled that over for a moment, staring into his glass before taking another sip. "Guess that makes sense," he muttered. "But you know… you can’t carry that weight forever. Sooner or later, it’ll crush you."

Spawn didn’t respond, but his silence said enough. He was already crushed, in more ways than Husk could imagine.

After a long pause, Husk decided not to push the issue further. Instead, he simply raised his glass in a half-hearted toast. "Here’s to surviving. Even when we’re not sure why we bother."

Spawn, as usual, didn’t touch a drink, but he gave Husk a slight nod, the closest thing to camaraderie they were likely to share.

The silence between them lingered after that, but it was a comfortable silence—one that didn’t need words to fill it. For now, that was enough.

The streets of Hell lay in ruin, remnants of a fierce battle scattered across the battlefield. Cracked pavement, twisted steel, and the lingering stench of sulfur filled the air. Yet, amidst the wreckage, something else had been felt—a ripple, a spark of something divine. It was this anomaly that had drawn Heaven’s attention, and now a celestial drone, with wings of radiant gold and a halo-like ring glowing atop it, descended from the heavens to investigate.

The drone hovered above the wreckage, its sensors sweeping the area. Designed to detect divine energy, it pulsed as it picked up traces of something holy, something powerful. But there was no sign of an angelic presence. No body. No clear source. Just remnants of a fight and a faint signature.

Far above, in the Celestial Realm, a pair of bright eyes observed the drone’s findings with a growing sense of intrigue.

“There,” Sera’s voice rang out, “Divine energy.”

One of the angels nearby, far less radiant in comparison to the towering seraphim, hesitated before speaking. “But there’s no sign of an angel, no heavenly warrior reported missing.”

Sera’s glowing eyes narrowed, her gaze fixated on the signature. Her mind worked swiftly, her thoughts moving faster than any mortal could comprehend.

Sera continued to study the energy trail, her gaze unwavering. “This is powerful… old, even. But not entirely holy.”

One of the younger angels stepped forward. “What are you suggesting, Lady Sera?”

Her voice rang out, clear and commanding. “This could be the work of a divine being trapped in Hell—or worse, a rogue force. Something not bound by Heaven’s laws, but still connected to its power.” Her six wings unfurled slightly, casting beams of light that filled the room, her mere movement making the lesser angels step back in awe.

“If that is true,” another angel began, “then we must act swiftly. If a divine force is down there, it could upset the balance.”

Sera turned, her glowing eyes blazing with a fierce intensity. “Balance means nothing if a divine being has gone rogue in Hell. If they are fighting for their life—or worse, trying to escape—they could become a weapon for the infernal forces.”

She approached the screen, her presence casting the battlefield in a light so pure, it was as if she could wipe away the entire scene with a thought. Yet, she remained calm, calculating.

“Expand the search. I want every trace of divine energy mapped out,” she commanded. “If something or someone is down there, we will find them. And if they are not with us, we will erase them.”

The drone below followed her command, its wings flaring out as it began to expand its perimeter, scanning more aggressively. But the traces were fading fast, as though whatever being had left them was trying to conceal itself.

Sera clenched her fists, her six wings radiating even more divine light. “Something is hiding down there. And whatever it is, it’s strong.”

Her voice, though calm, carried an edge that hinted at the centuries of battle she had fought. She had seen many things in her long existence, but the idea of a divine being—perhaps one of Heaven’s own—fighting for survival in Hell, was not something she would tolerate.

One of the angels hesitated. “Do you think it could be… one of the Fallen?”

Sera's eyes burned brighter at the suggestion. “No,” she said, her voice thundering through the room. “This is not the work of a mere fallen angel. This is something more. Something… beyond what we’ve faced before.”

She turned to the others, her expression fierce and unyielding. “Prepare for the possibility of engagement. If this being has gone rogue, or if it seeks to escape Hell’s grasp, we cannot let it fall into the hands of demons.”

As the room filled with celestial energy, Sera’s thoughts remained focused. The divine signature was fading, but it had left an indelible mark on her mind. Something powerful was hiding in Hell. Whether it was an ally in distress or a force of untold destruction, she would uncover the truth—and, if necessary, deliver Heaven’s wrath.

With a final, resolute glance at the battlefield, Sera's wings flared, their radiant glow filling the entire chamber. “We will find this being,” she declared. “And we will bring it to justice, whatever it takes.”