Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I practically rolled out of bed, my blonde hair a tangled mess of chaos (trust me, it’s always like this), twisted in bedsheets, and one blonde who’s apparently addicted to sleep. Aka me. Hello. I’m Charlotte Morningstar—most people just call me Charlie. And, to put it lightly, I’m the daughter of the governor of this state. Lucifer Morningstar. 

Now, you’d think being the governor’s daughter would mean I’ve got everything handed to me, right? Wrong. Ever since my mom, Lilith Morningstar, bailed when I was fifteen, it’s been just me and a whole lot of empty promises. My dad’s been too wrapped up in his political career to notice, and frankly, I don’t think he ever really cared. But, hey, it’s not all bad. I’ve had to learn to fend for myself, and that’s how this little “passion project” of mine came to life. A hotel, you know, for people who need a fresh start. Addicts, ex-cons, the homeless… you name it. 

Oh, one second, I’m still in my PJs. I need to get dressed before I make a fool of myself today. I slip into my usual red slacks and a crisp white button-down. If I’m feeling fancy (or if I have a meeting with someone who might help fund this place), I’ll throw on a red suit jacket to complete the look. But it’s Louisiana, and if I wore my full tux right now, I’d be dead before noon. 

Anyway, enough about that. Time to take care of my fur babies. Yes, fur babies. Two pygmy goats named Razzle and Dazzle. Don’t laugh. I swear, these two are more reliable than most people. If anyone ever tried to mess with them, I’d take a bullet for them in a heartbeat. 

As I’m getting them on their leashes (which is a task in itself, trust me), I notice someone coming through the front doors of the hotel. 

Anthony, or as he likes to be called, Angel Dust. 

I stood up, nearly tripping over myself in the process, and waved enthusiastically at him. “Anthony! Hey!” 

He just flipped me the bird without even looking up and sank into one of the many shabby sofas in the foyer. His usual sarcasm was still there, but it felt… off. Like it was forced. His bleach-white hair with pink streaks was a mess, falling around his face like he’d just rolled out of bed—honestly, he looked like shit. Not the usual sparkle he had when he waltzed in here with that cocky grin. 

I hesitated for a moment, trying to read him, before stepping closer and lowering my voice. “You okay?” 

“No.” He didn’t hesitate to reply, his voice flat. 

“What happened?”

“Everyone happened.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, which only made it look worse. “You know how life is as a stripper. Get fucked every which way from Sunday.” 

His Italian accent was thick as he spoke, the words spilling out in a mix of exhaustion and frustration. He kept rambling on about work, about the grind, about how everyone took advantage of him, how he was just a commodity, a product, but I wasn’t sure how much I could handle hearing. Not today. 

I pulled up a chair next to him, hoping I wasn’t intruding. “Hey, you know this place—this place—isn’t like your old gigs. If you need to vent, we’re all friends here.” 

He shot me a look, eyes tired and defeated. He was too proud to let anyone see it, but it was there. “You think I’m gonna be able to just leave all that behind? I’ve got years of baggage.” 

I nodded, knowing full well what he meant. “No one’s asking you to forget everything. Just… don’t let it ruin the fresh start you’ve got here.” 

He scoffed and leaned back into the couch, kicking his feet up. “Fresh start? Babe, I’m just trying to survive another day in this hellhole.” His voice was bitter, but I could see the sliver of hope he was trying to bury. 

I gave him a half-smile, though I could feel my own optimism fading with every word he said. “We all are. But this is different, Anthony. You can make it different.” 

He stared at me for a long beat, his usual smirk trying to make a comeback but faltering at the edges. Finally, he cracked a tired smile. “You’re way too optimistic for your own good, kid.” 

“Someone has to be, right?” 

He snorted, clearly not in the mood to laugh, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he looked around the hotel, as though noticing the crumbling walls and the faint smell of old coffee that lingered in the air. A long silence stretched between us, the only sound being the faint hum of the ceiling fan overhead. 

Finally, he leaned forward, his voice quieter now. “I don’t know how to stop, Charlie. It’s not that easy. I’m not… I’m not a good person. And you’re just trying to help people. I don’t think I fit in here.” 

I shook my head, trying to quell the twinge of frustration threatening to bubble up. “You don’t have to be perfect, Anthony. I’m not perfect, either. None of us are. We’re all just… trying to make it through.” 

He didn’t say anything right away, but I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—a sliver of doubt, of uncertainty, that maybe this place, and maybe even me, were worth sticking around for.

I stood up and gave him a half-hearted grin. “Come on. Let’s get some coffee. Maybe it’ll help you think clearer.” 

Without waiting for a response, I started toward the kitchen, but I could feel him watching me, that familiar weight of his gaze heavy on my back. For a moment, I wondered if he would follow, or if he was too lost in his own thoughts to care. 

But a second later, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. 

“Yeah, yeah, alright. I’m coming. But if you make it decaf, I’ll kill you.” 

I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me. “Deal.” 

But before I could even start prepping the Keurig, I felt a sharp thud against my ankle. I looked down to find Razzle and Dazzle—my two pygmy goats—battering my legs with their little heads, demanding their walk. Of course, I’d completely forgotten about them. 

“Oh, shit. Anthony, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to ditch the coffee for now,” I said, already scrambling to grab their leashes. “The fur babies are having a meltdown. I’ll be back in a sec.” 

I tossed him the Keurig pod, feeling a little guilty for leaving him hanging, but honestly, these goats were a bigger priority. They were my weird little family, and if I didn’t take them out soon, they’d probably start chewing on something they shouldn’t—again. 

I hurried to get the leashes on them, barely managing to keep my balance as they darted in every direction. Honestly, I didn’t know why I even bothered trying to put them on a leash at all. They were practically walking disasters on four legs. But I’d promised myself that I’d get them out at least once a day, so here I was, struggling with two tiny goats who thought their life’s purpose was to yank me around the yard. 

“Razzle! Dazzle! Come on, you two!” I said, tugging the leashes in the opposite direction of my now very impatient coffee machine. 

As I wrangled the goats out the door, I heard Anthony snicker from behind me. “You’re really this dedicated to them, huh?” 

I turned back with a grin. “You’d be surprised. They’re the only ones who don’t try to run away from me. Plus, they’re way more fun than people.” 

“You’ve got issues,” he called after me, his voice teasing but with a hint of amusement I hadn’t heard before. 

I shrugged and gave him a wink before stepping outside, letting the fresh air hit me. The sun was already high, making the heat of Louisiana summer stick to my skin, but I didn’t mind it. The goats seemed to be thriving in it, dragging me down the gravel path like I was the one being walked instead of the other way around.

As I led them through the yard, I glanced back toward the hotel. Even though I had my hands full, I couldn’t help but think about the small flicker of hope I saw in Anthony earlier. Maybe this whole thing—this weird hotel project of mine—might actually help people. People like him, who had been through hell and back, and just needed a place to breathe for a while. 

I paused mid-step, the goats tugging me forward. I didn’t know what it was about Anthony—maybe it was his tough exterior or the way he tried to mask the cracks in his armor—but I felt like he was one of the ones I could actually help. Maybe not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but somewhere along the line, he might just be able to turn a corner. 

Shaking my head, I tugged Razzle back from nibbling on a flowerbed. “You can’t eat that,” I muttered. “Not today, not ever.” 

It was going to be a long road ahead for both of us. But for now, I had my two little goats, and that was enough to keep me going. 

But as the goats continued dragging me—nearly six feet of awkward flailing (I’m 23, by the way—my birthday’s in November, but considering my mom was tall as hell, I guess it was in the genes)—I spotted someone I knew was bound to show up sooner or later. Cherri Bomb. I didn’t know if Cherri was her real name or just a nickname, but it didn’t really matter. She was hard to forget either way. 

She was dressed in her usual mishmash of outfits: ripped jeans, a worn-out band tee, and a bright red leather jacket that practically screamed “I’m ready to blow something up.” But underneath all that, I could see her work uniform peeking out—the kind you get from working at the local McDonald’s. It always cracked me up how she could juggle pyrotechnic shows and fast food at the same time. But hey, it paid the bills. 

“Hey, Cherri!” I called out, grinning even as Razzle tried yanking me off the path like a tiny, furry bulldozer. Dazzle, on the other hand, had already made a beeline for her, practically dragging me along with him. 

“Oi, look at you!” Cherri chimed, her voice like honey dipped in sarcasm. She crouched down in front of Dazzle, speaking to him in the kind of babyish tone I’d only ever hear her use with animals. “Who’s a good boy, huh? You hungry, sweetheart? You need a snack?” 

Her thick Australian accent made her sound even more like the loud, unapologetic whirlwind she was. And damn, it made me feel even more connected to this little town in a way I never thought was possible. 

“You’re such a softie,” I teased, watching as she handed Dazzle a apple slice from her pocket, as if she just carried them around for moments like this. “Pretty sure you’re spoiling him more than I do.”

Cherri just shrugged, giving Dazzle a quick scritch behind the ears. “Hey, what can I say? He’s cute, and he deserves it. Besides, he’s probably the only one around here who actually listens to me.” 

I rolled my eyes as Razzle tugged at my leg again, clearly frustrated at the lack of attention. “Yeah, well, if you start feeding him like that, I’ll never get him to behave. He’s already spoiled enough as it is.” 

Cherri shot me a grin, standing up to her full height. “Maybe he just likes me better,” she teased, flicking my shoulder lightly. “Don’t worry, Charlie. You’re not the only one he’s driving crazy.” 

I let out a laugh, shaking my head as I tried to wrangle both goats back on track. “Yeah, well, at least I know they love me. Even if it’s in their own little chaotic way.” 

Cherri chuckled, adjusting her jacket. “Can’t say I blame ’em. I’d love to be a goat and just live in the moment like that.” She gave a dramatic sigh, looking out at the horizon with a wistful expression. “No bills, no drama. Just food and occasional explosions.” 

“Ah, so basically, you want to be a goat with a better wardrobe?” I raised an eyebrow at her, laughing at the thought of Cherri doing anything that wasn’t completely extra. 

“Exactly!” she grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “Living my best life, just minus the whole… ‘being eaten by a coyote’ part.” 

We shared a laugh, and for a moment, everything felt easy again. It was a rare feeling for me these days, but having people like Cherri around helped. Even if she was a bit of a walking disaster, she was my kind of disaster. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Cherri. I’ve got a whole mess of things to get done today. Feel like helping a girl out?” 

Her grin widened, knowing I was about to drag her into another one of my ridiculous hotel projects. “You know I’m always up for some chaos. What’s next on the agenda?” 

“Let’s start with getting these two out of my hair.” I gestured to the goats, who were now trying to eat each other’s tails. 

She laughed, and I could already tell this was going to be another one of those days where nothing went according to plan. 

But then the wind picked up and whipped past, blowing her hair out of her face. Normally, Cherri kept her dirty blonde hair carefully arranged to cover the left side of her face. I already knew why she did that, but it always hit me like a punch to the gut whenever I saw it. 

Her left eye was gone. The socket was just… empty, the skin around it tough and scarred. She’d told me, during one of those nights she hung out with Anthony, that a firework had gone off in

her face during one of her pyrotechnic shows. The thought of it made me wince every time. I couldn’t even imagine how much pain that must have caused her. 

“You know, it always makes me shudder when I see that,” I muttered, immediately regretting the words as soon as they left my mouth. 

Cherri just laughed, a loud, carefree sound that made my guilt slip away. She pulled her hair back with a flourish, fully exposing the leathery skin and the hollow socket. 

“What’s wrong, gov’na?” she teased, her thick Aussie accent practically dripping with mischief. “Can’t handle a little scarring?” 

I rolled my eyes, trying to shake off the unease, but she just smiled wider, as if she got a kick out of making people uncomfortable. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen worse, but it’s still jarring, you know?” 

She shrugged, her grin never fading. “Eh, if you don’t mind getting up close and personal with a little face horror, I’m sure it’s no big deal. At least it adds character, right?” 

I had to laugh at that, even though I felt kind of bad about the whole thing. She was so casual about it, almost like it was no big deal, but I knew better. There was a whole backstory behind the scar, a history of her own recklessness that had led to her getting a permanent reminder of the dangers of her job. 

“Yeah, character…” I said with a smirk, shaking my head. “You’d probably get a gig as a model for some horror film or a post-apocalyptic campaign.” 

Cherri laughed again, loud and brash, causing a few people on the street to glance over in curiosity. She didn’t care though; Cherri never did care much for other people’s opinions. “I’d totally nail the role. Can you imagine me with a bloody chainsaw and some creepy clown makeup? Classic.” 

I chuckled, watching her with a mix of admiration and concern. She always wore her scars like a badge of honor. I wasn’t sure if it was an act to convince herself or just her way of making light of something that could’ve broken someone else, but with Cherri, it felt like there was always an undercurrent of sadness lurking behind her jokes. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” I said, trying to change the subject before I started overthinking. “We’re just getting the goats out of here before they turn the yard into a mud pit.” 

“Right, right,” Cherri grinned, finally standing up straight. “So, what’s the plan for today, gov’na? Gonna bring me along for some epic goat adventures?” 

I rolled my eyes at the nickname she loved to torment me with. “You know it. But don’t get too excited; it’s mostly just a walk around the block.”

“Well, at least it’s better than staring at my McDonald’s apron all day,” she said with a wink, stretching her arms above her head. “Plus, I get to hang out with you and the goats. What’s not to love?” 

I smiled, feeling the tension between us ease. Cherri’s sarcasm and carelessness could be overwhelming sometimes, but she had this way of making everything feel less heavy. It wasn’t just the goats that needed a break today—it was me, too. 

“Alright, alright,” I said, pulling the leashes tight as Razzle tugged on mine again. “Let’s get these two out of here before they decide the neighbor’s garden looks like lunch.” 

“Lead the way, Charlie,” Cherri said with a grin, falling into step beside me. 

So, yeah, we walked around the block, Dazzle’s leash now in Cherri’s hands while I kept a grip on Razzle. I swear, he likes her more than me. It’s like every time we’re together, he gravitates toward her. Maybe it’s the accent. Or the fact that she probably gives him more attention than I do. Who knows? 

As we walked and chatted, my eyes drifted to a store window, and my attention snagged on the TV set inside. It was playing the news—something I never really bothered with, but today, something about it caught my eye. A bar graph flashed on screen. The headline read, Disappearances on the Rise. 

My stomach sank. The disappearances were getting worse. It was a growing problem in the city—people vanishing, no explanations, no trace. It’s like the city was being swallowed whole by whatever dark things lurked in the shadows. I don’t know why I kept watching; maybe some part of me wanted to understand what was going on, but another part of me was just terrified to ask. 

Before I could digest it any further, my phone buzzed in my pocket, snapping me out of my thoughts. I pulled out my red iPhone 10 (yes, I’m still rocking the 10—don’t judge me) and saw the name Speedy on the screen. His real name was Greg, but for reasons I’d never understood, he went by Speedy. 

I swiped to answer, holding the phone up to my ear. “What’s up, Speedy?” 

“Hey, Miss Morningstar,” he said, his voice coming through a bit muffled, like he was in a rush. “Just wanted to let you know we’ve got a meeting scheduled for tonight. The usual time. Six PM. At the courthouse.” 

I closed my eyes and sighed. Great. Just what I needed. 

“Anything I should know about it?” I asked, already guessing where this was going. 

“Uh, yeah. It’s with Carmilla Carmine. The head of the city planning committee,” Speedy replied. “You’re gonna want to be on your A-game. She’s, uh, well, you know how she is.”

Oh, I knew exactly how she was. Carmilla Carmine was every bit the nightmare her name suggested. Cold, calculating, and utterly intimidating. I wasn’t sure how I had the misfortune of being stuck in a meeting with her again, but here I was. 

I let out another sigh, this one heavier than the last. “Fantastic,” I muttered. 

Cherri, having noticed my sudden change in mood, grinned and stuffed Dazzle’s leash into my hand, stopping in her tracks. “Well, well, gov’na, looks like you’re about to get tied up in some more fancy politics. Fun stuff, huh?” 

I shot her a look. “Don’t remind me. I’m not exactly thrilled.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she laughed. “Don’t let the suits get to you. But hey, if you’re looking for something to loosen up, I’m putting together a band. Thought you might want to come see a live performance sometime. We’ll play all the hits: drama, chaos, and maybe some pyrotechnics if we’re lucky.” 

I couldn’t help but grin at her enthusiasm, even though the thought of being in the same room as Carmilla Carmine was making my skin crawl. “I’ll keep that in mind, Cherri. Maybe after I survive this meeting.” 

With that, she flashed me one last grin, waved, and disappeared around the corner, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with Razzle, who was still tugging at his leash. 

I pulled my gaze back to the phone in my hand. The meeting at six. At the courthouse. 

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” I muttered under my breath, tucking my phone into my pocket and turning my attention back to the goats, who were too busy sniffing at a trash can to notice the looming dread in my chest. 

If there was one thing I had learned over the past few years, it was that life always had a way of throwing curveballs. And honestly? I didn’t think I’d ever be prepared for the next one. But here I was, ready to dive headfirst into another night of political hell, trying to keep the world from falling apart around me. 

And just as I took a step forward, Razzle yanked me off balance again, and I stumbled into the street, cursing under my breath. 

Maybe I could use a little of Cherri’s chaos after all.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few hours, and now I’m standing in the middle of the courthouse, surrounded by people of power on every side of me. Totally not panicking, nope, not at all. You’re the one panicking, not me.

“Miss Morningstar.” 

I hear her voice before I even see her. Carmilla Carmine. Her piercing gaze locks onto mine, and I can practically feel her judgment slicing through me. Her bleach-white hair is tied up in some intricate way that I can’t even begin to describe — it looks like she has horns, honestly. It’s all sharp angles and precision. Sitting next to her are her daughters, Odette and Clara, both probably late teens, with that same cold look in their eyes. And on the other side of Carmilla is Zestial, an older gentleman who, from what I can gather, is probably more than just her business partner. 

“This meeting was called on account of your hotel,” Carmilla announces as she flips through the papers in front of her, probably gathering her thoughts. It’s enough time for me to take a deep breath and get a load of everyone else in the room. 

To my left, I see a group of three people I’d rather not be near. The Vee’s. Yeah, you heard me right. Vox, their leader, sits there with a smug look on his face, flanked by Valentino — the sleazebag porn producer who can’t keep his hands to himself — and Velvette, a local fashion icon whose outfits are more obnoxious than impressive. Vox runs a tech company, so he thinks he’s some kind of genius. Spoiler alert: he’s not. 

Further down the table, I spot Rosie, the treasurer of the committee, and the owner of a local emporium. She’s one of those women who could be smiling, but it’s so calculated it feels like a threat. Then there’s Alastor, the state senator who despises my father. He’s here, no doubt, to remind me just how much he loves making my life harder. Fredrick’s another one of the old-timers, and then there’s the newest member, Missi Zilla. I’m assuming Zilla’s her last name, but who knows? I mean, it’s not like she’s introduced herself to me yet. 

Great. A room full of people who’d rather see my father fail, and I’m stuck in the middle of it all. Just perfect. 

Finally, Carmilla spoke up, her voice smooth and calculated. 

“Your request for a grant has been approved, but there are some stipulations.” I couldn’t help myself; I blurted out before thinking it through. 

“What are they?” 

Carmilla didn’t skip a beat, her eyes never leaving mine as she flipped to another page. 

“Alastor has requested that he assist you, in exchange for your assistance during the Senate elections next spring.” 

Of course.

Alright, some context. Alastor and Vox have been at each other’s throats for the state senate position for the past seven years. Ironically, it started when my mom went missing and everything around here started falling apart. Now, it seems like Vox has a serious chance at winning, and it’s driving Alastor into a frenzy. As much as I hate to admit it, this is the reality of politics. But honestly, I think it’s a fair price to pay to get this grant money and finally make the hotel a reality. Dammit, I will get this hotel off the ground, even if it kills me. 

“I accept the stipulations,” I said firmly, trying to match the tone of authority that was expected in the room. Jeez, I sounded just like my dad. 

Carmilla nodded, her lips curling slightly, like she’d already anticipated my response. She made a quick note on her papers before glancing up at me again. 

“Very well, Miss Morningstar,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “We will expect you to honor that agreement, as well as contribute to Alastor’s campaign in any way he sees fit. And remember, we are watching your progress closely.” 

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Of course they were watching. They were always watching. 

“I understand,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ll ensure everything is in order on my end.” 

Carmilla’s eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, then she turned her gaze toward the rest of the room. “Then, if there are no further objections, I believe this meeting is adjourned.” 

She gave a small nod, signaling to everyone that it was time to wrap up. The others, most notably Alastor and Vox, gave barely concealed nods of approval, though I could sense the tension lingering in the air. It wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot. 

I stood there for a beat, the weight of the situation sinking in. I’d just made a deal with the devil—or rather, with several devils, depending on how you looked at it. But I couldn’t back out now. Not after everything. 

As the meeting slowly broke apart, people stood up, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. I felt a tug on my sleeve and turned to see Speedy, my dad’s assistant, holding my coat. I took it from him with a polite nod and slung it over my shoulder, trying not to let my unease show. 

I needed to get out of here. 

Just as I made my way toward the door, Carmilla’s voice called out one last time. “Miss Morningstar, a word before you leave.” 

I froze, my stomach doing a flip. I turned slowly, forcing a smile back onto my face. “Yes, Carmilla?”

Her gaze was colder than I remembered, and for a moment, I wondered if I had made the right choice. 

“I trust you’ll keep your end of the bargain,” she said, her voice low enough that only I could hear it. “Fail, and we will not be so lenient next time.” 

I swallowed, nodding sharply. “Of course.” 

With that, she dismissed me with a simple wave of her hand. I didn’t wait around to see if anyone else had anything to add. I made my way out of the courthouse, my heart racing in my chest. 

Once I stepped outside, the heat of the Louisiana sun hit me like a wall. I paused for a moment, letting the oppressive humidity wash over me as I pulled my phone from my pocket. The meeting had drained me, but there was still so much left to do. 

I tapped the screen, checking my messages—nothing from my dad yet. Not that I expected anything. He was probably busy with his own political agenda. I didn’t matter to him anymore, not really. 

I took a deep breath and started walking toward my car. This deal with Alastor might be my only shot at keeping the hotel afloat. But I wasn’t blind—this was just the beginning. I had to stay on my toes. 

As I made my way through the courtyard, a sudden thought struck me—what if I could use this connection with Alastor to make real progress? What if, in some twisted way, he could help me build something that mattered? 

I shook my head, pushing the thought aside. I couldn’t afford to get too comfortable. Things were about to get a lot more complicated. 

I tossed my coat, water bottle, and stack of documents onto the passenger seat before climbing into my car. My ride? A bright, apple-red Volvo XC60. It wasn’t flashy—just a good, solid car. I wasn’t the type to roll up in something showy, but I wasn’t exactly driving a junker either. Plus, it had character. I had a little apple and snake keychain hanging from the rearview mirror. Cute, right? 

I threw the car in reverse and eased out of the courthouse parking lot, making a beeline for Burger King. Nothing beats their milkshakes. Plus, I could really go for a burger before heading back to the hotel. 

With my food in hand, I was about to pull out when something caught my eye. Blood. Bright crimson stained the sidewalk, leading into an alleyway. I felt my stomach flip. I immediately slammed the car into park and bolted out, heart racing.

When I turned the corner into the alley, I nearly froze. There was a woman, barely conscious, sprawled on the ground. She looked Salvadoran, her long black hair matted with blood, framing her face in a way that made her almost unrecognizable. She wasn’t wearing a shirt or a bra, and her pants were shredded, barely holding on. 

Her back—there were two perfect, jagged cuts along her shoulder blades, as if someone had removed wings from her. What the hell had happened to her? 

I crouched down, trying to keep my voice steady. “Hey, are you okay?” She mumbled something in Spanish, her words slurred, lost in delirium from the pain. 

Her eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, but the glazed look in them told me she wasn’t fully aware of her surroundings. I couldn’t leave her like this. I had to help. 

“I’m going to help you, okay?” I said, trying to sound reassuring as I sprinted back to my car. I grabbed my coat from the passenger seat and rushed back to her, wrapping it around her trembling form. She didn’t respond, too weak to acknowledge me. 

I gently scooped her up in my arms, cradling her like a princess, and made my way back to the Volvo. But as I picked her up, a cold chill ran down my spine. She was light. Too light. 

Despite her being about 5’5, there was barely any weight to her, like she hadn’t eaten in days—or longer. My mind raced with questions I didn’t have answers for. Who was she? What happened to her? And why was she left like this? 

I settled her into the passenger seat, buckled her in, and slammed the door shut. I quickly hopped into the driver’s seat and made my way out of the parking lot, glancing at her once more. Her skin was pale, almost unnaturally so, and her breaths were shallow. Whoever had done this to her… I was going to find out, one way or another. 

During the drive, the woman shifted slightly in the passenger seat, her breaths shallow and strained. Then, in a faint whisper, she managed to speak, her voice barely above a murmur. “No… hospital…” 

Her plea stopped me cold. The way she said it—so desperate, so raw—made my chest tighten. I swallowed any protests, knowing there was no way I could argue with her now. I wasn’t going to drag her into some sterile hospital room where who knows what might happen to her. She’d probably be worse off there. 

Without another word, I floored it, driving back to the hotel as fast as I could without making a scene. The woman was barely conscious, and I couldn’t risk losing her. 

When I finally arrived, I had to kick the door seven times before someone even answered, and, of course, it was Cherri. The moment she saw the woman in my arms, her eyes went wide, and she dropped whatever she had been doing—completely forgetting to fix her hair, which, in its usual messy form, still managed to frame her face with a wild, carefree elegance.

“Angie! Get the first aid kit now!” Cherri shouted, pushing the door wide open for me. I didn’t have to say anything. She could see the gravity of the situation in my face. I gently placed the woman on one of the sofas in the foyer, and that’s when Anthony came bolting out of my office, the first aid kit clutched in his hands. 

“Good thing I learned first aid in high school,” I muttered under my breath as I stepped aside, letting Anthony take the lead. 

He knelt down next to the woman, quickly assessing the cuts on her back. “Shit, this is bad, Charlie,” he muttered, his face grim as he worked to clean the wounds. 

Cherri, ever the chaotic presence, stood off to the side, pacing. “What the hell happened to her? She looks like she was—” she stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing, trying to make sense of the woman’s injuries. “You didn’t say anything about this when you brought her in.” 

“I—I didn’t know what happened,” I said, my voice shaky. “I found her in an alley. She was bleeding out. I just… I couldn’t leave her there.” 

“Don’t worry, Charlie, we’ve got this,” Cherri said, cutting through my anxiety with her usual sharp, carefree tone. “Just… just let Anthony do his thing. He’s good at this.” 

I nodded, but my eyes kept darting to the woman. There was something about her—something that felt off, and it wasn’t just the injuries. She was so light, so fragile. 

As Anthony cleaned the wounds, I crouched beside her, trying to make sense of it all. Why was she so thin? Why did she seem so out of it? And why hadn’t she been able to speak clearly before? 

I caught Cherri’s eye. “What if she doesn’t make it?” I asked, my voice tight. “What if we’re too late?” 

Cherri’s usual sarcastic grin faltered for a split second before she masked it with a more serious expression. “She’ll pull through. You did the right thing by getting her here.” 

Still, something gnawed at me. I wasn’t convinced this was over. This felt bigger than just a woman who had been in some kind of accident. 

“Do you think she’ll remember what happened?” I asked Anthony quietly, my voice low enough so only he could hear. 

He didn’t look up from the woman’s back. “Honestly? It’s hard to say. But she’s not in a good state right now. The blood loss and shock are gonna make everything blurry.” 

I clenched my fists, frustration boiling inside me. There was no way I could just sit here and wait. Not with everything that was happening.

“Charlie, you’re looking at her like she’s some puzzle,” Cherri said, reading me like an open book. “Focus on what we can fix right now—let’s get her stabilized, and then we can figure out the rest.” 

I bit my lip, trying to shake the unease off. Cherri was right. The immediate concern was getting her patched up. But that didn’t stop the questions from swirling in my head. Who was she? And what had really happened to her? 

“Hey, can you tell us your name?” I asked gently, trying to coax some more information out of the woman. 

Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, and she muttered something, her voice faint. “Vaggie….” 

I froze. My hands hovered mid-air as I finally got a good look at her face. Her left eye—gone. The wound was gruesome, as though someone had sliced it clean out with a knife. The edges had healed, but the scar was jagged, a cruel reminder of whatever she’d been through. It was old, but that didn’t make it any less gnarly. 

“Anthony…” I whispered, my voice strained, trying to keep it together. Gently, I lifted Vaggie’s bangs from her face to get a better look. My heart sank. Everyone’s faces around me went pale as they saw what I had discovered. 

Cherri was by my side in an instant, her usual carefree attitude wiped away. She examined the injury with a mix of concern and calculation. “Shit… that’s… bad,” she muttered, looking up at me with urgency in her eyes. “I know someone who’s a medic. I can convince him to not say a damn thing about her. This needs professional attention.” 

Before I could respond, Cherri was already on her feet, fishing her cracked old Nokia out of her pocket like she was pulling some kind of weapon from her arsenal. The phone was ancient, but Cherri was always prepared, somehow. 

“I’ll make sure he keeps his mouth shut,” she continued, her voice firm. “We can’t risk people finding out about her. Not yet.” 

I nodded, more out of reflex than real agreement. There was something about the way Cherri spoke, the urgency in her tone, that made me realize just how serious this was. Something was off about Vaggie. Whatever happened to her, it wasn’t just an accident or some random violence. This felt like a bigger problem, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. 

Cherri’s finger danced over the screen of her phone as she scrolled through contacts. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the phone and Anthony’s low mutterings as he continued tending to Vaggie’s wounds. 

I turned to look at her, her breathing shallow, her face contorted in pain even as she slept. “Who did this to you?” I whispered, though I knew I wouldn’t get an answer. But still, I had to ask.

Cherri glanced at me for a moment before her gaze flickered back to her phone, the screen lighting up her face. “Look, Charlie,” she said softly, her voice a little more serious than usual. “I’ve seen things, stuff you wouldn’t believe. People don’t get like this unless someone went out of their way to make sure they didn’t survive.” 

I bit my lip, not sure how to respond. Vaggie wasn’t just a random woman from the streets. The scar on her face, the way she clung to life so desperately—it was as though she had been through hell and back. And now, here she was, in my hotel, as if fate had just thrown her into my lap. 

Cherri’s voice broke my thoughts. “I’m calling him now. He’ll take care of her. You just focus on keeping her here.” Her fingers swiped over the keys with practiced ease. “But keep your head on straight, alright? If things get messy, it’s not just her life on the line. You’ll have more to deal with than you’re ready for.” 

I swallowed hard, nodding silently. 

I didn’t know who this woman was or what she had been through, but I had the sinking feeling that her story was far from over. And somehow, I was going to be caught up in it. 

I shifted my focus back to Vaggie, watching as her chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. I wasn’t going to let her die here—not under my watch. 

“Stay with us, Vaggie,” I whispered again, this time more firmly, like a promise. “I’ll get you through this. You’re not alone anymore.” 

The room was still. And though I knew we weren’t out of danger yet, I couldn’t shake the sense that this was just the beginning of something much larger than I could imagine. 

Then it hit me. Cherri was acting like she had seen this kind of situation before, and it didn’t sit right with me. 

“Why do you know what to do?” I asked, my voice a little more guarded now. Cherri shot me a quick glance, a flicker of something in her eyes before she casually brushed her dirty blonde hair over her missing left eye, the patchwork of her past evident in her every movement. 

“I used to do gang shit,” she said nonchalantly, as if it explained everything. “This has gangster written all over it.” Her tone was calm, almost clinical, like she was talking about an old friend. As if she’d handled worse before. 

Before I could process that, her Nokia buzzed again, the same worn-out ringtone playing that made me think it was older than some of the people in this room. She answered with a growl. “Baxter, you fuck, why weren’t you picking up?!” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room like a blade. She stomped over to the other side of the foyer, clearly trying to get some distance from the rest of us as she talked.

I watched her go, my brain working overtime. Cherri had a past, a dark one. But I didn’t expect it to involve gangs, or… whatever this was. It made me uneasy. Gangs didn’t just disappear. They left scars—physical and emotional—and they had a way of sticking around longer than anyone realized. 

I turned back to Vaggie, trying to push the thought from my mind. It didn’t matter what Cherri had done. What mattered now was keeping this woman alive. But something was gnawing at me. If Cherri knew about gangs, how deep had her ties gone? And if she was so connected, how did that tie into Vaggie’s situation? 

Cherri’s voice came back from the other room, louder now, her anger almost palpable even over the phone. “You’re gonna help her, you hear me? If you want your ass in one piece, you’ll keep it quiet and do your job!” There was a beat of silence, followed by a harsh exhale. “Yeah. I’ll be there in twenty.” 

I glanced over at Anthony, who was still trying to tend to Vaggie, his brow furrowed in concentration. The whole place felt like it was on edge, like something was about to snap. 

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog in my mind. Whatever was going on, Cherri was involved. And I had a bad feeling that Vaggie was only the first piece of a much larger puzzle. 

I turned back to Vaggie, my heart aching as I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Hang in there,” I muttered, though I didn’t know if she could hear me. 

As I waited for Cherri’s contact to arrive, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. The beginning of something messy, something dangerous. And I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. But at this point, there was no turning back. 

Chapter Text

Christ, here we go again. 

Fumbling with my keys, I could hear Charlie losing her damn mind inside. Angie was trying to calm the governor’s kid down, which—good luck with that. Meanwhile, my Nokia was having a meltdown in my pocket, probably spam texts from either Arackniss or Baxter. Could be either one. 

I should probably leave Arackniss out of this. Angie wouldn’t be thrilled to see his older brother, and we don’t need any extra drama tonight. 

But my left eye started tingling again, that phantom itch I always get when I think back to them—that stupid Christian cult gang my old crew used to beef with. My fingers twitched at the memory, but I shook it off. This wasn’t about me. 

I yanked open the car door and climbed in, finally checking my phone. 10 missed calls.

Baxter. 

Shit. 

I put the car in drive and peeled out, dialing him back with one hand. “Oi, fucker, what’s with the emergency calls?” 

“You called me first,” he shot back, voice thick with irritation. “Something about needing a medic and not telling the cops? What the hell are you into, Bomb?” 

I sighed, gripping the wheel tighter. “Look, I’ll explain when I get there. Just be ready with the usual.” 

He muttered something about how he hated the usual before hanging up. I exhaled through my nose, rolling my shoulders. This was gonna be a long night. On the drive to Baxter’s,

probably broke, like, three different traffic laws. But fuck it. 

His driveway was the same as always—littered with tech junk he’d tossed out, wires and circuit boards scattered like some kinda robot graveyard. He was already standing in the doorway, bag in hand, with his usual partner in crime at his side. That nervous guy—Pentious, I think his name was? 

“Just drive,” Baxter muttered as he climbed into the passenger seat, barely giving me a glance. Pentious hesitated for half a second before scrambling into the back. 

Now, to say I drive a junker would be a damn lie. I drive a decently used Honda. No clue on the exact model, but it gets the job done. 

I threw the car into reverse, tires kicking up dust as I tore outta there. 

“So, what kind of injuries are we dealing with?” Baxter asked, his tone more clinical than concerned. 

I gripped the wheel a little tighter, keeping my eyes on the road. “The wings,” I said. “And a missing eye.” 

Baxter shot me a side glance. Those oversized glasses of his made his already judgmental stare even worse. He perpetually wore a headlamp, and his whole outfit looked like he had just stepped off the Titanic. 

“So… them?” His voice was low, cautious. 

I shook my head. “No clue. Could be. Could be copycats.”

From the backseat, Pentious finally found his voice. “Are we sure this is a good idea? Helping someone who could be involved with Eden…” 

“Shut it, Pentious,” Baxter and I snapped in unison. 

I exhaled through my nose, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Had to avoid a cop on the way back to Charlie’s. The last thing we needed was the law sniffing around. 

Chapter Text

My hands shook as I worked, trying my best to stop the bleeding. Her back was a mess—bandages, rubbing alcohol, antiseptics, and whatever the hell I could find in the first aid kit. It looked like something out of a crime scene, but this wasn’t a new sight for me. The only other time I’d seen something this bad was when Valentino lost his cool with one of my stage buddies, Alison. He cracked a glass across her face like she was nothing, leaving her with a busted-up face and blood all over the place. Yeah, that was fun. 

“Charlie, I need more bandages!” I barked, my voice tight, trying to hold everything together while I fought off panic. She just nodded and sprinted for her office. 

Where the hell was Cherri? I could really use some help right now. If she didn’t get back soon, we might be dealing with something worse than just a hospital bill. But, of course, Cherri was always doing her thing—working whatever magic she could, even if it meant running to the depths of who knows where to find someone who could help. At this point, I was just praying whoever she dragged along wasn’t some shady medic who was gonna make things worse. 

“Hang on, just hang on...” I muttered, trying to calm Vaggie, even though I could barely keep it together myself. 

Eventually, my prayer was answered, and trust me, I’m not the religious type. Cherri and her buddy, Baxter, came through the doors—along with that nervous guy, Pentious. Baxter practically shoved me aside, getting straight to work on Vaggie’s back. Meanwhile, I took a step back, retreating to the kitchen. I needed a moment to breathe, and yeah, I had a bottle of booze hidden in there. I didn’t plan on getting wasted, but I sure as hell needed a drink. 

As I dug through the fridge, I felt something ram into my ankle. I looked down to find Dazzle—the little pygmy goat—giving me a judgmental stare like I’d done something wrong. The little guy wasn’t happy I was drinking. 

“I ain’t gonna get wasted, little buddy.” I sighed, tossing the goat a small dog treat from my pocket. Don’t ask me why I have dog treats on me. I’m a stripper and a pornstar—I do the weirdest shit while getting fucked, and sometimes, that involves carrying treats for goats. 

Dazzle sniffed it, gave me one last dirty look, then scampered off, leaving me to down my drink in peace. God, it felt good to let the alcohol burn through my throat, even if just for a second.

Eventually, Charlie, Baxter, and Cherri retreated into her office, probably arguing about what to do next. Meanwhile, Pentious and I were left with the unenviable task of making sure Vaggie didn’t roll off the couch. Now that she wasn’t covered in blood, I could actually get a better look at her. 

Dark raven hair, deep brown skin—not quite as dark as the night, but you get the gist. Look, I’m trying not to sound like an idiot, but you know what I mean. The poor girl was lying there on Charlie’s coat, missing every piece of clothing she should’ve had on from the waist up. Her pants looked like something I’d wear after a particularly bad shoot, torn to hell and barely hanging on. Basically, she looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to her, then left her for dead. 

I winced, then glanced over at Pentious. Dude was sweating bullets. Not exactly the kind of guy you’d want by your side in a crisis, but hell, he was here, and that’s what counted. 

“Think she’ll be okay?” Pentious asked, his voice shaky. 

“Hell if I know.” I muttered, not bothering to look up. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Chapter Text

Everything was blurry, like I was staring through fogged glass. My left eye felt like it was on fire, and my back was so numb I couldn't feel it anymore. But then I felt it—her boot digging into my stomach. The sound of laughter echoed around me, cold and mocking. And that sneer... it cut deeper than any blade. 

"You really think letting someone go like that is a good idea?" Her voice was dripping with venom, her words sharp as a knife. She pressed the blade to my neck, and I could feel the cool metal against my skin. 

His boot connected with my leg. It wasn’t hard, more like a halfhearted warning. But it still stung. 

"Calm it down, Lute. We don’t need her dead yet," his voice was low, casual, almost indifferent. My remaining eye tried to focus on him, but everything was swimming—his hazel eyes, his brown hair, his face mostly obscured by the shadows. 

"Yes, sir," Her voice was like steel, and I heard the sharp sound of her boot landing on my side with a sickening thud. 

“Adam,” a voice called out, distant and muffled. My vision swam, too blurry to focus. “What are you doing?” 

“Don’t worry, Sera,” Adam’s voice was casual, almost nonchalant. “Just tying up loose ends.” 

Then his boot connected with my face, and everything went dark. My vision blurred into nothingness, and the pain from my injuries was drowned out by the blackness.

I woke with a jolt, my back feeling like it had been set on fire. My left eye... gone. The agony was sharp, but it was the disorientation that really threw me. I was face down on something soft—too soft. My mind struggled to piece things together, and my eyes flicked open. The surroundings weren’t familiar. I was lying on a nice couch, one that felt far too comfortable for the hell I’d just been through. I scanned the room. A hotel foyer? But where? 

I pushed myself up slowly, wincing with every movement, then froze. Was this some kind of sick joke? Or… a rescue? 

“Mornin’, Sleepin’ Beauty,” a light, high-pitched male voice drawled. 

I tensed immediately. My vision blurred, my left eye burned. I reached up instinctively, fingers grazing fabric. A bandage. Over my eye. 

Her. 

I remembered the knife, the pressure, the blinding pain—then darkness. My stomach twisted. 

Blurry shapes came into focus. A tall, lanky man in pink and white leaned casually against the arm of the couch, arms crossed, one of his hands tapping idly against his elbow. His expression was unreadable, but something about the way he looked at me felt… assessing. 

“Hey, hey, don’t pass out again,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “That’d be real awkward for me, y’know? I’m tryna build rapport here.” 

I forced my body to stay upright, even as my muscles screamed at me to lay back down. My throat was dry when I finally spoke. 

“Where… the hell am I?” 

“The Hazbin Hotel,” the man answered, throwing out his arms like he was announcing a grand prize. “Welcome to the happiest damn halfway house for Hell’s rejects.” 

I blinked. My sluggish brain tried to process his words. 

“H-hotel?” My voice cracked. 

“Yep. You got yourself a VIP pass, courtesy of Charlie.” He leaned in slightly. “She’s the nice one. Me? Not so much.” 

I swallowed. My body ached. My back burned. And my mind was still reeling. 

I averted my gaze, my voice dropping into a low mumble in Spanish—an old habit, one that stuck with me no matter how much I tried to shake it. 

“You from El Salvador?” the man asked.

My breath caught. My body went rigid as I snapped my eye up to glare at him. Not that it did much. With only one left, I probably looked more pitiful than intimidating. 

Especially sitting here, half-naked, with a bright red suit vest draped over my shoulders. At least…I thought it was a suit vest. 

“Qué te importa?” I shot back, my voice rough from disuse. 

The man grinned, sharp and smug, like he was enjoying this way too much. “Ooh, feisty. I like that.” 

I scowled, gripping the fabric around me tighter. “Who the hell are you?” 

He placed a hand over his heart, all exaggerated dramatics. “Angel Dust, at your service.” Then, with a smirk, he added, “But you? You can call me Anthony, since we’re getting real personal.” 

I didn’t respond, just kept glaring. My body ached too much for banter. 

Angel—or Anthony—sighed, rolling his eyes. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re confused, you’re in pain, and you got no clue what the hell’s goin’ on. So let’s keep it simple.” 

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You got lucky, sweetheart. Real lucky. Charlie found you. Cherri called in a favor. I played nurse for a hot minute. And now? You’re here.” 

I swallowed hard. My throat felt raw. “Why?” 

Angel gave a casual shrug. “Beats me. But you’d have to ask her about that.” He tilted his head toward the hallway. “You up for a lil’ chat with the princess, or do you wanna sit here brooding first?” 

Just as he finished speaking, a tall blonde woman stepped out from the hallway, a bright red phone pressed to her ear. She barely spared us a glance before pulling the device away just long enough to snap, 

“I’m not a princess, Anthony!” 

Then, just as quickly, she went right back to her conversation, disappearing down another hall. 

I stared after her for a moment before lowering my gaze again, mumbling under my breath in Spanish. Maybe if I ignored everything long enough, I’d wake up and this whole mess would just be some fever dream. 

But before I could get too deep into it, Angel reached over and lightly tapped the side of my head. 

“Seems you gotta wait a bit,” he said, that ever-present smirk tugging at his lips. “But don’t worry, I’ll keep ya company.”

I was about to snap at him—probably call him something colorful in Spanish—when something small and soft leapt into my lap. 

I tensed, instincts screaming at me to shove it off, but then I realized…it was a cat. A pitch-black little thing, its fur sleek and well-groomed, its golden eyes blinking up at me like it had just chosen me for something important. 

Angel chuckled. “That’s KeeKee. Don’t worry ‘bout her, she’s harmless.” 

I hesitated, then slowly, carefully, brought a hand down to scratch behind the cat’s ear. KeeKee purred, pressing her head into my touch like she’d known me forever. 

Harmless, huh? 

I wasn’t so sure about that. 

As if on cue, two tiny pygmy goats came barreling in through the front door, their little hooves clacking against the floor. A second blonde woman—this one a little shorter than the first—had just brought them in, barely managing to close the door before they darted toward me like tiny, determined missiles. 

I braced for impact, expecting them to crash into me like overexcited dogs, but when they leapt onto the couch, they…paused. They stepped carefully, almost delicately, as if they somehow knew I was hurt. Or maybe they were just wary of KeeKee, who flicked her tail and gave them an unimpressed look from my lap. Either way, it was…odd. 

“Razzle, Dazzle! Watch it!” Angel scolded, moving to swat them away with the back of his hand. Before I could even think, I caught his wrist. 

His eyes widened slightly, more in surprise than anything else. Hell, I was surprised—considering the state I was in, I shouldn’t have been able to grip anything that fast or that strong. 

For a second, there was silence. 

Then, Angel raised a brow and smirked. “Damn, princesa, got a little strength in ya after all.” I let go of his wrist immediately. 

“No me llames eso.” 

“No idea what that means, but I’m gonna assume it ain’t friendly.” 

I huffed, shifting slightly as the goats settled beside me, resting their small, warm bodies against my legs. For the first time since waking up, I felt…not safe, exactly. But a little less like I had to be ready to fight at any second. 

Angel, apparently, took that as an opening.

“So,” he leaned against the armrest, propping his head up with one hand, “you got a name, or should I just keep callin’ ya princesa?” 

“Angie, stop harassin’ the poor girl,” the shorter blonde chimed in. She had messy hair covering her left eye, but I caught a glimpse of something beneath—leathery, scarred skin. A wound old enough to have healed, but unmistakable. A missing eye. Like me. 

I hesitated, then finally muttered, “Vaggie.” 

The blonde chuckled. “Guess Angie didn’t remember your name when you mumbled it to the gov’na. You must’ve been real out of it, Vags.” She grinned. “Name’s Cherri Bomb. But you can call me Cherri.” 

I didn’t respond. My fingers idly ran through KeeKee’s fur as I studied her, then Angel, then the whole damn room. A fancy-looking hotel foyer. A couch too soft for a place like this. A red suit vest draped over my shoulders like someone had actually given a shit about keeping me warm. 

I still didn’t trust this place as far as I could throw one of those goats. 

Angel, apparently oblivious—or just not caring—about my suspicion, stretched out with a groan. “Well, now that we got introductions outta the way, what’s the plan, huh? ‘Cause last I checked, we don’t usually take in half-dead ladies with wings ripped off their backs.” 

I flinched. Subtle, asshole. 

Cherri shrugged. “Dunno, gov’na’s the one makin’ the calls. We’re just waitin’ for her to stop yappin’ on the phone.” 

As if on cue, the tall blonde—Charlie, I assumed—finally emerged from the hallway, looking exhausted but determined. She tucked her phone into her pocket, her red eyes locking onto me immediately. 

“Good, you’re awake,” she said, relief evident in her tone. “We need to talk.” 

Charlie crouched in front of me, her face soft with concern—too soft, too kind. She had the look of an angel. A real one. Not like Adam. Not like Lute. Not like the things they claimed we were when we— 

No. I wasn’t remembering that. Not today. 

Before she could speak, Angel Dust let out an exaggerated sigh and muttered something in Italian. “Gesù, ci mettete un’eternità a fare le cose.” 

Then he stretched, cracking his back. “If ya don’t mind, I’ll be in my room. C’mon, Cherri.” 

Without waiting for a response, he trudged off, Cherri falling into step beside him, already launching into a rapid-fire conversation I couldn’t be bothered to follow.

That left just me and Charlie. 

She watched me for a moment, probably waiting for me to say something. I didn’t. With a small sigh, she finally spoke. “You’re safe here.” 

I let out a dry laugh before I could stop myself. “Yeah? I’ll believe that when I don’t wake up bleeding out on someone else’s floor.” 

Charlie didn’t flinch, didn’t argue. Just gave me this… look. Like she’d heard it all before. Like she understood. 

“I know you don’t trust me,” she said simply. “That’s okay. But I need you to understand that no one here is going to hurt you.” 

I frowned, glancing at the suit vest draped around my shoulders. At the bandages wrapped carefully around my wounds. They’d patched me up. Given me clothes. Let me take up space in their hotel. 

Why? 

“Fine,” I muttered. “What do you want from me?” 

“Nothing,” Charlie said softly, picking up an ice pack and holding it out to me. “As Anthony probably told you, this place is sort of a halfway house. But I want it to be more than just a stop for convicts during their release process. I want it to be a place where anyone can come if they need help. And you count.” 

Dios mío, ella es hermosa. 

Did I really just think that? 

I blinked, pushing the thought aside. My fingers brushed against hers as I took the ice pack, the cold seeping into my palm. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been through,” Charlie continued, her voice steady, “but I want to help you, Vaggie. Scout’s honor.” 

She even gave me the damn Girl Scout salute. 

Esta mujer. 

I exhaled sharply, pressing the ice pack to my aching ribs. “You really believe all that, don’t you?” 

Charlie just smiled. “Yeah. I do.” 

I studied her for a moment. No hesitation, no cracks in her expression. Either she was the best liar I’d ever met, or she actually meant it.

I wasn’t sure which was scarier. 

Chapter Text

I was just about to get the cross stitch right when— 

“GODDAMNIT!” The familiar crash of glass shattering echoed through the room, followed by a stream of rapid-fire Spanish. Valentino. Of course. 

“Vox! Tell your boyfriend to knock it the hell off!” I shouted, my needle poised in mid-air. “If I end up with a sewing needle in my hand ‘cause of him, I swear I’ll gut him!” I added with a huff, “And not in the kinky way!” 

Because knowing Val, he’d twist that into some weirdly suggestive thing in two seconds flat. I didn’t need that. Not today. 

“You tell him, sweetheart, he’s your boyfriend too,” Vox’s cool voice rang out from the other room. I could hear the smirk in his tone, the usual dry humor masking the annoyance. 

“Behind closed doors, yeah,” I shot back, rolling my eyes, “On Twitter? Not a chance.” There was no way I was letting that mess get plastered online for everyone to see. There were limits, even in this weird little poly-drama circus we called a family. 

But just as I was about to get back to finishing the final dress for the state fashion contest… bam—pain shot right through my palm. Great, just what I needed. Val’s usual yelling and glass-shattering antics had distracted me enough that I’d stabbed my needle straight through my hand. And holy hell, did that hurt. 

“Damnit, Valentino!” I shouted, standing up so fast my chair nearly toppled over. My assistant flinched, eyes wide as I stormed out of the room, practically fuming. 

I marched straight down the hall toward Val’s writing room. The room was honestly kinda sexy—if you’re into that gothic, high-contrast, “I-direct-porn-and-I’m-proud” vibe. It smelled like leather and burnt candles, with a lot of red velvet thrown in for dramatic effect. And let’s be real, that was where his kinkiness came to life. The man wrote, directed, and produced some of the weirdest, raunchiest stuff you could imagine. 

But the second I opened the door, I regretted it. A martini glass came flying at my head—smack, nearly cracking me in the process. By then, I was absolutely fuming and ready to rip his smug little face off. 

“Valentino!” I shrieked, striding into his sex-dungeon-of-an-office with all the fury of a woman scorned. Blood dripped from my hand—didn’t even bother pulling the needle out. No, he needed to see exactly what his shenanigans had done to me. To put it bluntly, I was going full-on angry British lady on his ass. And, for the record, not in the kinky way.

Valentino barely even flinched when I stormed in, the audacity of it all. He was sitting at his desk, eyes glued to the screen, probably watching some… questionable content, like usual. I stood there, blood dripping from my hand, the needle still lodged deep in my palm like a damn thorn. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I snapped, my voice sharp as glass. “You think it’s funny to throw things at me while I’m just trying to work?” 

Val threw a glance at me, his usual lazy smirk curling on his lips. He didn’t even move to get up, just gestured at me like I was some sort of inconvenience. 

“Oh, come on, Vel, don’t be such a drama queen,” he drawled, his voice dripping with that annoying cocky confidence. “It’s not my fault your sewing skills suck so bad you poked yourself.” 

I let out a frustrated growl, stepping closer to his desk. “You made me poke myself, asshole,” I hissed, gritting my teeth. “You’re like a walking disaster. I can’t even finish one damn project without you turning everything into chaos!” 

At that, he raised an eyebrow, finally showing some interest. “What’s the matter? Little fashionista can’t handle a little bit of chaos?” He leaned back in his chair, that trademark smirk never leaving. “You know, you should thank me. I’ve been giving you plenty of material for your designs.” 

I couldn’t decide whether to scream, slap him, or just walk out. But he was right—he was a goddamn walking disaster. And somehow, it worked. Like a tornado hitting a shopping mall, just chaos everywhere. 

But I wasn’t gonna let him win this time. 

“Don’t make me hurt you, Val,” I spat, “Or next time, I’ll be stitching you up, not my dresses.” 

He just chuckled and tossed his drink aside, as if my threat didn’t faze him in the slightest. But he did stand up, his hand reaching for a fresh martini. 

“You know where to find me if you need anything, love,” he said, winking at me. “But I wouldn’t get too comfy in that chair—you look like you might pop a blood vessel.” 

I glared at him, and for a moment, I thought about throwing something back at him. But then I remembered the blood still dripping down my hand. God, he was so lucky I didn’t feel like dealing with his tantrum today. 

“Fine,” I said, my voice tight. “But when I win this damn fashion contest, don’t come crying to me when you need a favor.” 

With that, I spun around and headed for the door, my heart still racing. But no matter what, I wasn’t going to let this clown get the best of me. Not today. Not ever.

“We still on for dinner at Domino’s Casino tonight?” Val asked, his voice dripping with that sickly sweet charm of his. God, how did Vox and I let this asshole talk us into this three-way poly mess? 

“Maybe,” I called back over my shoulder, not bothering to look at him. Honestly, I wasn’t thrilled. Domino was a piece of work—loan shark by profession, and ran a casino. The kind of woman whose idea of fun was making people gamble their souls away. Not exactly my idea of a good time. But then again, when did Val ever pick a normal person to do business with? 

And she had the same trashy taste in porn as him, which, let me tell you, is saying a lot. They’d probably enjoy it if the whole casino turned into some weird kink den. I mean, I’d seen Val’s collection—God knows I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than get stuck in that hellhole for too long. 

But, of course, my mouth didn’t seem to have an off button. 

“I’m not really feelin’ the ‘loan shark and her freaky, rich clientele’ vibe tonight,” I said, digging into the fabric of my new dress. “But hey, Vox can enjoy the roulette table, and you can keep sweet-talking your way through her bullshit.” 

Val snorted, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Come on, don’t be so hard on the poor girl. She’s just running a business. Besides, she’s got style. You two could bond over that.” 

I threw him a sharp look. “The only thing she’s running is a scam. But whatever, you two go enjoy the evening. Just don’t get too lost in the ‘high stakes’ of it all.” 

With a shrug, he leaned forward, his voice light. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But, love, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He sent a flirtatious wink my way, making me roll my eyes. 

I turned back to my sewing, trying to shut out the thoughts of the chaos that was bound to unfold tonight. Knowing Val, he’d charm Domino into some ludicrous deal, while Vox probably wandered off, distracted by some shiny object. And there I’d be—either dragged into it or alone in my thoughts, whichever was worse. 

Still, the last thing I needed was to be stuck in the middle of their mess. 

Before I could get my hands back on the fabric, I froze. Blood—still dripping from my palm—was staining the delicate material. Fucking fantastic. That damn needle stab was still throbbing like a bitch, thanks to Val’s endless yelling. 

Out of nowhere, Hati was already on top of it. My assistant—an absolute twink of a femboy with an unsettlingly pretty face—was stuffing a cloth into my hand to staunch the bleeding. “You always find a way to make a mess, don’t you?” he muttered under his breath as he worked, his eyes flicking to the mess around me.

Now, Hati—don’t ask me where he got his name from, some Norse mythology thing, I think, though I’m still convinced he might just be making it up to sound mysterious—was a bit of a pushover. He let people walk all over him and didn’t have an ounce of backbone when it came to confrontation. But, Christ, was he cute. More my type than either Val or Vox, honestly. Hati had that soft, innocent charm about him, like a puppy that could get away with murder because of how adorable it was. Not that I’d ever admit it to him. I had enough drama in my life without adding that. 

“You’re gonna have to stop getting distracted,” Hati quipped, as if he could read my mind. “You can’t go around sewing your hand to your dress, Velvette.” 

“Don’t remind me,” I muttered, cringing at the thought of the fresh blood splattered across the fabric. “I swear, I’m gonna kill him. Maybe not literally… but close enough.” 

Hati smirked, even though his hands were still working. “If you do, can I get the room to myself? It’s gotta be less stressful than this circus.” 

I chuckled, despite the pain. “If only, Hati. But unless you’re planning on cleaning up my mess, you’re stuck with me for the rest of the night.” 

Chapter Text

I’ve been here for a week now, and honestly, I still don’t know what to make of it. Charlie’s got these two pygmy goats, Razzle and Dazzle, plus that cat, KeeKee, and as for the guests… well, it’s certainly something. And don’t even get me started on the culture clash. Jesús, ¿por dónde empiezo? 

Let’s start with Angel—or Anthony, depending on which name he feels like using today. The guy’s got a shady past tied to some Italian mob family and a seriously fucked-up boss. Oh, and did I mention he’s a porn actor? Asqueroso. 

Then there’s Cherri. Australian. Yeah, that pretty much sums her up. Full of energy, and absolutely no filter. 

And then there’s Charlie. Born and raised in America. You can practically hear it in the way she talks. Everything about her screams “I’m here to change the world,” and while I can’t deny her good intentions, I still don’t know how I feel about being here. 

Then there’s me. An undocumented El Salvadoran woman with a missing eye and a back full of scars. Real interesting, right? I’d rather not think about my old group. 

“Yo Vags, catch!” Angel called, tossing something my way. My reflexes kicked in, and I snatched it mid-air, winding up to throw it right back at him before I caught myself. He had tossed me a… ¿Qué dice? Damn it, I never bothered to learn how to read English, only how to speak it. 

It was wrapped in an orange plastic, I think it was some type of candy?

“You’re lookin’ at it like it’s gonna kill you,” Angel teased, lounging against the couch armrest. “Can you not read it?” 

I nodded, and his tone shifted from playful to surprisingly softer. 

“That’s a Reese’s cup, sweetie.” 

“Never call me that again.” I shot him a glare, my lips curling in disgust. Turning my attention back to the candy in my hand, I couldn’t help but mutter under my breath, “American candy’s weird…” 

I hesitated for a moment, but curiosity got the better of me. I unwrapped it slowly, eyeing it like it might suddenly explode. But it was just a weird, peanut butter-filled thing. I shoved it into my mouth, chewing slowly, trying to process what it even was. Not terrible, but also not great. 

But as I processed the taste, my mind wandered—suddenly, I was back in Eden, back with the group. It was a religious cult, something twisted that we all had to buy into. Adam and Lute were like military commanders. Adam… he was a prick. He acted like he owned everything, like the world bent to his will. Lute, on the other hand, was calm, collected, and deadlier than anyone realized. 

I was part of the hunting squad. A group of us would go after those marked as sinners—people that couldn’t fit into their rigid little idea of “purity.” We hunted them like animals. Bows, arrows, spears, even knives and swords. I hated it. But at the time, I had no choice. They’d pulled me out of the gutter back in El Salvador, given me a life, a purpose. Or so I thought. 

I swallowed the last of the candy, as if trying to shake the taste of that old life off. I wasn’t the same person anymore, but part of me couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever be able to escape the things I’d done. 

That’s when I snapped back to reality. I’d completely zoned out. Alone in the foyer, I blinked at the note sitting on the table next to me. Of course, it was in English. Fuck my life. 

I sighed, staring at the paper. This is going to be embarrassing—asking a grown woman how to read, really? But then again, Charlie’s nice, she probably wouldn’t make a big deal out of it… she’s also pretty—wait, what the hell am I thinking? ¡No debería estar pensando así de ella!

Chapter Text

I hadn’t even made it half a block from the hotel when the craving hit me. I didn’t drink as much as my dad—guy’s practically swimming in coffee—but I still needed my caffeine fix. Fortunately, today was one of those rare days when my favorite barista was working at the local Dunkin’ Donuts. 

The moment I stepped inside, I spotted her. The bleach-white hair was unmistakable.

“Lute!” I beamed, and she rolled her hazel eyes with a smile that was equal parts tired and amused. 

“The usual, governor?” she asked, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. I grinned back. “Yeah, and stop calling me governor. I’m not there yet.” 

“Ah, of course,” she said, winking. “Still, can’t hurt to practice.” 

I leaned against the counter, not even trying to hide the excitement in my voice. “Anyway, I’ve met someone. She’s been staying at the hotel for the last week. She’s in pretty rough shape… I’m doing what I can for her.” 

I kept rambling, letting bits and pieces slip about Vaggie. She didn’t need to know all the details—hell, I barely did—but my mouth just wouldn’t shut up. But when I glanced up at Lute, I saw a subtle shift in her expression. 

“Something wrong?” I asked, sensing the change. 

Lute’s smile faded, and her gaze grew colder. Her voice dropped to a lower, almost predatory tone. “Nothing. Just… that’s a shock.” 

Then she handed me my coffee and waved someone over. From where I stood, I could see him lounging in a corner booth, effortlessly charming a group of girls with that rockstar charisma. He barely glanced up at first—until Lute gave him a not-so-subtle nudge. 

“What, Lute?” he muttered before finally looking at me. The second our eyes met, his expression shifted, all smooth confidence and a perfectly practiced grin. 

“Oh, well, hello there,” he said, his voice dripping with that rockstar charm. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Morningstar. Name’s Adam—Adam Reyes. Lead guitarist and singer for The Serpent’s Kiss.” 

And just like that, it clicked. 

“Holy Hell,” I gasped, nearly spilling my coffee. “You’re Adam Reyes? The Adam Reyes?” His grin widened, clearly pleased. 

“The one and only, sweetheart.” 

This was the Adam Reyes—frontman of the most popular band in the city. The same one whose songs blasted from nearly every club and bar in Pentagram. And here he was, standing in front of me like it was no big deal. 

Lute just watched, that small, knowing smirk playing at her lips. 

“I—wow, it’s really great to meet you!” I beamed, holding my cup a little tighter. “I had no idea you two knew each other!”

Adam chuckled, glancing at Lute. “Oh, we go way back. Don’t we, Lute?” 

“Something like that,” Lute murmured, sipping her own drink. But there was something off about the way she said it. A weight behind her words. 

I was too busy fangirling to notice. 

“Anyway,” Lute continued, her grin widening ever so slightly, “the reason I called you over, Adam, is because Charlie here was talking about her hotel and one of its residents. You guys are known for charity work, right?” 

I didn’t think much of her tone at first—too busy reeling from the fact that I was standing in front of Adam Reyes. 

Adam tilted his head, interest flickering in his eyes. “Really now?” He turned to me, that easy smile still in place. “Mind me swingin’ by sometime? Maybe make some posts on Twitter, get y’all some extra support?” 

I felt my soul leave my body. 

Was I about to pass out? Maybe. 

“That—that would be amazing!” I practically squealed, gripping my coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. “I mean, really! We’re always looking for ways to spread the word, and having you—I mean, The Adam Reyes—talk about it? That’d be huge!” 

Adam chuckled, clearly amused. “Well, how can I say no when you put it like that?” 

Lute took a slow sip of her drink, watching the exchange like she was enjoying some kind of inside joke I wasn’t in on. 

“I’ll shoot you a message about it,” Adam said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a sleek black business card. He handed it to me with a wink. 

I took it with both hands like it was some holy relic. 

“Looking forward to it, Ms. Morningstar,” he added smoothly before turning back to Lute. “We should catch up soon, Lute. Been a while.” 

Lute’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, it has.” 

Again, something about their exchange felt… off. 

But I was still too starstruck to question it. 

Chapter Text

With a casual flick of my wrist, I spun my cane in a tight circle—an affectation I had inherited, unfortunately, from my father. The thought alone made my jaw tighten. I despise that man. Yet, here I was, carrying his ghost in every gesture.

“Why’re we here again?” came a gravelly voice, half-irritated, half-exhausted. Husker. My companion, my reluctant shadow. A man who drowned his spirit in liquor but still managed to keep up with me. I found his bitterness entertaining.

“This project of mine is important, Husker.” I replied smoothly, flashing him a grin that didn’t falter for a second.

From my left, a lighter, quicker voice chimed in. “Isn’t it run by the governor’s kid?” Niffty, ever curious, ever restless. She practically vibrated in place, her bright eyes catching every detail of the courthouse square as though she couldn’t decide what to scrub clean first.

“It is indeed, Niffty, my dear,” I said, tilting my head and letting the smile widen just enough to be warm without ever softening. “And in order for her to receive her grant money, she needs to help me with my campaign for governor.”

Husker let out a dry grunt, pulling a flask from the chest pocket of his wrinkled polo. “So, we’re just using her.”

“Such an ugly word, Husker,” I tsked, wagging a gloved finger. “I prefer… collaboration. She gets her little charity project, and I get her father’s shadow to lean on when the time comes. Everyone wins.”

The grin held, perfectly framed, as though frozen for a photograph. But inside, the smile was something else entirely. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t kindness. It was armor. It was the blade I pressed against every throat I shook hands with.

Charlie Morningstar. Sweet, eager, bright-eyed Charlie. I had been watching her for weeks now. That ridiculous hotel of hers was a child’s dream, yet she carried it with a woman’s stubbornness. She wanted redemption, rebirth, hope—for other people, no less. Noble, yes. Dangerous, too. Idealists were always the easiest to mold.

And oh, how I would mold her.

Behind the teeth of my grin, the truth gnawed. I had no interest in redemption, no belief in hope. The world was a crooked place, and men like me did not fix it—we bent it. Charlie’s optimism would be her undoing, and when it broke, I would be there to guide the pieces where I pleased.

Husker muttered something under his breath about “kids playing house with politics,” and I chuckled, tapping my cane against the pavement like a metronome.

“Ah, but Husker,” I said, my voice syrup-sweet, “never underestimate the value of a child’s dream. They build castles out of air, and all it takes is one clever man to convince them to open the gates.”

I tipped my hat to no one in particular, my grin stretching wide enough to sting the corners of my cheeks. Always smiling. Always charming. Because you’re never fully dressed without a smile.

And under mine, the wolf bared its teeth.

But duty calls, and today’s agenda was a house visit. I glanced down at Niffty as she fussed with her collar. The little thing was dressed as though she’d stepped out of a faded magazine ad: a pinkish-red frock cinched at the waist, white apron neatly tied, skirt brushing her knees. Her blonde hair swept just so over her right eye, hiding whatever secrets lay beneath.

“Come along, you two,” I sang out, twirling my cane with a flourish as if we were about to march onto a stage. “We’ve a halfway house to inspect!”

Husk groaned from behind me, already digging for his flask, while Niffty clapped her hands together like I’d just promised her a grand adventure.

I kept the smile plastered on as we strolled toward the car, but inside, my thoughts were a different melody altogether.

Charlie Morningstar. Bright-eyed daughter of a governor, playing at philanthropy. She thought herself a savior of the downtrodden, opening her little “hotel” to lost lambs and wayward strays. But the truth of it? She was raw clay—naïve, unshaped, eager to believe in anything that glittered.

And I? I had always been a sculptor.

“Boss, remind me why we care about this place again?” Husk muttered, voice rough around the edges.

I turned to him, smile unwavering, voice smooth as butter. “Because, my good Husker, her project is the perfect little stage. And on stages, one finds both an audience… and a spotlight.”

Niffty tilted her head. “You’re helping her, though, right?”

A chuckle bubbled from my chest, warm and honeyed, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “Why, of course, dear. Helping is such a… flexible word.”

The grin stayed sharp as I opened the car door, cane tapping against the frame like a conductor calling for silence. The truth of me lingered just beneath the veneer, waiting, patient. Charlie wanted to redeem sinners. I only wanted to own them.

The car engine growled to life, and I leaned back in my seat, smile unbroken. “Onward!” I declared, as though we were heading to a gala instead of a crumbling little hotel.

Because that’s the beauty of the smile. It hides the wolf long enough for the lamb to welcome you inside.

Chapter Text

My hands moved as they should—steady, deliberate—sliding one sheet after another into neat stacks, while the placard on my desk glared back at me like an accusation.

Carmilla Carmine: Chairwoman of the City Planning & Development Committee.

The title looked heavier in brass than it felt on my shoulders. Some nights, I wondered if I truly deserved it. Development in this city was slower than molasses, corruption clung to every blueprint, and still, somehow, the polls kept me here.

To my right sat Odette, my eldest, posture perfect, glasses sliding dangerously down the bridge of her nose as she worked through my paperwork with quiet precision. I reached over without thinking and nudged them back into place with a gloved finger. She gave me a faint smile—small, almost apologetic—before sliding a document across the desk.

The grant for Charlotte Morningstar’s hotel.

I exhaled softly through my nose and pushed it back toward her.

“Mother?” Odette’s voice was gentle, hesitant. She was always cautious around me, as though waiting for permission to breathe. I raised a gloved hand, palm outward, curling my fingers slightly in dismissal.

“Clara,” I called.

The door opened on cue, and in swept my youngest, hips swaying like the hallway was a runway. Clara was Odette’s opposite in every conceivable way—Odette crisp and clinical, already dressing like the doctor she planned to become, while Clara paraded through life in crop tops and glitter, her hair tossed in deliberate disarray.

She looked like a party flyer come to life. And yet, when I spoke, she obeyed without hesitation. That, in the end, was all I asked of my daughters.

“Yeah, mamá?” she chirped, twirling a pair of oversized sunglasses in her hand before tossing herself into the chair opposite me.

“The Morningstar grant,” I said evenly, fingers drumming once on the desk. “It is… approved. But only under Alastor’s stipulations.”

Clara wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, the creepy guy with the smile? Hate that dude. He gives rizz a bad name.”

Odette shot her sister a sharp look over the rims of her glasses. “Clara.”

“What? I’m not wrong.” Clara kicked her legs up onto the edge of my desk. I arched a brow, and in one smooth motion, she lowered them again. Respect, even through irreverence.

“Charlotte Morningstar believes in this project,” I continued, ignoring Clara’s antics. My tone stayed cool, clipped. “She is… naïve. But naïve does not mean hopeless.”

Odette nodded once, pen scratching quietly across the margin of the grant form. She understood my silences. She always had.

Clara tilted her head, her lip gloss catching the office light. “So… you actually like her hotel idea? Or is this just politics?”

I folded my hands, white gloves creasing at the knuckles. My face, as always, remained a sculpted mask—cold, deliberate. Inside, however, the image of Charlotte Morningstar lingered: red slacks too crisp for her trembling hands, clutching her papers as though they could ward off a pack of wolves. She had stood in my courtroom like a lamb in the lion’s den, and something in me—something deeply buried—had stirred.

“Both,” I said at last, voice smooth as marble. “This city requires progress. And she requires protection.”

Neither daughter caught the flicker of warmth behind my words. They weren’t meant to. The Chairwoman does not reveal her hand.

Before Clara could press further, the shrill ring of my landline cut through the silence. Not my cell. My landline. The number few dared to use.

I lifted the receiver, holding it steady against my ear. A low chuckle drifted through the line, smooth and theatrical.

“Carmine, darling,” came the voice, honeyed and cruel, “care to join me in assessing the hotel?”

Alastor.

My sigh was soft, but my tone sharpened into steel. “Sí, Alastor. I shall meet you there.”

I set the receiver back into its cradle with deliberate care. Across the desk, my daughters had straightened, their eyes locked on me. They knew. They always knew when we were about to step into something important.

“Chicas, estén listas en cinco minutos. Nos vamos.”

“Sí, madre,” they replied in unison before rising. Odette gathered her folders with clinical precision, sliding papers into neat stacks, her glasses flashing under the fluorescent light. Clara, on the other hand, smoothed her skirt with a playful flick and winked at me before strutting out. Two daughters, night and day, bound together by the discipline I instilled in them.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me in silence. My eyes fell back to the placard on my desk. Carmilla Carmine: Chairwoman of the City Planning & Development Committee.

I traced the edge of the brass plate with one gloved finger. To the world, I was cold authority. Untouchable. Carmilla Carmine: Chairwoman of the City Planning & Development Committee.
But beneath the marble façade, empathy pressed insistently against my ribs, reminding me that compassion is not weakness—it is simply dangerous when displayed too freely. Alastor, Vox, even Rosie… they would twist it into a knife the first chance they had.

But Charlotte Morningstar? That was different.
The governor’s daughter, dismissed as naïve, swallowed by her father’s shadow. No one respected her the way they did him. Yet she still came into my chamber trembling but unbroken. It stirred something in me I refused to name.

“Mamá, should I drive?” Clara’s voice broke through my thoughts. She leaned against the doorframe, keys twirling between manicured fingers, her crop top and short skirt looking more nightclub than city hall. Still, when I nodded, her smirk softened into a genuine smile before she vanished down the hall. Irreverent though she may be, Clara always obeyed when it mattered.

A moment later, the door creaked again. Odette would not enter so casually—no, she was still at her desk outside, finishing paperwork, neat as a scalpel. Instead, it was Zestial.

“Zestial,” I said, schooling my features into practiced neutrality.

He didn’t bother with words at first. He stepped closer, steady as ever, his tailored suit carrying the scent of aged cologne and old books. Then, with that same audacity he’d always carried, he cupped my cheek in his hand.

“Carmilla, dear.”

His voice. It always does this—makes my knees weaken, makes me wish, for just a breath, that I could set the chairwoman aside and simply be a woman.

I caught his wrist, not to pull away, but to steady myself. My lips curled into the faintest of smiles before I forced the steel back into my tone. “You should not sneak up on me in my own office.”

Zestial chuckled, the sound rich and low, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ve never been caught off guard a day in your life, Carmine. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Behind him, Odette appeared in the doorway, holding a folder neatly pressed against her chest. “Mother, the final revisions are prepared.”

Zestial let his hand fall away, leaving me colder for the loss. I straightened, smoothing my gloves against my lap. “Good. We leave shortly. Clara is bringing the car around.”

Odette inclined her head, efficient as ever, before disappearing again. Zestial lingered a heartbeat longer, watching me with that knowing gaze that made my carefully constructed walls tremble.

“Try not to let Alastor draw you into his performance, querida,” he murmured, low enough for only me. “You’ve always been the one who sees through the curtain.”

I gave him nothing but a cold nod, but inside, his words warmed me more than I’d ever admit.

Outside, Clara’s voice echoed up the stairwell. “¡Vámonos, mamita! You know if we’re late, Mr. Creepy-Smile will never let us live it down!”

Zestial laughed softly, offering me his arm with an old-world flourish. I hesitated, then took it, just for a moment, before stepping past him to reclaim my mask.

We had a hotel to visit. And wolves to keep at bay.

Chapter Text

I’ve been staring at the note for twenty minutes now. A scrap of paper, a handful of words in English—simple, stupid English—and it feels heavier than a blade.

I should be able to read it. Debería poder leerlo. I survived Eden, survived Adam’s boot on my neck, survived Lute’s knife pressed to my throat, and yet here I am… paralyzed by a damn note.

I could ask Anthony. Angel. Whatever mask he’s wearing today. He’d make a joke of it, though, turn my shame into banter. Or Cherri—she’d laugh, that loud Aussie bark, even if she didn’t mean harm. No. Nunca. My pride won’t allow it.

Earlier, a man came by. Baxter. Said he was the one who stitched me back together. Smelled like chemicals and old cigarettes. His eyes were too sharp, too curious. I thanked him, but my gut said no confíes en él. I’ve seen men like that before in Eden. Men who smile as they measure what’s broken in you.

Now it’s just me, pacing the foyer, KeeKee perched on the couch like some tiny black sentinel, golden eyes watching every step I take.

“Ve y pregunta,” I mutter under my breath, Spanish rolling sharp off my tongue. “No es tan difícil. ¿Por qué eres tan cobarde?”

The words hit like Adam’s voice in my head. Coward. Pecadora. I shove the thought down and clutch the note tighter. My hands tremble anyway.

KeeKee flicks her tail, unimpressed. Her stare feels like judgment. Or maybe mercy. I can’t tell anymore.

I slam the note back on the table and grip the edge until my knuckles ache. “¡Carajo!” The sound echoes too loud in this quiet place.

My scars itch beneath my bandages. My back still feels raw, like phantom knives piercing all over again. The ache reminds me of Eden’s sermons, of Adam’s voice promising purity while he carved us hollow. They taught us to hunt, to strip the “unclean” of their sins. Y yo participé. My hands still remember the weight of the bow. My ears still remember the screams.

And now I can’t even face a piece of paper.

“¿Qué me pasa?” I whisper, sinking into the couch beside KeeKee. She nudges her head against my arm, purring like she knows something I don’t.

The note lies abandoned on the table. A battlefield I can’t cross.

But if I don’t ask someone, I’ll never know what it says. And secrets in this place? They’ll eat me alive faster than Adam ever could.

I close my good eye, inhale sharp, and mutter, “Está bien. Lo haré.”

Not to Angel. Not to Cherri.

Only one person here looks at me like I’m not a burden. Only one smiles without mockery.

Charlie.

I shoved myself up from the couch, the note clutched in my hand like a weapon. My pulse pounded in my ears, every step toward the hallway heavier than the last. Toward her office. Toward Charlie.

If I can survive Eden, puedo sobrevivir esto.

Then I froze. Memory hit hard—Charlie had left a while ago. She wasn’t even here.

Soy estúpida.

“Heya, toots.”

I jumped, spinning on instinct. Anthony. He leaned against the doorway, looking like hell chewed him up and spat him back out. His makeup smudged, hair hanging in greasy strands, shirt wrinkled like he hadn’t bothered to change since last night.

“What… pasó contigo?” My accent thickened as I scanned him.

Anthony let out a long, tired sigh, running a hand through his mess of hair. “Everyone happened to me.”

“¿Qué?”

“My boss roped me into a big video shoot—”

“¡Guarda esa sucia historia para ti!” The words ripped out before I could stop them. Eden’s sermons had wired me to spit venom at anything that smelled like sin, and though I hated myself for it, it still slipped free.

Anthony actually shut up for once. His mouth opened, then closed again, a rare silence hanging between us. Finally, he sighed, shoulders slumping, and his gaze flicked down to the note trembling in my grip.

“You can’t read it, can you?” His voice was softer now, stripped of its usual bite. A tone that didn’t belong to the vulgar star he pretended to be, but to a man worn down and oddly gentle.

My throat tightened. I said nothing, just gave the smallest nod.

He held out his hand. No smirk, no joke, just a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Want me to read it to ya?”

I hesitated. Pride gnawed at me. Eden nos enseñó que la debilidad es pecado. But Anthony’s eyes… they weren’t mocking. They were tired, maybe even kind. Carefully, I placed the note into his palm.

He unfolded it, cleared his throat with an exaggerated flourish—habit he probably couldn’t shake even when exhausted. “Ahem. ‘Hey, I won’t be at the hotel for a while. Coffee and a grocery run, be back in an hour. —Charlie.’”

He handed it back, lips quirking into the faintest grin. “There. You’re welcome, toots.”

I stared at him, words tangled in my chest. I wanted to snap, to shield myself with sharp edges like always. But his exhaustion disarmed me.

“You look… cansado,” I muttered.

Anthony barked a laugh, dry and bitter. “Try pulling twelve hours for Val. Cameras, lights, him screaming about angles—then doing it all again ‘cause he didn’t like my face.” He rubbed his temple, the grin fading. “Guy’s a goddamn vampire, sucks you dry ‘til there’s nothing left.”

I clenched the note, remembering Eden. The endless drills. Adam’s boot. Lute’s knife. Different cages, same chains.

Anthony dropped onto the couch beside me, KeeKee immediately hopping into his lap as if she’d been waiting. He stroked the cat absentmindedly, his voice quieter now. “Don’t tell anyone I said this, but… I hate it. Hate every second of it. But it pays the bills. Keeps my sister’s kids fed. Y’know?”

For the first time, I didn’t see a vulgar pornstar dripping sarcasm. I saw a man carrying too much weight, hiding under cheap makeup and bad jokes.

“…Entiendo,” I whispered. And I meant it.

For a moment, silence settled between us. Two survivors, scarred in different ways, finding a strange sort of recognition in each other.

I froze when the front doors creaked open and seven pairs of footsteps echoed down the foyer. My pulse spiked—demasiados. Too many. Too loud.
Eden had trained me well: when something new enters, you hide or you die.

Anthony barely flicked a glance toward the door, muttering something under his breath. But I was already moving. My body knew before my brain did—slipping into the nearest hallway, bolting toward the end of it like prey fleeing the hunter. My scars burned just from the sound of unfamiliar voices.

I reached the last door. Bright red paint. Pictures pinned haphazardly across it—smiling faces, doodles, scraps of paper. A shrine of personality. My hand trembled on the knob before I pushed it open and slipped inside.

The air smelled faintly of vanilla and coffee grounds. My chest eased just a fraction. And then it hit me—this was her room.

Charlie’s.

The walls were plastered with posters, bright bursts of color that felt almost manic in their cheer. Musicals, old bands, handwritten sketches—like she couldn’t stand to leave a single corner blank. Her desk was messy but alive: stacks of notebooks half-filled with ideas, loose pens, a little cup of erasers shaped like animals. A girl’s room, yes, but also a dreamer’s.

On her nightstand sat a framed photograph. Charlie, younger, flanked by a blonde man and a taller blonde woman. Family. I reached out before snatching my hand back, guilt rising in my throat.

“Demasiado perfecto,” I whispered bitterly. Too perfect.

The contrast gutted me. Her life, even with the shadows of politics, had been built on warmth. Mine? Built on obedience. Eden didn’t hang posters or laugh with family. Eden armed you. Trained you. Broke you until all you had left was fear and loyalty.

I clutched the folded note tighter in my hand until my knuckles ached. Even here, surrounded by her little sanctum of safety, I couldn’t escape the humiliation. A grown woman, an ex-soldado, and I couldn’t even read a single language outside my own.

The door creaked softly. My heart slammed against my ribs—punishment, discovery, muerte. My whole body braced for Adam’s boots, for Lute’s blade, for Eden’s ghosts to drag me back.

But it wasn’t them.

It was Charlie—her arms overloaded with grocery bags, a Dunkin’ cup wobbling dangerously between her fingers, one rebellious curl falling across her red eyes as she nudged the door closed with her hip. She froze when she saw me. Then she smiled—bright, unguarded, like Christmas lights sparking to life in a darkened room.

“Vaggie?” she asked gently. “What are you doing in here?”

My throat locked. Instinct screamed at me—miente, escóndete, lucha. But the words tumbled out raw, cracked, betraying me.

“Necesito ayuda,” I muttered, forcing my hand to raise the note. My single eye burned as shame prickled my skin. “I… I can’t read it.”

The paper slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor. My voice shrank with it. “Scared,” I admitted, voice breaking. “La gente que acaba de entrar… me dio miedo.”

Charlie set everything down—bags rustling, cup clattering faintly on her desk. She didn’t move toward me at first, just gave me space, like she understood the way I was coiled tight. Then she stepped closer, soft but steady, her presence warm in a way that gnawed at the edges of my armor.

“They’re just some people from the city council,” she said, her voice soft as a lullaby. “Here to check out the hotel and see if I can get my grant money.”

Her gaze flicked to the fallen note before returning to me. “Anthony said he read it to you. But if you want… I can teach you. How to read English.”

She said it so simply, like offering to share a sandwich. No judgment. No pity. Just help.

My pulse slowed despite itself, though the tension in my shoulders never fully left. This room—it didn’t belong to me, but I felt its warmth pressing in. Posters plastered the walls, Broadway musicals alongside punk band flyers, little scribbled sketches thumbtacked between them like scraps of her soul. On the nightstand, the family photo glimmered in its frame, her parents smiling with her, whole and golden.

It was everything Eden wasn’t. Soft. Loud. Personal. Human.

And here she was, offering me a piece of it.

I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into my palms until my nails bit skin. “¿Por qué eres así?” I whispered, not really meant for her ears. Why are you like this? Why so kind in a world that chews kindness to the bone?

Charlie tilted her head, a curl slipping free, her smile tugging soft at the edges. “Because I want this place to be safe. For everyone.” She paused, her eyes flicking over me with a gentleness that made my throat tighten. “Especially you.”

My chest lurched. The words landed like a blow, not from malice but from the weight of sincerity.

She chuckled then, low and warm. “I know some Spanish, and I’m guessing you asked why I’m the way I am?”

All I could do was nod, heat creeping to my face.

“It’s your tone, Vaggie,” she continued softly, her voice like velvet smoothing over my jagged edges. “You don’t have to spell everything out for me. I hear more than your words.”

The scars on my back pulsed in phantom memory, as if Eden’s blades were carving me all over again. My shoulders hunched, and before I could retreat, Charlie’s hands found me. She cupped my face—one palm on each cheek, cool and steady, tilting me up until my single eye met hers.

“I’m not giving up on you,” she said firmly, like it was law. “You don’t have to hide. I want you to be safe here. ¿Está bien?”

The Spanish on her tongue wasn’t perfect, but it made something in me unravel. My throat bobbed as I nodded, again and again, until my hands were trembling in hers.

Her thumbs brushed across my knuckles, grounding me. “Now,” she said gently, “would you like to meet them? The council people?”

Another nod, though this time it came with a flush that burned hotter across my cheeks.

Her smile brightened, like my answer had given her a gift. “Don’t worry. One of them—Mrs. Carmine—she’s Hispanic too. I thought maybe that’d help? Sorry if that sounded… off.”

“N-no…” my voice cracked, soft and small. “I’m… I’m from El Salvador.”

Her eyes lit up, not with pity but with curiosity, respect. “Then I’d love to hear about it. When you’re ready.”

Her words wrapped around me tighter than any blanket. I should’ve pulled away. Eden had trained me to mistrust softness—it was always bait, always a lie. But here, in Charlie’s room with her hands still cradling mine, I felt something dangerous bloom. Not fear. Not obedience. Something scarier. Something I thought Eden had burned out of me.

Hope.

Chapter Text

I pushed the door open with my right hand, Vaggie clinging to my left like a koala. She didn’t even realize she was doing it—her grip tightening with every new sound, every shadow. Not that I minded. If I had been left in pieces, I’d probably cling too.

The noise hit before the sight did.

“What’s with the smile, dickhead?” Cherri’s voice, sharp and unfiltered.

“Now now, darling,” came the reply, smooth as silk, smug as sin. “No need to be so brash.”

Alastor. Of course. My stomach twisted. Great—Cherri and the Senator, already circling each other like cats in an alley.

God, I need more coffee.

I slowed my pace, letting Vaggie keep close, her breath short against my arm. She flinched every time a floorboard creaked under us. Too much noise. Too many people.. Too much. I tried to give her my best reassuring squeeze, though her fingers dug into my hand like claws.

When we reached the foyer, it was exactly as bad as I’d pictured.

Cherri stood toe-to-toe with Alastor, chin raised, eye blazing. He leaned on that ridiculous cane of his, smiling like the devil at Sunday mass. Off to the side, Mrs. Carmine and her daughters sat perfectly composed, though their eyes said it all—they’d already written half the headlines for this circus.

I cleared my throat—louder than I meant to. “Ahem!” I waved, too big, too bright. “Hello! I see you’ve already met Cherri Bomb. Cherri, this is Alastor, the state senator I have to help campaign with… in order for my grant to go through!” My grin nearly cracked my cheeks.

Beside me, Vaggie’s grip crushed tighter. Tranquila, tranquila, I thought, but her trembling said her trauma was still echoing in her bones.

“Didn’t know she had a girlfriend,” one of Carmine’s daughters—Clara—blurted before her mother’s hand landed lightly on the back of her head.

“Apologies for Clara,” Mrs. Carmine said, tone calm but cutting. “She’s… impulsive.” Then her sharp eyes locked onto Vaggie, and the air shifted. “But this is a valid question. Is she all right?”

Vaggie froze, her nails biting crescents into my palm. Her lips parted, but no words came—just that hunted look, the one that had been carved into her.

I jumped in, words tripping over each other faster than my brain could sort them. “She is! Totally! She, uh… came from a bad home.” My laugh was too quick, too brittle. “Really bad. Like… the worst. But she’s fine now! We’re fine! Everyone’s fine!”

Alastor’s smile widened, razor-sharp. Cherri rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. Carmine’s lips pursed, unreadable.

And Vaggie? She stared at the floor, jaw clenched, like the ground might swallow her whole.

The doors swung open again, and the air shifted.

Adam Reyes — and at his side, Lute.

My stomach dropped.

Phone raised high, Adam’s grin wide enough to swallow the sun. And, Dios mío, he was live.

“And this,” Adam announced, voice booming, “is the Happy Hotel! Louisiana’s resident halfway house for convicts, recovering addicts, and anyone looking to turn their luck around!”

Lute fell back a step, angling the phone so Adam filled the frame. His aura was pure spotlight — loud, magnetic, the kind of presence that stole oxygen from the room.

“But wait,” he leaned into the lens, winking. “The best part? Yours truly — the Adam Reyes of Serpent’s Kiss — will be performing here in just a few weeks! Exclusive show, right here!”

The chat scrolled on his screen in a blur of hearts and laughing emojis. I didn’t have to read it to know half the city was already buzzing.

Beside me, Vaggie went rigid. Not just stiff — stone. Like every instinct in her screamed run.

Carmine noticed too. Her eyes flicked from Vaggie to me, cool as polished marble. “Señorita Morningstar,” she said evenly, “may my daughters and I escort your guest somewhere… calmer?”

I caught the meaning instantly. Get her out before she shattered.

“Sí, claro,” I said, then turned to Vaggie, forcing steadiness into my voice. “It’s okay. I need to handle this. You can trust Mrs. Carmine.”

Her eye locked on mine, wild, betrayed. I hated myself for the way it looked, like I’d yanked the ground out from under her. But finally, with a jerky nod, she let Clara gently peel her hand from mine.

“Lounge is on the left!” I called, too brightly, as Clara guided her away. Carmine swept after them like a silent warden, while Odette trailed, already scribbling notes onto a clipboard.

And just like that, I was alone — square in the blast radius.

“Well, well, Miss Morningstar.”

Alastor. I turned, nearly colliding with his smile. It was sharp, predatory, but dressed up in southern charm. The kind of grin you shake hands with before realizing your watch is gone.

“As agreed,” he purred, bowing slightly with a flourish of his cane, “I help you, you help me.”

I cleared my throat. “I… remember, Mr…?”

“Hazbin,” he said, teeth flashing. “Alastor Maurice Hazbin, at your service. But do call me Alastor.”

He extended a hand. Hesitation burned in my chest, but I took it. His grip was firm, too warm.

“One order of business,” he said lightly, though the weight behind it was anything but. “This name. Happy Hotel. It doesn’t quite… sing, does it? I propose something stronger. The Hazbin Hotel.”

My mouth opened before my brain caught up. “I just had the sign installed two days ago—”

“Not to worry!” His interruption was smooth, like rehearsed patter. “I’ll cover the costs. And any other little… surprises your grant cannot. Provided,” his grin tilted razor-thin, “you uphold your end of the bargain. Capiche?”

I nodded stiffly. What else could I do?

From the corner of my eye, Odette prowled the foyer, clipboard snapping shut, while Adam spun circles for his livestream, nearly bumping into a chair as he declared to his audience, “You’re gonna love what we’re building here, fam! Redemption’s never looked so sexy!”

I caught the twitch in Alastor’s jaw — the smile never faltering, but the wolf beneath it straining against the leash.

And me? My mouth, traitor that it was, rushed to fill the silence:

“Hazbin Hotel does sound… catchier, doesn’t it?” I blurted, then winced. “But I mean—not that Happy’s bad—Happy’s fine, perfectly fine! I just—um—coffee.”

I practically choked the last word, gripping my empty cup like it might save me from drowning.

Then I heard it. Cherri.

“Up yours, ya cunt-faced prick!”

Oh no. Oh no no no.

In an instant, I was across the lobby, plastering myself between her and Adam’s camera like a human airbag. My hand slapped over her mouth, my smile stretched so wide it hurt. I could already feel Lute angling the phone just right to make sure I was in frame — teeth clenched, eyes wide, the very picture of “panic in real time.”

“I am so, so, so sorry about Cherri—she’s… Australian!” I babbled, voice pitching up two octaves. “You know how they are!”

Not confident. Not even close.

Adam just roared with laughter, clutching his chest like this was the best comedy he’d seen all week. “It’s alright, Charlie! I get haters all the time. Wouldn’t you know a thing or two about that, Marcy?”

Cherri froze under my hand at the name, her muscles going taut like piano wire. I felt the dangerous kind of tension — the kind where someone’s about to bite through your fingers.

“Cherri! Calm down!” I hissed through my teeth.

And just when I thought she might actually take a chunk out of me, Anthony slouched out of the kitchen. He took one look at the scene — Adam mugging for his livestream, Lute eating popcorn in spirit, me strangling Cherri’s face — and sighed like this was just another Tuesday.

“Move it, princess,” he muttered, gently peeling my hand away and slapping his own over Cherri’s mouth. Pink lace glove and all. His long nails tapped against her cheek as he cooed mockingly, “There, there, Bombshell. Save it for someone who pays ya.”

Cherri growled into his palm, still glaring daggers with her one good eye.

Behind us, Alastor’s chuckle cut through the chaos. Smooth, honeyed, like a radio host soothing his audience. “What a lively establishment you have, Miss Morningstar. Such… colorful staff. Exactly the kind of energy our city needs in these trying times.”

He tipped his hat, smiling at me like he’d just complimented the weather. But underneath it, I caught the gleam — the wolf sharpening his teeth, feeding off the spectacle.

“Y-yeah,” I stammered, my grin twitching. “Lively. That’s the word I’d use.”

My quick mouth tried to save me. “Because, you know, safe places don’t trend online, but chaotic good ones? Totally marketable, right?”

The second the words left my mouth, I realized I’d just pitched my hotel as a meme to both Adam’s followers and Alastor’s political machine.

Cherri, muffled, let out a sound that was half snort, half scream.

Adam’s chat was going feral — heart emojis, crying-laughing faces, people spamming #chaoticgoodhotel.

Alastor’s smile only grew wider.

And me? I wanted to crawl into the Dunkin’ cup I was still clutching and drown.

“Can we get a minute?” I asked, my voice pitching up into that squeak that makes me sound more like a startled mouse than the daughter of Louisiana’s governor.

Adam grinned like I’d just handed him a stage cue and motioned Lute to back up, phone lowered but still angled enough to catch the edges of the room.

Alastor, ever the gentleman predator, tapped his cane smartly against the tile. “Of course, Miss Morningstar,” he sang, before tossing the cane into the air, catching it halfway down the shaft with that effortless flourish. “I shall take a brief stroll outside. There are… friends of mine waiting.” He tipped his hat, smile never wavering, and slipped out the doors like smoke.

Anthony tried to guide Cherri back, but she ripped his hand off her mouth and spat:
“Go root a cane toad, ya drongo!”

Adam laughed, delighted. Like every insult was free promo for his livestream.

By the time we got her into the kitchen, Cherri was trembling—not out of fear, but the kind of fury that shakes your bones.

“Cherri, what the fuck girl?!” Anthony snapped, grabbing her shoulders, shaking her like he was trying to rattle sense into her.

Her fist came up fast. A clean right hook to his gut. Anthony doubled over with a wheeze, clutching his stomach.

“That—that cunt out there—he’s a bad man,” Cherri hissed, pointing toward the lobby with her bandaged hand. “I fuckin’ mean it, gov’na. That broad you got clingin’ to ya like a bloody koala? I’ve seen scars like hers before. I know where they come from. The group Adam runs with.”

“Cherri—” I started, desperate to shut this down before the words reached anywhere dangerous.

“Shut it!” she snapped, sharp enough to slice my nerves.

My mouth snapped shut.

Her voice dropped low, but the fire didn’t fade. “The disappearances. All the backroom shit that never makes the papers. Half the trouble this city’s had these last few years, it’s tied to them. His crew. The one he runs off the books.”

Anthony straightened slowly, still wincing, but his eyes were locked on her now. “You got proof?”

Cherri’s glare flicked between us. “Proof? Nah. Just whispers, bodies, people who don’t come back. Same whispers I heard when I was still runnin’ with gangs.” She jabbed a finger at me. “But I know his type, gov’na. Smiles for the cameras, rots people out behind the curtain. That’s Adam Reyes.”

Her words hit me like ice water. My quick mouth tried to recover, tried to laugh it off. “Cherri, you can’t just accuse—he’s one of the biggest musicians in the state! If he were dangerous, someone would’ve—”

The look Cherri gave me stopped me cold.

Anthony sighed, rubbing his temples. “Princess, you really think the people runnin’ this town give a damn if a rockstar’s got blood on his shoes?”

The silence that followed was heavy. My hand twitched at my side, wanting to reach for Vaggie down the hall. Wanting something solid to hold onto.

And then—

From the lobby, Adam’s laughter rolled through the walls, bright and easy. “And don’t forget to like, follow, and share—because we’re only just getting started, darlings!”

I pressed my palms to the counter, trying to will the floor to stop tilting.

My quick mouth was supposed to save me. Instead, I’d just let a storm into my hotel.

Then I heard the click of heels and my stomach dropped.

Carmine.

She filled the doorway like judgment itself, her white hair gleaming under the kitchen lights. Her eyes swept over the scene—Anthony still bent over from Cherri’s punch, me frozen halfway to speaking, and Cherri herself vibrating with enough fury to set the walls on fire.

“Cherri.”

“Carmilla.”

I winced. Oh no. She said the first name. Who does that?

I whispered to Anthony out of the corner of my mouth, “She might not walk out of this.”
He wheezed back, “Wouldn’t bet against it.”

But Carmine didn’t bristle. She just sighed softly, stepped closer, and rested a gloved hand on Cherri’s shoulder. The gesture was calm. Gentle. Dangerous in how disarming it was.

“Take a second,” she murmured, voice smooth as marble. “Breathe. Think.”

Cherri’s lip curled, her accent sharp as glass. “Think? Lady, I been thinkin’ since I could walk, and all that ever got me was dodgin’ fists and nickin’ bread. Don’t start preachin’.”

Carmine didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head, eyes softening. “You grew up on the streets, didn’t you?”

Cherri narrowed her eye. “What gave it away, the scars or the mouth?”

“Si.” Carmine’s voice was steady, the faintest thread of Spanish warmth weaving through.

Cherri scoffed. “I don’t speak bloody Taco Bell, señora.”

My coffee did a triple somersault in my gut. “Cherri!” I squeaked, plastering on my brightest, most fake politician’s-daughter smile. “She didn’t mean that, Mrs. Carmine, she’s just—uh—Australian! They say stuff like that all the time!”

Cherri whipped around on me. “Don’t you start coverin’ for me, gov’na. I’ll say what I bloody well mean!”

“Which is exactly what I’m terrified of!” I shot back before slapping a hand over my own mouth. Too late. My quick mouth: enemy confirmed.

Carmine’s hand stayed firm on Cherri’s shoulder, her tone never rising. “I know the streets. I was there once, too. I clawed my way up. Every scar you carry, I carry my own.”

That silenced Cherri for a beat. Her glare faltered, her jaw working, like she was trying to bite back words that didn’t come easy. Finally she muttered, “Yeah, well… maybe you ain’t as full of shit as the rest of ‘em.”

It wasn’t surrender. But it wasn’t a swing either. For Cherri, that was respect.

Anthony straightened, rubbing his stomach. “Well, that’s the closest thing to a hug you’ll ever get outta her.”

Cherri jabbed him in the ribs, but there wasn’t as much bite behind it this time.

Carmine allowed herself the faintest smile. Not the cold politician’s one she wore in public, but a quiet one—private, human. “Good. Then we understand each other.”

Meanwhile, Adam’s voice thundered from the lobby, echoing through the kitchen walls like the world’s smuggest foghorn:
“And if you love this place as much as I do, hit that follow button! The Serpent’s Kiss is gonna put this hotel on the map!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose so hard I nearly dented it. “Oh God. He’s still streaming…”

Before I could even sprint out there with duct tape, Carmine was already gliding into the foyer like a phantom in heels. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“Mr. Reyes.” Her tone was cool marble, smooth and immovable.

“Mrs. Carmine!” Adam lit up, all teeth and charisma. He hooked his arm around Lute’s waist and yoinked the phone back from her like this was the Adam Reyes Variety Hour. “Pleasure’s all mine! What brings you here? Business? Pleasure? Hopefully both, yeah?”

Carmine’s stare could’ve frozen a volcano. “None of your concern, Adam. But I will ask that you keep the volume down. Some of us are here to work.”

“Deal, deal,” he laughed, sliding his sunglasses down just enough for the camera to catch his hazel eyes. “Besides, I gotta scope out the lighting anyway. Good angles. Good photos. Gotta get this place trending, you feel me?”

Carmine didn’t answer. She just pivoted on her heel and swept down the hall, coat trailing like a blade. Not a word wasted, not a glance spared. Adam was left talking to his own reflection in the phone.

That’s when my brain kicked me in the ribs. Vaggie.

Oh shit. I left her with Carmine’s daughters. With Adam stomping around like a neon sign of bad memories.

“I—uh—gotta go,” I blurted, my voice cracking like a teenager’s. Cherri didn’t even look at me, just hummed around her cigarette. Anthony gave me a lazy thumbs-up, muttering something in Italian that probably translated to good luck, you’re screwed.

I bolted down the hall, sneakers squeaking against polished floorboards, and threw myself into the lounge.

The sight made my chest do three things at once: break, warm, and sink.

Vaggie sat curled into the corner chair like a cornered stray, KeeKee purring dutifully in her lap, tail swishing like a metronome. Her one eye flicked, sharp and unblinking, between Clara—perched forward, trying her best to coax out scraps of Spanish—and Carmine herself, legs crossed elegantly on the sofa like a queen on her throne. Odette sat beside her mother, pen scratching calmly over notes, the picture of composure.

Vaggie looked at them all like she was waiting for the knife. Shoulders tense, grip white-knuckled on KeeKee’s fur, her lips pressed thin. Distrust wasn’t the right word—it was survival. She was every inch the girl someone had broken, and every inch the woman still fighting to hold herself together.

“Vaggie,” I said softly, stepping into the room.

Her eye snapped to me like a lifeline—then just as quickly flicked away, shame shadowing her face.

I forced my brightest smile, the one that got me through courthouse meetings without combusting. My quick mouth stumbled out before I could stop it: “Don’t worry! She’s not terrifying, she just…looks terrifying!”

Odette coughed politely into her notes. Clara snorted. Carmine arched a brow at me, unimpressed but not unkind.

“Wow, smooth, Charlie,” I muttered under my breath, cheeks heating.

Still, I crossed the room and crouched beside Vaggie’s chair, careful not to touch her until she gave me permission. KeeKee stretched out, nosing my wrist, and Vaggie’s fingers twitched like she was fighting every instinct to pull back.

“You’re safe,” I whispered, just for her. “I promise.”

Her lips parted, Spanish slipping out so soft I almost didn’t catch it: “No me jodas…”

But her hand didn’t pull away.

“Sí, nadie lo hará, te tenemos cubierto,” Clara chimed in gently from her seat. And maybe she meant well, but the way Vaggie’s eye snapped to her—sharp, lethal, like a blade unsheathed—made my heart drop into my shoes. I’d only ever seen that look on bodyguards when my dad dragged me out of state. That readiness to kill, because killing was survival.

I swallowed. “Not to be rude, but Mrs. Carmine, could you and your daughters give us a little space? I’d like to—uh—talk to her privately.”

Odette and Clara obeyed without complaint, rising and slipping out the door with the silent grace of daughters raised on discipline. But Carmine? She stayed. Perfect posture, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap.

“Charlie,” she said, voice cool but not unkind. Then her gaze slid to Vaggie. “Your friend here—she bears the scars, the discipline, of someone who belonged to a militant cult. One that’s been haunting Pentagram City for decades.”

My stomach turned cold. Vaggie stiffened, her hand recoiling from mine, the other pulling away from KeeKee’s fur. Both folded tight in her lap, as if she could hold herself together by sheer force.

“Wh—what…” My voice cracked like cheap glass.

Carmine lifted a hand, calm and deliberate. “Let me finish.”

I clamped my mouth shut, because every time I opened it lately, disaster poured out.

“Does this mean I will have her jailed?” Carmine’s eyes softened, though her voice remained steady. “No. That would solve nothing. Instead, I will assist—because I can infer something else.”

She rose, coat falling into perfect lines, and drew a small object from her pocket. A ring—simple, worn with age, but polished with care.

“¿Puedo ver tu mano?” she asked.

Vaggie froze, her whole body strung tight like barbed wire. Every nerve in her face screamed don’t trust, but after a long, shaking breath she extended her hand. Carmine slid the ring onto her middle finger with surprising care—no flourish, no theatrics. Just quiet certainty, like she had done this before. Like she knew exactly what it meant to handle someone waiting for the knife.

“This belonged to my grandmother,” Carmine said softly, her voice stripped of its usual steel. “She told me to gift it to the one I believed needed its luck.”

Vaggie’s eye flicked down. Lips parted. Chest heaving in shallow stutters. Distrust still clung to her like a second skin, but something cracked. Shock. Confusion. The dangerous, fragile shape of hope.

Her voice slipped out, so quiet I almost missed it.
“They… they call themselves exorcists…”

For once, my quick mouth stayed shut. I didn’t dare break the moment.

“Adam… he… h-he… Los organizó.”

Her voice cracked on his name, trembling like glass about to shatter.

I nodded, even though the Spanish twisted past me, ungraspable. But Carmine’s eyes sharpened with understanding.

“Lute…” Vaggie’s throat worked, her jaw tightening. “She’s his right hand. Ella nos hizo mantenernos en fila.”

Her hands tightened in her lap, knuckles pale. Every word sounded torn from her with barbed wire.

Carmine didn’t flinch. She didn’t pity. She simply sat closer, her presence steady as stone. “Gracias,” she murmured. Not for herself—for Vaggie, for speaking at all.

KeeKee purred louder, pressing into Vaggie’s ribs. She clutched the cat like a lifeline, ring glinting against the dark fur.

And me? I sat there, realizing I wasn’t the rescuer in this story. Not tonight. Carmine had cracked something open that I couldn’t reach with all my optimism and coffee-stained speeches.

I stayed quiet. For once, maybe that was the kindest thing I could do.

Chapter Text

I’m crouched in the weeds, knees gritty with dirt, the toe of my combat boot pinning something small and frantic under my heel. Probably a rat. Maybe a little dog if you’re sentimental. I’m not. Sentiment is a luxury we don’t afford.

In my left hand, my pocket knife — dull from use but still sharp enough — rests against my palm. The handle has an old insignia engraved on it, a mark I learned to wear like a memory. The thing under my boot squeals. Good. Noise is honest. It tries to twist free, tail whipping; instinct is pathetic when you’ve been drilled out of mercy.

I press the tip just enough to make it slow. Not a kill for show — efficient. The animal gives up faster that way. There’s a small, ugly sound when my boot settles. Like someone compressing a soft fruit. Breaking something clean. One of those noises that makes a person feel useful.

Adam’s ringtone cuts through the night — that ridiculous, too-bright tone he likes to use. I close the blade, pocket it, and shift my heel so when the little thing finally goes still it does so with no fuss. I’m already standing when he finishes the call.

“Yeah, yeah, got it. We’re working on it,” he says into the phone as I step up beside him like he expects me to. He talks about shopping lists like he’s planning a picnic: “Stuffed peppers. Enough for all the exorcists. I’ve got the funds.” His voice is casual, like arranging meals and arranging people are the same thing.

I make a note in my head—beef, bell peppers, onion, quiet hands to plate it all. Practical things. Meals soothe. Meals bind. I slide my knife into my pocket and kiss the rim of the blade with the thumb of a hand that’s practiced gentleness only where it serves a purpose.

Adam looks at me then, the way he always does when he wants reassurance. “You coming?” he asks.

“Right behind you,” I say, dry as the scholarship he thinks he buys with showy charity. I fall into step with him like a shadow trained to match his pace. He’s already live for some corner of the city that thinks his glib smile equals salvation. I don’t care about their hearts. I care about the orders.

The hotel lights blur in the distance as we approach: a warm little island of bad wallpaper and good intentions. He lifts the phone closer to his face, with that grin that feeds cameras. “Y’all ready for a little redemption tour?” he tells his viewers. His chat pops and hisses with hearts and fire emojis. I smirk in the darkness because hearts are soft; fire is what actually clears the land.

By the time my brain caught up, I was standing in the produce aisle. Adam had scurried off to the bathroom, leaving me to pick through the peppers. I didn’t mind being alone. I minded this.

The prices.

“Two dollars a pepper?” I muttered, rolling one over in my palm. “That’s robbery. Might as well bleed me dry right here in the aisle.” I set it back down with more force than necessary. The pile shifted, one rolling off the display to smack the floor.

I ground it under my boot heel just to hear the skin split. It wasn’t bones, but it was close enough.

“These prices are criminal…” I repeated under my breath, voice flat, like I was reporting a crime scene.

That’s when someone bumped my shoulder. Hard enough to annoy.

“Sorry, mate—” The voice froze mid-word. I turned my head slowly, smirk already spreading before I saw her face.

Marcy Quinn. Cherri Bomb.

Her one good eye narrowed. Mine stayed bored.

“Sorry,” I said, my tone all sugar and smoke. “I was in the way, Marcy.” I purred her name like a dare, like something I could crush in my fist. We both knew she couldn’t touch me here. Not in public. Not with cops and cameras and Adam a room away.

Her jaw clenched. “Don’t call me that.”

I tilted my head, still deadpan. “What? Too… domestic?”

She looked like she might actually swing, like she didn’t care if they dragged her out in cuffs. And maybe that was why I liked needling her. One in a million chance I’d run into her here, and I wasn’t going to waste it.

Before she could spit another word, Adam’s voice boomed from the end of the aisle: “Lute! Grab the peppers and let’s roll—we’re live in ten!”

I didn’t flinch. Orders were orders. “Yes, Adam.” My voice came easy, automatic. I picked up another pepper, tossed it into the bag, and gave Cherri one last smirk as I walked past.

“Try not to blow up the produce section while I’m gone, Bomb.”

Her growl followed me down the aisle, low and promising.

Then I did the math. Quick. Efficient. Cold. For each exorcist to have two peppers—because they ate like soldiers, and we ran them like soldiers—it came to about…

Jesus Christ.

“Five hundred,” I muttered flatly, eyes flicking over the pile. “For peppers.”

Adam, lounging a few feet away, had a toothpick between his teeth like he was auditioning for some outlaw role. “Yeah, what’s up, danger tits?”

I sighed through my nose. He always called me that. It didn’t spark rage like when anyone else talked down to me. It just made my cheeks burn—something I hated even more.

“All of this. Ballpark average? Five hundred bucks.”

He whistled low. “Christ. Inflation hates us.” He patted his jacket pocket with a grin. “Good thing I got at least a grand in cash.”

Of course he did. He liked the feel of money in hand, the weight of it. The flash of it. Just like he liked a stage. And I was there to make sure he could keep both.

“Do it,” I said, deadpan, already bagging peppers two at a time. My knife hand twitched. If prices went any higher, I might start carving barcodes into produce just to spite the system.

Adam chuckled, watching me with that lazy swagger. “That’s why I keep you around, Lute. Cold efficiency, baby. World could burn down, and you’d still have the receipt organized.”

I glanced at him, dead-eyed, as I tied off the produce bag. “And you’d still be playing guitar over the flames.”

He grinned wider. “Exactly.”

By the time my brain snapped back from its fog, we were already past the arch. An old wooden marker, deer skull nailed dead-center, glaring down at anyone stupid enough to enter Eden uninvited.

I sighed. Because I could already hear him.

Abel. Adam’s son. One of them, anyway. Barking orders like God himself had given him a megaphone and a vendetta.

“MOVE IT, EMILY! JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE SERA’S KID DOESN’T GET YOU SPECIAL TREATMENT!” His voice cracked through the compound like gunfire.

Adam chuckled, turning the radio down to mute. “Damn. What crawled up his ass today?”

“Not sure, sir,” I said flatly, leaning over the center console to make sure none of the grocery bags would tip when the doors opened. My tone carried no judgment—just a deadpan note of loyalty. Whatever Adam said, I reinforced. That was my role.

Outside, Abel’s megaphone crackled again. “TEN MORE LAPS! YOU HEARD ME—TEN! THE ONLY THING BETWEEN YOU AND HELL IS CARDIO, SO GET MOVING!”

If his lungs hadn’t given out by now, they never would. The bastard could scream until his throat turned to gravel.

Adam parked dead-center in the compound. A few of Eden’s non-combatants were already converging, eyes lowered, hands ready. They knew the choreography—grab the food, hustle it to the kitchen, make sure the exorcists ate first. Soldiers ate like kings; everyone else learned to stitch together meals from the fields and whatever charity trickled down.

I opened the door and boots hit the dirt with a satisfying crunch. “Peppers first,” I said, tossing a bag at the nearest volunteer. “One drops, I’ll cut your fingers off and feed them to the pigs. Capiche?” The threat landed like a rock. The kid’s head bobbed so hard I thought his neck might snap.

Adam climbed out slow, shades flashing in the sun. “Don’t scare ’em too much, Lute,” he drawled.

I smirked, sliding my knife out for a second just to feel the weight, then twirled it once and sheathed it. “Scared people move faster, sir.”

Footsteps then, lighter, faster — and suddenly I was tackled into a bear hug.

“Lute! Hey, Adam!” Emily threw herself at me like a live wire. Sera’s daughter was all grin and sun; the kind of girl who’d flip a table and still hand you a cupcake with a smile.

Adam laughed, delighted, and Emily launched into a neat backflip the second he caught her wrists. She landed on her feet with a giggle as others around us either continued drills under Abel’s barking or hustled the bags inside.

“So, what’d you do out there?” Emily asked, eyes wide, like everything in the world was a carnival and Adam might hand her the ringmaster’s hat.

“Made friends. Gonna do a gig. That’s it,” Adam said nonchalantly, already trudging toward the kitchen with pockets full of cash and an audience on his phone.

When I wasn’t running interference for him, I filled the less glamorous role: scream at the recruits. Direct. Immediate. Useful.

“MOVE IT!” I barked to a cook who was still sitting in the dirt, hands trembling. Dark hair, darker eyes, face set like a person trying to remember how to breathe. He staggered up, clutching a sack of peppers like it was a newborn.

Abel’s megaphone made his voice a whip. “TEN MORE LAPS! NO SLACK—NO MERCY!” He thundered from the yard, pure drill-sergeant cadence. People moved like cogs when his voice cut through.

I watched the line form — volunteers hauling produce, a few older women with stoic faces, a teenage boy who kept glancing at the sky like such things might offer mercy. Emily bounded around, stuffing bell peppers into boxes with gymnast-quick hands and an optimism that made something sour twist in my mouth.

“Watch the stacking!” I growled at the nearest kid. He fumbled; a pepper hit dirt. I jabbed a finger at him. “Pick it up. Wash it. Don’t be sloppy.”

He trembled and obeyed. Terrified competence was the best kind.

Adam paused at the tent flap, phone already raised to his ear. He glanced back at me and I gave him the tiny, exact nod he liked — the one that said everything was under control. He shoved the phone into live mode and the world outside our compound began to hum with hearts and comments.

Emily, mid-toss, glanced at the screen and squealed, “Adam’s live! Oooh!” She bounced like she wanted to hop into the frame herself.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t need to. I checked the rope around my wrist and tightened it once. Orders, meals, discipline — Adam wanted the show to look generous. I made sure the machinery delivering it worked without hiccup.

Chapter Text

I began pacing again, hands twisting together, my shoes clicking on the floor in quick, uneven beats. My nerves were shot, and I knew exactly why. Vaggie had finally opened up—just a fraction, just a sliver of her past—and it still gutted me like a knife. That kind of trust wasn’t something you tossed around lightly. And now, here I was, about to waltz into the lion’s den because I’d agreed to help Alastor campaign. The things I did for grant money…

I forced myself to stop, kneeling to drape a blanket gently over Vaggie’s shoulders. She was curled up tight, like a wounded stray refusing to let its guard down. Razzle and Dazzle nestled against her legs, their tiny bodies like furry anchors, while KeeKee sat at her side, vigilant as always. They were her guardians in my absence. I gave them a thumbs up and plastered a smile on my face.

“Keep her company for me, alright?” My voice cracked on the edges, too fake, too bright. But it was the only way I knew how to keep from unraveling.

I slipped out of the room before she could see my face falter, closing the door softly behind me. When I turned, Odette was already standing in the hall, posture sharp, clipboard tucked under her arm like it was part of her spine.

“Alastor has returned,” she said flatly, her glasses catching the light. “He’s brought…friends for you to meet.”

Her delivery was about as warm as a morgue, but I nodded anyway, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

In the foyer, Alastor stood exactly where I expected—front and center, the embodiment of a smile sharpened into a blade. Beside him were two new faces.

The first was a man who looked like life had already chewed him up and spit him out. Wrinkled white polo, khaki pants that had seen better days, battered boots, a gambler’s hat tugged low, and a flask clutched in his hand like it was oxygen. He gave the room a once-over that screamed don’t care, then raised the flask to his lips in silent defiance.

The other was almost his opposite. A petite blonde woman in a neat little dress that looked ripped straight out of the 1950s. A crisp white apron tied snug at her waist, shoes polished, posture perfect. Her hair bounced as she moved, a carefully styled curl always falling over her right eye. When she smiled, it was wide, dazzling, and yet… something about the hollow socket beneath that lock of hair made my stomach flip.

I lifted a hand before my brain caught up, finger pointing. “Alastor, who are they?”

He chuckled, tipping his hat with that sing-song voice of his. “Miss Morningstar, these fine souls are new staff members, here to take a bit of the burden off your shoulders. May I present Husker and Niffty.”

The man grunted. “It’s Husk,” he corrected in a gravelly drawl before taking another swig. His eyes barely lifted to meet mine. Burnt out, bitter, probably dragged into this against his will.

Alastor’s grin only widened as though the man’s surliness was part of the joke. He shifted, motioning to the petite blonde at his side.

“And this little darling is Niffty.”

“Hi! I’m Niffty!” she chirped, practically bouncing on her toes. Her voice had that singsong housewife sweetness, like she was about to offer me a slice of cherry pie after scrubbing the floors with bleach. “It’s so nice to meet you, I love meeting new friends!”

She clapped her hands together with such eager energy I almost forgot the glimpse I’d caught under her bangs. Almost.

Alastor twirled his cane with a practiced flourish, his shadow stretching long across the lobby tiles. “Now then! Husk here will serve as your man at the front desk. He has, as you can already tell, a wonderfully welcoming energy.”

Husk groaned and muttered something under his breath that I was pretty sure was a curse.

“And Niffty?” Alastor continued with a gleam in his eye. “She will handle the upkeep of the hotel! She so loves to keep things… spotless.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Niffty chimed, bouncing slightly as her apron ties swayed. “I can have this whole place sparkling in hours! I adore cleaning! The smell of bleach, the shine of polished floors—it’s like therapy, don’t you think?” Her smile sharpened just enough to make the hairs on my neck stand up.

I forced another smile, my mouth moving faster than my brain could. “Right… uh… therapy. Totally. Because who doesn’t love the smell of… chemicals.”

I laughed weakly, and Husk snorted into his flask like he was mocking me. Alastor’s cane clicked once against the tile, the sound echoing like punctuation.

This was it. The little team Alastor had dropped into my lap like a cat presenting a dead rat and calling it a gift. And me? I had no choice but to play along, because one wrong move and that grin of his would stop being “charming politician” and start being… teeth.

Okay, Charlie. Deep breath. You’ve got this. Totally. Probably. Hopefully.

“Now,” Alastor purred, twirling his cane in that theatrical way of his, “first order of business—getting your new staff acquainted with their new home!”

Niffty practically bounced on her toes, eyes shining like she’d been handed the keys to Disneyland. Husk, meanwhile, looked like he’d been dragged out of a casino at gunpoint, flask dangling from his hand like it was surgically attached.

“Right! Great!” I clapped my hands together, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Husk, that’s your desk right over there. Perfect for, y’know… front desk things!”

He grumbled something I couldn’t make out, trudged over, and collapsed into the chair like it had personally offended him. Already pulling out a dog-eared deck of cards, not even pretending to care.

Niffty, on the other hand, was a whirlwind—dusting, straightening frames, yanking open a window to “air out the funk.” At one point she plucked a dead fly off the sill, tucked it in her apron pocket, and hummed like it was completely normal. My smile twitched.

“Will I…uh…need to, um, write checks for them?” I asked carefully, trying not to sound like I was accusing him of building a cult staff roster.

Alastor chuckled, tipping his hat with a flourish. “Oh, heavens no! They’re under my payroll. Consider it… an investment in your little enterprise.”

“That’s not terrifying at all,” I muttered before I could stop myself. His eyes flicked to me, grin widening a hair. I coughed. “I-I mean—that’s so generous of you!”

“Why, thank you, my dear,” he said smoothly, cane tapping the floor once, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch. Husk snorted, Niffty giggled at absolutely nothing.

Alastor leaned in just enough to let his shadow loom over me, voice silky and low. “You’ll find, Miss Morningstar, I am nothing if not generous… when I’m kept smiling.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to beam right back. “Well, good thing I’m practically contagious with optimism, huh?”

My mouth always does this. Always.

Husk barked a laugh, muttering, “Kid’s either gonna save the world or get herself eaten alive.”

Niffty twirled in place, apron fluttering, then stopped dead, tilting her head at me with that wide-eyed stare. “Don’t worry, Charlie! If anybody does try to eat you, I’ll clean up the mess! I’m real good with bleach.”

I laughed nervously. Alastor twirled his cane again, humming a jaunty tune like the whole room was his stage.
Yeah. Totally fine. Everything’s fine.
…Right?

Then I heard the front door creak open. My stomach dropped. Whoever it was, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

And then came his voice.

“Charlie, I got you some dinner!”

Oh. Oh no.

My dad. State governor. Lucifer freaking Morningstar.

The man himself shuffled in, paper bag in one hand, Dunkin’ cup in the other, tie askew like he’d lost a wrestling match with it in the parking lot. He still carried that faint glow of authority, but it was smudged under layers of tired eyes and the air of someone who had long since surrendered his pride to divorce court.

“Ah, governor! A pleasure at last,” Alastor beamed, dipping his head in an elegant half-bow. His grin never wavered, sharp and polished, but his eyes… his eyes gleamed at the sight of my father like a shark circling blood in the water. The cane stilled in his hand. Calculating.

Husk didn’t bother moving from the front desk. Just grunted, flask already halfway to his lips. “Hell of a lineup you got here, Charlie,” he muttered.

Niffty perked right up, darting closer with a grin so wide it almost looked plastered on. Her apron rustled as she smoothed it primly, voice sugary sweet. “Mr. Morningstar! Your daughter’s done such a good job! She’s got such good taste in everything. Decor, colors, guests…” Her gaze lingered half a second too long on Alastor before she chirped again, “Just perfect!”

“Niffty!” I hissed under my breath, heat rushing to my face. The last thing I needed was her trying to sell my dad on my “great taste in men” when Alastor was right there.

Lucifer, bless his awkward soul, gave her a polite nod and then shuffled toward me, holding out the takeout bag like it was some holy offering. “I, uh… wasn’t sure what you’d want. So I grabbed tacos. And, uh, fries. Because… why not?”

“Oh my God, Dad,” I whispered, my face going redder by the second. “You brought tacos to a hotel inspection.”

“Well, everyone likes tacos,” he said flatly, sipping his Dunkin’. Then, after a beat: “...Right?”

Alastor chuckled low, smooth as silk. “An admirable gesture, governor. Nothing quite says family values like a thoughtful meal.” His smile sharpened as he angled his gaze at me. “Isn’t that right, Charlie?”

“Y-Yeah! Totally! Family values, tacos, fries, the—uh—whole food pyramid!” My mouth betrayed me again, spewing nonsense like a broken fire hydrant.

Husk actually barked a laugh from behind the desk. “Kid’s gonna choke on her own optimism one day.”

Lucifer scratched at the back of his neck, clearly out of his depth, and muttered, “I just… didn’t want her skipping dinner again…” His voice softened almost imperceptibly at the end, and for just a moment, the weight of the governor melted away, leaving only my dad—the man who worried too much, tried too hard, and never quite knew how to reach me anymore.

I froze. Alastor didn’t. He leaned forward ever so slightly, cane tapping against the floor in a measured rhythm. Always smiling. Always charming. Already slotting my father neatly into his deck of cards.

And me? I stood there with a bag of tacos in my hands, the world’s biggest idiot grin on my face, praying to God I wouldn’t say anything else dumb before someone saved me from myself.

Chapter Text

I leaned back against the splintered wood of the picnic table, flicking my lighter open, shut, open, shut. The click was the only thing keeping me sane while Baxter yammered on.

“...and of course, none of them accounted for the psychological impact of watching Citizen Kane under fluorescent lighting! It fundamentally alters the perception of—”

“Christ, mate,” I groaned, letting my head thunk back against the table. “You’re like a bloody podcast that never ends.”

Across from us, Pentious sat stiff as a board, eating every word like Baxter was the second coming of Einstein instead of some greasy, over-caffeinated tinkerer with an ego bigger than his headlamp.

I snapped the lighter shut and let the words slip before I could stop myself.
“I saw the bitch that took my eye today.”

Both their heads whipped to me like I’d just thrown a grenade in their laps. Baxter froze mid-rant, his bug-eyed stare magnified behind thick lenses. Pentious nearly dropped the sandwich he’d been anxiously nibbling at.

“Really?” Baxter drawled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His voice got that smug, calculating edge he always used when he thought he was onto something big. “Do tell, Cherri. Don’t leave us in suspense.”

Pentious was already wringing his hands like a wet towel. “Y-you mean… her?” His voice cracked, jittery as ever, like just saying the word might summon her.

I clicked the lighter open again, staring at the tiny flame. “Yeah. Lute. Dead-eyed bitch herself. Ran right into her in the bloody grocery store.”

Baxter leaned forward, interest sparking in his sharp little eyes. “Fascinating. Did she recognize you? Did she attempt contact? Or…” He tilted his head, grin sharpening, “Did you make yours?”

“She bloody well recognized me,” I snapped, the lighter’s flame sputtering as I clenched it too tight. “Smirked at me like she’d already won. Like Eden still had me by the throat.”

Pentious swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “A-are you sure it was safe, being near her? What if—”

“What if nothing,” I cut him off, heat rising in my chest. “I could’ve gutted her right there between the bell peppers and the bloody cereal aisle. Would’ve done the world a favor.”

Baxter hummed, scribbling something down in that battered notebook of his, as if my trauma was just another lab note. “Curious. Very curious indeed…”

Pentious tugged at his collar, nerves jangling like a wind-up toy about to snap. “M-maybe we shouldn’t even be talking about this out here. What if someone’s listening?”

I laughed bitterly, flicking the lighter shut again. “Let ‘em listen. Let Eden know I haven’t forgotten. Next time, she won’t walk away smirking.”

The silence hung like wet laundry. Baxter’s smirk had that smug, “I’ve-catalogued-your-trauma” curl, Pentious jittered like a wind-up toy on fast-forward, and me? I was watching the little metal lighter click shut and open like it was some tiny metronome keeping my heartbeat honest.

Something tapped my boot. Reflex took over — I planted my steel-toed into Baxter’s chest hard enough to send the pompous arse skating back and flat on his ass. He yelped like a startled possum, clutching at the buttons on his jacket.

“Real mature,” he muttered, wiping imaginary dust off his shirt as he hauled himself up and sauntered off like nothing had happened. Of course he did. Ego bruised, not body; Baxter’s self-preservation was an aesthetic, not a survival skill.

I didn’t give a damn. I was wound tight as a ratchet. If Lute’s smirk had been a hand on my throat, tonight I wanted to hand her a shovel.

“Pen.” I barked, turning to the jittery one who’d been chewing his own air the whole time.

Pentious blinked like I’d just spoken ancient Greek. “Y-yes—here.” He fumbled a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, palms shaking as he passed one over. How this nervous little wire managed to stay in Baxter’s orbit, I’ll never know — but his hands have always calmed me down, weirdly. Like a reset button.

I pinched the cigarette between my fingers and struck my lighter. Flame. Warmth. Small control.

Pentious kept watching me like I might combust. “You… you okay, Cherri?” His voice was the sound of a squirrel who’d seen a hawk.

I sucked smoke into my lungs and let it pull my shoulders down. “No,” I said honestly. “But not ‘no’ like ‘I’ll croak tomorrow,’ more like ‘no’ like ‘this is payback season, and I’m doing the bookkeeping.’”

Pentious’ eyes got wider, if that was even possible. Baxter, from a little distance, had the gall to smirk again, as if my mood were a gust of wind that must be catalogued under ‘dramatic human behavior.’

“Tell us,” Baxter said, because of course he would. “Details. Did she notice you? Facial recognition metrics? Response latency? Possible escalation?”

I flicked ash onto the table and blew the smoke straight at him. “She smirked. She smirked and moved on, like we were a puddle she could step around. That’s not recognition — that’s arrogance. That’s Eden thinking it still owns me.”

Pentious’s fingers went white on the pack. “Is Eden—will Eden come after you?” he squeaked.

I snorted. “They already came after me. They lost. I lost things. But I don’t let ghosts run the bakery.” I jabbed the butt into the picnic bench and stamped, feeling ridiculous and righteous in equal measure. “Charlie doesn’t know. Not that jackass Gavin — my old crew — not any of ‘em. She doesn’t need that shadow in her foyer.”

Baxter, adjusting his headlamp with theatrical curiosity, prodded the wound with a scientist’s detached finger. “What’s your ask, Cherri? Information? An edge? A device to—”

“Shut it, Baxter.” I cut him off. “I don’t need you to invent anything for me. I need muscle where it counts, patience where it hurts, and someone who can babysit my temper when I wanna go full demolition.”

Pentious, bless him, breathed like someone reading a very long safety manual. “I can… I can keep track of who’s coming in and out? I can log times, faces, vehicles. It’s safe. It’s… dull work.” His voice lowered like an apology and an offer.

I looked at him — sudden, weird affection for the nervous, twitchy kid who could tell a lie with the same hands he used to fumble bubblewrap. “That’s good, Pen. I want logs. Time-stamped. If Eden breathes near the Happy—Hazbin—hotel, I want to know what shoes they wore.”

He nodded a little too fast and immediately started rattling off nonsense about timestamps and metadata and how he’d hack together a spreadsheet that screamed when the wrong kind of shoes showed up. Bless his jittery heart.

Baxter scuffed his boot and leaned on the table like he owned the bench. “And me? I can monitor signals. Cameras, Wi-fi pings—people forget their phones talk. If Lute’s crew is sloppy, I can tell. If they use encrypted comms, I can sniff packets. I’m good at sniffing packets.” He said it like a man advertising hobbies.

I couldn’t help the laugh — painful, short — that escaped me. “Do it. Do your nerd thing. Just don’t make it prettier than my fists.”

Baxter’s grin widened. “Oh don’t worry, Cherri. If I pwn their comms, I’ll be sure to send you a nice PDF.”

Pentious gave a tiny smile, relieved he’d been included in the plan (and perhaps relieved he’d not be the one to run headfirst into Eden like a madman).

We sat there, the three of us on that rickety picnic table, smoke curling like a small flag of truce in the summer air. I stared off toward the hotel — yellow light leaking from the foyer, the sound of distant voices, the little chaos humming — and felt the old brand of anger settle into a shape I could use.

“Alright,” I said, stubbed the cigarette out, and pushed myself to my feet. “We do this clean. No unnecessary heroics. Pentious, log. Baxter, listen. I’ll handle… the rest.” My voice was low, calm, the sort you use when you’re promising a storm.

Pentious’s face unfurled into a nervous but resolute grin. Baxter nodded, theatrically folding his hands as if to write the plan in his head’s ledger.

And somewhere inside me, the part that used to flinch when someone said Eden’s name tightened into a blade. Not revenge for revenge’s sake — not always. But a line was drawn. If Lute or any of her kind showed their teeth near my people, I’d be the one making sure the bill came due.

Chapter Text

Eden always smelled like smoke and morning dew—the kind of air that pretended to be clean because no one dared to ask what was burning. The sky was pale and soft this morning, washed-out blue behind a veil of campfire haze.

I balanced a dented tray of eggs, doing my best not to spill, while Abel’s voice cut through the camp again—hoarse, furious, and already halfway through his third mug of black coffee.
“MOVE LIKE YOU MEAN IT! THIS AIN’T A GODDAMN DAY SPA!”

Yeah, no kidding.

The camp stirred around me—rows of tents patched with duct tape, little gardens in cut-open barrels, kids chasing each other with sticks pretending they were swords. People here moved with rhythm, a routine that had worn grooves into the dirt. They weren’t saints or soldiers, not anymore. Most didn’t even talk about God unless Adam was nearby. They were just… tired. People trying to keep their heads above water in a world that didn’t want them.

And me? I smiled at them anyway. I handed out plates, made stupid jokes, acted like I didn’t hear the muttered “teacher’s pet” or “Adam’s little angel” comments behind my back. It wasn’t my fault Mom liked keeping me close to the kitchen—said it kept me out of trouble.

Okay, maybe that’s a little my fault.

I was Sera’s daughter, after all.

I almost dropped the tray when a hand ruffled my hair. I turned and grinned up at her—tall, graceful, that soft strength in her face even when she was bone-tired. We shared the same dark skin, the same pale eyes, the same shock of white hair—though mine leaned more periwinkle. I liked to think it made me look cool.

“Hey, Mom!” I beamed.

“Em,” she said, voice gentle, eyes full of that warm sadness she thought I didn’t notice. She crouched down to my height, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Adam won’t be around for a week or two. He has… things to handle.”

“One of those rock tour things?” I asked, tilting my head. She chuckled and nodded, the sound like the pop of old vinyl.

“Yeah, something like that. He said Abel’s in charge while he’s gone, but…”

“But we both know Abel’s way too busy yelling at people to notice me,” I finished with a grin.

Mom smiled—tired, proud, maybe a little sad—and tapped my nose. “Exactly.”

I puffed up my chest. “I mean, I am gonna be nineteen soon.”

“Which means you’ll start thinking you know everything.”

I gasped dramatically. “You mean I don’t already?”

She laughed, really laughed, and for a second the whole camp felt lighter. That’s what I loved about her—how she could make the world seem safe even when it wasn’t.

Later that afternoon, Eden hummed like an old machine—steady, familiar, almost comforting if you didn’t think too hard about the smoke curling from the burn pit. The clang of metal spoons on tin plates echoed across the compound, blending with the faint strum of someone’s guitar. Abel was shouting again, of course—his voice cutting through the air like a buzzsaw.

“MOVE LIKE YOU MEAN IT! YOU’RE NOT ON VACATION, MAGGOTS!”

The man had two settings: yelling and louder yelling.

Lute sat nearby on an overturned crate, sharpening her knife with slow, methodical strokes. The sound was soft but deliberate—like she enjoyed the scrape. Her yellow aviators caught the light, reflecting little slivers of gold over her face, but her expression stayed unreadable. Cold. Calm. Deadly.

Me? I was sitting on the fencepost by the garden, kicking my heels and soaking in the routine. People like to call us a cult, but I never saw it that way. We were a community—a little broken, a little weird, sure—but everyone here had run from something worse. And Adam… well, Adam made it sound like we were running toward something instead.

And right now, he was packing up his car.

His guitar case, his black suit bag, a box of Eden pamphlets that no one ever actually handed out because half the camp couldn’t read English. Lute hovered close, arms crossed, watching like a bodyguard trying not to grind her teeth.

“Why are you even doing this publicity stunt again?” she asked, her voice smooth as sandpaper. “You’re better than them.”
“Relax, Lute,” Adam said with a grin that could make sin sound marketable. “If I can get the governor’s daughter smiling on camera, that’s leverage, y’know?”

He tossed a tarp into the trunk, the fabric landing with a dull thud. Then, casual as breathing, he pulled something from his waistband—a pistol, black and heavy—and tossed it onto the driver’s seat like it was a phone charger.

I blinked. Adam was weird about guns. Never used them. Always said words did the killing better. But I didn’t question it. I never did.

That’s the thing about Adam—he made you want to believe. Even if he scared you a little.

Still, I couldn’t help smiling as he turned to say something to Lute. That’s Adam. Always thinking two steps ahead. Always saying we’re building something bigger. People on the outside didn’t get it. Eden wasn’t a cult—it was family. A loud, cranky, occasionally unhinged family, but a family nonetheless.

And if he was going to the city… maybe I could see it too.

So while everyone else was pretending not to notice him leave, I pretended to help load the last box. I even waved. Then, when they turned away, I crouched low, held my breath, and slipped under the tarp in the trunk—wedged between the merch boxes and Lute’s duffel.

Instant regret.

The air was hot and stale, thick with pine cleaner, gasoline, and something metallic—probably the gun oil from Adam’s gear. The tarp pressed down against my back, the floor vibrated under my ribs, and every bump in the road felt like it was personally trying to snap my spine.

I grinned anyway.

It was miserable. Uncomfortable. Dusty. But it was freedom. The kind that buzzed in your chest, the kind that made you feel like a kid sneaking candy from a locked cabinet. Every pothole rattled my teeth, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

I’d never left Eden before. Not once. And now? Now I was seeing the world the way Adam did—from the front seat of destiny.

Or… well, the trunk of destiny. Close enough.

The car rattled on for hours. Through the muffled thrum of the engine, I could hear Lute humming—something low and tuneless. Adam was talking about lighting rigs, camera angles, and “brand presence.” Lute just responded with short, clipped “yes sirs” that made my stomach twist. She scared me sometimes. Not because she yelled—she didn’t need to. She just looked like she knew how to end a person without blinking.

By the time we hit the highway, the smell of smoke was gone, replaced by the scent of wet asphalt and freedom.

I peeked through a tear in the tarp just as the first city lights came into view. Neon. Billboards. Skyscrapers that looked like they were poking holes in heaven.

And there—standing proud at the edge of it all—was the Hazbin Hotel.

It was ridiculous. Pink and gold and blindingly optimistic, like someone bottled joy and painted it on a wall.

“Let’s make the sinners smile,” Adam said as he parked, his grin reflected in the rearview mirror.

The second Adam and Lute got out of the car, I waited until their voices faded into the hum of city noise. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my teeth. I shoved the tarp off, wincing as I crawled out of the trunk and pressed myself flat against the car.

The air hit me like a wall—hot asphalt, fried food, smog, and something sugary I couldn’t name. My back ached, my legs were numb, and I was ninety percent sure I had tire tread on my face. But my heart? It was soaring.

“I’m in the city,” I whispered, breathless and stupidly proud. “For real this time. No supervision. No drills. No curfew.”

I brushed the dust off my hoodie and tried to flatten my hair, which just made it worse. “Okay, Em. Don’t freak out. Don’t get arrested. Don’t—oh my God, is that a Dunkin’ Donuts?”

Focus.

The hotel was even brighter up close. Pink walls, gold trim, like a Barbie dreamhouse that someone turned into a government rehab center. Through the window, I could see Adam—already doing his “holy rockstar” routine. Lute stood beside him with the camera, posture stiff, expression unreadable behind those yellow aviators.

And there were others.

A blonde woman in a red suit was talking animatedly—probably the hotel’s owner. Behind her, a guy with a deck of cards and a gambler’s hat sat at a desk, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. And then there was him—tall, sharp, dressed like an old-time radio host come to life, smile wide enough to be a threat. His cane gleamed like a microphone, and his eyes… didn’t move when he laughed.

Creepy.

I leaned a little too far and accidentally knocked over a trash can. The clang echoed down the alley.

Lute’s head snapped toward me. Her gaze, even through those shades, burned straight through the glass.

“Crapcrapcrapcrap!” I hissed, ducking down and rolling behind a vending machine. I peeked out just long enough to see her start walking toward the door.

Okay. Front door = suicide.

Plan B it is.

I crept along the side of the building, shoes scuffing on the concrete. About halfway down, I spotted a rusted service door propped open with a broom handle. Jackpot. I grinned to myself and whispered, “Stealth level: ninja.”

Then I immediately tripped over the broom handle and faceplanted inside.

The door slammed behind me with a sound like gunfire.

“Smooth,” I muttered, brushing myself off. “Very smooth.”

The hallway smelled faintly of bleach and coffee grounds. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Somewhere distant, a radio was playing a jazzy tune that didn’t quite match the vibe of “mysterious abandoned side entrance.”

I tiptoed forward, grinning despite myself. Everything was so alive here—the chatter, the clatter, the feeling that I’d stepped into someone else’s dream.

Then I turned a corner and smacked straight into someone.

We both yelped.

The guy was about my height, all wiry limbs and messy hair, goggles perched crookedly on his forehead. His coat smelled faintly of chemicals and arrogance.

“Watch where you’re going!” he hissed, adjusting the strap on his bag like I’d offended the laws of physics.

Behind him stood two others. One was tall, lanky, dressed in black pants and a pink crop top, a perfect mix of runway model and chaos demon. The other wore a scuffed leather jacket over a tank top, her hair dirty blonde, one eye covered, the other full of murder.

I froze.

The man in pink raised a brow, his voice smooth and drawn out. “Who the hell are you, sugar?”

“I, uh—hi!” I blurted, waving too hard. “I’m… Emily! Totally not lost! Definitely belong here!”

The scientist squinted at me like he was trying to solve a math problem that personally insulted him. “You’re lying,” he said flatly. “I can hear it in your tone. Amateur liar. Amateur sneakers, too.”

“Baxter,” the leather jacket woman sighed, crossing her arms. “Maybe let the kid breathe before you start dissectin’ her.”

“I wasn’t going to dissect her,” Baxter said, too defensively.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what someone about to dissect me would say,” I muttered.

The tall man—pink crop top guy—burst out laughing. “Oh, I like her. She’s got spark.” He leaned forward with a grin. “You snuck in through the side door, didn’t ya, sweetheart?”

“...No?”

He smirked. “That’s a yes.”

I don’t know what I expected when I broke into a hotel, but it definitely wasn’t this.

The blonde woman—Cherri, apparently—rolled her eye and muttered, “Bloody hell, Charlie’s gonna love this.”
I blinked. “Who’s Charlie?”
“Boss lady,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the front of the hotel. “You’ll meet her soon enough—unless tall, dark, and smiley gets to you first.”

“Smiley?” I echoed, genuinely curious.

“Yeah,” said the tall man in pink. “You’ll know him when you see him.”

That should’ve been my first warning.
Instead, I smiled. “Cool!”

They started walking, and because my brain doesn’t know what not getting involved means, I followed. The hallway was old but cozy—soft yellow lights, creaky floorboards, a faint smell of coffee and cleaning supplies. For some reason, it felt… safe.

“Name’s Anthony,” the pink guy said over his shoulder, flashing me a grin that looked half flirty, half exhausted. “The broad next to me is Cherri, and the one with a stick up his ass is Baxter.”

“I do not have a stick up my—Anthony, there is a minor present,” Baxter snapped, voice clipped, precise, the kind of guy who looked like he showered in sanitizer.

“I’m gonna be nineteen next week,” I offered cheerfully.

Anthony blinked. “Oh, uh—happy early birthday, toots!”

That earned him an eye roll from Cherri and a heavy sigh from Baxter, who looked like he was regretting every life choice that led him to this hallway.

“So,” I asked, genuine curiosity bubbling up, “what do you do for work?”

Anthony froze mid-step, and I swear even Cherri stopped breathing for a second.
He laughed, the kind of nervous laugh you hear from someone caught doing something really questionable.
“I… uh… manage media,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Y’know, camera angles, shot composition, lighting…”

Cherri smirked. “Yeah, mate, he’s real good with lighting. Knows all the angles.”

Anthony turned bright red and smacked her shoulder. “Zip it, Bombshell.”

I giggled. “That’s so cool! My mom says creative jobs keep your soul alive!”

Anthony blinked at me, clearly unsure what to do with that level of sincerity. “Yeah. Uh. Sure. Something like that.”

We turned a corner, and I couldn’t help but take everything in—the vintage wallpaper, the dusty chandeliers, the faint hum of music from somewhere in the building. This place had life in it. Real, messy, human life.

“So where’s this Charlie person?” I asked.

Anthony winced. “Hopefully on the other side of the building.”

Cherri snorted. “Boss told him to keep me away from the lobby, didn’t she?”

“Nope!” Anthony said way too fast.

“Yes,” Baxter deadpanned.

Cherri crossed her arms, glaring up at Anthony. “You’re babysitting me now? What am I, twelve?”

Anthony sighed, running a hand down his face. “No, you’re just the kind of person who picks fights with politicians on live TV.”

“That happened once,” she shot back. “And I won!”

“Yeah, by throwing a chair.”

While they argued, I drifted closer to Baxter, who was mumbling to himself about “idiots breeding in packs.” He noticed me staring at the strange contraption clipped to his belt—some kind of homemade gadget blinking faintly blue.

“What’s that?” I asked.

He blinked, looked down, then back up at me. “A sensor.”

“For what?”

“Idiots,” he said flatly.

I grinned. “You must get a lot of use out of it.”

He paused, then—was that a smile? Just barely.

We rounded another corner, and Anthony suddenly stopped, eyes darting to a door on the left. “Alright, kid,” he said, turning to me. “You wanna meet someone nice? Like, actually nice?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Always!”

“Cool,” he said, knocking once before swinging the door open. “This here’s Vaggie—she’s one of the residents here. Real sweet. Bit quiet. You’ll like her.”

The room was softly lit—warm hues, sunlight bleeding through pale curtains. A black cat perched on the windowsill, tail flicking lazily.

And in the corner chair sat a woman with dark hair and an eyepatch.

She looked up.

Everything in me went still.

Her gaze locked onto mine—sharp, haunted, recognition blooming in her one remaining eye.

I froze.

Anthony’s voice faltered, unsure why the air had gone heavy. “Vaggie, this is—uh—”

But neither of us spoke.

I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. The cat jumped off her lap, meowing softly, and even that small sound felt too loud.

“…I know you,” I whispered.

Vaggie didn’t answer.
Her knuckles whitened around the edge of the chair.

And just like that, the sunlight in the room felt colder.

Chapter Text

I took a shaky breath, trying to smile, but it wobbled at the edges.
Her name still tasted like sunlight on my tongue — Vaggie.
Back then she’d been quiet, gentle in her own way. She’d helped me with Spanish; I helped her with English. We used to sneak mangoes from the camp kitchen and laugh when Abel caught us.

And now she was here. Older. Harder. The same voice, but sharpened into something that could cut glass.

“Adam… said you died.”
The words barely made it out. I reached out before I could think, my hand trembling in the space between us — and she flinched back like I’d raised a knife. Her remaining eye locked on mine, cold and alive with something I didn’t recognize.
Hate. Fear. Both.

The little cat — KeeKee — jumped from the sill and curled up in her lap, but she didn’t move, didn’t pet it. Her fingers just hovered there, stiff and pale.

“Vaggie,” I whispered, my throat tight. “Please… talk to me.”

For a second, I thought she might.
Then her whole face twisted.

“You don’t get to say my name,” she hissed, voice low and trembling like something about to break. “Not after what they did.”

I froze, my heart thudding in my ears.
“They?”

Her voice cracked open. “Eden.”

I blinked. “W–wait, no, no, you don’t understand. It’s not like that, I—”

“You think I don’t understand?!” she snapped, standing so fast KeeKee scrambled away. “I lived it! Every sermon, every drill, every time someone said Adam loves you! before they—”
Her breath hitched. The rest came out broken. “Before they made me beg for mercy.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Cherri had gone still, her usual fire gone quiet.
Anthony’s hand hovered awkwardly in the air like he wanted to help but didn’t know how.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
I wanted to say something, anything, but my words wouldn’t form. My throat was closing up, my chest tightening until it hurt to breathe.

“I… I didn’t know,” I whispered, the words barely holding together. “I thought we were—”
My throat trembled. “I thought we were the good ones.”

Vaggie turned away, trembling. Her voice came out hollow — the kind of tone that used to belong to someone who believed in things.
“There are no good ones in Eden, Emily.”

And before I could even breathe again, the light from the hallway dimmed. A long shadow stretched across the carpet.

“Emily,” came that familiar voice — too calm, too measured.
Adam.

He filled the doorway like he owned it, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other gripping his phone, red light still blinking. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips. He wasn’t even angry. Just… entertained.

“Move aside,” he said — not loud, but heavy enough that my stomach twisted.

I didn’t. Couldn’t.
But his eyes weren’t even on me. They were locked on her.

Vaggie had frozen solid, every muscle tight, her gaze distant. That strong, quiet woman who’d stood up to the world moments ago — she wasn’t here anymore. I could see her shoulders shaking.
And that’s when I saw it — faint, jagged scars peeking just above her collar, thin as whip lines, pale against her skin.

Anthony was holding Cherri back across the room — literally off the ground — because she was kicking like a rabid cat. “Put me down, I’ll gut ‘im!”
But Adam didn’t even glance her way.

He stepped forward, smiling in that cold, empty way he did when he thought God was on his side.
“I knew it,” he said softly. “I knew you weren’t dead. Lute never leaves loose ends.”

That’s when something in me snapped.
I didn’t think. I just moved.

I threw myself between them, arms outstretched. “Leave her alone—”

The back of his hand came faster than my thoughts. The ring on his finger split my cheek open with a sharp crack.
The world tilted. The floor came up hard and fast. Carpet burned my palms.

For a second, I couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in my ears.
Then warmth — blood — trickled down my chin.

And still, I forced a smile through the tears that stung my eyes.
Because that’s what you did in Eden. You smiled through pain. You kept the peace. You didn’t make things worse.

“It’s okay,” I croaked, half to him, half to myself. “I’m fine.”

Vaggie’s voice cracked from behind me. “Emily—stop—”
But I couldn’t. Not now. Not after seeing that fear in her eyes.

Adam looked down at me, unreadable. Then his voice dropped to that quiet, patronizing tone that used to make me feel safe.
“You’ve always had a bleeding heart, kid. That’ll get you hurt someday.”

I spat blood at his shoe. My whole body was shaking, but I kept my chin up. “Guess today’s that day.”

He smiled. A real smile this time — sharp and cruel.
Then he turned on his heel and left, whistling like he’d just done the Lord’s work.

The door slammed.

Silence.

Vaggie’s knees hit the carpet beside me, her hands trembling as they hovered over my face, afraid to touch.
“Why would you do that?” she whispered.

I laughed weakly, even though it hurt. “’Cause nobody else was going to.”

And for the first time, I saw her cry — not out of pain, but out of disbelief.

The door swung open with a soft click, and the air in the room seemed to freeze mid-breath.

The woman who stepped through was all sharp lines and bright color—red suit, blonde curls pinned just so, eyes too kind for the city she lived in. She stopped in the doorway, confusion flickering across her face as she took in the scene: me on the floor with blood down my cheek, Vaggie trembling beside the vanity, Anthony still holding a swearing Cherri like an angry possum.

“Okay…” she said slowly, the brightness in her tone stretching thin. “What… happened?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. In two strides she was beside Vaggie, her voice dropping to something soft, split between Spanish and English.
“Tranquila, estás bien. Breathe, sweetheart. He’s gone.”

Vaggie didn’t move. She looked… hollow. Her good eye stared at nothing, her arms locked around herself like if she let go, she’d fall apart. The quiet words slid right past her.

“Charlie,” Anthony called, voice low, pointing at me.

She turned—and when our eyes met, I felt like I was under sunlight after weeks of rain. She crossed the room, kneeling beside me without hesitation. “Hey, hey… look at me, okay? What’s your name, kiddo?”

“Emily…” I whispered. My voice sounded small even to me.

Charlie smiled—warm, tired, but real. She pulled a folded silk pocket square from her suit and pressed it gently against my cheek. “Hold that there. You’re gonna bruise, but it’s not deep.”

Her hands were gentle. She smelled like coffee and perfume and something faintly sweet, like powdered sugar.

“Is… is it okay if I stay here?” I asked, not daring to look up. “I don’t think I should go back to Eden…”

Charlie froze. Just for a second. I saw it—the flicker of realization, confusion, maybe even recognition. But instead of questions, she just nodded, her voice steady when she finally spoke.

“You can stay as long as you need,” she said softly. “The Hazbin Hotel is open to anyone who needs a second chance.”

Vaggie made a quiet sound from across the room, something between a gasp and a sob. Charlie reached back without looking, fingers brushing Vaggie’s hand.

“Both of you are safe here,” she murmured. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

The first thing I felt when I woke up was a weight on my waist. Literally.
Val, his arm draped across me like I was his favorite pillow instead of a person. His head was buried in my hair, soft snores brushing against my neck. The man could sleep through a nuclear test if it meant five more minutes of warmth.

Vox’s side of the bed, predictably, was empty—cold and crisp, sheets tucked back in like he’d never been there. I blinked blearily, something neon catching my vision. There was a sticky note slapped dead center on my face.

I peeled it off, squinting at the scrawl of ink. Vox’s handwriting, always too sharp, like he was coding in pen.

“Emergency at the downtown server farm. Be back in a few hours. Love, V.”

And below that, a crooked doodle of a pixelated heart. In blue, of course. His version of a kiss.

I sighed and smiled despite myself, pressing the note against my chest. “Nerd,” I whispered.

From behind me, Val grunted. “He gone?” His voice was gravel and honey, the kind that lived somewhere between a radio ad and a confession booth.

“Mmhm,” I hummed, brushing his hand off my stomach and sitting up. “Downtown server meltdown again.”

He made a noise that might’ve been a laugh or a groan. “Figures. He sleeps less than the goddamn satellites he builds.”

I swung my legs off the bed and looked around our apartment—the chaos we called home. Velvet curtains, cigarette smoke curling like ghosts in the morning light, clothes thrown across designer chairs. It was ridiculous and lived-in. I loved it.

Sometimes I caught myself staring at all of it—the mismatched furniture, the expensive chaos—and wondering when I’d start believing I belonged here. That this wasn’t all some elaborate photoshoot I’d wake up from.

Val mumbled again, half-asleep. “C’mere, doll. Too cold without ya.”

“Get a blanket, Val,” I said, but my voice softened. He was impossible to stay mad at when he looked that peaceful.

I walked into the kitchen, still wearing one of his shirts—oversized, smelling faintly of cologne and bourbon. The coffee machine whirred to life, and for a moment, the world was quiet.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.
Area code: New York.

My stomach twisted. I hadn’t seen that number in eight years.

I answered anyway. “Hello?”

Silence. Then, that voice. Polished. Familiar. Detached.

“Velvette, darling.”

My breath caught. “…Mother?”

“Oh, good, you picked up! I was worried this wasn’t your number anymore. Listen, I—well, things have been difficult. The divorce—”

Of course. The divorce. I pressed the phone between my shoulder and ear, turning off the coffee pot before I broke it.

“Let me guess,” I said, voice flat. “You’re out of money.”

“I wouldn’t say out, dear, just… momentarily under strain. I know you’ve made quite the name for yourself! I thought maybe—”

I laughed. A sound sharp enough to cut glass. “You thought maybe I’d help the woman who told me failure was a phase to be outgrown?”

“Velvette, don’t start—”

“Oh no, Mother, let’s start! Let’s start with the part where your golden girl set the runway on fire—literally—and you vanished faster than my reputation! Or maybe we should start with the silence that came after. You remember that, right? Eight years of it?”

There was a pause. Then, with that same frozen grace she’d always had, my mother said,

“You’re being dramatic.”

Something in me snapped.

“Dramatic? You raised me to be a showpiece, Mother! You ironed the emotion out of me until I learned to fake it for the cameras! And now you want my money?”

The words hung there, echoing in the apartment. I didn’t realize I was crying until Val appeared in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, sleepy but alert.

I ended the call before she could reply. Just pressed my thumb against the screen until the silence swallowed everything.

Val didn’t say anything—he just crossed the room, took the phone gently from my hand, and set it on the counter. Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of my temple.

“She ain’t worth the mascara, doll.”

I laughed quietly, shaky and wet. “Guess not.”

He pulled me close, resting his chin on my head. “C’mere. Coffee can wait.”

And for once, I didn’t argue.

The second he sat me on the couch, something soft landed on my head — the familiar weight of his stupidly large hat. I blinked up at him, and Val was grinning that lazy grin of his, cigarette dangling from his lips like gravity didn’t apply.

“How about…” he started, his voice lilting up in mock sweetness, “you take the day to yourself, no distractions, no drama, just you, baby doll.”

I huffed, a tiny smirk breaking through the fog. “You’re gonna tell Vox my mom called, aren’t ya?”

He smirked right back. “Kinda have to. You know he’ll pull the call logs if he finds out you were crying.”

That actually made me laugh — really laugh. One of those ugly, tear-streaked ones that made my ribs ache. I grabbed his hat and tossed it back at him, watching him catch it with a flourish like he was born in a jazz bar instead of a back alley.

“Another idea,” he said, flopping down beside me and stretching like a cat, “how about you and I hit the shooting range? I can finally teach you how to shoot a gun like I promised.”

I raised a brow. “Valentino teaching firearm safety? That’s rich.”

He grinned wider. “What can I say? I’m a man of surprises.”

“Yeah, mostly bad ones.”

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, bumping my shoulder. “It’s therapy that goes bang.”

I rolled my eyes, but my heart wasn’t in it. Truth was, the idea didn’t sound awful. Maybe I did need to burn through a few rounds, clear my head, pretend the world was quieter than it actually was.

The apartment door clicked just then — the sound of a key in the lock, the soft thud of expensive shoes on tile. Vox’s voice followed, smooth and tired but still carrying that faint buzz, like static on a warm radio.

“Server farm’s stabilized,” he called, setting his laptop bag down. “We lost two drives, salvaged the rest. Morning, lovebirds.”

Val stretched and smirked. “Speak of the devil, and the devil brings data.”

Vox shot him a dry look before his gaze flicked to me — puffy eyes, messy hair, still in Val’s shirt. He sighed softly, the kind of sigh that meant he already knew.

“Your mother called?”

I froze. “You pulled the logs already?”

He shrugged, slipping his glasses off as he joined us on the couch. “Couldn’t sleep. Needed something to read.”

Val laughed, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Told ya.”

Vox ignored him. His hand brushed mine, grounding, gentle. “You handled it better than she deserved.”

I looked between them — Val’s wild grin, Vox’s calm steadiness — and for the first time that morning, the ache in my chest loosened.

“You two ever get tired of being right?” I muttered.

Vox smirked faintly. “Never.”

Val leaned back, arm slung over the couch like he owned gravity. “So what’s it gonna be, dollface? You gonna sit here sulking, or you gonna come pop off a few rounds and show me how bad your aim really is?”

I gave him a look — half glare, half laugh — but couldn’t stop the smile creeping up. “You’re on, smartass.”

That’s how I ended up in his car twenty minutes later, eating fries out of a greasy paper bag while he sang along off-key to some 80s power ballad. Vox had stayed behind, of course. Probably buried elbow-deep in another server cabinet, muttering at a fried circuit board like it personally offended him. Typical weekend.

By the time we pulled up to the range, the air smelled like oil and cordite. It was louder than I expected — every gunshot made my ribs hum. I hesitated in the doorway, clutching the rental earmuffs like they were a lifeline.

Val ducked under the low doorframe, all six-foot-five of smug charm. He turned to grin down at me. “First time’s always the loudest, sugarplum. You’ll get used to it.”

“Used to what? Temporary deafness?” I deadpanned.

He chuckled, flipping through the rental forms like he did this every weekend. “Nah, used to the power trip. You’ll see.”

When we got to the booth, he gestured toward the display of weapons like a game-show host. “Alright, you’ve got a couple of choices here — AR chambered in five-five-six, maybe a nine-mil pistol if you’re feeling shy, or…” He trailed off, pulling a long-barreled rifle off the rack with a flourish. “Or we go big.”

“Don’t give me the details,” I said, crossing my arms. “Just pick one. Surprise me.”

His grin turned wolfish. “You got it, baby doll.”

He handed me the rifle — heavier than it looked — and moved behind me, his hands settling over mine to guide my grip. The warmth of him was ridiculous; I could feel his breath near my ear as he whispered, “Feet apart. Relax your shoulders. And don’t flinch when it kicks. It’s just a love tap.”

I rolled my eyes. “You sound like a dating app warning.”

He barked a laugh that made my stomach flutter.

Then I fired.

The world exploded. The rifle slammed into my shoulder, shoving me a full step back. My ears rang, the muzzle flash burned in my eyes, and before I could even curse, Val’s laughter cut through the echo.

“Christ, doll, you almost fell over!” he wheezed, steadying me by the waist before I could tumble completely.

“Shut up!” I hissed, heat blooming in my cheeks. “You didn’t warn me it was like being hit by a bus!”

He was grinning ear to ear, the kind of grin that could light up a dark bar and get him punched for it. “Welcome to the real world, sweetheart. Not everything runs on filters and ring lights.”

I wanted to hit him with the rifle. Instead, I laughed — genuinely laughed — because for the first time all week, it felt like my chest wasn’t caving in.

“Again?” he asked, smirking down at me.

I smiled, eyes narrowing. “Load it.”

And for a little while — under the fluorescent buzz and gunpowder haze — we weren’t media moguls or monsters in silk suits.
Just two idiots blowing off steam, the world outside blissfully quiet for once.

Chapter Text

Today wasn’t supposed to be… well, this.

The air outside the hotel buzzed like an overworked power line — reporters crowding the courtyard, microphones thrust so close I could probably taste the foam covers if I breathed too hard.
Vaggie’s hand was latched around my sleeve, tight enough that if I tried to move, she’d come with me — or maybe I’d take her with me. Her nails dug through the fabric of my tux jacket, grounding me in this sea of chaos.

Alastor leaned by the front gate, cane twirling lazily in one gloved hand, his smile immaculate — radio-host perfect. Always watching. Always amused.

“Miss Morningstar!” someone barked, camera flashes strobing.
“Why did Adam Reyes cancel his concert here?”
Another voice overlapped: “Is it true convicted felons are staying in your hotel?”
And then — the one that made my stomach twist —
“Was it because you’re harboring undocumented immigrants?”

Their cameras turned to Vaggie, catching the flash of her eye patch.
Her jaw set, but she didn’t shrink. Not anymore. The Vaggie from a month ago might’ve run.
This one? She just squared her shoulders and lifted her chin like she’d take a bullet before letting them see her flinch.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced the best smile I could muster.
“I’m not sure why Adam canceled,” I said, voice high but steady, “but anyone is welcome here — no matter who they are or where they’re from! This hotel exists to give everyone a second chance!”

That line sounded so much better in my head.

The reporters didn’t stop.
They never stop.

I caught sight of Alastor out of the corner of my eye — the faint twitch of his jaw, his grip tightening on the cane.
He hated cameras. Hated the noise. Hated the way they barked instead of spoke.
But still, he smiled.

“Miss Morningstar!” another shouted. “Do you believe housing people like her puts your reputation at risk?”

Vaggie stiffened beside me, and that’s when it happened.
A dull clack as Alastor’s cane struck the pavement.

“Now, now,” he began, his voice smooth as buttered glass, “there’s no need to shout. I believe the young lady answered your question quite eloquently.”

“Senator Hazbin,” one reporter said, smirking. “Didn’t realize you were her babysitter.”

His smile froze.
The glint behind his glasses sharpened.

“Ah, but I didn’t realize you were a professional embarrassment,” he replied, tone still honey-sweet. “Do they teach that in journalism school these days?”

A few nervous chuckles rippled through the crowd.
The reporter opened his mouth again — and that’s when the smile broke.

“For the love of God,” Alastor hissed, his voice flattening, “would you just shut the fuck up for once?”

Silence.
Even the cameras stopped clicking.

Vaggie blinked. I froze mid-breath.
And Alastor… simply adjusted his tie, smoothed back his hair, and smiled again like nothing happened.

“Apologies,” he said lightly. “Momentary lapse in professionalism.”

He turned, giving me a small, amused bow before walking away — his shoes clicking neatly against the pavement.

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
Vaggie muttered, “...Remind me to never make him mad.”
“Noted,” I whispered back, trying to reassemble my smile as the reporters began murmuring again.

And when the next question finally came —

“Miss Morningstar, any comment on your Senator’s outburst?”

I smiled wider, eyes glassy but fierce.

“Well,” I said, “he did say please.”

Vaggie groaned softly under her breath, “Charlie…”
“Hey,” I whispered with a half-laugh, “if I don’t joke, I’ll cry.”

And just like that, the cameras flashed again.

By the time I managed to escape the blinding storm of cameras and microphones, my ears were still ringing with the sound of reporters shouting over each other. I just wanted five minutes of silence, maybe a glass of water, maybe my sanity back.

Instead, what I got was Alastor.

He stood near the front desk, chatting with Husk, who looked like he’d already been through a war and lost twice. The radio man’s cane spun in his fingers, rhythm steady, voice chipper.

“You know you could’ve helped her,” Husk muttered, leaning against the counter like gravity had finally won.
“Hmm, yes,” Alastor hummed, smile never faltering. “I could have.”
“Then why don’t you go do it now? She probably needs it.”
“Should I? Probably. Will I? No. Do I enjoy being difficult?” He chuckled low in his throat. “Most definitely.”

I froze mid-step, somewhere between exhausted and ready to throttle him with his own tie.

I marched forward—well, more like speed-walked—and planted myself in front of him with the best glare I could muster. Which, honestly, probably looked more like an angry golden retriever than a threat.

“Alastor,” I said, arms crossed, voice steady but my eye twitching.

He turned his head slightly, smile stretching wider, unbothered and far too pleased with himself.

“Ah, there she is! Our radiant star returns! You handled yourself wonderfully out there.”

“You watched me drown,” I snapped.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I was simply testing your resilience under pressure.”

“Testing my—?!”

Before I could finish, Husk took a long swig from his flask, sighed like a man twice his age, and muttered,

“Remind me to drink myself to death when the midterms come up.”

I turned to him, exasperated. “You’re not helping!”
He shrugged. “Didn’t say I would.”

Meanwhile, Alastor tipped his hat toward me, voice dropping to a mock-gentle tone.

“Charlie, my dear, you survived. That’s progress! Besides, I’ve been in politics long enough to know that sometimes silence is the best kind of support.”

“You mean cowardice,” Husk grumbled.

“Semantics,” Alastor quipped, grin widening.

I groaned, pressing my hands to my face. “How do either of you function like this?”

“Alcohol,” Husk said immediately.
“Charm,” Alastor countered, tapping his cane on the floor.

They exchanged a look—one exhausted, one far too delighted—and I realized, for better or worse, this was the team I’d built.

And God help me, I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

“Fine,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “But next time, you’re answering questions.”

Alastor’s grin widened like I’d just offered him a stage.

“Delightful! I do adore an audience.”

“I’m bringing a taser,” I muttered.

He only laughed—bright, old-radio laughter that echoed down the hall—and Husk groaned, pulling his hat down over his eyes.

“Wake me up when someone sets the place on fire,” he mumbled.

Honestly, that didn’t sound unlikely.

I was halfway to my room when I heard it: a scraping sound, something sliding fast down the hallway. Then—footsteps. Running. And Vaggie’s panicked shout:

“¿Qué demonios estáis haciendo vosotros dos? ¡Charlie, cuidado!”

I barely had time to blink before I was tackled.

The world turned into a blur of blanket, limbs, and chaos. When everything stopped spinning, I realized I was at the bottom of a human pile—face half-buried in fabric. A blanket was draped over me like a shroud, and something heavy was across my waist.

Anthony.

And above him, sitting proudly in a laundry basket that was somehow still upright, was Emily—grinning from ear to ear, KeeKee nestled in her arms like a queen on her throne.

“Are… you okay?” Emily asked, her voice sweet, a little nervous. KeeKee meowed in that soft, smug way she did when she’d found a new favorite spot to nap.

I groaned. “What just happened?”

The blanket was peeled off my face, and the first thing I saw was Vaggie, crouched over me, her single eye wide with concern and her jaw tight. Her hand was already on my arm, checking for bruises, muttering something in Spanish under her breath that sounded an awful lot like, “Voy a matarlos…”

Emily giggled, cheeks pink. “Cherri said it’d be a good idea to do a blanket sled…”

I turned my head toward the source of that sentence’s root cause and—yep—there she was.

Cherri Bomb, standing at the end of the hall, phone raised like a paparazzo, smirking like she’d just witnessed art.

“Told ya it’d be fun!” she snickered.

Anthony, still sprawled over my lap, groaned into the floor. “Fun? My spine’s filing for divorce.”

“Get off of her,” Vaggie hissed, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him upright like a misbehaving teenager.

“Hey, easy! Don’t mess up the jacket!” he protested, brushing himself off with theatrical flair.

Emily scrambled out of her basket, giggling so hard she nearly tripped. “We almost made it to the stairs before Vaggie yelled!”

“Almost,” Vaggie muttered darkly. “Next time you’ll make it straight to your funerals.”

The absurdity hit me then—me, sprawled on the floor in a pile of blankets, Anthony looking like a ruffled flamingo, Emily laughing until she wheezed, Vaggie fuming in two languages, and Cherri proudly filming the aftermath like she was Scorsese.

And somehow, it felt… right.

Messy. Chaotic. But alive.

I sat up, wiping a strand of hair from my face, and sighed. “Okay. New rule. No sledding in the hotel.”

“Aw, c’mon, boss lady!” Cherri called, waving her phone. “The internet’s gonna love this clip.”

I pointed at her. “Delete it.”

“No promises!”

Vaggie groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m moving out,” she muttered, but the faint curve of her mouth said otherwise.

I looked between them all—the chaos, the laughter, the ridiculous warmth of it all—and smiled despite myself.

“Alright,” I said, pushing to my feet, “but next time someone crashes into me, they’re doing the dishes for a week.”

Emily perked up instantly. “Do I get extra points if I don’t crash next time?”

Before I could answer, Vaggie’s “NO.” echoed down the hallway, firm and final.

And for the first time all day, I laughed.

Then the front doors swung open, and I heard Husk’s gravelly voice from the front desk:
“Great. You.”

Followed immediately by a teasing, melodic drawl:
“Heya, Ruso! Been a while. How’s Al? Still got a stick up his ass—or just Rosie’s hand up it now?”

I froze mid-stride.
That voice was impossible to mistake.

When I turned, there she was — tall, athletic, and dressed like trouble with a heartbeat. Missi Zilla. Or, as she preferred, ZeeZee. I’d never been sure if that was her real name or just one she adopted to keep the tabloids guessing.

“Councilwoman Zilla,” I said, jogging over as fast as dignity would allow. “You’re—uh—here about the grant?”

She smirked like she knew I was already flustered. “You catch on quick, Blondie.”
In one hand she carried a battered manila folder, thick with paperwork and government stamps. She tossed it lightly my way like it was nothing.

I caught it and flipped it open.
Right there — the seal, the signatures, the approval.
My chest nearly burst. “Oh my God—thank you! This means—”

“Don’t jump for joy yet, princess,” ZeeZee interrupted, flicking her multicolored hair — half natural brown, half streaked with neon pink and green. Her black crop top flashed a glimpse of toned muscle, torn jeans hanging low on her hips, combat boots scuffed to hell. She looked more like a rock guitarist than a councilwoman.

She hooked a thumb into her belt loop and continued, “The grant’s approved, sure. But for it to go into effect, you’ve gotta attend a hearing. Bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo, you know how it is. City needs to officially recognize this joint as a nonprofit halfway house before you can legally operate.”

“Oh—uh, right. Recognition hearing.” I repeated, clutching the folder like it might disappear. “When?”

“Tomorrow.” She grinned like she enjoyed dropping bombs. “9 a.m. sharp. Carmine said you’re representing yourself, unless you want me or Al to show up and make the room twice as unbearable.”

Behind me, Husk groaned from his post. “God, please don’t.”

ZeeZee just winked at him. “Still cranky, huh? Thought retirement would mellow you out.”

“I’m not retired,” Husk muttered, pouring whiskey into his coffee. “I’m surviving.”

ZeeZee chuckled, then turned her attention back to me, her voice softening.
“Look, Charlie. Don’t let ‘em push you around tomorrow. Most of those suits couldn’t care less about helping people unless there’s a camera pointed at ‘em.”

I blinked, surprised at her sincerity. “Thanks… I think?”

ZeeZee smirked again — that effortless, half-lidded grin that said she’d already read the room before I’d even caught up.
“Don’t mention it. Just keep doing your sunshine-and-second-chances thing. Someone’s gotta make this city feel less like a dumpster fire.”

Then her gaze drifted past me, taking in everything with a single sweep:
Anthony sprawled on the floor like he’d declared war on gravity.
Emily still tucked in her laundry basket like it was a chariot.
Cherri recording from the corner with her smug “this’ll go viral” grin.
And Vaggie, stiff as a statue, one hand subtly brushing at her eyepatch when she noticed ZeeZee’s stare.

ZeeZee’s grin didn’t falter — but I saw her eyes sharpen. Calculating.
She hopped up onto the front desk like she owned it, boots scraping against the wood, crossed one leg over the other, and flicked the end of her jacket aside.
“Any questions?”

My brain promptly forgot how to function. “Uh—wh-what’s your role exactly? You haven’t…been around long enough for me to learn.”

She gave a short laugh and, without asking, snatched Husk’s flask off the desk. He groaned but didn’t stop her.
“I’m not explaining it in legal jargon,” she said, taking a long swig before handing it back. “I hate that crap. But my job? I keep people like the Vees from treating this city like their personal ATM. Make sure the regular folks don’t get mined for cash or data. ‘Civil Liberty and Public Safety,’ fancy title, same old fight.”

Husk stared mournfully at his now-empty flask. “You owe me a drink.”

“I owe you a nap,” ZeeZee shot back, before turning those sharp, sea-green eyes back on me. Her posture changed — shoulders forward, elbows on her knees, voice lowering just a touch.
“Now you answer me something.”

My fingers tightened around the manila folder. “Anything.”

She jerked her thumb toward Emily and Vaggie. “They from Eden?”

I froze. Heart. Lungs. Everything. Just stopped.

ZeeZee tilted her head, her expression softening but never losing that edge. “Don’t choke, sweetheart. It’s obvious. One looks like a kid who grew up behind a wall, and the other…” she paused, eyes flicking to Vaggie’s scarred hands, her too-still posture, “…she looks like she’s seen Hell itself and made it back by crawling.”

Her voice gentled, just barely. “I’m not here to stir up trouble. Promise. But Eden’s been stinking up this city for years, and someone’s gotta drag those zealots into the light. If that girl’s living proof of what they’ve been doing out there…”

She straightened again, cracking her neck, that grin sliding back into place. “Then maybe this place of yours? Might just be the beginning of something good.”

And with that, ZeeZee slid off the desk, landing gracefully. “Now—if anyone asks, I was never here. Bureaucrats panic when I go off-schedule.”

I blinked, still holding the folder like a lifeline. “You’re just leaving?”

“Yup,” she said, already heading for the door, flashing a two-finger salute over her shoulder. “Call me when the fireworks start, Blondie. I like to watch things burn bright.”

The doors shut behind her with a soft click.

Husk exhaled through his nose, muttering, “She’s trouble.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly, watching the door. “But maybe she’s the kind we need.”

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight hit the back courtyard like honey—warm, golden, and a little too bright for my liking. My brain was running laps faster than I could catch my breath. Charlie was crouched near the goat pen, trying to pour feed into two tin bowls while her ridiculous little pygmy goats, Razzle and Dazzle, acted like she was serving a five-star buffet.

Razzle was chewing on the hem of her slacks, tail wagging with unearned confidence, while Dazzle decided my leg was a climbing post and kept headbutting me, trying to knock the donut out of my hand.

I held it to my chest protectively. The first donut I’ve had in… I don’t even know how many years. It was soft, warm, sweet—almost foreign. My mouth wanted to smile, but my brain didn’t know how.

“No,” I said flatly to the goat, narrowing my one good eye at him. “Mine.”

The goat blinked back, chewing something that was definitely not food, and I swore he was mocking me.

Charlie turned her head, her hair catching the light like it was glowing. “Oh, Dazzle’s just trying to say hi!” she chirped, balancing a bowl in one hand as Razzle tugged at her shoelaces.

I arched a brow. “That’s not ‘hi,’ that’s harassment.”

She laughed—soft, musical, unbothered. The sound made something flutter uncomfortably in my chest.

“How do you even tell them apart?” I asked, pretending to focus on the goats instead of how good she looked in that stupidly crisp white polo shirt.

“It takes time,” she said proudly, brushing feed dust off her hands and standing tall. “Their personalities are completely different. And I did my best to give them color-coded collars! Even if…” she frowned, “…they get so dirty you can’t tell which is which.”

I nodded, pretending to be listening, though my eye had already followed the motion of her arms as she crossed them. She looked relaxed, radiant even—her red tux jacket long gone, replaced by something casual but still very her. My face heated before I could stop it.

I tore my gaze away, desperate for a distraction. That’s when I spotted the gardening hoe leaning against the fence. Without thinking, I shoved the donut between my teeth so both hands were free and picked it up.

Charlie’s voice lifted in a mix of curiosity and concern. “Vags? What are you doing?”

“Something stupid,” I muttered around the pastry, stepping out of the pen for space.

She was watching now, eyes bright with that same fascination she always had when someone around her wasn’t being miserable. So, naturally, I wanted to impress her.

I started to spin the hoe, slow at first, then faster—muscle memory taking over. My hands found rhythm in the movement, like they always did. Eden may have been hell, but it drilled precision into us. We didn’t just fight; we performed. Choreographed displays of strength and obedience while Adam played his recordings—speeches, hymns, propaganda. I could still hear the static hum in my ears.

The hoe spun, slicing through the air. Faster, tighter, cleaner. The sound filled the space between us.

“Vags…” Charlie’s voice had softened, uncertain. “Do you—are you comfortable talking about Eden?”

The motion faltered, but I didn’t stop. I needed something to keep my hands busy, something to drown the ghosts.

Then my grip slipped. The wooden shaft smacked the side of my head with a dull thunk. I froze, donut still clutched between my teeth. Charlie gasped.

But I didn’t flinch.

Slowly, I reached up, pulled the pastry free, and tore off a piece like nothing happened. The sugar helped. It grounded me. I nodded, answering her question without looking her in the eye.

Her voice came again, quieter. “Did you ever… kill anyone?”

The world went still. The goats even stopped moving.

I nodded once. Mechanical. Precise. The truth didn’t need words.

“Were you forced to?” she asked, the kind of soft that came from genuine care, not pity.

The silence stretched between us, thin and trembling, like a thread about to snap.
“I—Can we change the subject, por favor?” I said finally, my voice too small, too fragile.

Charlie didn’t hesitate. She never did.

Her eyes softened, that golden light always sitting in her smile. She didn’t pry or pity—she just… was.
The kind of warmth that didn’t burn you, just stayed, stubborn and soft.

Instead of talking, she flopped down beside me on the grass, crossing her long legs like some dorky yoga instructor. Sunlight caught in her hair, gold against red, and for a second I forgot how to breathe.
Razzle climbed into her lap with a happy bleat, and Dazzle started gnawing on the cuff of my jeans.

For the first time in years, the quiet didn’t feel like a punishment.
It felt—peaceful.
Or close enough that I could lie to myself and call it that.

Then Charlie’s voice broke through the haze.
Bright. Excited. Hopeful.

“Okay, new topic! Since the grant’s practically finalized…”

She popped up onto her feet so fast Razzle nearly fell off her lap.

“What if I treat everyone? Like—a big dinner! Out. Real food, real chairs, real waiter with a tie and everything! My treat!”

I blinked at her, slow. My stomach twisted—not hunger, something else. Anxiety, maybe.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea for me to go…” I muttered, scratching absently at the edge of my eyepatch. The skin still itched beneath it; Baxter said not to mess with it unless I wanted to reopen the wound. I wasn’t about to give that smug scientist the satisfaction.

Charlie turned, that same look of relentless faith lighting her face.

“Nonsense! You deserve it, Vaggie! After everything you’ve been through, you should celebrate. We all should!”

She clasped her hands together in front of her, leaning forward just enough to make it impossible to say no.

“Please? You, me, Al, Husk, Anthony—everyone! I already know a place. Rosie’s Emporium! They do live music, great food, and I heard they have a dessert platter the size of a small dog!”

I wanted to roll my eye, maybe say something sarcastic about her priorities.
But she was smiling like that again—pure, radiant, unshakable—and the word no just… wouldn’t come out.

I sighed and crossed my arms, pretending to think it over.

“If I go… can we sit in the corner?”

Charlie’s grin widened into something bright enough to power the entire city.

“You can sit anywhere you want!”

Razzle bleated like he approved.
Dazzle finally gave up on my jeans and trotted over to her.

And before I could stop myself, I laughed—a tiny sound, startled and warm.

Charlie’s eyes lit up at the sound, like she’d been waiting weeks just to hear it.

“See? I knew you’d come around!”

By the time the sun melted behind the rooftops, the Hazbin Hotel was a hive of motion and noise.
Anthony and Cherri were at it again—arguing over who looked “sexier in leather,” which somehow had turned into a full-blown fashion debate. Baxter had barricaded himself in his lab with his laptop and two pots of coffee, muttering something about “peer review incompetence.” Niffty zipped between rooms, humming a 1950s tune, a feather duster in one hand and a bottle of cleaner in the other.

And me?
I was in Charlie’s room, standing in front of her mirror, caught between two versions of myself.

One dress was soft and white—innocent, unassuming, the kind of thing Charlie would wear without thinking twice. The other was a red blazer vest and black skirt combo, sleek and sharp, the sort of outfit that looked like confidence, even if I didn’t feel it. Both came with thigh-highs because, apparently, Charlie had a theme.

I couldn’t decide.
Every scar on my skin—every jagged reminder of Eden—stared back at me. I looked like someone pretending to be whole.

The door creaked open, and I almost snapped at whoever dared.
But then Emily’s reflection appeared in the mirror.

Her hair was still messy from the wind outside, and her oversized hoodie hung halfway off one shoulder. She looked like she’d walked out of a painting someone forgot to finish.
“Charlie asked me to check on you,” she said softly, as if speaking too loud might scare me off. Then her eyes flicked to the mirror. “Need help?”

I froze.
Her gaze wasn’t judgmental. Not pitying either. She just looked… curious. Warm. Like my scars didn’t bother her.
I exhaled and nodded, once.

She stepped up beside me, all bounce and sunshine. Her eyes skimmed the two outfits before her finger landed on the red blazer.
“This one,” she said confidently. “The red compliments your hair. You look strong in red.”

Before I could even react, she dug into her hoodie pocket and pulled something out—a tiny enamel pin shaped like a cartoon angel. The paint was chipped, the gold outline faded, but she smiled like she was handing me treasure.
“Here,” she said, pinning it to the lapel with careful fingers. “A little extra luck.”

I blinked down at it, then up at her.
“Gracias,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

Emily grinned, bright and proud. “You’re welcome!”
And just like that, she turned on her heel and bounced out of the room, humming under her breath.

I stared at the door long after she left.
Then at the pin.
Then at myself.

The angel gleamed softly in the lamplight. Maybe she was right. Maybe the red did suit me.

By the time I walked downstairs, the lobby was alive with chatter and laughter. Charlie was trying to corral everyone toward the van Alastor had “so graciously provided.” Razzle and Dazzle were in the backseat bleating in protest, and Husk was already muttering about needing another drink before the night even started.

Emily spotted me first and gasped like she’d seen a celebrity.
“Vaggie! You look amazing!” she said, practically vibrating with excitement.

I tried to hide the small smile tugging at my mouth. “You picked it,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, but you made it work,” she said with that contagious optimism.
And damn it—against my better judgment—I laughed.

Maybe independence wasn’t about being alone anymore.
Maybe it was about letting people see you and realizing… you’re still here.

Then my eye landed on Alastor.
He was already in the passenger seat, hat tilted just so, cane across his lap, that radio-perfect grin plastered on his face like he’d been waiting to say something the whole time.

“Charlie,” he crooned, voice like warm honey hiding something sharp, “would you like me to drive, or would you prefer to maintain control of your little motorized miracle?”

Charlie laughed—bright, easy, a sound that somehow made the stress of the day fade for a second. “I’ve got it, Al. You can play navigator. Husk, middle or back row?”

“Whichever gets me farthest from him,” Husk muttered, jerking a thumb at Anthony.
Anthony blew him a kiss. “Love you too, sugar.”

Husk groaned and climbed into the back seat with all the enthusiasm of a dying man.

I stood there on the curb, clutching the strap of my bag like it was the only thing anchoring me to the ground. The van looked harmless, but my chest still tightened. The hum of the engine, the faint smell of oil and dust—it all came rushing back.

The alley.
The blood.
Charlie’s trembling hands pressing against my side.

“Hey,” a gentle voice cut through my thoughts. Emily. She’d appeared beside me, all bright eyes and kindness, holding the door open. “It’s okay. I can sit with you if you want.”

Her tone was simple. Not pitying. Just there.
I nodded once, grateful that she didn’t push further.

Charlie noticed right away. She always did. She hurried around the front of the van, her expression softening the second she saw my hesitation.
“If you want, I can kick Al out of the front seat so you can sit next to me?”

I froze. The offer alone was enough to make my throat ache. I managed a small nod.

“Hey, Al,” she called, leaning into the van. “Mind switching? Vaggie’s more comfortable when she’s near me.”

For a moment, I thought he might refuse. His smile twitched, that flicker of annoyance behind the mask. But then—like a gentleman at a gala—he tipped his hat and slid out of the passenger seat.
“Of course, my dear. I insist.”

Charlie held the door open, offering me her hand like I was stepping into something sacred. I climbed in, trying not to notice the way my fingers shook.

By the time everyone else piled in, the van was loud—Emily chattering with Anthony about radio songs, Husk mumbling to himself, and Alastor humming an upbeat tune that didn’t fit the noise at all.

But sitting up front, with Charlie at the wheel and the soft city lights flickering over her face, the world didn’t feel so suffocating.

Every bump still made my muscles tighten. My fingers stayed locked around the seatbelt. But Charlie would glance at me now and then, smile that impossibly warm smile, and say something small like,
“You okay back there?”

And I’d just nod.
Because for the first time in a long time, I almost was.

Emily leaned forward from the back seat, her chin resting on the top of my head, voice bubbling with the kind of excitement that made everything around her feel lighter.
“You’re gonna love the place, I promise! They’ve got music, lights, and real dessert menus!”

Dessert menus. She said it like it was something out of a fairy tale, like menus themselves could be proof that the world was getting better.

Maybe this was what freedom looked like—riding shotgun in a beat-up van full of chaos and second chances. The windows rattled every time Charlie hit a pothole, the radio hummed some nostalgic tune about love and bad weather, and for a brief, impossible moment, I wasn’t thinking about Eden. Just the sound of laughter, the smell of Charlie’s perfume, and the warm city glow spilling through the windshield.

Then my brain caught up. We were here.
Rosie’s Emporium.

The neon sign flickered like a halo gone wrong—half pink, half gold, humming faintly in the warm night air.
¿Qué demonios es un emporio? I thought, staring at the curling cursive letters like they were a test I hadn’t studied for.

Charlie was practically bouncing in her seat, smiling so wide it was a wonder her face didn’t split in half. She hopped out of the van, smoothing her red jacket with that same bright, nervous energy she always had when she was trying to make everyone feel welcome.
“Alright everyone! Since the grant is almost finalized, I thought it would be a good idea to go out to dinner! All of us! My treat!”

The words hung in the air like confetti.

Husk grumbled something indistinct, already clutching his flask like it was oxygen. “You sure this isn’t a fundraiser?” he muttered.
Niffty clapped her hands so hard I thought she might sprain something. “Dinner! Oh, I’ll make sure our table sparkles! Ooo, do they have napkin swans? I love napkin swans!”
Cherri didn’t even look up from her phone. “If they’ve got Wi-Fi, I’m in.”
Anthony leaned over her shoulder, smirking. “You just wanna post selfies with the breadsticks.”
She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “Yeah, and I look damn good doing it.”

Through all of it, Emily’s eyes were wide as the moon, her hands pressed to the glass like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time.
“This place looks fancy!” she said, practically bouncing in her seat. “Like… real tablecloths and candles fancy!”

Charlie laughed. “Yup! Rosie’s Emporium is the nicest place in Pentagram City that’ll still let me in wearing red loafers!”

I smiled despite myself—small, reluctant, the kind that felt like a foreign muscle finally remembering how to move. But then I glanced toward the door and realized someone was missing.

“Where’s Alastor?” Emily asked, scanning the sidewalk.

Charlie’s smile softened but didn’t fade. “He already went inside! Said he knows the owner.”

Of course he did.

My chest tightened as I looked toward the glowing doorway, framed with strings of fairy lights. People moved inside, laughing, dressed better than any of us. For a second, I wanted to turn around, to go back to the van, to that safe, cramped space where the ghosts in my head couldn’t follow me.

Then Charlie’s hand brushed mine. Warm, steady, grounding. “You okay?” she asked softly.

I wanted to lie, to tell her sí, estoy bien, but the words caught in my throat. She just smiled like she understood anyway.
“C’mon, Vags. You don’t have to like it. Just… try it.”

I let her guide me forward, Emily skipping ahead toward the door with the kind of joy I’d forgotten people could have. She glanced back, waving me over. “Come on, Vaggie! They probably have dessert menus and sparkly drinks!”

My independence had always been armor—sharp edges, straight spine, the illusion of control. But as I watched her push open that glowing door, something inside me cracked. Maybe independence wasn’t just surviving alone. Maybe it was learning how to walk beside people without feeling like you owed them your soul.

I followed.

The moment we stepped inside, the world smelled like cinnamon, coffee, and polished wood. A jazz melody drifted through the air—old-fashioned, romantic in that bittersweet way. Warm light spilled across velvet booths and framed photographs of a younger world.

And standing behind the counter, like she’d stepped out of a black-and-white film and into technicolor, was who I assumed to be Rosie.

“Ah, Miss Morningstar,” she said, her voice smooth as vintage wine. “And company. Welcome back, darling.”

Charlie’s smile somehow grew wider. “Rosie! You look amazing, as always!”

Rosie waved a manicured hand. “Flattery before dinner? You’ll make me blush.” Her eyes flicked to me then, assessing, sharp but not unkind. “And you must be the famous Vaggie I’ve heard so much about. You wear red beautifully.”

I felt heat crawl up my neck. “Gracias,” I muttered, unsure what else to say.

Emily, blissfully unaware of how the air had gone still, darted straight toward the jewelry stand like a magpie drawn to glitter. “Oh my gosh, look at these ribbons!” she gasped, voice full of pure awe. The lights above caught on the delicate silk bands, turning them into streaks of color that danced against the glass. Her fingers landed on one in particular—a crimson ribbon, deep and gleaming like wine in candlelight.

“Vaggie!” she called, holding it up with both hands, eyes bright as stars. “This one’s perfect for you!”

I froze. The shade matched my blazer exactly. Too perfect. Too deliberate.
My chest tightened before my brain could stop it—because red meant too many things. Obedience. Blood. Eden. And now, apparently, fashion.

My first instinct was to say no. To tell her I didn’t need gifts, that I didn’t want to owe anyone anything. Independence wasn’t a philosophy—it was armor. But Emily was already fishing through her pockets, pulling out a crumpled five-dollar bill and a fistful of coins like she was bartering for the world’s smallest miracle.

Her smile flickered the second she saw the tag. “Oh…”

Forty-five dollars. For a ribbon.

I saw her deflate. Just a little. And something in me cracked right alongside it. She wasn’t sad for herself. She was sad because she couldn’t give. And that—seeing kindness punished by something as stupid as money—hurt worse than any scar.

Before I could move, a familiar, honey-smooth voice floated from behind the counter.
“For you, sweetheart? That one’s on the house.”

Rosie stood there like she owned the air—soft curls pinned up, lips painted red enough to make roses jealous, eyes sharp enough to catch every detail. She rested her chin on one hand, smiling like this was her favorite part of the day.

Emily blinked, startled. “Wait—really?”

Rosie’s grin warmed, equal parts grace and mischief. “Of course. Consider it a gift. Red means luck… or freedom, depending on who you ask.”

Emily practically lit up. “Thank you!” she said, clutching the ribbon like treasure.

Rosie’s eyes flicked to me for half a second—assessing, understanding—and I swear, in that glance, she saw everything. The hesitation. The guarded heart. The woman still learning how to exist outside of a cage.

Emily skipped back over, holding the ribbon up triumphantly. “Look! It’s so pretty!”

I sighed, but the corners of my mouth betrayed me. “Yeah,” I said softly. “It is.”

“Come on, everyone, let’s go pick out a table!” Charlie called, voice bright and impossibly alive, her smile wide enough to fill the room. She was already ushering the group forward—Niffty buzzing like a caffeine-fueled bee, Cherri muttering something about Wi-Fi, and Husk trailing behind, muttering something about “needing another drink before dealing with people.”

I followed, trying to focus on walking straight instead of watching the way Charlie’s tux jacket hugged her waist when she turned. My face went hot instantly.
¡NO! No debería pensar así…

I sank into my seat at the table, trying to find some version of composure, when I felt a tug on my hair.
“Emily—” I started.

She was standing behind me, tongue poking out in concentration, struggling to gather my hair in her small hands. “Hold still! I’m trying to tie it up with the ribbon!”

“Ow, cuidado, Emily, ese es mi pelo,” I muttered, wincing as she yanked a little too hard.

“Sorry!” she said quickly, sheepish but still smiling.

Charlie, sitting across from us, chuckled—a soft, musical sound that somehow made the air around her glow. “Here, let me.”

Before I could protest, she was behind me, gentle fingers brushing through my hair like she’d done it a hundred times before. The world shrank to the sound of her breath near my ear, the faint scent of coffee and perfume, the warmth of her knees brushing the back of my chair.

Her touch was careful—deft, practiced. In seconds, she had the ribbon looped into a perfect bow, the silk sliding against my neck.

“There,” she said, voice low, proud. “Beautiful.”

I wanted to laugh it off. To say something snarky, like you missed your calling as a hairdresser.
But the words wouldn’t come.

I caught our reflection in the window—her behind me, smiling, me pretending I didn’t like it. The red ribbon shimmered faintly under the restaurant lights.

Emily beamed from across the table. “See? I told you it was perfect!”

I looked at her, then at Charlie, and—just for a heartbeat—let myself believe it.

Maybe red didn’t have to mean blood or sin or warning signs. Maybe, tonight, it could mean something else.

Freedom.

The waiter arrived a moment later with menus so glossy they could’ve doubled as mirrors. Husk ordered whiskey before even sitting down. Cherri immediately started recording the dessert section. Anthony flirted with the server and got swatted by Niffty for it.

And me?

I sat there with my hair tied up in red silk, the ghost of Charlie’s hands still in my hair, and realized that independence didn’t mean keeping everyone out.

Sometimes, it meant letting someone else fix the things you couldn’t reach.

Chapter Text

The elevator hums like it’s holding its breath.
So am I.

My reflection in the mirror looks like someone trying to cosplay confidence—red blazer pressed, hair pinned just right, folder clutched tight enough to leave creases. Inside it? Hope, paperwork, and exactly zero backup plans.

Vaggie stands beside me, arms crossed, that one good eye scanning everything like she expects snipers hiding behind the potted plants. She hasn’t said a word since we left the hotel. She doesn’t need to. Her silence says, You don’t have to do this alone.

When the doors slide open, the sound hits first—flashes, voices, the low electric hum of a dozen reporters whispering my name. The council chamber is blindingly bright, glass and gold everywhere, a neon halo of corporate logos plastered across the back wall. And there it is—VOXTEK MEDIA, glowing like a prophecy I didn’t sign up for.

And front row? Of course he’s here. Vincent Whitman, a.k.a. Vox, sitting like the king of modern misery, calm, polished, a smile sharp enough to cut glass. Velvette lounges next to him, live-streaming the whole thing to whatever hellsite passes for social media these days.

My heart’s beating so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
“They’re broadcasting this,” I whisper.

Vaggie leans in just enough to mutter, “Then smile, princesa. Make them choke on it.”

The dais stretches before me like a firing line. Carmine is centered—composed, unreadable. Rosie sits to her right, graceful and razor-smart, eyes flicking between papers and faces. And then… the ones that make my stomach drop.

Adam. Lute.

White suits. Polished smiles. A performance of purity so convincing it almost works—until you’ve seen the blood under their fingernails. I feel Vaggie go rigid beside me. Her fingers twitch toward mine, then stop.

Adam’s eyes meet mine, soft and mocking all at once.

“Welcome, Miss Morningstar,” he says into his mic, the tone too kind to be anything but poison. “We’ve heard… so much about your hotel.”

The cameras flare. Vox’s smirk widens. Lute’s pen clicks like a loaded weapon.

I step up to the podium before my legs can vote otherwise. My reflection wobbles in the glass—smile bright, eyes too wide, heart hammering loud enough that I’m sure the mics can pick it up.

“Good morning,” I start. My voice shakes, but it holds. “My name is Charlie Morningstar, and I believe everyone deserves a second chance.”

The room doesn’t breathe. Then—quiet laughter from somewhere in the audience. Adam leans back, hands clasped like a priest waiting for confession.

I inhale through my nose. I’m not giving them the satisfaction.
This isn’t about them.
This is about the people back home—the ones who believe in this place, even if the city doesn’t.

So I smile wider. Brighter.
If they’re gonna turn this into a show, then fine.
I’ve learned how to work a spotlight.

Carmine raised her hand — slow, deliberate, the motion alone enough to hush the room. Her nails were lacquered the same deep red as her lipstick, every inch of her composed and terrifyingly calm.

“Miss Morningstar,” she said, voice smooth as aged wine, “take a moment to gather your paperwork and your words. We’re waiting on a few other council members before we begin.”

Her tone made waiting sound like a test.

I nodded, smiling too brightly to hide the tremor in my chest, and stepped back from the podium. The papers in my hands were already starting to curl at the edges from how tightly I’d been gripping them.

Vaggie sat a few rows back — close enough to reach, far enough to watch everything like a hawk. Her shoulders were tight, that one good eye locked on Lute across the room. If glares could combust, the council chamber would’ve gone up in flames.

I slid into the chair beside her, exhaling like it might make the pounding in my chest stop. “Who do you think we’re waiting on?” I whispered, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

Before she could answer, the chamber doors swung open.

ZeeZee strutted in first, her boots clacking against the marble like the room belonged to her. She tossed her leather jacket over one arm, revealing a semi-formal suit that somehow still screamed punk band meets politics. Behind her came a man I didn’t recognize — tall, sharp in a black tux, his skin pale, his hair white as ash. A small gold pendant shaped like a flaming deer rested against his tie.

Carmine’s eyes lit with faint recognition. “Councilwoman Zilinski. Chairman Maestro. Pleasure as always.”

ZeeZee gave a mock-salute. “Pleasure’s debatable, but I’ll take it.”

The Chairman just inclined his head, voice low, calm. “Let’s get this over with.”

Rosie leaned in close to Carmine, whispering something behind her manicured hand. Whatever it was, the mics didn’t catch it, but I saw the shift — the brief flicker of surprise in Carmine’s otherwise unreadable expression.

“This hearing shall now commence,” Carmine said, adjusting her notes. “Councilwoman D’Amour has informed me that Mr. Hazbin will not be attending today’s session due to… family business.”

My stomach sank. Family business. Alastor’s polite code for you’re on your own, kid.
I’d been counting on him to help navigate all the legal sludge — zoning terms, liability clauses, tax-exempt status. He made paperwork sound like radio poetry.

“But,” Carmine continued, glancing toward the doors as they swung open again, “he’s sent a proxy to represent his office.”

And in walked Husk.

His tie was crooked, his shirt only half tucked in, and the faint smell of whiskey drifted in before he did. He caught my eye across the room and sighed like the universe personally owed him an apology.

“Morning, sunshine,” he muttered as he trudged down the aisle. “He owes me so much for this.”

He slumped into the seat beside me, pulling a flask halfway out of his jacket before Carmine cleared her throat. He tucked it back with an exaggerated groan.

Vaggie leaned forward, whispering so quietly only I could hear, “At least it’s him. Better a drunk cat than a smug deer.”

I almost laughed. Almost. But my nerves were climbing back up my spine like static.

The chamber lights dimmed slightly, signaling the cameras were live. Voxtek logos flickered on the monitors, the hum of the microphones filling the air like the sound of a thousand watching eyes.

Carmine tapped her pen once, sharp against the desk. “Miss Morningstar,” she said, her gaze finding mine. “You may begin your proposal for the formal recognition of the Hazbin Hotel as a registered nonprofit rehabilitation center under Pentagram City Code § 14.17.”

The words hit like a gavel.

I stood, forcing air into my lungs. My palms were slick against the folder. I looked at Vaggie — her hand resting on the table’s edge, her jaw tight but steady. She gave a single nod, the kind that said you’ve got this, even if she’d fight anyone who made me prove it.

My throat burned, but I stepped forward anyway.
“Thank you, Madam Councilwoman,” I said, voice trembling at first, then catching. “The Hazbin Hotel isn’t just a project. It’s a promise — that people can change if someone believes they can.”

There was a shuffle among the seats. ZeeZee leaned back, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Maestro just scribbled something on his notepad.

And in the front row — of course — Vox was still there, phone in hand, filming like this was premium entertainment. Velvette leaned over, whispering something that made him grin.

I pushed on anyway.
“When I started this, people said it was impossible. They said rehabilitation doesn’t work in this city — that all we know how to do is punish and profit. But the people at that hotel? They’ve proven them wrong. They’re living proof that second chances aren’t just wishful thinking.”

Adam’s voice slid into the air, polite and sharp as glass.

“And yet,” he said, “you’re asking for city funds to house individuals with… criminal records, are you not?”

The room’s temperature seemed to drop.

I looked him dead in the eye. “Yes,” I said. “Because everyone deserves a shot at redemption, not just the ones who can afford it.”

Lute’s lips curved into a faint, poisonous smile. Adam leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself.

Carmine raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting me hang there — testing whether I’d drown or swim.

I could feel Vaggie’s gaze boring into Lute, her fists clenched tight in her lap.

I took another breath and steadied my voice. “This isn’t about money. It’s about hope. And for once, I want this city to stand for something other than fear.”

The room was silent for half a heartbeat — the kind of silence that could tip either way.

Then Rosie’s voice, warm and measured, cut through.

“Well said, Miss Morningstar. Let’s see if hope can survive the paperwork.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room — some amused, some dismissive — but Carmine smiled faintly, and that gave me enough oxygen to keep standing.

The microphones caught the hum in my throat before the words ever came. My palms were sweating through the paper, but I didn’t back down. The chamber lights were hot—too hot—and the air felt heavy, like the whole room was holding its breath just to see me fail.

Then Lute leaned forward. Her tone was sweet, perfectly composed, but her words sliced like razors hidden under silk.

“As a representative of the Moral Oversight and Public Welfare Committee,” she began, each syllable crisp enough to cut glass, “I can’t ignore the fact that you’ve opened your so-called rehabilitation hotel to criminals, degenerates, and—”

Her eyes flicked, deliberately, toward the audience—

“—an undocumented illegal.”

Her finger rose like the tip of a dagger. Straight at Vaggie.

The room seemed to contract around that single gesture.

I felt Vaggie tense beside me, her hand tightening around the edge of the table. Every muscle in her arm went rigid, but she didn’t speak. Her silence wasn’t fear—it was restraint. Her one good eye met Lute’s, cold and unblinking. The kind of stare that said try me.

I forced myself to breathe and stepped forward before Carmine could intervene.

“Yes,” I said, my voice trembling only for a second before it leveled out. “Marcy Allens—better known as Cherri Bomb—is a convicted arsonist. That’s true. She’s also been attending every court-ordered counseling session, meeting her parole officer, and—” I swallowed, lifting my chin— “I’ve been paying for her therapy myself.”

A low murmur spread through the room, the kind of gossip-buzz politicians live for. And then, right on cue—
Vox laughed.

A single, sharp exhale through his nose. I glanced toward him, and those mismatched eyes—one green, one blue—gleamed like they were backlit by a screen.

He didn’t need to say anything. That smug, lopsided grin said it for him: You’re out of your depth, sweetheart.

I didn’t flinch.

“As for Anthony Russo,” I continued, “he’s a registered citizen of Pentagram City with a full-time job. He came to the Hazbin Hotel because his employer—Mr. Valentino—has a documented history of workplace harassment and exploitation.”

That got their attention. A few of the press photographers leaned in, snapping quick shots of Vox’s unreadable face. Velvette whispered something into his ear, but he didn’t look away.

“And finally,” I said, softer now, but steadier. “Vaggie.”

Her head snapped toward me, panic flickering for half a second before I squeezed her hand under the table.

“She’s undocumented, yes. But she’s working toward legal residency. I’ve already filed sponsorship papers and secured pro bono legal representation. She’s earned her place—both at the hotel and in this city.”

The last part came out firmer than I expected. My chest was pounding, but my voice didn’t waver.

Lute sat back in her chair, tapping her pen against her notebook. “So you’re saying you’re harboring an illegal immigrant and using city funds to do so?”

I opened my mouth, but before I could answer, Carmine’s voice sliced through the tension like steel.

“She said private funding, Ms. Lute.”

The gavel’s echo carried more weight than its size should’ve allowed. Carmine’s gaze was steady, neutral—but there was a glint there, a warning.

“Proceed, Miss Morningstar,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to me.

I nodded and forced a small breath through my lungs.

“Everything I do at the Hazbin Hotel,” I said, voice firm again, “is about giving people a chance to change. A chance that this city’s systems rarely allow. I’m not here to undermine the law—I’m here to help people survive long enough to follow it.”

Rosie smirked faintly, her voice a smooth drawl over the microphone.

“How noble. And how rare.”

That drew a few chuckles—some amused, some impressed.

But then Adam leaned forward, his hands steepled. The picture of charm hiding something venomous underneath.

“And if one of these… guests of yours relapses, Miss Morningstar? If they hurt someone? Who will you blame then?”

The silence that followed was a knife-edge. I could feel Vaggie’s stare burning into Lute across the table, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat.

I met Adam’s gaze. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Then I’ll take responsibility,” I said quietly. “Because believing in people doesn’t mean ignoring what they’ve done. It means standing by them while they try to do better.”

Carmine’s pen stopped mid-scratch. Rosie tilted her head slightly, intrigued.

And for a moment—just one heartbeat—I thought I saw a flicker of approval.

Adam, however, just smiled. That politician’s smile, perfect and hollow.

“Let’s hope your faith isn’t misplaced, Miss Morningstar.”

My throat was dry, but I smiled anyway. “Hope’s all I’ve got, sir. But it’s worked better than fear.”

That earned me a few startled laughs from the crowd—and one sharp glare from Vox.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Vaggie’s expression soften just enough for her to whisper, “Muy bien, mi amor.”

Adam cleared his throat, that deliberate little sound that always made the air heavier than it should’ve been.

“Madam Chairwoman,” he began, voice smooth as glass, “may I speak freely?”

Carmine didn’t even look up from her notes. She just gestured with two fingers, a silent go ahead.

Adam smiled. It wasn’t kind. It was the kind of smile that belonged on a man who loved hearing his own voice.

“I’ve heard a few things,” he said casually, like he was gossiping at brunch instead of a public hearing. “About one of your residents, Miss Morningstar. A girl by the name of Emily Rivera.”

My throat went dry.

He continued, tone still honeyed but heavy with performance.

“Daughter of the Reverend Sera Rivera, founder of the Eden Faith Rehabilitation Program. A fine institution—one devoted to restoring lost souls to the path of righteousness. And yet… this young woman, barely out of childhood, was spotted residing at your hotel. Without any communication with her legal guardians or the Eden community.”

He turned, just slightly, to face the cameras.

“Now, Eden is a faith-based rehabilitation organization, as we all know—privately run, state-recognized, and dedicated to protecting at-risk youth. So one might ask…”
His eyes flicked back to me, sharp and smiling.
“Why, and how, did this girl end up under your roof?”

Every word was measured, rehearsed. The perfect trap.

Vaggie went rigid beside me, her nails digging crescents into her palm under the table. She didn’t look at him—her gaze stayed locked on Lute instead, like she was silently daring her to smirk.

I swallowed hard and forced a smile, keeping my tone light even though my pulse was pounding in my throat.

“Actually, Emily turned nineteen a few weeks ago,” I said, making sure to keep my voice calm, confident. “We threw her a birthday party and everything. And before you insinuate anything, she came to the Hazbin Hotel entirely of her own free will.”

If I told the truth—that she’d fled Eden, snuck into my hotel, and Adam backhanded her—I’d lose every ounce of credibility in this room. So I stuck to the story that would hold up in front of cameras.

“Everything she’s done has been by her own choice, as an adult,” I said firmly.

Adam’s smile twitched, just barely, but enough for me to see the crack in it.

Then Rosie, bless her perfectly poised soul, raised her hand. The small motion carried more authority than Adam’s entire sermon.

“I think it would be prudent,” she said smoothly, “to remember that this hearing concerns Miss Morningstar’s grant finalization—not the personal histories of her residents. Miss Rivera is a legal adult, and therefore outside the jurisdiction of the Moral Oversight Committee.”

Carmine nodded once, making it official. “Duly noted. Move along.”

Adam didn’t protest. He just leaned back, smiling that tight little smile of his—the kind that meant he’d file this moment away for later use.

Vox, from his seat along the wall, chuckled under his breath. I didn’t even have to look at him to feel it. That smug, knowing energy radiated off him like static. I could practically hear the headlines already being drafted in his head:

“Council Hearing Erupts Over Missing Eden Girl.”

But I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t.

I lifted my chin, steadying my breath, and said softly but clearly into the mic,

“The Hazbin Hotel doesn’t take people. We give them back their choices.”

That quieted even the snickering reporters for a beat.

Carmine regarded me over her glasses, a flicker of something—approval, maybe—passing through her sharp gaze. “Duly noted, Miss Morningstar. Continue your presentation.”

I nodded and shuffled my papers, heart still pounding but my voice steady when I spoke again.

“The Hazbin Hotel’s mission hasn’t changed. We want to create a space where rehabilitation is more than punishment—where people can rebuild without fear. That includes providing education, legal aid, and therapy for our residents.”

Rosie gave me the faintest nod—encouragement, or maybe warning. Hard to tell with her.

Vaggie leaned close enough that her whisper brushed my ear.

“You handled that perfectly.”

I exhaled, just enough to stop shaking. “Barely.”

“Still counts,” she murmured, still glaring daggers at Lute across the table.

The air in the chamber finally loosened, but not enough to breathe easy. The council murmured to each other, papers shuffled, pens tapped—but I could still feel Adam’s stare from across the room. Calculated. Patient. That smug curve to his mouth said round one’s over, sweetheart, but the game’s still on.

Then the doors opened again.

Not just opened—swung open, dramatically, like they were auditioning for a telenovela.

And there he was.

Stolas.

My dad’s favorite lawyer, striding in like the courtroom was a fashion show and he was both the designer and the star model.

“Madam Chairwoman!” he announced, his voice smooth enough to sell perfume. “Apologies for the delay! Governor Morningstar only informed me of this hearing at the last possible moment. Terribly rude of him, I know. Might we have a short recess so I can catch up?”

He adjusted his tie, winked at Carmine, and added, “Parking in this district is hellish.”

Carmine pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered into her mic—quiet, but still audible, a tired, “Dios mío, por favor.” Then, with the authority of someone who had clearly stopped fighting fate years ago, she said, “Granted. Five minutes.”

Stolas moved like gravity worked differently for him—gliding between tables until he spotted me and Vaggie. The second his eyes landed on us, his grin turned soft.

“Hello again, little star,” he said, sliding into the seat beside me. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

I blinked, my brain still rebooting. “Adam tried to get me charged with kidnapping, Lute accused me of harboring illegals, and Vox keeps smiling like I’m the punchline of a joke I don’t get.”

Stolas let out a hum—something between amusement and sympathy. “Ah. So, Thursday, then.”

He flipped open his briefcase, all silk and organized chaos, as if the drama in the room didn’t exist. “If any more legal traps get thrown your way, just let me handle them, darling. You keep being dazzling.”

“Dazzling,” I echoed, staring blankly. “I’m one bad question away from sobbing into the microphone.”

“Then sob beautifully,” he said without missing a beat.

Before I could even process that, Vaggie’s voice cut through, low and tight. “Charlie—”

But she stopped mid-sentence when a shadow fell over the table.

“Miss Morningstar!”

That voice. Silky, performative, smug.

I turned, and there he was—Vox. Perfect suit, perfect smile, heterochromia catching the light like a magic trick.

“Pleasure to finally meet you!” he said, extending a hand. I took it because that’s what a professional would do, even if every instinct screamed don’t touch the shark. His handshake was firm, too warm, rehearsed.

“Wait, where are my manners,” he continued, his grin too wide to be human. “Vincent Whittman, CEO of VoxTek. Though most just call me Vox. Sounds cleaner, doesn’t it?”

His charm could’ve powered a city block.

Then, right on cue, another voice—bright, sing-song, and far too close.

“And I’m Velvette Monroe!”

She’d appeared beside Vaggie like a glitch in reality, notepad already open, pen twirling between manicured fingers. Her perfume hit before her words did—sweet, heavy, artificial.

Vaggie’s good eye twitched.

Vox gestured toward her with salesman flair. “My associate and I just have a few questions—if it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

I nodded—stupidly, reflexively—and instantly regretted it when Vox’s grin sharpened.

“Wonderful!” he said, his voice all teeth. “Let’s talk about funding, Miss Morningstar. Because I’m dying to know how a newly-formed nonprofit managed to secure prime real estate on the outskirts of Pentagram City.”

Stolas, beside me, smiled thinly and snapped his briefcase shut.

“Ah,” he murmured, his tone dripping with the kind of theatrical calm that only spells incoming chaos, “I see we’re moving into cross-examination.”

Vox’s eyes flicked toward him. “And you are?”

Stolas straightened, adjusting his cufflinks with lazy precision. “Stolas Goetia. Legal counsel for the Hazbin Hotel and personal representative of Governor Morningstar.”

The silence that followed could’ve cut glass.

Then Vox’s smile faltered, just for a second. “Oh. That lawyer.”

“The one who wins,” Stolas replied sweetly.

Vaggie smirked. I almost did too.

And just like that, the air shifted again — not loud, not dramatic, but like someone had cracked a window in a pressure cooker.
Because if there was one thing more dangerous than Adam’s self-righteousness or Vox’s smug confidence, it was Stolas Goetia when he scented weakness.

Vox, to his credit, didn’t take the bait. He exhaled through his nose, smoothed a hand through his slightly graying hair, and flashed a smile so polished it could’ve sold insurance.
“Now,” he began, tone deceptively casual, “let’s circle back to something simple, Miss Morningstar. The building your hotel occupies — how exactly did you procure it?”

Velvette jumped in right after, pen already scratching across her notepad, her grin all sugar and sharpened teeth.
“And do you have the capacity for future residents? Because from what we’ve seen, the building’s… modest.”

Their rhythm was practiced — tag-team precision. I glanced at Stolas, silently asking Can I answer this?
He gave a tiny nod, that cool lawyer’s smirk tugging at his lips, the kind that meant go ahead, I’ll yank you out before you drown.

“The building was originally owned by my uncle, Asmodeus Morningstar—”

Vox perked up mid-sentence, cutting in. “Asmodeus? As in the CEO of Big Ozzie’s? The gentleman whose name is on half the entertainment permits in the city?”

I nodded, forcing my voice to stay even. “Yes, that Asmodeus. He had no use for the property — too old, too small for his kind of business — so he signed the deed over to me so I could pursue my mother’s dream.”

Velvette tilted her head, a spark of interest flickering in her eyes. “You mean the Lilith Morningstar’s dream?”

The question carried weight — half curiosity, half judgment. I could almost hear the camera shutters picking it apart.

I nodded, keeping my smile steady even as my stomach twisted. “Yes. The same dream my mother started — a place for those who need a second chance. I’m just finishing what she began.”

That earned a low hum from Vox, his gaze darting between me and the cameras like he was testing how much of that sincerity he could turn into tomorrow’s headline.

Before he could push further, I felt Stolas’ hand rest lightly on my shoulder.
“Madam Chairwoman is returning,” he murmured, his tone velvet and warning all at once.

Sure enough, Carmine was back in her seat, adjusting her glasses and tapping her mic.
“Let’s bring this hearing back to order,” she said, her tone crisp but tired. “We’ll now proceed with the review of the financial disclosures for the Hazbin Hotel nonprofit application.”

Rosie leaned over to whisper something into Carmine’s ear, and the chairwoman nodded before glancing down at me. “Miss Morningstar, please confirm that all property transfers, staff payrolls, and tax exemption forms have been filed in accordance with state law.”

I straightened in my seat. “Yes, ma’am. All paperwork was submitted three weeks ago under the supervision of my legal counsel.”

“Which would be me,” Stolas interjected smoothly, flashing a disarming grin that somehow made even Carmine’s brow twitch. “Everything is compliant, authenticated, and signed — in triplicate. You know how governments adore their paperwork.”

That earned a stifled laugh from Rosie, though she hid it behind her hand.

Across the room, Lute shifted, her gaze sharp and burning holes through me. And beside her, Adam sat with his arms crossed, smirking like a man who thought faith and power made him untouchable.

Vaggie noticed too. I felt the tension roll off her like static — every muscle coiled tight, her good eye locked on Lute like a sniper sighting.

I squeezed her hand under the table. “Don’t,” I whispered.

“I’m not doing anything,” she muttered back, voice tight, but her jaw told another story.

Carmine’s voice brought the room back into focus. “Very well. We’ll move into public commentary before the final vote.”

My pulse kicked up again. Cameras zoomed in. Reporters leaned forward.

And just when I thought I might finally catch my breath, Vox leaned back with that easy smirk of his and said into his mic, “Oh, this should be fascinating.”

Stolas didn’t even look at him. He just smiled faintly and whispered,
“Let him talk, dear. The louder a fool gets, the easier it is to bury him later.”

For a second, I forgot to be nervous.

Then ZeeZee raised her hand — not that she ever waited for permission anyway. Her rings caught the fluorescent light like warning beacons as she leaned forward, voice smooth but edged.

“From what I’ve seen,” she said, cutting through the tension like a well-aimed knife, “your hotel checks out. Everyone there looked healthy, fed, happy — hell, the place was spotless. Bright, air conditioned, smelled like coffee and cleaning supplies, not corruption. I’d say it’s everything it claims to be.”

Her eyes flicked toward Carmine, who’d been rubbing her temple like this whole day had aged her a decade. “You’ve been there too, Chairwoman. What do you have to say?”

Carmine exhaled into her mic so hard the feedback whined. “Sí… Clara, Odette, and I paid an unannounced visit last week,” she said, the slightest smile ghosting across her face. “We found the establishment legitimate. The residents were cooperative, the staff polite, and the structure met code. In short… I saw no cause for concern.”

That should’ve been it. But of course, peace doesn’t last long in this city.

Lute shot to her feet like a spring-loaded accusation. “Chairwoman, we cannot ignore the previous allegations. If we let sentiment cloud—”

ZeeZee stood too, all sharp grin and defiance. “Lute, didn’t you hear Rosie explicitly say not to bring that up? Or did your halo slip over your ears again?”

Gasps, murmurs, whispers — the chamber lit up like a gossip column.

Carmine’s patience finally snapped. She didn’t even say a word at first, just reached for the gavel, raised it with the calm of a woman who’d survived seven budget hearings and a riot, and slammed it down hard enough to make the microphones pop.

The crack echoed. Silence followed.

“Enough,” she said, her voice carrying a quiet authority that could make the devil apologize. “We will not turn this hearing into a shouting match. The matter of Miss Morningstar’s residents has been addressed. Now, we move to deliberation.”

Lute sat down, stiff and seething. Adam didn’t even look at her — just leaned back in his chair with that same smug, knowing smile that made Vaggie’s knuckles whiten under the table.

Carmine adjusted her glasses and continued, “The council will recess for fifteen minutes to confer privately. Committee members are not permitted to join deliberations.”

She glanced at me briefly — tired, maybe even sympathetic — then gave a small nod before rising.

As the room dissolved into murmurs and shuffling chairs, I let out a slow, shaky breath. Vaggie’s hand found mine under the table, her fingers cold but steady.

“You did good,” she whispered.

“I barely survived,” I whispered back.

“You always barely survive,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching up, “and somehow, you still win.”

Across the room, Vox was already talking to Velvette in low tones, no doubt spinning whatever narrative fit his next broadcast. Lute was practically vibrating with frustration, and Adam—Adam just looked amused, like he was watching a game where only he knew the rules.

And yet, despite the weight pressing on my chest, a strange calm settled over me. Maybe it was Stolas sitting nearby, quietly polishing his glasses with the serenity of a man who thrives on chaos. Maybe it was ZeeZee winking at me like, See? I told you we’ve got this.

Or maybe it was Vaggie, sitting beside me with that stormy glare reserved for anyone who even thought about hurting me again.

For the first time since walking into that room, I believed it — really believed it — that we might actually pull this off.

Carmine’s voice crackled through the mic again, smooth but heavy with authority.
“Council will reconvene shortly for the vote.”

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my palms. The room had gone quiet—just the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the rustle of papers. Across the table, Vaggie squeezed my hand, grounding me. On her other side, Stolas was idly flipping through a legal pad, muttering something about “procedural dullness.”

I looked at them—my lawyer, my partner, my chaos—and smiled through the nerves.
“Alright,” I whispered. “Let’s see if Hell can handle a little hope.”

When the council members filed back in, the tension hit like static before a storm. Carmine’s red heels clicked sharply against the tile. Rosie followed, carrying a thick binder under her arm, and Maestro looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. ZeeZee brought up the rear, shooting me a quick wink that said everything words couldn’t.

I exhaled—hope bubbling up despite myself.

Carmine took her seat, adjusted her glasses, and spoke into the mic.
“Miss Morningstar.”

My spine went rigid. “Yes, ma’am.”

She leaned forward slightly, her expression unreadable. “Your grant has been approved—under stipulations, of course.”

The words hit like a delayed heartbeat. Approved.

Carmine continued, businesslike. “Your monthly expense reports will be reviewed by the treasurer, Mrs. D’Amour. Any purchases made on behalf of your residents or the hotel must be cleared through her office for reimbursement. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” My voice came out steadier than I felt.

Carmine nodded once, tapped the gavel, and said the words I’d been praying for since this entire circus began:
“This meeting is adjourned.”

The crack of the gavel echoed like a gunshot.

For a second, all I could do was sit there, blinking, my brain refusing to process that it was real. I’d done it. We’d done it.

Then I felt Vaggie’s fingers tighten around mine. I looked up—she was smiling softly, that guarded, hard-won smile that made her look like sunlight filtered through scars.

“You did it, Charlie,” she murmured. “You actually did it.”

My throat tightened. “We did it.”

Stolas gave a low, delighted laugh. “Oh, little star, I must say—watching you navigate bureaucracy is the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all year. I might even bill your father for emotional damage.”

“Stolas,” I said, half laughing, half choking on relief, “don’t you dare.”

He just smirked, brushing invisible lint off his designer jacket. “Too late. Oh, and speaking of your father—”

That’s when he dropped the bomb.

“Your aunts and uncles are waiting outside. They insisted on congratulating you personally.”

I froze.
Vaggie blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Apparently,” Stolas continued, already packing up his briefcase, “your success has caused a bit of a… family event.”

Oh no.

The doors opened before I could even process what that meant.

“CHARLIE!”

Bee’s voice hit first—loud, musical, and full of champagne energy. She practically bounced into the council chamber, neon-pink hair streaked with glitter, a cupcake box in her arms. “You did it! My baby cousin’s a nonprofit boss!”

Ozzie followed at a more leisurely pace, all calm confidence and cologne, Fizzarolli close behind him recording everything on his phone.
“Smile for the camera, kiddo!” Fizz called. “We’re immortalizing this for the ‘Morningstars Doing Better Than Expected’ highlight reel!”

Lucifer wasn’t far behind, suit immaculate, grin sharp as ever.
“Well,” he said, voice smooth as honey and pride barely disguised. “Seems all that optimism finally paid off. Didn’t I say you’d change this city?”

Vaggie shifted beside me, tense but polite. I could feel her trying to make herself smaller, but Bee had already spotted her.

“And you must be Vaggie!” Bee said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “The girl who makes our Charlie smile like that!”

Vaggie’s one visible eye widened in alarm. “Ah—uh—hi—”

“Oh, she’s adorable,” Ozzie purred, clasping his hands dramatically. “Protective too. I love that. Don’t you love that, Fizz?”

Fizzarolli grinned. “Oh, I love love.”

Lucifer just chuckled, looking between the two of us. “You know, darling, when your mother and I imagined you changing lives, we didn’t think you’d start with your own.”

“Dad,” I groaned, face going red, “please don’t make this weird.”

“Too late,” Bee sang, taking a selfie of the three of us and immediately posting it.

Vaggie muttered under her breath, “I’m gonna die here.”

“No, no,” Ozzie said, grinning as he slipped his sunglasses off, “you’re family now, querida. We just haven’t had the pleasure of terrifying you yet.”

Then the doors opened again.

Satan strolled in wearing a denim jacket with a Star Wars patch, Mammon followed counting money, Belphegor yawned behind a laptop, and Levi livestreamed the entire scene to her followers.

I buried my face in my hands. “This is my nightmare.”

Vaggie squeezed my hand again and leaned close. “No, cariño. This is your circus.”

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the flashing cameras and overlapping voices, I laughed. Because she was right.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like I was holding this dream alone.
It felt real.
It felt ours.

Chapter Text

The marble floors of City Hall gleamed like they’d been polished by guilt and bureaucracy. My reflection followed me in them, perfectly framed, perfectly adjusted — as always. I didn’t need to check my tie; I knew it sat exactly where it belonged. I caught our silhouettes in the reflection of a security camera dome and smiled. The angle loved me. It always did.

My notepad was full — not with anything useful, of course, just the chaos of a dozen half-formed ideas. That was how the best shows started: a mess that only I knew how to make sense of. I tucked it under my arm, savoring the echo of our footsteps.

The acoustics here were divine. You could whisper a secret and make it sound like scripture.

Velvette walked beside me, face buried in her phone. Don’t let that fool you — the girl could sense a story like a shark senses blood. She was half scrolling, half scanning the world. I’d seen her do this before — pretending to text while calculating exactly how to spin a scandal into gold.

“Think the kidnapping angle’ll stick?” I asked, voice smooth, practiced. The kind of casual that still fills a room.

She hummed, not looking up. “Maybe. Eden’ll believe anything if it’s wrapped in God and guilt. Everyone else?” Her mouth curved into a smirk. “Depends how loud we make it.”

She wasn’t wrong. Public opinion was a puppet — and I’d always been good with strings.

Adam’s little side business, though… that was the real story. A man of faith with a taste for blood. How poetic. How marketable. I’d buried worse scandals with smaller budgets.

Velvette’s laugh broke through my thoughts — low, melodic, unsettling. I looked over and caught her doing it again. That thing with her neck.

“Vel,” I said flatly. “Quit creeping out people in public.”

“But it’s fun,” she said, smiling without moving her body. Her head turned — slow, deliberate — far enough that the security guard near the metal detector blanched and pretended not to notice. “They make such funny faces when they realize I’m looking right at them.”

“Yeah, well, stop before HR starts asking if I’m running a circus again.”

She chuckled, the sound rich with mischief. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

We kept walking. The heavy glass doors were just ahead, sunlight catching in their gold trim. Outside, I could hear the media circus already — the whine of camera shutters, the hungry buzz of questions being lobbed at anyone with a pulse. I thrived on that noise. It was the heartbeat of Pentagram City, and it pulsed for me.

Velvette finally tucked her phone away, straightening her jacket. “So what’s next, boss?” she asked. “You planning to go on air about this?”

I smirked. “Already did. Segment’s airing in ten. Framed it as a ‘miraculous act of charity under scrutiny.’ People eat that up. Makes the Morningstars look like saints under siege.”

She tilted her head — just slightly, but enough to make the movement feel wrong. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course I am. Scandal’s just attention with better lighting.”

Then something shifted in the air.
The light outside dimmed slightly — a cloud passing the sun, maybe. Or maybe just my instincts. The ones that told me when someone with a vendetta had stepped into range.

Velvette noticed too. Her smile faded, just a fraction. She adjusted her collar. “You feel that?”

“Yeah,” I said, eyes narrowing toward the reflection on the glass doors. The sound in the hall seemed to muffle — the way it does right before something sharp cuts through it.

That laugh. That deep, old-radio laugh.
Distant, but unmistakable.

My grip on the notepad tightened.

Velvette exhaled softly, her voice losing its usual bite. “Guess the static’s back.”

The grin stayed on my face like a mask glued on too tight. “Then let’s make sure the cameras keep rolling,” I said, every word tasting like static.

Because if he was here—if Alastor was here—this wasn’t going to end with handshakes and good press.

The air outside hit me like soup. Louisiana humidity, thick enough to choke on, clung to my jacket the second I stepped out. Reporters still lingered, flashes going off as the Morningstar family soaked in the spotlight. And there he was.

Alastor.
Laughing with my audience.

The bastard stood in a perfect half-circle of admirers, his stupid old-timey charm oozing out like molasses. He was shaking hands with Mammon, swapping jokes with Asmodeus, even making Leviathan giggle like a teenager. Every word he spoke bent the room toward him.

I could feel my jaw tighten, muscles twitching under my skin like bad wiring. Seven years since I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let him get to me. Seven years since the last time I saw that grin and lost my temper.

“V…” Velvette tugged at my sleeve, her voice low, practiced calm. “Let’s just go. Not worth the headline.”

I took a breath, or tried to. My chest felt too small for it. “Right,” I muttered. “Let’s go.”

We made it halfway to the car—a sleek black Toyota I barely cared about—before I heard it.
The sound of a cane tapping pavement.

Once.
Twice.
Thrice.

“Vincent.”

That voice. Smooth. Amused. Infuriating.

I turned, and there he was, framed by the sunlight like the smug ghost of every bad decision I’d ever made.

“Alastor.”

The name came out low, taut. My smile cracked at the edges.

Velvette slid between us instantly, the movement fluid, deliberate. The light caught her tattoos—thin black seam lines that ran up her arms and around her neck like she’d been stitched together. When she turned her head, that unnatural flexibility kicked in; her neck twisted just a little too far to the side as she met Alastor’s gaze head-on.

“Gentlemen,” she said, voice tight but honey-sweet, “not in public.”

It should’ve diffused the tension.
But of course, it didn’t.

Alastor tilted his head, his grin wide enough to split skin. “Ah, but public’s where you shine, isn’t it, old friend?” His tone danced on the edge of mockery. “I remember when you were just the weather man. The ‘storm whisperer,’ wasn’t it? And now look at you! A man who replaced charm with code.”

My hand twitched. “At least my ratings didn’t come from fear.”

“Fear?” he laughed—a warm, rich sound that made my teeth ache. “Oh, Vincent, you mistake charisma for cruelty. But perhaps that’s easy, when you’ve forgotten what real connection looks like.”

Velvette’s hand shot out and gripped my wrist—hard enough to hurt. Her eyes flicked between us, head turning slightly further than it should’ve, watching both of us at once.
“Enough,” she whispered. “He wants this.”

She was right. He always did.

Then, mercifully, a voice cut through the tension like champagne breaking glass.

“Alastor! Dear! Come here!”

Rosie.

The only person in this entire city who could leash him without getting bit.

Alastor turned toward her, grin softening, almost fond. “Ah, duty calls,” he said lightly, tipping his hat to Velvette before glancing back at me. “Do try not to short-circuit, Vincent. I’d hate for you to make a scene.”

He walked away before I could respond, cane clicking rhythmically against the pavement.

Velvette let out a low whistle, finally releasing my wrist. “You were this close to decking him.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, loosening my tie with a shaky hand. “And he knows it.”

She smirked, stretching her neck until it popped. “You let him under your skin again. That’s dangerous for your brand, boss.”

I ran a hand through my hair, watching Alastor disappear into the crowd with Rosie at his arm. “Don’t worry,” I said, voice low. “Next time, I’ll make sure there’s a camera rolling when I do.”

Velvette grinned, sharp and doll-like. “Now that’s the Vince I know.”

“Come on,” I said, climbing into the car, the air thick with static and regret. “Let’s go home before I start rewriting the evening news.”

She laughed, sliding into the passenger seat, twisting her head just enough to watch me as I drove. “You already are.”