Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Breathing.

The first action the First Man ever took in life.

He does it again now, choking on sulfur and smoke.

His lungs stutter like an old forge—draw in, hiss out. The pain is familiar, too familiar, like waking up in a dream you've died in before. He blinks against the red haze, his forehead pressed to broken stone slick with blood—his or someone else's, he doesn't know.

Adam rolls onto his back, groaning. His spine screams.

Thirteen holes burn like brands across his back, each one aching as if a hot coal had been wedged between his shoulder blades. He presses a hand to his ribs, flinching. His cassock now caked in quickly drying blood and skin that stings as if Hell itself is still deciding whether to let him in or burn him away.

A neon sign buzzes overhead, casting pink light across the alley's brick walls—graffiti tags, claw marks, something written in Enochian half-scratched out. The letters twist when he stares too long.

He shuts his eyes.

For a moment, he lets the darkness cradle him, just long enough to forget that his body is no longer his own. Just long enough to pretend that maybe he was in some fever dream, and he'll wake up in Heaven again, Lute by his side, a rack of ribs sizzling somewhere nearby.

But the buzz of the neon sign keeps humming like a mosquito in his ear.

And Hell doesn't let you dream.

"Fuck, I'm gonna—"

A wet retch cuts the air.

Adam doesn't have time to move.

A sinner staggers out of the shadows like a puppet with its strings half-cut—barefoot, bleeding, pupils blown wide—and lurches forward just in time to spew a stomachful of sour, half-digested bile straight onto Adam's chest.

It's hot. It smells like rot, meat, and regret.

Adam groans again. Not from pain this time. Just ... dismay.

"Are you fucking serious!" Adam quickly shot up from where he'd been lying prone on the pavement and tried not to think about the way his cassock was now sticking to him.

The sinner blinks at him, sways, then squints as if seeing Adam for the first time. "Hey, I think I know—"

The unnamed sinner doesn't get the chance to finish that thought. Adam's hand tightens around the man's face like a vice, fingers curling into bloody cheekbones, thumb pressing into an already blackening eye socket.

"Shut. Up." Adam says, low and ragged.

And then he drives the sinner backward with all the weight left in his battered body. The wall cracks on impact. Bone gives first—skull caving in with a sickening crunch. The sinner drops like a sack of wet cement, twitching once, then still.

"Shit. Where the fuck am I?"

Thanks to his unwanted and putrid baptism, Adam's senses are finally sharpening. Looking up at the sky, a familiar blood red haze fills the sky, and the oh so familiar white light of the celestial orb known as Heaven shines through.

"Did Lute fucking ditch me!?" Adam growled, his fists tightening in anger. "How could—"

He catches his reflection in a puddle of water nearby and the words die in his throat.

The reflection isn't quite him.

His face is the same, but harder—drawn tight with pain and wear. The skin under his eyes has darkened, as if bruised by time itself. His irises burn a faint, unnatural red around the edges, like embers struggling not to fade. His hair, once kissed by sunlight, now hangs in sooty strands, caked with ash and blood.

And his wings—

Gone.

In their place, thirteen ragged holes, oozing slow trails of red, burn like opened mouths gasping silently behind him.

His cassock now clings to him in ruin. Its fabric is scorched to a dusky charcoal, threadbare in places, the hem shredded and smeared with soot. Crimson trim edges the garment like dried blood on the mouth of a sinner.

Adam stares into the puddle until the ripples distort his face again. He exhales slowly. The breath still hurts.

"I'm not a fucking sinner!" Adam kicks the puddle, scattering his reflection into a dozen fleeing ghosts. The water splashes against the alley walls, painting them with filth.

"I'm not a fucking sinner." he growls again, as if the very city dares to argue. His voice echoes off the bricks, hoarse and fraying like it's been unused for a century.

But the silence that answers him feels smug.

He had fucking earned his place in Heaven and yet here he was.

Not dead. Not dreaming. And not home.

Adam staggers forward, every muscle in his legs feeling like rusted chain. The alley stretches on ahead, littered with broken glass and half-crushed bones, the kind of trash only Hell could accumulate. Somewhere above, distant screaming harmonizes with laughter—a chorus of suffering and apathy.

"Think, fucking think!" he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, wincing as soot falls in clumps. "Last thing I remember ..."

It comes back in flashes.

He had those Hotel fuckers on the brink. Then ... HE showed up.

"Fucking Lucifer." Adam snarled.

But it wasn't Lucifer that had been the one that had done him in, he was sure of it. He had stood some distance away, looking at him with that infuriating smirk, his gaze burning.

Then the stabbing started.

And the last thing he remembered ... was Lute.

She knelt over him, cried like a bitch—cried like she meant it. He never thought he would see the day she cried for him.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe that was the lie.

Adam's breath hitched in his throat again, this time not from sulfur or blood or bile, but from something colder. Older. A sensation he knew too well. It settled behind his ribs like rot in old wood—quiet, creeping, familiar.

Abandonment.

She had cried, yes. But where the fuck was she now?

His fists clenched tighter than before, trembling. The thirteen holes in his back throbbed like they had their own pulse, syncing with the thought pounding in his head.

She had left him. She had fucking left him!

He stumbles forward, catching himself on a crooked fire escape, metal shrieking under his weight. A trail of soot follows him like a second shadow. The thought loops again. And again. And again.

Lilith left him.

Lucifer left him.

Eve left him.

Guess it was his fault for expecting Lute to be any different.

And now Heaven had left him, too.

...

FUCK THEM!

HE NEVER FUCKING NEEDED THEM!

Everyone looked poor as fuck in Hell.

Adam didn't know what he was expecting. Maybe something a little more—structured, considering how obsessed Lucifer always was with appearances. But this? It was just rot stacked on rot, wrapped in neon lies and the faintest perfume of hope long-since pissed away. He passed hunched souls huddled in the alleys, clawing at each other over bottles and scraps of food like they were relics from Heaven. One woman traded a broken pair of sunglasses for what looked like a tooth.

Pathetic.

Then he saw him.

One of the lucky ones. Or maybe just smarter than the rest. The sinner's boots weren't worn through. His coat, long and dark with sleek blue stitching, swung as he walked, real buttons glinting beneath the neon flicker of a burning streetlamp. Not new, but clean. Purposeful. A man who had a destination. A man who still owned something.

Adam followed him.

He kept to the shadows, trailing behind the sinner like a second skin. Step for step. Barefoot, silent, forgotten by the world above.

They passed twisted market stalls and crooked towers where neon lights blinked in languages never meant to be spoken aloud. Hookers with melted faces blew kisses at passing Sinners. A preacher with no jaw screamed gospel through blood-soaked hand signs. No one noticed Adam.

He was taller than everyone around but to most, he was nothing new here.

The sinner kept moving, weaving through alleys until he reached a half-collapsed apartment building propped up with bones and rebar. He ducked inside, limping slightly. That was the tell. A limp. A weakness.

Adam's lip curled.

He waited until the sinner made it up the rusted stairs—waited until he fumbled with the door and—

Click.

That was all he needed.

Adam surged forward.

The sinner barely had time to register the noise before Adam's boot hit the back of his knee, driving him down. The door burst open with the weight of both men crashing into it. The sinner screamed—high, panicked, human—and tried to scramble away, but Adam was already inside. Already on top.

The room was dim, dusty, full of old books and scavenged furniture, probably stolen. A hot plate hissed in the corner, trying to cook something that smelled like rat meat and vinegar.

"Wait—don't—" the sinner gasped.

Adam didn't respond. He just drove his hand down and twisted.

There was a wet pop, and then silence.

The sinner twitched once beneath him. Twice. Then went limp.

Adam stood slowly. Breathing again. Always fucking breathing.

His chest heaved as he looked around the room. No one screamed. No one knocked. In Hell, these sort of sounds weren't out of place. If anything, they were part of the ambiance.

Adam wiped the blood from his hand on the dead man's coat, then stepped over the body without a second glance. The apartment was small—two rooms, a busted bathroom, a slanted kitchenette that looked like it had seen one too many grease fires. But it had four walls. A ceiling. A lock. That made it luxury in this pit.

He slammed the door shut, then turned the lock until it clicked.

Grabbing whoever this sinner was, Adam hauled his corpse over to the window and dumped it out like garbage. The body hit the pavement below with a dull thud, limbs splayed, neck twisted, a final exclamation point to an unremarkable existence. No alarm. No uproar. Just the neon buzz outside and the hum of lowlife traffic below—Hell moved on without a pause.

Adam watched the corpse for a moment longer. A few street rats—not literal ones, not down here—began inching toward the fresh kill. One even waved at him. Adam flipped them off before turning his attention to the view before him.

For a ratty apartment in a rotting tenement, the view wasn't half bad.

A billboard in the distance looped an ad for some poor bastard's redemption service, glitching every three seconds:

"Tired of eternal torment? Sign your soul away today at Voxtech for your safety!"

Crimson towers loomed like broken teeth in the distance, silhouetted against the low-hanging blood moon. At the base, there was a barely-clothed sinner slathered in what Adam hoped was chocolate syrup and holding a skeletal puppy.

Adam didn't want to know.

It was hard to believe that Lucifer's brat ever compared these losers to the winners in Heaven.

To him.

...

And now he was on ... THEIR level.

Off in the distance, glowing in all its glory, stood the only holy building in all of Hell. Heaven's embassy, a towering, gilded monument to the fact that some assholes always get the better end of the stick.

He could go and maybe beg Sera to let him back into Heaven.

A Heaven that left him behind.

A Heaven that didn't appreciate his efforts.

He laughed.

It came out bitter, sharp, loud in the stillness of the stolen apartment. A crack of thunder in a hollow world. Adam doubled over, one hand braced on the cracked windowsill, the other pressed to his ribs as laughter turned to coughing. Dry. Violent. Ugly.

"Beg?" he rasped to no one. "Me?"

He spat. A thick wad of black, blood-flecked something hit the floor with a splat.

"Fuck. That."

The embassy tower blinked at him in the distance like an accusatory eye, golden and clean and smug. It didn't belong in this place. It didn't belong anywhere near him.

Let them keep their golden gates and perfect lawns and flawless smiles. Let them pray he would come crawling back. Let them hope. He was done hoping. Done groveling.

Rules upon rules upon fucking rules. Well, they can fucking shove it! He is a sinner now and a sinner has no need to follow the rules.

A new feeling of newfound freedom washes over him, drowning the bitterness and anger. The feeling of abandonment was now replaced with a new excitement for freedom. The violence and sheer chaos of Pentagram City reminded him of Earth, how wild and untamed it all was before the stars had names and angels carved the first laws into stone.

The cities back then had no walls. There were no sermons, no haloes, no sins to repent for. Just survival. Just breath. Just being.

Adam leans against the window frame, arms crossed, blood drying against the fabric of his stolen cassock like war paint. A sliver of a grin—not warmth, but sharpness—tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Hell was honest.

Ugly, filthy, reeking of vice—but honest.

No pretenses here. No feigned morality. No higher cause hiding a knife behind its back. You wanted something? You took it. You were strong? You survived. And if you weren't ... well, the street rats would be waving you goodbye just the same.

Adam let that thought steep in him. Let it settle deep in the cracks that faith and loyalty used to fill.

No one was coming to save him.

Good.

He turned away from the window, a flicker of motion catching his eye—a shard of glass on the floor, cracked but whole enough to reflect. He stepped toward it, crouched, looked again.

That man in the reflection? Still not quite him.

But maybe it could be. Maybe it should be.

Adam reached up and wiped the last streak of someone else's blood from his cheek. It left a smear of rust-red, like war paint, like declaration.

"New rules." he muttered, standing. "Dickmaster rules!"

He cracked his neck, then his knuckles. The wind outside carried the sound of gunfire, of screaming, of laughter layered over despair. A choir for the wicked. And Adam stepped into it like he was home.

"Is that all you got!?" Adam shouted.

After entering the Industrial sector, Adam wasted no time in testing his physical capabilities. He found a fight within minutes—Hell had no shortage of angry bastards, especially here. Rusted smokestacks belched ash into the sky, molten runoff spilled into the gutters, and the smell of burning oil tangled with brimstone until it clogged every breath like wet iron.

A gang of sinners blocked the alley now—eight of them, all muscle and metal. Chains wrapped their arms like rosaries, faces smeared with soot, fangs bared, ready to gut anyone for a crust of bread. Their leader stood a full head taller than the rest, horns spiraling up like factory exhaust pipes, a jagged sawblade fused into one forearm, still dripping with someone else's mistake.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?" the leader growled, stepping forward. "Looks like fresh meat wandered in."

"Oh please." Adam popped his neck again. "I'm the fucking butcher."

Then he moved.

Faster than sin, he closed the gap between him and the horned brute with a snap of displaced air. His fist hit the sinner's face like a hammer. Jawbone exploded outward in a spray of shattered teeth and cartilage. Blood arced like a firework, painting the alley walls in a wet mosaic of crimson and bone.

Before the others could react, Adam tore the sawblade arm clean off—ripping tendon, muscle, and a scream that echoed across the smog-drenched skyline. He flipped the severed arm like a baton, then drove the serrated edge into the gut of the next nearest sinner.

It didn't just cut—it chewed.

The sinner wailed as the blade bit deep, and Adam kept pushing, twisting, until the weapon screeched through spine and vertebrae. Guts spilled out like overcooked noodles, steaming in the cold rot of Hell air.

Three more rushed him.

Adam ducked a swing, caught the assailant's wrist mid-air, then snapped it backward in a sharp, unnatural curve. Bone tore through skin. The sinner barely had time to scream before Adam grabbed his throat with his free hand and ripped his windpipe out with a wet, slopping crunch. He spun, throwing the body into the second attacker, slamming them both into a wall hard enough to crack the stone.

The third tried to impale him with a homemade pike.

Adam let it pierce his side.

Blood spilled—but he grinned.

"Wrong fucking move."

He gripped the pike inside his body and ripped it free, opening himself wider in the process but pulling the weapon free with a shriek of torn flesh and metal. In the same breath, he slammed the jagged end up under the sinner's chin, forcing it through soft palate and into brain. The pike jutted out the top of the skull like a flagpole.

Adam let go. The body dropped.

Three left.

They backed up.

He walked.

Slow, deliberate, dripping with blood—his own and theirs. He was laughing now. Not manic. Not joyful. Alive.

One of them turned to flee.

Adam moved again—blink-speed. He caught the sinner by the ankle, yanked him back, and curb-stomped his skull against the cobblestone until the bones collapsed like a paper bag full of rotten fruit.

Another pulled a gun.

Adam didn't flinch.

The first bullet caught him in the shoulder—fine. The second missed. The third? He caught it. Between two fingers.

"You thought I was just some sinner? I'm the First Fucking Man."

Adam lunged forward and punched the gunman's chest in. Not at. In. His hand sank into flesh, crushed ribs, and ripped out a still-beating heart. He bit into it.

And spat it out.

Yup, he definitely wasn't a cannibal.

The final sinner dropped to his knees, sobbing.

"P-please ..."

Adam's blood-slicked hand wrapped around his face.

"I said I'm the butcher, not a priest."

Adam squeezed.

The last sinner's skull collapsed like a tomato under a boot—his scream cut short by the wet squelch of bone and brain erupting between Adam's fingers. The corpse slumped, twitching, the man's melted features still locked in a final expression of sheer, unholy terror.

Adam wiped his hands on the nearest corpse, casually flicking brain matter from his fingers like it was nothing more than grease from a cheap burger. The wind in the Industrial Sector blew foul—thick with the stench of molten metal and broken dreams—but it carried something else, too.

Music.

Not literal notes. Not a song. But the ghost of rhythm in the clang of chains, the hiss of pipes, the distant echo of a scream timed just right with a steam vent's exhale. It beat in the back of his skull like a war drum.

He missed the weight of it.

Not the violence—he was violence now—but the soul of it. The guitar-axe wasn't just a weapon. It was his. A holy relic of rock and ruin, forged in Heaven, stained in Hell, blessed by blood and amp feedback. He'd carved lullabies and eulogies and threats with its strings. Ripped angels apart with solos. Split demons in half with chords so heavy they bent the air.

And now it was gone.

Stolen. Lost. Buried. Or maybe still somewhere out there, waiting.

A dull ache thrummed in his spine, not from wounds, but from absence.

Then he saw it.

A storefront. Half-crushed under a fallen sign, neon letters sparking one by one like broken fingers trying to flip him off.

HELLMART—WEAPONZ & RELICZ (NO REFUNDZ)

The "Z" was necessary, apparently. Adam didn't care.

He shoved the door open. It screamed on rusted hinges. The interior was chaos. Guns hung on wire racks like overripe fruit. Blades of all sizes—some clearly ceremonial, others forged for nothing but dismemberment—lined the walls. Trinkets, charms, runes etched into bone, relics stolen from a hundred dimensions. A robed imp behind the counter was chewing on something alive.

"Welcome to He—" it started, then saw him.

And it was the last thing he saw before a blade was lodged between its eyes.

Adam's eyes swept the place—and there, tucked in the corner behind a rack of cursed ukuleles and a box labeled 'Doomflutes - Play at Your Own Risk', he saw it.

His axe.

Well ... not his.

But damn close.

He should thank whoever decided to try and make a replica of his weapon and try to sell it but with the imp dead, he doubts he'll be getting any receipts. He yanks the replica from its resting place, the strings humming faintly as though they remembered.

It's not perfect. The weight is slightly off. The grip's a bit too polished. The etchings are wrong—someone tried to recreate the angelic script along the neck but butchered the syntax so badly it reads like "FART THRONE" instead of "FIRST TONE." Still.

He ran his fingers along the strings, listening to the faint metallic twang that sang under his calluses. It didn't growl like the original. Not yet. But it would. Given time. Given blood. Given purpose.

"Yeah." Adam muttered, hefting the guitar-axe over his shoulder. "You'll do."

Conveniently, beside the replica of his guitar was a replica of his mask as well. Though it took on a red aesthetic, the mask was identical in shape to his own.

"Hello gorgeous." Adam smirked, taking it and placing it over his face. The interior was lined with velvet—cheap, synthetic stuff that smelled vaguely of plastic and desperation—but it fit. Almost like it had been waiting for him. The moment the mask settled against his skin, the world felt quieter. Not literally. Hell still screamed. But inside, Adam found stillness.

He looked at himself in a cracked mirror mounted near the counter. In its reflection, he didn't see a castaway. He didn't see Heaven's mistake.

He saw the start of something new.

"Yeah." he said again, voice muffled slightly through the mask. "Let's fuckin' dance."

He turned, guitar-axe slung over one shoulder, cloak torn and swaying, thirteen wounds smoldering on his back like forgotten halos. The door banged shut behind him as he stepped back into the furnace air of Hell.

The streets felt different now.

Not because they'd changed—but because he had.

The butcher. The First Man. The Winner turned Sinner they thought they could bury.

He wasn't just surviving anymore.

He was thriving.

AND EVERYONE IS GOING TO FUCKING KNOW IT!

Chapter Text

"Hello good Sir! Have you heard of the Hazbin Hotel?" Charlie had asked, a flyer in her hands. "Where we—"

"Heard of it!? Who hasn't!?" The random Sinner replied with a wicked grin.

"And are you interested—"

"You showed those angel fucks what's what didn't you!?" The Sinner shouted, pumping his fist in the air. "Fuck Heaven right!?"

Charlie awkwardly chuckles. "Uhhh, no Sir, it's where we—"

Before Charlie could explain any further, another Sinner came up behind her and quickly spun her around. "Yo girl, you got your weapons from that Carmilla chick right? Can you hook me up!?"

"What!? No! We aren't selling weapons! We—"

Charlie barely managed to stammer out the words before yet another Sinner came barreling in, this one looking even rougher—one eye swollen shut, a crooked grin plastered across a bloody mouth.

"You guys takin' down angels and handing out gear!?" he cackled, clutching a battered crowbar like it was a winning lottery ticket. "Finally a hotel that gets it! Sign me the fuck up! I've been wanting to take a shot at those Exorcists fucks!"

"I—I think there's been a misunderstanding—" Charlie said, trying to laugh, her voice getting increasingly thin as she was jostled by the growing crowd.

More Sinners were gathering now, swarming her like moths around a spotlight. Flyers were snatched from her hands faster than she could hand them out, crumpled up or waved around like victory flags.

"HAZBIN FUCKIN' HOTEL, BABY!" someone shouted, holding the flyer up like it was a revolutionary banner.

Another sinner screamed, "DOWN WITH HEAVEN!" and then, for no apparent reason, lit the flyer on fire.

The flames caught the attention of even more Sinners. Within moments, the situation had mutated from an outreach event into a full-on street party—albeit one fueled by bloodlust, arson, and gleeful misunderstanding.

Charlie's cheeks burned as she tried to wave her hands and regain control.

"WAIT! No, no, no! We don't—WE DON'T FIGHT ANGELS!" she cried out. "We HELP you find redemption! We HELP you become BETTER—"

"BETTER at kicking ass!" one Sinner hollered.

"BETTER at making bombs!" shouted another, tossing an improvised molotov from hand to hand like it was a baseball.

Charlie's arms dropped helplessly at her sides before she slowly backed away from the increasingly violent crowd.

It didn't take Adam long to get used to his near powerless self. Though he had lost much of his angelic power, his instincts had never left.

The bone-deep reflex to move faster, hit harder, kill smarter—that wasn't magic. That was him.

Stripped of Heaven's favor and the glossy sheen of angelic power, all that was left was raw experience baked into every tendon, every scarred nerve.

And down here, experience was worth more than miracles.

In Pentagram City, no one gave a shit about your standing, your well being or even about whether you were breathing, bleeding, or burning alive. They cared about their own survival. About whether you could tear the teeth out of the thing trying to eat you before it tore yours out first. Down here, raw instinct was gold, and violence was currency.

Adam learned fast.

Or maybe he just remembered.

Because before he was a "winner", before Heaven polished him up and gave him rules to follow, he'd been something simpler. Something harder.

Life on Earth during its early years after being kicked out of Eden wasn't some Edenic playground.

It was brutal. It was ugly.

It was survival.

Back then, the world hadn't decided yet if it wanted to be a paradise or a graveyard.

Every dawn was a coin toss between sunlight and bloodshed.

Every riverbank was a battleground.

Every cave was a coffin waiting for an occupant.

And Adam?

He survived.

Because he was built to.

And now those same instincts came roaring back like they'd never left.

Every alleyway in Pentagram City became a hunting ground. Every gutter was a proving field. He wasn't the fastest anymore, or the strongest. He couldn't summon light or fly like before.

But he could fight.

He could fight like a motherfucker.

And in Hell, that was enough.

He had been hopping from roof to roof, moving like a wolf across a crumbling cliffside. He may be confident in his own skillset but he wasn't stupid enough to think that those alone would be enough forever.

Not down here.

Pride was what got you killed in Hell.

Not mercy. Not anger. Not even weakness.

Pride.

The dumb, blinding belief that you were better, faster, smarter—that the rules didn't apply to you. That you could stomp through Pentagram City like you owned it, and not end up face down with your guts decorating a lamppost by morning.

Adam knew better.

There was only one being in this hell hole whose Pride had the power to back up its mouth provided Heaven doesn't get involved.

"Fucking Luci—"

"Get those Exorcists fucks!" A man's voice boomed. "Not so brave now, huh, bitches!?"

Adam stopped midway across a cracked rooftop, boots scuffing loose gravel to the edge. His head snapped toward the sound.

Exorcists.

... Of fucking course! If he had died and become a Sinner then it stood to reason some of them had too.

His girls.

Adam bared his teeth in a snarl, a sound more animal than human ripping from his throat.

He dropped low to the rooftop, crawling forward on his hands and bare, bloody feet, ignoring the searing ache in his ribs and the dried scabs crackling across his back. He moved toward the noise until he found a gap between two crumbling buildings—a slivered view down into the street below.

What he saw made his stomach turn.

The Exorcists had barricaded themselves into the shell of what looked like an abandoned nightclub. Rusted scaffolding and broken steel doors had been piled high across the entryways. Inside the shattered windows, he could just barely glimpse figures—clothes in tatters, some wielding makeshift weapons ripped from whatever junk they'd scrounged.

And outside?

A mob.

Twenty Sinners at least. Maybe thirty. All shapes and sizes, dragging chains, knives, lead pipes. Scarred faces leering, jeering. Throwing rocks and broken bottles at the barricade. Some of them were climbing onto each other's backs, trying to tear the defenses apart like a pack of feral dogs.

Extending his hand out, his guitar-axe manifested with a jarring hum—strings vibrating with a hungry, metallic snarl like it wanted blood almost as badly as he did. It was a good thing that summoning his weapon was a power he hadn't lost—at least, not completely.

Adam tightened his grip on the guitar-axe, feeling its pulse thrum up his arm like a second heartbeat. It wasn't as powerful as the real thing had been, not yet—but it was enough.

Enough to kill.

His eyes tracked the mob, cold and precise. Twenty. No—twenty-eight. He counted automatically. Three on the left flank with molotovs. Five battering the barricade with a steel pole. The Sinners were too busy howling, hammering at the barricade, one of them lighting a molotov with shaking hands and a giddy grin. The Exorcists inside were shouting now too—short, sharp commands. Adam heard Harper's voice—one of his best.

They were holding, but not for much longer.

Adam's grin widened.

They wouldn't have to.

Adam's gaze flicked up to a massive billboard sagging overhead.

Some shitty advertisement for Voxtech again—"Need help spying on your Ex? Call us now!"—the neon letters stuttering and dying one by one. It was hanging crooked from rusted bolts and rotted wooden supports, barely clinging to the rooftop edge by spite alone.

Perfect.

Adam made his way over to it and shoved his guitar-axe through the cracked tar of the rooftop, wedging it for leverage. Then he braced his shoulder against the leaning billboard, muscles screaming as he pushed. Gravel skittered underfoot. Old screws popped free with shrieks of metal fatigue. The whole structure groaned like a dying beast.

One final grunt of effort—The billboard tore free in a tidal wave of splintering wood, twisted metal, and shattered neon.

It fell.

Right onto the mob below.

The impact was glorious.

Half the Sinners were flattened instantly—bone and blood spraying across the pavement. Those who weren't crushed were thrown screaming in every direction, caught under fallen scaffolding or impaled by splintered beams.

A geyser of dust and debris billowed up, swallowing the street in choking gray.

Adam stood at the rooftop's edge, breathing hard, his chest heaving against the cracked cloth of his cassock. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence—an almost sacred hush. Then the wounded began to scream.

He grinned under his red-streaked mask.

Adam stepped back a few paces, tightening his grip on the guitar-axe.

Then he ran.

Boots slamming against cracked rooftop. Blood pounding in his ears. No hesitation. No second thought.

And then he leapt off the roof like a thrown spear, a black-and-crimson meteor screaming through the dust-choked air.

Below, one of the sinners—lucky enough to survive the billboard's collapse, unlucky enough to look up at just the wrong moment—saw the shape descending. His mouth opened in a shout.

Too late.

Adam landed on him with a force that could have shattered concrete. The sinner's spine folded like wet paper, his ribcage exploding outward under Adam's boots in a spray of gore. The body flattened beneath him, crushed to a pulp of bone and blood and meat. Adam rode the corpse down into the cracked asphalt, crouching atop the ruin like a demon crowned in steam and viscera.

The nearest sinners froze.

Adam lifted his head, slow and deliberate. His mask dripped with blood. His guitar-axe hummed like a vengeful storm.

Then he moved.

The first idiot lunged, swinging a jagged crowbar at Adam's skull. Adam pivoted, letting it whistle past his ear, then brought the neck of his guitar-axe up into the sinner's jaw. Bone split. Teeth shattered. The man's head snapped back with a crunch, and Adam drove the body down with a brutal boot to the chest, cracking ribs like twigs.

Another came at him, this one screaming with a broken bottle in hand.

Adam caught the bottle mid-swing, the jagged glass biting into his palm. Blood welled instantly—but Adam just grinned behind his mask and shoved the bottle into the sinner's eye.

The man shrieked, staggering back, clutching at his face as Adam ripped the weapon free again—half an eyeball dangling from the broken neck of the bottle.

Adam tossed it aside like trash.

With the Sinners distracted by him, the Exorcists burst out the door, now ready to take the fight forward.

And oh, they were glorious.

Harper was the first out, a rusted pipe in one hand and a salvaged angelic steel blade in the other. She slammed the pipe into a sinner's gut, doubling him over, then drove the blade through the back of his neck without even slowing down. Behind her, two more Exorcists—Kaela and Luna—emerged like wolves from a trap.

Kaela stumbled slightly as she came out, gripping an old revolver like it might bite her if she held it wrong. It was almost comical—the way her knuckles whitened around the grip, the way her stance was all wrong, elbows too tight, finger twitching nervously near the trigger.

Adam almost laughed.

Almost.

But then Kaela lifted the gun with both hands, her jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth, and fired.

The kick nearly wrenched her shoulder out of its socket—but the shot hit.

A sinner's skull snapped back in a spray of red mist, body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut. Kaela blinked at the smoking gun in her hand like she couldn't quite believe it had worked.

Then another sinner rushed her.

Without thinking, Kaela swung the gun like a club, cracking it across the bastard's face. The sinner staggered, dazed—and Luna was there, a shard of rebar whistling through the air to finish the job. Blood sprayed across the broken concrete.

Adam's grin widened behind the mask.

Kaela might not know how to shoot for shit. But she knew how to fight.

She didn't hesitate after that.

Every shot she fired after that was a prayer to chaos—some missed by a mile, others buried themselves into sinners' shoulders, guts, knees. It wasn't clean. It wasn't graceful.

But it worked.

Adam barreled through the collapsing mob, his guitar-axe swinging wide, carving bone and metal with each howl of vibrating strings. A group of sinners tried to regroup near a burnt-out taxi—but Harper was already there, a wild gleam in her eye, swinging her salvaged blade like a scythe through wheat.

A brave or foolish Sinner decided to go for the mother of all leaps of fate and tried jumping onto Adam's back with knife in hand.

And it might have worked ... if it weren't for Luna who caught the bastard midair by the ankle and yanked.

The sinner howled, flailing wildly as Luna spun him in a vicious arc—using his own momentum against him—and smashed him face-first into a rusted fire hydrant. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed. The hydrant cracked with a groan but held.

Luna grunted in satisfaction, tossing the limp body aside like so much garbage.

The remaining Sinners scattered.

What was once a snarling mob dissolved into a stampede of broken bodies and panicked screams. Those who could still run, ran. Those who couldn't—crawled, whimpered, begged.

Adam let them.

But Harper, Luna and Kaela?

They didn't.

Harper chased a limping sinner halfway across the cracked asphalt before spearing him through the back with her angelic steel blade, pinning him to the pavement like a note to a corkboard. She twisted the blade hard enough to wring a final, gurgling scream out of him before yanking it free again, slick with blood and marrow.

Kaela wasn't even firing anymore—she was just beating the last crawler with the butt of her empty revolver, savage and breathless, blood flying with every desperate swing.

Luna stalked through the carnage without expression, rebar dragging behind her with a slow, grating scrape. Every few steps she'd kick a body—checking if they still twitched. If they did, she ended it.

"You girls still got it!" Adam smirked.

Hearing his voice, all three women turned away from their bloodied handiwork before breaking out into the widest smile Adam had ever seen. Seemingly just realizing that the tall Sinner they just fought with had apparently been Adam all along.

"Sir!" They cheered, throwing their arms around him in a bloodied group hug.

"You're alive!?" Harper gasped, her voice ragged with exhaustion and disbelief as she squeezed him tighter, the blood on her arms smearing across his tattered cassock. Kaela and Luna clung just as fiercely, their weapons clattering to the ground, forgotten.

"And never fucking better!" Adam laughed.

Adam broke the hug gently but firmly, setting his hands on each of their shoulders and pushing them back a step.

Their faces were filthy, bruised, blood-smeared—but their eyes were bright. Bright and hard and burning with the stubborn will to live.

Good.

They were still his girls.

"Come on, lets get out of here." Adam said.

"Sorry about the fucking mess." Adam muttered as he opened the door to his apartment. "Believe me, it was a lot worse when I got here."

The girls followed him in, wide-eyed.

The place was rough—bloodstains on the walls, a half-broken bedframe, shattered glass glinting underfoot—but it was a whole lot better then where they were earlier.

Harper let out a low whistle, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair. "Damn, Sir. Beats sleeping in a craphole club."

Kaela poked a broken lamp with her toe, the bulb swinging on its frayed cord like a hanged man. "Got ... character."

Luna just grunted with approval and shoved a busted chair into a vaguely upright position before sitting on it with a tired thud.

"Harper, you're my new Lieutenant until Lute fucking comes back ... if ever." Adam said, tossing his guitar-axe into a dusty corner with a casual thunk. He turned to face the girls, his expression hidden beneath the red-streaked mask, but his voice was firm, alive with a crackling authority that hadn't dimmed despite everything.

Harper stiffened, then blinked—once, twice—before the words actually sank in.

"Sir?" she rasped, her throat raw from smoke and shouting.

"You heard me." Adam said, crossing his arms. "You kept them alive. You fought like fucking hell. That's what I need in my Lieutenant."

Harper's face split into a crooked, blood-smeared grin so wide it looked painful. Pride straightened her spine like a jolt of lightning. "Yes, Sir!" she barked, slamming a fist against her chest.

Kaela and Luna clapped her on the back, grinning through their exhaustion.

Adam nodded once, satisfied, before his tone dropped lower, dead serious.

"But listen good, all of you."

The laughter died instantly. The room tightened, pulling in around his voice.

"I didn't realize it till I found you three that there are probably more of your sisters out there. Being hunted by these fuckers who think they're hot shit just because their Princess beat us! And it wasn't even her! That stupid duck loving—"

"Sir." Luna coughs. "Focus."

Adam stopped, took a slow, ragged breath through his nose, the scarlet haze in his mind briefly clearing.

Luna's sharp cough had pulled him back just in time — before his mouth ran faster than his brain again.

"...Right," Adam muttered, his voice dropping to a grim rumble. "Focus."

Adam's fists tightened at his sides, veins standing out against the torn sleeves of his cassock.

"There are more of you out there." he repeated, his voice steady now, low and full of promise. "And alone, they won't last long."

He let that hang in the stale, broken air of the room for a moment.

"But Sir, we're Sinners now." Kaela pointed out. "Even if they kill us, we'll respawn."

"So what?" he echoed, voice a low snarl. "You think I want to see you suffer over and over again? You think I want you crawling out of the dirt every time some Sinner jackass thinks he can make a name off your corpse?"

Adam's voice thundered through the ruined apartment, rattling the glass still stubbornly clinging to the window frame. His fists trembled at his sides — not with fear. With rage. Protective, furious rage.

"And now, there might even be who knows how many of them armed with fucking angelic steel!" Adam spat the words out like venom. "Steel that can kill you. Kill you for real. No respawn. No second chance. Just gone."

Harper, Kaela, and Luna all went still.

"I don't give a fuck if this place spits you back up after every death." Adam growled, stepping closer, looking each of them in the eye. "I want you standing. I want you fighting. I want you winning so hard they think twice before even fucking breathing near you."

The girls nodded, solemn. Fierce.

"And that starts fucking now!" Adam said, straightening. "We're not just surviving anymore. We're building something."

He jabbed a finger at the floor.

"Right here. This shithole? It's our start. If Heaven doesn't want us anymore, fine. If Hell thinks it can chew us up, fine. We'll make our own fucking Heaven!"

Adam paced the wrecked floor, his boots crunching glass, his mind racing hotter than the blood in his veins. The girls watched him—tired, battered, but catching fire from the sheer force of his conviction.

"And to do that, we'll need to gather the rest of your sisters." Adam grinned beneath his mask — a sharp, dangerous thing, all teeth and promise.

"How?" Harper ask. "We don't have our wings and our halo is gone so we can't communicate."

Adam stopped pacing.

The broken glass crackled under his boot as he turned slowly toward Harper, the grin beneath his mask stretching even wider, almost manic now.

"You're right." he said, voice low and brimming with wicked excitement. "We don't have halos. We don't have wings. We don't have Heaven's shiny little toys anymore."

He grabbed his guitar-axe from the corner, the weapon humming faintly to life in his hand, strings vibrating with a growing snarl.

"But what we do have," Adam said, slinging the guitar over his shoulder, "is our fucking music!"

"Another bust, eh?" Angel Dust remarked lazily, lounging upside down across the hotel lobby couch, legs kicking idly in the air.

Charlie looked like she'd been run over by a drunken parade. Her hair was frazzled, her dress crumpled and clinging to her awkwardly.

Vaggie wasn't faring much better. A thin cut ran along her cheek, and her fists were clenched so tightly around the last crumpled flyer that her knuckles had gone white.

"It wasn't a bust." Charlie said through gritted teeth, attempting a smile that looked more like a pained grimace. "It was ... miscommunication."

"Miscommunication?" Vaggie echoed, incredulous. "Charlie, they thought we were starting a war."

Charlie drooped, her shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion and burned optimism. "Why won't they listen!? I have proof!"

After the Extermination, Emily was quick to inform her of Sir Pentious redemption. When she heard it, Charlie had been electrified with hope.

"But do they listen!?" Charlie now frustrated, slammed the crumpled flyer down onto the counter so hard that dust puffed into the air like smoke signals of defeat.

"They listen," Angel Dust drawled, twirling a loose thread on the couch cushion, "just not with their ears. They're listenin' with fists and dicks."

Vaggie's eye twitched.

"I swear to Satan, Angel, if you say one more thing about dicks—"

"—I'll find a new place to shove mine," he finished with a wink, flashing his fangs.

Vaggie lunged across the lobby, tackling Angel Dust clean off the couch. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of kicking legs and flailing limbs, the furniture groaning under the impact. Charlie winced but didn't intervene; she just sank onto the nearest armchair, burying her face in her hands.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

They had proof! Sir Pentious had actually improved. Emily—bright, hopeful Emily—had verified it herself. Redemption was possible.

SO WHY WON'T THEY LISTEN!?

"Why so sad boss?" Frank, the Egg Boi asked as he struggled to climb onto the armchair next to her, his little eggy feet slipping against the cushions.

Charlie lifted her face just enough to squint at him, her voice muffled by despair.

"I just ... I don't understand, Frank. We have proof! We have a success story! Shouldn't they be lining up for help, not lining up to fight Heaven?"

Frank struggled a little more, then finally managed to plop himself beside her with a soft thump. He patted her knee awkwardly.

"Oh ..." Frank said gently, swinging his little legs back and forth. "Well, when old boss is sad, he watches TV!"

Frank reaches forward and is barely able to hold the remote in his tiny hands. With some effort and a grunt of determination, he mashed the buttons until the screen blipped to life with a harsh, crackling buzz.

Static.

Then—

""You want more of her karaoke stripper act, or you want something BADASS!?" came the familiar voice that they had all long thought dead.

Immediately, Charlie and everyone went wide-eyed because that voice was familiar. The camera wobbled like it had been duct-taped to a shopping cart. It swerved wildly before finally stabilizing on a sight so insane, so wrong it short-circuited Charlie's exhausted brain.

"Adam!?"

Chapter Text

"No fucking way!" Vaggie shouted, bolting upright from the couch so fast the cushions barely had time to bounce. Her eye was locked on the flickering TV screen, disbelief and fury warring across her face. "That's Adam! That's Adam on live fucking television!"

Charlie gawked, mouth hanging slightly open as the footage played on, grainy but unmistakable. And as she watched him rile the crowd, Charlie couldn't help but come up with a plan.

A FOOLPROOF PLAN!

"I've got it!"

"Oh no." Vaggie muttered. "No, no, no. Whatever that was—put it back!"

Charlie whirled around, eyes glowing with manic purpose. "Don't you see? This is perfect!"

As it stands, Sera and Heaven as a whole are still reluctant in lending their support to her hotel with Sir Pentious being the only Sinner redeemed so far but she could just imagine them practically begging to have her redeem Adam.

And Adam being Adam, there is no way he doesn't want to go back to Heaven so he will definitely join the hotel!

"Don't you see? This is perfect!" Charlie shouted, nearly vibrating with excitement as she jabbed a finger toward the screen, which now showed Adam howling into the mic.

"Imagine it Vaggie! If I can redeem Adam of all people, then no one can doubt the hotel anymore!" Charlie finished, breathless, arms flung wide as if she'd just solved world hunger by accident.

"Are you even sure he wants redemption?" Husk ask from behind the bar counter. "Cause from what I'm seeing, he looks like he is home."

Husk gestured with a half-empty bottle toward the TV, where Adam was now headbanging as fire erupted behind him, his guitar-axe unleashing a screech of distorted, unholy chords that seemed to whip the crowd into a frenzy. Several Sinners were already moshing into each other, howling praise like it was Sunday mass with a kill count.

Charlie didn't flinch. "Of course he's enjoying it right now! He's in pain! He's lashing out! But deep down? Deep, deep, DEEP down? He's a good person. He got into Heaven after all. So he is like uhhh ... an asshole with a heart of gold!"

"Are you fucking kidding me!? Hon, I love that you want to see the best in everyone but this is Adam we're talking about! The fucking dick that let his bitch Lieutenant maim me!" Vaggie turned, slowly, narrowing her eye. "He doesn't deserve redemption!"

Vaggie's voice cracked with heat, but her eye shimmered with something unspoken—hurt, raw and flickering just under the anger.

Charlie's smile faltered for half a heartbeat.

Then she stepped forward and knelt in front of Vaggie, gently placing her hands over her girlfriend's clenched fists.

"I know what he did to you." Charlie said softly, her voice a stark contrast to the thunder of distorted music still bleeding from the TV. "I know he hurt you. And if I could take that away, I would. But that's why this matters."

Vaggie looked away.

Charlie leaned in.

"If redemption is only for the people we like … then it's not really redemption, is it?"

Vaggie's jaw tightened. "That's not fair."

"I know," Charlie said. "But it's true. And I promise! The first activity for Adam's redemption is to apologize to you!"

The room was quiet for a beat, save for the guttural shriek of Adam launching into another verse, the lyrics incomprehensible but furious.

Charlie pressed on, her voice gaining strength again, fueled by stubborn hope.

"Heaven will no doubt want Adam back—and when they realize that it's only through us, through the Hotel, that they can have him, they'll have to support us! They'll have no choice but to endorse the Hazbin Hotel as the official path to redemption!" Charlie declared, the words tumbling out faster now, her brain racing a mile a minute.

Vaggie opened her mouth, probably to yell something very reasonable and angry, but Angel Dust interrupted first, lazily flopping an arm over the back of the couch.

"Well ... it is a hell of a marketing stunt." Angel Dust said, grinning. "'Save the First Fucking Man!' That's a headline even Vox would cream his pants over."

Husk snorted. "Or light himself on fire."

"I'll take either." Angel said with a wink.

"At least wait for your Dad to get back before—" Vaggie barked, throwing her hands up.

Charlie shook her head, a manic gleam in her eye. "There's no time! Every second Adam's out there, he's getting worse! Hardened! The longer we wait, the harder it'll be to reach him!"

Before anyone else could retort, Charlie had already grabbed each of them by the wrist (or wing, in Husk's case) and was dragging them toward the Hotel's entrance, her heels skidding on the cracked floor in her rush.

"Alastor, I'll leave it to you to prepare for Adam's welcome!" Charlie called over her shoulder.

The Radio Demon, lounging comfortably in an antique chair near the lobby fireplace, merely tipped his head forward with a wide, fanged grin. The shadows around him seemed to twitch and perk up like eager dogs.

"But of course, my dear!" Alastor sang in that rich, crackling tone, tapping his cane lightly on the floor. "I'll be sure to give him the warmest welcome imaginable!"

Charlie barely heard him — she was already charging forward, practically dragging the others with her.

"Hellooooooo Sinners! Are you ready to get fucked up and make some bad choices!?" Verosika Mayday's voice blasted across the cracked, static-filled television screens scattered through Pentagram City. "Who are we kidding? Bad choices is what got all you fuckers here in the first place!"

The feed crackled—neon pink filters bleeding across the screen — before cutting to a chaotic montage: bodies grinding in smoke-choked clubs, molotovs flying across alleyways, a gang fight erupting outside a burning pawn shop. Somewhere in the background, a stripper rode a stolen motorbike straight into a brick wall, exploding into flames and laughter.

"But good news, you depraved little shitheads!" Verosika crooned, her fanged smile gleaming wide and wicked. "Pentagram City's about to get a whole lot louder!"

The crowd of Sinners packed into the stadium erupted, a seething sea of claws, horns, teeth, and manic energy. Some hurled bottles into the air like missiles. Others set off cheap fireworks that exploded in ragged bursts of green and purple, lighting up the cracked bleachers like a battlefield rave.

Verosika basked in it, standing center stage atop a mountain of wrecked amplifiers, one boot planted on a rusted speaker, the other tapping to the beat pulsing from the shattered sound system behind her. Her demon entourage—half backup dancers, half security thugs—spun and snarled around her in perfect chaotic rhythm.

"And to kick off this beautiful disaster," Verosika purred into the mic, dragging a claw-tipped finger down her own bare arm, leaving a trail of neon-pink flame, "I've got—"

"Move, bitch!" Adam interrupts, shoving Verosika out of the way like she weighed nothing more than one of the cheap plastic props littering the stage.

The mic squealed in protest. The music stuttered, skipped. For one shocked second, the entire stadium froze — a sea of sweaty, drunken, violent Sinners staring up at the intruder like their brains couldn't quite catch up.

Verosika stumbled, heels scraping across the warped wood of the stage, caught herself with a snarl that could've stripped paint from steel. "Who the fuck—!?"

"You bitches want that pussies music or do you want REAL music!?" Adam screams into the microphone, voice raw and electric.

For a heartbeat, the stadium stays frozen — confused, teetering — and then someone lets out a drunken, feral howl.

Another smashes a beer bottle against the railing.

A wave of ugly, gleeful chaos ripples through the crowd, hungry for whatever madness Adam's about to unleash.

"That's what I fucking thought!" he roars.

Vortex, the Hellhound, steps in, ready to lay Adam out. Big guy, sharp fangs flashing, muscles rolling under his cracked leather jacket. His eyes gleam with violence, ears pinned back, claws flexing for a kill strike.

"You're gonna wish you hadn't done that, asshole." Vortex growled, voice low and dangerous, cutting through the roar of the crowd.

Adam just grinned behind his red-streaked mask, the mic still dangling from one hand. "You first, mutt."

Vortex lunged.

But before he could reach Adam, Harper slammed into him from the side like a wrecking ball.

The collision cracked the stage under their feet. Vortex snarled, twisting mid-air to rake his claws across his attacker—but Harper was faster.

Way faster.

She caught his wrist in both hands, twisted hard—

SNAP.

Bone cracked like dry wood. Vortex howled, stumbling sideways, his broken arm flopping uselessly.

Harper didn't let him recover.

She flowed with the momentum, swinging her elbow in a tight arc straight into his temple.

CRACK.

The Hellhound reeled, dazed—but not out. His other arm lashed out, claws flashing in a desperate swipe.

Harper ducked under it cleanly, dropped low, and drove her shoulder into his gut, lifting the big bastard clean off the stage.

They crashed into the ruins of a drum kit with a deafening crash, cymbals screaming as they clattered across the stage. The crowd roared, loving the carnage.

Vortex coughed, spitting blood and bile, trying to scramble up. Harper grabbed a busted cymbal like a shield and smashed it flat across his muzzle.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Until the cymbal bent inward and Vortex's head slammed back against the floor, groaning, body going limp.

Harper stood over him, breathing hard, blood dripping from a split knuckle but her eyes burning with fierce satisfaction.

She kicked Vortex's twitching body aside with a grunt.

"Stay down, puppy." she snarled.

The crowd went wild.

"That's one of my top bitches right there!" Adam roared into the mic, pointing at Harper with a wide, manic grin behind his mask. "AND WE'RE JUST GETTING FUCKING STARTED!"

The crowd howled—stomping, smashing, punching the air, the stadium becoming a living, breathing thing, all gnashing teeth and broken glass.

Verosika, still dazed where she'd been shoved aside, finally found her footing. She bared her fangs and grabbed a backup mic.

"You think you can just crash my fucking show!?" she screeched, neon flames curling around her.

Adam didn't even look at her. He just pointed one lazy finger her way while addressing the crowd.

"You want more of her karaoke stripper act, or you want something BADASS!?"

The crowd jeered, a few hurling bottles toward Verosika. Someone screamed "BADASS!" so loud their voice cracked.

Verosika's snarl twisted into a furious, wounded grimace. Her entourage started stepping forward, backup dancers ready to throw down. A few even had enchanted batons, crackling with spiteful pink energy.

"You fucking—"

The strum of Adam's guitar-axe cut the air like a gunshot.

One deep, brutal chord—so heavy it rattled loose nails from the ceiling and made the ruined amplifiers shriek in sympathy.

The enchanted batons fizzled in the dancers' hands, short-circuiting with pops of broken magic as the vibrations rippled through the stage like a living beast.

Every Sinner and Demon in the stadium felt it.

"Don't you fuckers know who I am!? I'm Adam! The First Fucking Man! The Head Exorcist that has killed all your fucking friends!" Adam stomped to the edge of the stage, boots grinding sparks off the battered wood, guitar-axe slung low across his body like a loaded weapon. "And guess what you motherfuckers? Heaven decided to turn its back on me and my girls!"

Adam's voice cracked the air like thunder, booming through the half-ruined speakers, shaking dust from the rafters. His body vibrated with rage, with power, with freedom.

The crowd hushed for a fraction of a second—not out of fear, but awe.

"And if Heaven doesn't want me," Adam snarled, dragging a clawed hand along the strings of his guitar-axe, the notes snarling like a feral animal, "then I say, FUCK THEM!"

The crowd collectively thought that they should feel rage at this reveal—the Head Exorcist, the bastard who had personally slaughtered hundreds of thousands of them and their friends—standing right there, spitting in Heaven's face.

But instead?

Instead, the broken souls of Pentagram City—sinners, killers, freaks, freaks-of-freaks—cheered.

They howled.

They loved it.

Because it wasn't about what Adam had been.

It was about what he was now.

One of them.

Broken. Furious.

A Sinner.

All agreed except for one voice.

"Adam!" Charlie's voice rang out, cutting sharp and clear through the chaos like a silver arrow.

Charlie pushed through the writhing mass of Sinners, her heart hammering like a drumline in her ears.

"Adam!" she shouted again, desperately. "I have to tell you something!"

Vaggie, Angel Dust and Husk scrambled after her, barely able to keep up as Charlie shoved and ducked and fought her way toward the stage.

"Charlie, wait—" Vaggie hissed, elbowing a drunk Sinner aside with a sharp jab.

Charlie didn't listen. Couldn't listen.

Her heart was thundering louder than the distorted war-chords of Adam's guitar, louder than the roaring mob around her, louder than Vaggie's terrified warnings.

She had to get to him.

This was her chance.

Adam stood atop the cracked stage like a blood-slicked king, his body vibrating with the raw, elemental energy of rebellion. He was glowing—not literally, but spiritually—a representation of what this city loved most: strength, rage, freedom.

Charlie wondered—for a heart-pounding, terrifying moment—if maybe Husk had been right.

Maybe he didn't want to be saved.

But she shoved the doubt down, buried it deep.

She had to believe. Had to.

He had to want redemption.

He just needed someone to remind him.

Charlie scrambled up the edge of the ruined stage, grabbing a snapped support beam for leverage. Her knees scraped across shattered wood, her dress tearing at the hem, but she didn't stop.

"Adam!" she cried again, breathless, standing now—only a few feet away from him.

The music screeched to a halt and Adam turned to look at her.

Charlie could see the moment he recognized her — the tiny hitch in his stance, the faint cock of his head. Behind the red-streaked mask, something shifted.

But it didn't stop him.

"Well, well," Adam said, voice low and mock-gentle, dragging the mic back to his lips, "if it isn't Lilith's little hottie herself. Back for more of my blood?"

The crowd's attention sharpened instantly, hungry for a new show.

"What!? No! Adam, I have wonderful news! Its about redemption—"

Before Charlie could continue, the guitar-axe shrieked again—a savage, discordant wail that shook the scaffolding—and Adam launched into a song so raw, so furious, the crowd froze, caught in its gravity.

🎶

Let me cut you off there (oh!)

Save your weak little speech (But—)

'Cause your 'hope and redemption' is way out of reach

Think they'll climb up? Nah, they're droppin' down the drain (Well, um)

Sorry, Princess, down here pain is all that remains!

🎶

'Cause Hell is forever, whether you like it or not

You can preach all you want, but this city's a rot

Here the rules are blood and knives

Got no halos, got no lives

And we'll burn this fucking town down just to light it again!

🎶

(Okay, but—) Just try to relax, babe, there's no saving breath (hehe)

Did you really just say Sinners don't deserve death?

Are they Winners?

Are they Sinners?

Cut the bullshit dry (Well, actually—)

Fair or not, who gives a fuck why!?

🎶

When it's all said and done (said and done)

I'm just here for the fun

So for those of us who've got nothin' left now

Revolution is entertainment!

🎶

Bow-now-now-now-now (guitar solo, fuck yeah!)

Oh, da-ah-ah now-n-now, now-now-now-now!

🎶

Hell is forever, whether you like it or not

We had Heaven's shiny feathers, but they left us to rot!

Now the city's painted red

With the blood of angels dead

And we'll party in the wreckage 'til we forget what we lost!

🎶

Fuckin' Hell is forever and it's meant to suck a lot

So keep your dumb redemption—this is all the fun we've got!

No more preaching, no salvation, just damnation with vibration

This ain't no revolution—

This is my VACATION!

🎶

"Sir!" 

Immediately, Adam turned to see Exorcists—his Exorcists turned Sinners—still alive, pushing through the edge of the crowd like a pack of wolves. Soon, at least a hundred had already poured in, hacking away at the crowd.

"They actually came Sir!" Harper shouted, her voice bright with battle-frenzied joy as she moved to join her newly arrived sisters in the most brutal mosh pit Pentagram City had ever seen.

"Fuck this shit! I never should have come to Pride!" Verosika shrieked, ducking just as Luna hurled a broken guitar neck like a javelin at her head. The weapon embedded itself into a speaker behind her with a TWANG and a shower of sparks.

Verosika bolted offstage heel-snapping toward the nearest exit with what was left of her entourage scrambling after her like rats off a sinking ship while dragging an unconscious Vortex with them.

"Adam! Listen to me!" Charlie was still shouting over the chaos, trying to close the last few steps between them. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought it might crack. "I have proof that redemption works! I can help you if you—"

"I ain't going fucking anywhere with you!" Adam grated out, voice low, savage, shaking the cracked wood underfoot. His guitar-axe hung heavy in his grip, strings still humming with the aftershock of his furious song. His red-ringed eyes bored into Charlie like twin brands, merciless and unflinching.

"Redemption?" he sneered. "What part of THIS"—he gestured at the writhing crowd, the blood, the broken stage, his own battered, triumphant body—"looks like it wants your fucking salvation?"

Charlie stumbled a step, visibly wincing under the weight of his words. But she didn't back down.

Not this time.

"It's not about what you want." Charlie said, voice shaking but rising. "It's about what you deserve!"

Adam laughed—a sharp, broken bark that echoed across the battered stadium.

"Deserve!?" he roared. "Bitch, I deserved Heaven! I earned it! And they still kicked me out like trash!"

The crowd howled with him now, caught up in his rage, his betrayal, their betrayal. Bottles shattered against steel railings. Fireworks exploded against the cavernous ceiling. Somewhere in the distance, a Sinner was being stabbed by three of the Exorcists as they laugh maniacally.

"And you know what!?" Adam snarled, taking a step toward her. "Maybe they were right. Maybe I am just fucking trash. Maybe that's what I always fucking was! But down here?"

He pointed down with the neck of his guitar.

"Trash rules."

The crowd screamed their agreement.

Charlie shook her head, her hands clenching into trembling fists at her sides.

"You're wrong!" she shouted, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "You're still worth saving! You're still—"

The stage shuddered under a new impact.

More Exorcists-turned-Sinners had stormed into the arena now—two hundred strong, maybe more—surging like a tide through the Sinner mob, carving a bloody path of loyalty back to their commander.

Adam turned to them—his army—and raised his guitar high overhead.

"WE'RE NOT GOING BACK!" he roared.

The Exorcists screamed their agreement, weapons raised.

"IF HEAVEN WANTS US BACK, THEN THEY BETTER COME TO US ON THEIR FUCKING KNEES!"

Charlie staggered backward at the force of Adam's words, the guttural roar of the Exorcist-Sinners hammering into her chest harder than the music ever could. She looks back to the crowd and the realization that her dreams of redemption, of unity, of peace were shattering.

Right before her eyes.

Angels killing Sinners.

Angels turned Sinners killing Sinners.

Sinners ... cheering for it all.

The whole city bled noise and madness, and Charlie stood frozen in the middle of it, a single scrap of white hope sinking in a black ocean of rage.

Vaggie grabbed her arm, yanking her back and off the stage. "Charlie, we need to GO! NOW!"

Charlie stumbled as Vaggie yanked her back, her heels scraping against broken wood and blood-slicked concrete.

For one raw, heartbreaking moment, she locked eyes with Adam through the rising storm of chaos.

And Adam ...

Adam didn't flinch.

He fucking smiles.

Like he'd finally thrown off the last chain he didn't even know was around his throat.

Like he wasn't the First Man anymore.

He was the Last Man Standing.

Charlie's breath caught in her throat as Vaggie pulled harder. Angel Dust, even half-drunk and grinning nervously, was helping shove a bloody path back toward the exits. Husk cursed under his breath, wings flaring out to shield them from a hurled bottle.

The last thing Charlie heard, before the doors of the crumbling stadium slammed behind them, was Adam's voice echoing over the torn-up speakers:

"WE'RE FUCKING BACK BITCHES!"

"Thank fuck we got out of there!" Angel Dust wheezed, leaning against a crumbling alley wall, his clothes dusted with ash and glittering glass shards. He wiped a smear of blood off his cheek and winced, his usual cocky grin struggling to stay in place. "For a second there, I thought we were gonna get moshed into paste."

Vaggie stood close to Charlie, her arm protectively slung across her shoulders. She was breathing hard, heart pounding, eye scanning every shadow like it might spit out another riot.

Charlie barely noticed.

She stood there, shaking, staring back at the stadium they had fled. The sound of cheering, shouting, the crackle of uncontrolled flames—it seemingly had no end.

And Adam was at the center of it all.

Laughing.

Roaring.

Leading.

"I ..." Charlie's voice came out small, a ghost of her usual brightness. "I can still reach him."

Vaggie looked like she wanted to scream.

"Charlie—!" she snapped, rounding on her. "He doesn't want redemption! You saw him! HE FUCKING BELONGS HERE!"

Charlie shook her head stubbornly. "No. No, you didn't see him. Not really. I saw it. For just a second. When he looked at me." She pressed a hand to her chest, over her pounding heart. "There's still something there. There has to be."

Angel Dust and Husk exchanged wary glances, both wisely choosing not to say anything.

Vaggie groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Even if you're right, even if that something is still buried in there—he doesn't want to be saved, Charlie. He chose this."

Charlie bit her lip so hard it hurt.

"But maybe ..." she said, voice trembling, "maybe he didn't choose it because he wanted it. Maybe he chose it because he thought he had no other choice."

The words hung there between them, thick and heavy.

Husk finally grunted, lighting another cigarette with a shaky hand. "Kid ... hope's a helluva drug. You sure you're not overdosing?"

Charlie looked up, her violet eyes glowing with fierce, tear-bright light.

"I'm sure," she whispered.

And somehow—impossibly—she smiled.

A thin, cracked thing.

But real.

"We're not giving up on Adam!"

HE NEEDS REDEMPTION!

Chapter Text

If only they had been—

"FASTER!"

If only they had been—

"STRONGER!"

If only they had been—

"ENOUGH!"

Lute's voice cracked like a whip through the training yard, echoing off the walls of Heaven's once-placid training grounds—now transformed into something far more unforgiving. The air smelled of sweat, blood, and dust.

"AGAIN!" she barked.

Dozens of Exorcists dropped and rose in perfect unison, wings strapped, feet blistered, faces stone. Some bled. None dared slow down.

"Those fucking Sinners don't wait for you to catch your breath!" Lute shouted, pacing like a lioness, her eyes fierce, rimmed in sleepless crimson. "You hesitate, you die. You fall behind, you die. You flinch—"

Lute's boot slammed into the stone beside a lagging Exorcist's foot—not hard enough to break, but enough to jolt. The girl flinched, just as Lute had warned against, and Lute's snarl deepened.

"—Adam dies."

The name hit like a brand.

Many Exorcists faltered. Not in their movements — they'd been trained past that — but in their eyes. One clenched her jaw so tightly her teeth bled. Another blinked hard, a tear tracing down her soot-streaked cheek only to be scorched away by the heat of exertion.

Lute noticed everything. And she allowed it.

Just this once.

She didn't believe in comfort. Not anymore. Comfort was what they had when Adam was alive. Comfort was what made them weak.

Since the last Extermination, their training had changed. Gone were the days of drills and light sparring. Now, every session in the training grounds was a war rehearsal. Each Exorcist carried weight—literal and metaphorical—strapped to their backs, arms, wings.

Lute halted, watching as one of them buckled under the weight of her training load—twenty pounds of steel and a slab of stone etched with the names of the fallen. The girl collapsed to her knees, wings twitching, blood from an earlier scrape smearing across her cheek as she tried to push herself up again.

She failed.

"Name." Lute snapped.

The girl hesitated. That was mistake number two.

Lute was on her in a heartbeat, crouching low until their faces were inches apart.

"Name." she repeated, low and cold.

The girl swallowed hard. "Dana." she whispered.

"And who died because you weren't strong enough, Dana?"

The yard went still.

All movement halted—no command needed. The Exorcists knew better than to move when that question was asked. It was Lute's blade: the question she wielded like a guillotine.

Dana's lips trembled.

Lute leaned closer, her breath hot with fury and guilt.

"Say it."

"... Kaela." Dana finally whispered. "I—I was too slow. I turned too late. And she—"

"She died screaming." Lute finished for her. "Because you couldn't get your fucking feet under you in time!"

Dana's tears finally came, quiet and furious. But Lute didn't let up.

"Does anyone here not carry a name!?"

Silence.

Lute nodded once, slowly, eyes flicking between each of them.

"I don't care if you're tired. I don't care if you're broken. I don't care if you fucking hate me!"

Her voice was low now—almost gentle, but laced with a venom that cut deeper than her shouting ever could.

"Because hate means you're still breathing. Pain means you're still standing. And standing means you've got one more chance to make sure the next Dana doesn't have to carry the next Kaela."

She rose to her full height, tall and blazing like a monument forged in rage, grief, and fire. The other Exorcists stared, unblinking. Behind them, Heaven's once-glimmering towers caught the light of dusk like blade edges. Even the clouds seemed to hang heavier now—denser, grayer, mourning in silence.

Lute turned her back to them and started walking, boots echoing off the stone. Then, without turning:

"Pick her up."

Two Exorcists peeled off the line, dragging Dana to her feet. Her body shook, but her eyes held steady.

"Again!" Lute commanded, raising her hand.

This time, no hesitation. The yard thundered to life. Wings extended and snapped back. Blades clanged. Bodies moved like a single machine driven by vengeance and guilt.

Hell took Adam and their sisters from them.

AND HELL WILL FUCKING PAY!

Dragging their feet back into the Hotel, Charlie felt heavier than she'd ever imagined possible. The burning echoes of Adam's music still rang in her ears, each note a hammer driving nails into the coffin of her optimism. The lobby seemed colder, emptier—even with the others trailing behind her, their silence deafening.

Alastor glanced up from the front desk, his smile unwavering, though there was a knowing glint behind his eyes.

"Ah! Back so soon?" he quipped cheerily, twirling his cane. "I take it the outreach went splendidly?"

Vaggie shot him a murderous glare. "Not now, Alastor."

The Radio Demon shrugged lightly, lips curling wider. "Of course, of course. Failure is such exhausting work."

Charlie flinched, feeling Vaggie stiffen protectively beside her.

"Lay off, Alastor." Angel Dust snapped, flopping into an armchair and kicking his boots up onto a battered coffee table. "We got our asses handed to us enough already."

"Shame. I was hoping to see you all bring the First Man in like you promised." Alastor tapped his cane once on the tiled floor, the click echoing too loud in the tense silence.

"You ... want to see Adam?" Vaggie says skeptically. "After what he did to you before?"

Alastor's eyes narrowed—just a fraction—but the smile remained. "Why my dear, I'm not one to hold grudges. In fact, I've even prepared a gift for him." Alastor fishes out a rather large box, wrapped in deep crimson paper and bound in a ribbon that slithered ever so slightly, like a serpent caught mid-twitch.

He set it carefully on the counter with both hands, then stepped back like a proud stage magician unveiling his greatest trick.

"How unusually ... generous." Husk muttered, eyeing the box like it might sprout teeth and bite him. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling a slow ribbon of smoke. "What's the catch, Alastor?"

"Husk! Don't be rude!" Charlie scolded, standing up and approaching the box. "Alastor is showing that he is willing to bury old grudges for the greater good—something we could all stand to do more often." she said, though the words felt hollow in her mouth. Even as she spoke, her hand hovered over the ribbon without touching it, the air around the box tingling with a kind of wrongness. The ribbon twitched again, just slightly, and Charlie's smile faltered.

Alastor's grin widened, his teeth far too white in the dim lobby light. "Exactly, my dear. Consider it ... an olive branch."

"That is so ... great, Alastor!" Charlie says with a forced smile. "But just out of curiosity, what's in the box?"

"Oh, my dear, dear Charlie." he said, voice dripping like syrup and velvet. "Isn't the surprise always the best part of a gift?"

Charlie glanced again at the box, eyeing it warily.

"Alastor ..." Vaggie growled, stepping forward. "If that thing explodes, mutates, or eats someone, I swear—"

"You wound me!" Alastor chuckled. "Perish the thought! I assure you it's quite safe. Or at least ..." He paused, tilting his head. "... not a danger for anyone present."

"I'm sorry!" Immediately, Charlie took the box lid off and a blur of red, pink, and manic energy burst from within.

"BAD BOY!" Niffty shouted, leaping straight out of the box like a party popper laced with cocaine. Her grin was wide and wild, her eye twitching with excitement—and something sharper, deeper—something wrong.

"Where is he!? Where is the bad boy!?" Niffty cackled, landing in a crouch with uncanny precision, her fingers splayed against the lobby tiles like a spider ready to pounce. Her other hand clutching the angelic dagger still caked in Adam's angelic blood.

She scampers off, leaving smeared prints behind her like some hellborn bloodhound on a warpath.

"N-Niffty!?" Charlie yelped, stumbling back as the tiny pink blur bolted across the room.

"She was gift-wrapped!?" Vaggie shouted, already drawing her spear from behind the front desk. "Are you fucking kidding me, Alastor!?"

Alastor, utterly unbothered, clasped his hands together with theatrical satisfaction. "Isn't she just delightful? I must say, keeping her in was no small task. But now that the object of her affection has made such a public ... debut, I thought I help her meet her idol."

"Niffty was in that box the whole time?" Angel Dust gawped. "I thought it had been unusually quiet."

"Where is the bad boy!? Where is the big broken birdy—" Niffty sang as she scuttled up the hotel wall, upside-down, blade glinting under the broken chandelier light. Her movements were too fast, a blur of twitching muscle memory and obsession.

"Angel, stop her!" Charlie shouted, panic spiking her voice as Niffty cartwheeled across the ceiling like a ceiling fan, leaving fresh stab-marks in the plaster.

Angel Dust shot upright with a groan. "Ugh, fine! But I ain't liable if she bites!"

"Please Alastor, I'm want to welcome Adam to the hotel when he inadvertently arrives so—"

"No!" Vaggie cut in, stepping between Charlie and Alastor, her spear leveled and her glare as sharp as the tip. "We're not just going to let him walk in here and pretend it's all going to be fine! Did you not see what we saw earlier at the stadium!?"

Charlie flinched, guilt twisting behind her eyes. "I know, Vaggie, I know. But—"

"But nothing! He nearly got us killed! And now you want to roll out the red carpet for him like he's some kind of misunderstood rockstar!?" Vaggie snapped. Her voice cracked, not just with anger—but fear. "He. Is. Not. Worth. Saving!"

Alastor, still smiling, leaned casually on his cane. "Personally, I think it's wonderful. Let the boy come. Let's see what he makes of the hospitality I've prepared."

Charlie's hands balled into fists. Her voice came out low, trembling with restraint. "Please, he's hurt and confused ... and I just know that he is waiting for someone to reach out a hand and mean it."

THAT SOMEONE IS HER!

The words spilled from Charlie like a plea, a prayer—half to Vaggie, half to herself. Her voice cracked at the end, trembling beneath the weight of too much failure and too much hope.

"We don't need him Charlie!" Vaggie snapped, stepping closer. "We have Angel and unlike Adam, Angel actually WANTS redemption."

"Ehhhh, I could take it or leave it." Angel shrugged, fluffing his chest as he leaned back again, having given up on catching Niffty. "I mean, sure, being redeemed sounds cute and all. But if I'm being real? You're the only reason I'm even still trying, Princess."

That landed harder than he probably meant it to.

Charlie blinked at him, caught between gratitude and heartbreak. But before she could speak, Vaggie exploded.

"Do you hear yourself, Charlie!?" she snapped, arms flung wide. "You're banking the entire future of this hotel—our future—on someone who literally screamed 'fuck Heaven!' just a few hours ago! He doesn't want saving!"

"HE DOES!" Charlie shouted, louder than she meant to.

The force of it stunned the room into silence.

Even Niffty—halfway through carving a heart into the ceiling with Adam's name in it—paused, blinking down at Charlie with wide, unblinking eye.

Charlie's breath hitched. Her voice cracked. "He does, Vaggie. You didn't see it like I did. You didn't feel it. I know everyone saw a monster with a guitar and an army of fallen Exorcists, but I—" Her hand clenched over her chest, trembling. "I saw someone who's hurting. Someone who thinks he has to burn the world down to feel alive again."

Her gaze swept across the room, landing briefly on each of them.

"I know he has hurt all of us before." Charlie continued, voice shaking, but steadying as she spoke. "And I know how much I'm asking of all of you. But if we give up on Adam, we're giving up on the very reason this hotel exists."

Vaggie's glare softened just a fraction, the anger draining into weary, raw frustration. "Charlie, not everyone wants to be saved."

Charlie met her gaze squarely, eyes shimmering with unshed tears but burning with determination. "Maybe that's because no one ever told them they deserved to be."

A heavy silence fell, broken only by Niffty's quiet, distracted humming as she resumed her frantic carving.

Angel Dust shifted uncomfortably, looking away and scratching at the upholstery of the chair. "Look, I ain't sayin' I agree with Miss Doom-and-Gloom here—but Vaggie's got a point. Adam ain't exactly beggin' for salvation."

Husk snorted, puffing another cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "You weren't exactly beggin' either. As I recall, you wanted to stay here cause it was 'rent free'."

Angel shot Husk a venomous look. "Yeah, well at least I didn't try inciting a fucking riot! There's fucked-up, and then there's Adam-level fucked-up."

"Says the former mobster." Husk muttered.

Charlie rubbed her temples, feeling the throb of an impending headache building like storm clouds behind her eyes. "Listen—just because he's not begging for redemption doesn't mean he's not crying out for help. People lash out when they're desperate. Adam is just louder than most.

Alastor chuckled softly, folding his hands neatly atop his cane. "My, such delightful optimism! But I'm curious—what exactly do you think Adam's version of 'crying for help' looks like? Because from what I've seen," he gestured toward the television, now silent and cracked from earlier chaos, "it's more a symphony of screams than a plea for salvation."

Charlie bit her lip. "He's afraid, Alastor. He's afraid that if he stops fighting, he'll have nothing left."

Vaggie groaned in frustration, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Charlie, you're projecting. Adam isn't you. He isn't misunderstood, or secretly kind, or just 'going through something'. He's exactly what he's shown us—a violent, arrogant bastard who enjoys hurting others."

"But what if he's not!?" Charlie's voice was almost pleading now, desperation cracking through despite her attempts at strength. "What if no one's ever actually given him the chance to be anything else?"

The room fell quiet again.

"Adam got into Heaven once." Charlie whispered fiercely, her voice shaking but unyielding, fists clenched at her sides. "Do you really think Heaven would've let him in if there wasn't something good—something worthy—deep inside him?"

A heavy silence hung over the lobby, thick enough to choke on.

Vaggie stared at Charlie, torn between admiration and disbelief, her spear slowly lowering. "Charlie ..."

But Charlie wasn't finished. She took a breath, eyes blazing with a stubborn, fierce hope that refused to be extinguished.

"Give him a chance." Charlie says as she clasp Vaggie's hands in her own. "Give Adam the chance that I've given all of you."

Her voice softened to a pleading whisper, the words so fragile they nearly shattered in the air between them. Charlie clutched Vaggie's hands tighter, holding on as though afraid that if she let go, her hope might crumble completely.

Vaggie's single eye widened, then narrowed, emotions warring openly across her face—pain, anger, fear, and beneath it all, the undeniable tenderness she felt for Charlie. Her shoulders slumped slightly, the spear slipping from her grip to clatter against the lobby floor.

"Charlie ..." Vaggie began, her voice breaking. "You're asking us—asking me—to trust someone who's done nothing but cause pain. I just don't—"

"I know." Charlie whispered, tears shimmering at the corners of her eyes but refusing to fall. "But redemption means nothing if we only give it to people who are easy to love. It has to be for those who seem impossible, too."

Angel Dust shifted in his seat, tugging at his bowtie awkwardly. "Damn, Princess, that hits hard even for me."

"She has a point." Husk muttered grudgingly, flicking ash onto the floor. "Hell's full of lost causes. If she wants to go for the biggest fuck-up here, that's her business."

Angel shot Husk a glare, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You ever thought about working in PR, whiskers? You're a natural."

Charlie gave a weak, grateful smile at their attempts to ease the tension, but her eyes never left Vaggie's.

"Please, Vaggie." Charlie urged softly. "I know he hurt you. And I hate that he did—but this is our chance. This is my chance to prove the hotel isn't just a dream."

Vaggie drew a slow, ragged breath, her hands shaking faintly in Charlie's grip. Her voice dropped to a low murmur, heavy with reluctance and resignation. "Do you really think Adam will even listen?"

Charlie's smile brightened, hope igniting again despite everything. "Maybe not at first. But deep down, he's lost. He thinks Hell is his only home now, but we can show him there's another way. He can still belong somewhere better."

Across the lobby, Alastor cleared his throat theatrically. "I must admit, your unwavering optimism is quite inspiring! Perhaps it'll be just enough to survive the inevitable bloodshed—ah, negotiations—that Adam will bring to the Hotel."

Charlie turned toward Alastor, her jaw firm, eyes glittering with defiance. "If that's what it takes, we'll do it. We'll handle whatever Adam brings with him, even if he brings all of Hell along. Redemption is worth the risk."

Angel Dust groaned, slumping deeper into his chair. "Alright, fuck it—I'm in. But only cause watchin Adam meet Niffty sounds like the best goddamn entertainment in town."

On cue, Niffty paused her carving again, blinking rapidly. "Did someone say the bad boy is coming here!?"

She dropped from the ceiling in a blur of pink and blood-red, scampering off to presumably find something sharp, something clean, or both.

Vaggie watched Niffty go, exhaling slowly as if releasing something heavy and painful. Finally, she looked back to Charlie, defeat and love warring openly across her features. "Fine. I still think this is a terrible idea, Charlie—but if you're so sure, I'll trust you. Not him. You."

Charlie threw her arms around Vaggie in a crushing embrace, relief washing over her like a tidal wave. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Vaggie hesitated, then wrapped her arms around Charlie, gently squeezing her in return. "But the second he tries anything—"

"We'll be ready." Charlie smiled against Vaggie's shoulder, nodding eagerly. "Now we just need someway to get Adam in to the Hotel."

"If I might make a suggestion." Angel Dust comes up between the two and slings his arms around their shoulders. "I have the perfect idea to get the self-proclaimed 'Dickmaster' to us."

Charlie eagerly turned to Angel Dust, her hopeful spark reigniting like a gas flame catching air. "Tell me!"

"Well, if the three us wore some lingerie and went up to him—"

"Absolutely not!" Vaggie snapped, shoving Angel Dust's arm off her shoulder so hard he stumbled back into the couch with a yelp.

"Hey! No need for violence!" Angel grinned, arms flailing with mock offense. "I'm just saying, we gotta use what we got! Him being the First Man and all, I figure he has some in built breeding kink and if the three of us presented—"

"ANGEL!" Vaggie's voice dropped an octave into something that could peel paint.

Angel Dust threw his hands up in surrender, a roguish smirk curling on his face. "Okay, okay! Sheesh, no need to go full Exorcist on my ass. I'm just trying to help."

"Like as if he would go for your ass." Husk muttered dryly with a small chuckle.

"Hey! I've made plenty of guys switch team for a chance to—"

"Guys!" Charlie clapped, interrupting their bickering before it got too much. "As much as I appreciate the ... enthusiasm ... let's maybe avoid using seduction as our first strategy."

Angel Dust shrugged, half-heartedly inspecting his fingernails. "Suit yourself, but I'm keeping it on the list. Y'know. Just in case diplomacy fails."

Charlie groaned, dragging a hand down her face, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite herself. Vaggie shot Angel a glare sharp enough to make a grown demon flinch, but even she looked slightly more relaxed. The tension in the room had eased—not disappeared—but eased.

"Hon, relax. Adam has only been in Hell for less than a week." Vaggie said, softening a little more as she tucked a strand of hair behind Charlie's ear. "And while he did recruit the Exorcists that fell, what's the worse that he can do? This is Hell after all."

"Let them go!" Carmilla Carmine spat the words like venom, her voice ragged from smoke and fury. She struggled against her restraints but She struggled against her restraints, blood trickling down her temple, her clothes scorched at the shoulder from a recent explosion.

She sat in the shattered remains of her once-untouchable fortress at the heart of the Industrial Sector—its steel walls buckled, its power grid in ruins, and her guards nothing more than blood on the rust-streaked floor.

Across from her, Adam leaned casually against a stack of scorched machinery, crimson-coated axe-guitar resting against his shoulder like a king's scepter.

His Exorcists flanked him in loose formation, a terrifying blend of war-worn grace and casual bloodlust. Harper leaned against a twisted support beam, wiping gore from her blade with a rag that might once have been silk. Kaela crouched over a still-twitching Sinner guard methodically emptying the bastard's pockets. Luna sat on a crushed desk, rebar across her knees like a baseball bat, quietly cracking her knuckles one by one.

And in front of them, kneeling and gagged with an angelic steel blade precariously close to their throat were Clara and Odette.

It had happened so quickly.

One moment she was walking through the street of her district with her daughters and the next they were surrounded—swallowed whole by the creeping shadow of Adam's army. Her people were taken by surprise, and those that had tried to reach the angelic steel weapons in the armory had been cut down before their fingers brushed the cases. The rest fled—or surrendered.

Fucking cowards.

"You waltz into my territory, attack my people, tear down everything I've bled to build," Carmilla snarled, her voice trembling with rage, "and now you have the balls to threaten my daughters and offer me a deal? When Zestial arrives, he'll—"

"Babe, I don't give a fuck." Adam said it like it was a fact, not a threat. "In this fucking Hellhole, you're the one with angelic steel and my girl and I fucking want it."

Adam took a single step forward, the floor groaning beneath his boot like it was afraid to hold him. His voice dropped to a low, venomous snarl, each word sharpened with restrained fury.

"... How did you know?" Carmilla dared to ask. After the last Extermination, she had reclaimed the angelic weapons the hotel, cannibals and others had used to fight the angels, part of the initial agreement that she had made with them.

"A little birdie told me." Adam drawled. "Isn't that right, Sophie?"

From the shadows, another Exorcist turned Sinner stepped out and the moment Carmilla saw the neat scar line across her neck, she knew exactly who Adam meant.

The Exorcist that she beheaded months back while saving her daughters.

"Remember me?"

Carmilla's blood went cold.

She had cut this girl's head clean off while dragging her daughters through fire and blood. She remembered the pop of vertebrae, the feel of divine steel slicing through tendon and air. She remembered watching the body fall twitching while the head rolled toward the gutter.

And now that same girl stood before her.

Sophie's grin was off-kilter, unhinged—like her soul had been stitched back together with barbed wire and gasoline. She takes one slow step forward, boots crunching glass underfoot.

"You took my fucking head off." she said calmly—too calmly. Her smile didn't reach her eyes, which glimmered with something wild and splintered. "I think that deserves ... what? A chat? A hug? A matching scar?"

Carmilla didn't flinch. "You were trying to kill my daughters."

Sophie chuckled, the sound hollow and then, without warning, she struck.

Carmilla's head snapped sideways under the force of the first punch, blood spraying from her split lip. The impact rang through the ruined chamber like a dropped bell.

Before the echo could fade, the second punch landed—this time straight to Carmilla's gut, a vicious jab that folded her forward in her chair with a ragged grunt.

Clara and Odette screamed behind their gags, thrashing against the blades at their throats.

Sophie raised her hand for a third strike—

And Adam caught her wrist.

"Relax babe, we need her mouth in one piece." Adam said smoothly, his grip like iron around Sophie's trembling wrist.

Sophie blinked once—twice—her wild, fractured grin flickering like a dying lightbulb. She looked at Adam for a long moment, that fractured loyalty swimming in her broken gaze. Then she relaxed, lowering her fist with a soft, choked laugh that sounded like it was trying to pass for normal.

"Yes, Sir."

Adam let go.

Carmilla coughed blood onto the floor, glaring up at him with hate burning through the red. Her lip was split, one eye swelling shut—but her spine hadn't broken. Not yet.

"So what?" Carmilla questioned. "I may have killed one but you're no better. You left another behind."

"Who? Vagina?" Adam said, casually inspecting a bloodied fingernail like the name was nothing more than gossip. "You girls miss her?"

"Not at all, Sir." Harper grinned, sharp and unrepentant, twirling the silk-stained blade between her fingers like it was a toy. "She nagged too much. Could never take a joke."

Luna didn't respond. She just smirked, a thin, brutal little expression that said everything without saying a word. Her knuckles popped in rhythm, slow and deliberate, like the ticking of a countdown clock.

Kaela, crouched beside the looted body, snorted. "Honestly? It's quieter without her." She tossed a gold tooth into her pocket like loose change.

He leaned forward, leveling his gaze with Carmilla's as the red-streaked guitar-axe dipped lower, trailing along the floor with a metallic rasp. Sparks scattered where the blade kissed steel.

"As you can see, no love loss for that bitch. But you did kill one of my own though so in exchange, I'll kill one of yours." Adam voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.

Adam's gaze locked onto Clara, whose breath hitched behind the gag. Carmilla moved, lunging forward—but stopped short as Harper flicked her angelic steel blade toward Odette's neck. One more inch and she'd draw real blood.

"Hmmm, which to choose ... eenie meenie miney—"

"DON'T." Carmilla hissed, fists trembling, lips peeled back in a snarl. "Don't you dare touch them."

Carmilla's breath heaved in her throat, teeth grit so tight she thought her jaw might snap. Every instinct screamed at her to strike—to burn this bastard alive, consequences be damned. But her daughters were still gagged. Still kneeling. Still one twitch away from bleeding out across angelic steel and she was in no position to help.

"Take me." she growled. "If it's vengeance you want—take me instead. Let them go."

Adam tilted his head slowly, as if genuinely considering it. Tapping his finger to his chin as if thoughtfully contemplating her proposal.

"Hmmmm ... No." Adam flashed a grin behind the blood-smeared mask.

"Then what do you want!? My soul!?" Carmilla spat the words defiantly, eyes blazing with fury, desperation, and something beneath it—fear she was trying and failing to hide. "Is that it, you sick bastard!?"

Adam actually laughed at that—sharp and humorless, more like a knife against stone than anything approaching amusement.

"Your soul? That's cute." He echoed, almost mockingly, before stepping closer again. The guitar-axe dragged slowly behind him, sparking faintly against the ground like a trail of stars dying at his heels. "Do I look like some bitch ass Overlord to you?"

"Then what!?" Carmilla shouted, her voice cracking under the strain of anger and helplessness.

Adam stopped just inches from her, his crimson-edged mask filling her vision until it was all she could see. His voice dropped to a dangerously calm whisper.

"I want your loyalty." Adam said, each word measured like he was savoring it.

Carmilla swallowed, her eyes darting briefly to Clara and Odette, kneeling and trembling, before locking back on Adam.

"What do you mean 'loyalty'?" Carmilla hissed through clenched teeth. "You want me to bow? You want my territory?"

Adam tilted his head, considering her words before a cold, almost amused chuckle escaped him again.

"Territory? Babe, you can keep your little shitty empire. You can keep your machines, your factories, your money, and your precious power—"

He leaned in closer, the sharp edge of his voice slicing into her like a razor.

"But from now on, you're under new management."

Carmilla's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing into furious slits. "New management?"

"Exactly." Adam straightened, gesturing lazily toward Harper, Luna, and Kaela. "My girls provide protection. Real protection. You handle business, you keep your little toys running, you even keep your name on the door—but you answer to me. Directly."

Harper twirled her blade in a slow, lazy circle, grinning viciously as she watched Carmilla's face twist in fury and humiliation. Luna remained silent, her eyes sharp, unreadable, but fiercely ready to strike at a single word from Adam. Kaela chuckled, still looting a corpse, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

"And what happens if I refuse?" Carmilla whispered harshly, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.

Adam shrugged, casual and careless—but his eyes burned behind his mask with lethal certainty.

"Then you watch your daughters bleed out, and when you're done screaming, I'll give you to Sophie as a gift." He glanced fondly at his lieutenant, who raised her eyebrows and blew Carmilla a mocking kiss. "She hasn't been exactly enjoying fucking Hell before I found her and her hands have been itching for some payback."

Carmilla's breath hitched, heart hammering hard enough to choke her. She closed her eyes, fists trembling at her sides.

"You don't have to like it." Adam continued, voice strangely gentle now—mockingly comforting. "You don't even have to pretend to fucking like it. But you will accept it. Because if you don't—well, you know."

He leaned back, his axe-guitar once again slung casually over his shoulder, utterly confident. Waiting.

Carmilla opened her eyes slowly, the flames of defiance dying into smoldering ashes of bitter resignation.

"Fine." she growled through clenched teeth, every syllable tasting like bile.

Adam smiles and Sophie undoes the restraints on Carmilla. She makes no move to resist and when Adam raised his hand, Carmilla slowly walked toward him.

She didn't shake. She didn't bow. But her silence was louder than surrender.

Carmilla stopped just in front of him, her breath ragged, her lip still bleeding. She looked up, eye-to-mask, hatred radiating from every inch of her being. And yet—she didn't lash out. Not with her daughters still gagged, still alive.

Their hands clasped—hers still trembling with rage, his firm and cold.

Red smoke hissed up from where their palms met, coiling like a serpent, spinning tighter and tighter until it snapped into the shape of a glowing spectral handcuff—its chain clinking into place with a sound that echoed like a final judgment.

Carmilla didn't flinch, but her eyes narrowed with fury as the magic took root. The cuff tightened, burning the mark of the contract into her wrist, leaving a faint, angry glow beneath the skin. Adam's cuff settled just as quietly, the smoke hissing into the weave of his glove.

With the only source of Angelic steel material and refinement now secured under his thumb, Adam exhaled slow and deep, the sound rattling through his mask like a beast finally sated.

"Guess there are smart ones in this shithole." He murmured, voice low and heavy as thunder.

Her daughters were released. Clara collapsed into her mother's arms with a choked sob the moment the blade left her throat. Odette spat out the gag and lunged toward Harper, who smirked and easily sidestepped her, letting the girl trip over her own fury.

Adam didn't even glance back. He was already walking toward the massive steel doors Carmilla once used to keep the world out. Now they swung open before him like gates to a conquered city. The Exorcists followed in his wake—Kaela still looting, Luna dragging a limp body by the ankle, Harper falling in step with eerie calm.

"You got fucking lucky." Sophia spat before following the others.

Carmilla stood frozen, daughters trembling at her sides, the glowing cuff on her wrist feeling heavier than any shackle.

Chapter Text

"You certainly took your time." Carmilla didn't look up from her desk as she went over the latest reports compiled by her daughters. Zestial hadn't knocked nor announced his arrival and yet, Carmilla sensed his arrival all the same.

"Apologies, Carmilla," came the reply, cool and sonorous, "for mine absence did stretch far beyond what I had expected. However, thou dost not seem all too unpleased. Why is that?"

At that, Carmilla finally raised her eyes. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs slowly, deliberately. "Because I'm not an idiot."

A pause.

Zestial arched a brow. "How thou woundest me, sweet Carmilla. Dost think me negligent of thy plight?"

Carmilla snorted. "Spare me the florid pity."

Zestial stepped forward with measured grace. "I see not thy grief writ upon thy countenance. Nay—I see satisfaction. Strange, for a soul spurned."

She slid the report across the desk toward him with a flat look. "Convoy attacks have gone down by over 80%. Internal theft has dropped to nearly zero. And my arms shipments? ALL of them are moving on time."

Carmilla tapped a freshly manicured nail against the edge of the parchment. "Profits have tripled. Tripled." Her lips twisted—not quite into a smile, but something sharper. "And the only thing bleeding lately are the idiots stupid enough to try attacking us or those skimming off the top."

Zestial glanced down at the parchment, long fingers brushing across the paper like he was caressing scripture. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes flicked up toward her, slow and deliberate.

"Ah. So Hell's arms-dealer hath grown accustomed to the shepherd's blade—so long as it doth not taste her flesh."

Carmilla scoffed, rising from her chair with feline ease. She moved to the window, gazing out over the scorched skyline of her territory—now humming with industry under Exorcist-turned-Sinners watch. The silhouette of two such patrolling the rooftops.

"I don't care whose boot presses on whose throat," she said coldly, "so long as I'm still standing—and my girls are breathing."

"Yet thy soul doth tremble." Zestial murmured, stepping closer. "For thou art not fool enough to think this alliance shall endure without cost."

Carmilla turned to face him fully now, eyes flashing. "I'm not an idiot. In addition to having to house his little pets, I now have another pain to deal with."

Carmilla's voice lowered, lips curling around the next word like it was poison. "Sophia."

Zestial tilted his head, as if savoring the name on his tongue like an aftertaste of ash.

"Ah, the revenant whelp. Reforged in spite and Adam's will. A creature of vengeance wrapped in thy own misdeed."

Carmilla's jaw tightened. She didn't respond right away—just turned back toward her desk and began rearranging the neat stack of ledgers with methodical purpose.

"Adam placed her in-charge of audits." Carmilla said evenly. "But I know better. She's here for me."

Zestial's footsteps were soft, but steady—each one measured like he was counting sins beneath his breath. "Thou thinkest she seeks thy downfall?"

"No." she said flatly. "I know she does."

"Then thine error at her hand hath yet to be repaid in full." Zestial said.

"I cut off her head." Carmilla snapped.

"Perhaps thou could claim it twas an accident?" Zestial replies mockingly.

"Very funny." Carmilla rolled her eyes, dragging a hand down her face in a long, slow stroke of frustration. She slowly steps up to the windows and parts the blinds to see Exorcists patrolling her streets.

"Ever since Adam trained them to adapt to Urban warfare, they've been everywhere. On the rooftops, in the alleys, guarding convoys and even inside my factories." Her voice turned low, bitter. "One of them caught a foreman skimming ammo, and the bastard was duct-taped to a smokestack by dawn. I will admit ... they are far better then the Loan Sharks I used to hire."

Zestial's smile curled like parchment catching flame.

"Then thou hast tasted the fruits of discipline," he murmured, "sweet upon the tongue, though their roots be watered in blood."

Carmilla let the blinds fall back into place with a soft snap. "Discipline I can live with." she said. "It's the surveillance I can't stand."

She turned to face him fully now, arms crossed, jaw taut. "Every step I take, I feel her eyes on me. I see Sophia in reflections that shouldn't have reflections."

Zestial drifted toward the desk, brushing a fingertip along the engraved edge. "Thou knowest her loyalty lies not with coin nor code. She and her sisters are loyal to one alone."

"Adam." Carmilla finished, the word tasting like copper.

Carmilla moved back behind her desk, seating herself with slow, deliberate poise. Her fingers steepled. Her voice lowered to a rasp.

"I won't give Sophia the satisfaction. I'm too useful. Adam knows it. Even she knows it."

Zestial's gaze flicked downward, his expression unreadable beneath the weight of his silence.

"And yet," he said softly, "usefulness doth not make thee untouchable. A blade may serve its master well—until the moment it is seen as dull. Then it is cast aside… or melted down."

Carmilla smirked, the curve of her lips bitter and self-aware.

"Then I'll just have to stay sharp."

Zestial chuckled—low, dark, almost musical in its mockery.

"Ah, thou art steel indeed, Carmilla Carmine. Tempered in pride, cooled in blood, and honed on the whetstone of necessity." He leaned slightly forward, his voice dipping into something colder. "But thou art not the only weapon in Adam's arsenal. Nor the most beloved."

"Believe me, I'm well aware." Carmilla said, eyes narrowing, "But if Sophia thinks she is going to find anything incriminating, she's sorely mistaken."

Zestial's eyes glinted with amusement, dark and knowing. "Beware hubris, sweet Carmilla. 'Tis the favored poison of Hell. Thy confidence doth cloak vulnerability, yet it shields thee not from thine own missteps."

Carmilla scoffed softly, her gaze drifting briefly to the ledger again, numbers so clean they practically gleamed. Her expression hardened. "My numbers are perfect. My books are immaculate. Sophia will starve waiting for me to stumble."

Zestial tilted his head slightly, a thin smile curving his lips. "Yet she seeks no feast, but a single crumb. Thou art prudent, yes—but even prudence weareth thin under endless watch."

"I guess we'll see." Carmilla finished coolly.

Peeking around the corner, Charlie and Vaggie got an eyeful of the Industrial District. Rows upon rows of Exorcists-turned-Sinners filled the streets, some of their uniforms were now replaced with leather jackets, spikes, and whatever scavenged armor they could find. Many stood vigilant at the corners or on the roofs while some lounged lazily atop wrecked vehicles, chatting and laughing with the local Sinners—something Vaggie found downright bizarre, her eye wide with disbelief.

"Are they ... seriously just hanging out with Sinners?" Vaggie whispered harshly, sounding both shock and confused.

Charlie on the other hand was over the moon at what she was seeing. She nodded excitedly, clasping her hands together as though she'd just witnessed a miracle. "This is amazing! Exorcists mingling peacefully with Sinners! See!? Adam is trying to make things better to get himself and the Exorcists redeemed!"

HE DEFINITELY WANTS REDEMPTION!

"This isn't exactly peaceful coexistence." Vaggie hissed back, pointing sharply toward the distant commotion. "Look!"

Charlie followed Vaggie's gaze, and her hopeful smile quickly faded.

A small group of Sinners—obviously cannibals from the bloody bone necklaces they wore—had wandered too close to the Exorcist patrol line. Without hesitation, several Exorcists leaped forward, weapons drawn, brutally knocking the intruders to the ground. The cannibals shrieked in pain, cowering as kicks, punches, and the flat side of angelic steel blades rained down mercilessly.

"Okay, that's ... that's not great." Charlie winced, covering her mouth with her hand as she watched the violent spectacle unfold. "Granted, they might be a little peeved at what happened before, but I still say this is a step in the right direction. Sort of."

Charlie straightens her clothes, ready to go meet Adam and the Exorcists when Vaggie suddenly yanks her back roughly. "Are you out of your mind? You saw what they just did and I'm very sure that will be us next if we—"

"It'll be fine Vaggie. All we have to do is approach with our hands up, show them we mean no harm and—"

A sniper shot rings out, and a distant Sinner with a mohawk and a steel jaw drops mid-jog, face-first into a rusted-out car. The Exorcists above give a thumbs up to a distant rooftop, where another sharpshooter adjusts her scope and flashes a grin.

"And they have fucking guns now! Fucking great." Vaggie whisper-screamed, ducking behind the crumbling brick wall and yanking Charlie down with her. She could only hope they weren't armed with angelic steel bullets as well. "Charlie, I am begging you! Let's just go back!"

"No! We've come this far," Charlie insisted, pulling her arm free. Her eyes burned with stubborn hope even as her voice trembled. "If we turn back now, we're just proving we don't believe in redemption. I have to believe Adam can be reasoned with!"

"We'll die!" Vaggie snapped, gripping Charlie's arm with white-knuckled urgency.

Her voice trembled—not from fear of death, but fear of losing Charlie.

Charlie pulled away, softer this time. "Then let's not die." She peeked again, lower this time, keeping to the shadows as her eyes scanned the buildings at the district's edge.

After a few seconds, Charlie turns back to face Vaggie and she wore a grin that made Vaggie's stomach twist into a cold knot.

"No." Vaggie said instantly. "I know that grin means—"

Charlie ignored her, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"It's Foolproof!"

"Admit it! That was an awesome shot! I nailed that bastard," Kaela said, leaning lazily against the parapet of the old smokestack-turned-sniper's nest. She popped a piece of gum in her mouth, jaw working slowly as her eyes flicked to the sprawled body below. "Didn't even twitch. What was that, 400 yards?"

"432," Luna replied coolly, adjusting the scope on her rifle without looking up. "Wind was coming off the East. You overcompensated by a hair, but he was dumb enough to move left."

Kaela huffed. "C'mon, let me have this. I'm getting better."

"You are." Luna admitted, which for her was practically a standing ovation. "At least, a lot better then you were with the revolver."

"I was still learning!" Kaela shot back, elbowing Luna lightly as she slid her rifle back into its sling. "Besides, you were the one who said, and I quote, 'just point and shoot, dumbass,' which was not exactly elite training."

Luna smirked faintly—rare, but genuine. "And now you're pointing and shooting like a pro. So I guess my methods worked."

"Yeah, yeah." Kaela rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. "Guess I owe you a drink or something."

They descended from the smokestack with the ease of trained soldiers, exchanging half-snide, half-affectionate commentary about the rookies' latest blunders. But as they entered the concrete hallway leading to their shared quarters—formerly a boiler room turned makeshift barracks—they stopped cold.

The door was ajar.

Luna's eyes narrowed. She drew her sidearm in silence. Kaela mirrored her instantly.

They exchanged a look.

Three.

Two.

One.

Luna kicked the door in.

Inside was empty.

Too empty.

Their beds were still there, but their spare uniforms? Gone. Lockers? Busted open.

"WHO THE FUCK—"

"These boots are killing my feet." Charlie whispered, grimacing as she hobbled slightly in Luna's too-tight combat boots.

Vaggie adjusted her own stolen uniform with practiced ease, her eye darting to every corner, rooftop, and shadow as they walked the street. She looked infinitely more natural in the armor—because of course she did. She had once worn it for real.

"Maybe we should have stolen a size bigger for—"

"Borrowed!" Charlie corrected. "We borrowed their uniforms."

"... right."

Charlie and Vaggie march stiffly in their stolen Exorcist uniforms, doing their best to blend in with the real soldiers. The heavy boots clunk against the steel-grated walkways, echoing slightly. Vaggie keeps her head down just enough to seem focused but not suspicious—her hands locked behind her back in textbook formation. Charlie, meanwhile, is doing her best to match Vaggie's stride, but it's like watching a newborn deer try to march.

"Okay, this is fine. We're just two totally normal, completely trained Exorcists doing our rounds. No one suspects a thing." Charlie whispered, trying and failing to keep her tone calm as she adjusted her helmet. "How do you even see in this!?"

"Charlie." Vaggie growled under her breath, never breaking stride.

As they continued marching through the streets, Vaggie kept her tone clipped, her voice low but urgent. "Where the fuck is he?"

"Let's just ask them." Charlie suggested, turning away and approaching a group of Exorcists sitting around a burning barrel, sharing what looked like canned chili and passing around a deck of bloodstained playing cards.

"NO—Charlie—!" Vaggie hissed, but it was too late.

"Hey fellow Exorcists!" Charlie called out in the most awkward, exaggeratedly cheerful voice imaginable. "Another lovely day in the Industrial District, huh?"

"... You like it here?" One of the Exorcists drawled, squinting at Charlie over a spoonful of chili.

"Ye—Oh wait, I mean, Hell no!" Charlie quickly backtracked, trying to force a grimace, like the place offended her on a spiritual level. "I—I mean ... full of Sinners, grime, endless screaming. Who needs that am I right?"

The Exorcists gave her a slow, collective blink.

Vaggie was internally screaming, already calculating how many seconds it would take to yank Charlie away before they both got end up on the tip of someone's spear.

"By the way, do you all know where Adam is?" Charlie continued, doing her best to sound casual, "You know, for ... you know?"

There was a beat of silence.

One of the Exorcists—a broad-shouldered woman with a jagged scar across her jaw—lowered her can and fixed Charlie with a squint. "You just joined or somethin'?"

"No!" Charlie blurted.

"Yes!" Vaggie said simultaneously, stepping forward and bumping her shoulder into Charlie's like she was correcting a clumsy rookie.

"Y-Yes! Very new!" Charlie chirped. "Just transferred in from, um ... North Heaven?"

Vaggie closed her eye. Just closed it. Like she was silently begging for Heaven to smite her where she stood.

"... North Heaven?"

"Yup!" Charlie nodded rapidly. "Very ... cold. Lots of uhhh ... snow. Very clean air. But I'm excited to be part of, uh … thing."

A long, slow silence.

The Exorcist leaned toward her buddy, not bothering to whisper. "What the fuck is a North Heaven?"

Vaggie quickly pushes Charlie behind her and brings her fingers to her lips, telling Charlie to zip it before turning back to the Exorcists.

"We only just arrived recently. She and I have been hiding out in the Vees territory and my friend here got hit on the head pretty hard while we were on our way here when we got ambushed by ... cannibals! She's still a little scrambled." Vaggie knocked lightly on Charlie's helmet for emphasis. "But she's enthusiastic, aren't you."

Charlie nodded quickly, giving a shaky thumbs up. "So enthusiastic. Go team."

The Exorcists stared at them both for a long beat. The fire cracked. The can of chili hissed as it was stirred. A card flopped down in the dirt with a wet plop.

Finally, the scarred woman grunted. "Poor girl. Those fucking cannibals."

The others nodded and grumbled their agreement, one muttering something about stringing up another cannibal head on the smokestack by morning. The tension bled out of the moment just enough for Vaggie to exhale.

"Yeah." said another, smaller Exorcist with an unlit cigar tucked behind her ear. "Freaks've been pushin' their luck lately but they're no match for us. Now that they're shit out of luck without the angelic steel."

"Anyway," the scarred Exorcist muttered, standing and tossing the empty chili can into the fire with a hiss, "if you're lookin' for the boss, he's in his office with Harper just North of the furnace stacks. Big metal door, got a giant "A" painted on it. Can't miss it."

Charlie beamed, maybe too brightly. "Thank you! Seriously, you all are doing a great job. Love the boots."

Vaggie muttered a panicked, "Thank you." and dragged Charlie by the elbow before she could compliment their knives next.

As they rounded the corner, out of earshot, Vaggie hissed through gritted teeth, "North Heaven!? Are you trying to get us killed!?"

"Hey, I'm just trying to fit in!" Charlie whispered defensively, adjusting her helmet again as it slid forward over her eyes. "They seem nice—once you get past the part where they used to kill Sinners ... like you! Oh gosh! So many potential guests! Does the hotel have enough space for all of—"

"Not now Charlie." Vaggie sighed hard enough to fog her visor. "Come on. If we can get to that office without getting caught or shot, maybe you can talk to Adam before anyone realizes we're not supposed to be here."

"And then we can finally offer him the chance to redeem himself and bring him back to the hotel and—" Charlie was practically going a mile a minute now, her voice rising with each hopeful syllable. Vaggie clamped a hand over Charlie's mouth before her joy gave them both away.

"Shh!" she hissed.

Charlie gave a muffled "Mmph!" of apology, eyes still shining with relentless hope, and Vaggie reluctantly pulled her hand away.

"East side!" the panicked Loan Shark screamed, thrashing in the water sloshing inside the unlit brazen bull. His voice echoed wet and desperate against the metal. "We've been hiding our stash in the East-side shipping yard under the old rail line! I swear to Satan—whatever! Just let me out!"

Outside the bull, Adam and Harper stood over the closed hatch with matching expressions of profound disappointment.

Adam sighed.

Loudly.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to Harper. "You believe this shit?"

Harper shrugged, arms crossed, one foot tapping impatiently against the grimy floor. "Didn't even light the fire yet and he is already crying like a bitch."

"I know!" Adam barked, pacing in circles now, hands flailing like a drunk frat boy trying to explain a conspiracy theory. "We haul his crusty ass all the way down here, lock him in the fuckin' bull, and this guy starts cryin' the second his balls touch lukewarm water! What the fuck!"

Harper's lip curled, unimpressed. "He squealed before the steam even kicked in."

Adam leaned down and knocked twice on the bull with his knuckles. "Hey dipshit, you're supposed to resist a little. Where's your spine, huh? Where's the evil? The swagger? What happened to 'I run this fucking town'?"

Inside, the Loan Shark just sobbed harder. "I have sensitive skin!"

Adam slowly stood upright, turned to Harper, and held up one finger.

"New rule." he said. "No more fucking fish guys. Ever. Fuckin' weak scales, weak will."

"Agreed." Harper nodded, deadpan. "Though to be fair, this one did skim from three of our drop zones."

"Yeah, and now he's cryin' in my bull." Adam folded his arms. "Which is offensive on a lotta levels. I had plans for this bull. Good plans. And now it smells like wet asshole."

He looked at the fuel line under the bull's belly. Then to Harper.

"Should we still light it?" he asked hopefully.

Harper tapped her chin. "He did skim."

Adam's eyes narrowed. "He fucking did, didn't he ... still though, seems like a waste on a guy like him."

"... Lute would do it."

"Aight, fuck it."

There was a loud metallic click as Adam twisted the valve and a puff of flame came to life beneath the bull.

The Loan Shark screamed again—not in pain, but in full anticipation of it.

"See?" Adam said, grinning. "Now he's giving me some fucking effort. All I ask."

Harper smirked. "Think we should tell him the flame is pretty small right now?"

"Nah." Adam grunted. "Let the dumbass slow roast. Builds character."

As Adam and Harper watched on, guessing how long it would take before the Loan Shark realizes the fire isn't really hot, they were interrupted by loud whispers coming from behind the main door.

"Alright, on three, we open the doors and fire off these confetti cannons and announce the Hazbin Hotel!" Charlie whispered, her face glowing with barely contained excitement as she adjusted the ridiculous streamer-cannons she'd fashioned out of stolen flare tubes and party poppers.

Vaggie, crouched behind her, stared in pure horror. "No. No. We are not doing this."

"But it's foolproof!" Charlie insisted, popping up into a crouch with all the misguided confidence of a child about to perform a magic trick in front of a firing squad. "We go in, I hit Adam with the opening pitch, boom—confetti, theme music, and heartfelt speech! He's floored emotionally and agrees to join us on the spot! The momentum is on our side this time!"

"How about we just go in and—" Vaggie tries suggesting but her sentence was cut off when the very door they were about to swing open, swung open.

"Who the fuck is—" Was the last thing Adam managed before—

"Ahh!" Charlie yelped, firing off the confetti cannon in surprise. A burst of glitter, neon ribbons, and paper stars exploded directly into Adam's face.

Adam flinched hard, his head jerking back as confetti sprayed across his mask like a party grenade had gone off in a war zone. The streamer tube bounced off his chest and clattered to the floor. He stumbled back in total confusion—right into the brazen bull, which let out a hollow, metallic clunk as it rocked off-balance. The hatch sprang open with a clang, and the Loan Shark—a damp, panicked blur of teeth and fins—shot out like a cork from a shaken soda bottle.

"FUCK THIS!" the Loan Shark wailed, scrambling over the lip and making a beeline for the nearest window.

"Wait—HEY!" Adam yelled, wiping pink glitter out of his eye just in time to watch the flailing bastard belly-flop through the window, shattering the glass and tumbling headfirst into the alley below with a wet SPLAT.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

Gunfire erupted, followed by a chorus of war whoops and a triumphant shout of, "Shark fin soup is back on the menu girls!" from the Exorcists.

Adam, covered in streamers, glitter, and red paper hearts that stuck stubbornly to his shoulders, stood frozen like a man personally betrayed by the laws of surprise parties. His expression behind his mask radiated pure, stunned disbelief.

"Uhhh ... surprise?" Charlie's voice came out tiny, sheepish, absolutely soaked in nervous optimism. The last streamer curled from the barrel and drifted to the floor with an awkward plop.

Adam stared at her.

...

"YOU OWE ME A FUCKING WINDOW!"

Chapter Text

Staring out what was once a perfectly good industrial-grade security window, Adam seethed. The jagged hole in the wall now gave him a prime view of the alley below, where the Loan Shark's corpse was still twitching like a gutted fish in a puddle of its own stupidity. The Exorcists had long since stopped cheering and were now arguing over who got to keep the teeth. One had already fashioned a necklace. Another was painting a crude mural of the incident on the brick wall in blood.

"Hi Sir!" one of them called out cheerfully from below, waving up at the broken window like they were neighbors passing on the morning paper.

"Hey Tricia. Do me a favor and collect his blood! I may need it for a new waterboarding prototype!"

"On it, Sir!" Tricia chirped, already dragging a rusty oil drum toward the twitching corpse with a grin so wide it threatened to split her face. "You want the bile too, or just the red stuff?"

"As long as its fucking liquid!" Adam grunted, dragging a hand down his face, which was still sticky with glitter and god-knows-what from the confetti cannon. He flicked a streamer off his shoulder with the air of a man who had just been slapped by fate and then immediately mugged by irony.

Harper re-entered the room before leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching Adam simmer with the patience of someone used to Adam's moods. She eyed the broken window, then Charlie, who was still standing awkwardly just inside the door, clutching her empty confetti cannon like it might still be useful.

"Shall I kick them out Sir?" Harper nodded toward Charlie and Vaggie, her voice deceptively calm—like a loaded rifle on safety. "Or would you prefer I throw them out through the new window you didn't ask for?"

Adam didn't answer right away. He just stared—the kind of stare that, under different circumstances, might have turned the glass to ash before it broke. His shoulders rose and fell like tectonic plates grinding beneath a volcano.

Charlie took a cautious step forward, smiling like a hostage negotiator who just realized she brought stickers to a gunfight.

"I, uh ... wanted to make an entrance?" she offered, voice full of optimism and an unwise amount of hope. "And technically, you opened the door. So it was kind of your own—"

Adam's head snapped in her direction with all the grace of a guillotine.

Harper didn't even try to hide her grin. She tilted her head just enough to see how far Charlie would dig herself before Adam reached for the shovel.

"But I'll pay for a new window!" Charlie powered through, voice quivering with sunshine and delusion. "And if you act now, I'll throw in complimentary rooms for you and the Exorcists at our Hazbin Hotel! Five stars! Excellent views! Breakfast is ... mostly edible!"

Charlie quickly grabs a handful of pamphlets from her pocket and throws them in Adam's direction in a panic with more force then she intended. Some landed on his desk, one went to his face, another to Harper's feet and the rest went out the window.

Adam peeled the pamphlet off his mask and stared at it for a long, silent moment.

The pamphlet was violently pink—an aggressive shade of bubblegum, practically screaming optimism in his face. He slowly unfolded it, eyes narrowed behind his mask.

"So You've Been Damned!" the pamphlet chirped cheerfully in bold, glittery font across the top, flanked by cartoonish imps holding pitchforks and halos. Adam's eye twitched.

Below that, a smiling cartoon demon—clearly supposed to be Charlie—was holding hands with a generic, remorseful-looking Sinner, eyes brimming with exaggerated tears. A smiling white orb wearing sunglasses gave a thumbs-up in the background, labeled helpfully as "Heaven!"

Adam's brow furrowed, teeth grinding together audibly as he read aloud in a flat, deadpan monotone:

"Congratulations, Sinner! You may have made some questionable choices in life (and/or death), but fear not! At the HAZBIN HOTEL, we believe everyone deserves a second chance—yes, even YOU!"

"Very convincing, Sir." Harper deadpanned, not even bothering to hide her smirk as she nudged one of the fallen pamphlets with the toe of her boot. "I can practically feel my sins evaporating."

Hearing Adam read out loud what was on the pamphlet made Vaggie inwardly cringe so hard she nearly swallowed her tongue.

"Well Adam, I know we got off on the wrong foot—but I'm willing to look past that! Because I believe you can and want to be redeemed!" Charlie said brightly, clasping her hands like she was about to award him a gold star and a juice box for effort.

"Redeemed?" Adam repeated before crumpling up the pamphlet. "Babe, haven't we already gone over this like how many fucking times already!?"

"I mean, sure," Charlie stammered, "technically we have talked about it, but I really feel like this time we're at a turning point—"

"Oh, we're at a turning point, alright." Adam snarled, tossing the crumpled pamphlet over his shoulder. It bounced off Harper's boot with a sad papery fart and flopped to the floor like a dead dream. "Right at the part where I decide whether to throw you out the door or through the window you redecorated for me."

Harper raised a hand. "Window vote here."

"Charlie." Vaggie nudges her with her elbow. "Tell him about Sir Pentious."

Charlie blinked at Vaggie, then lit up like a sparkler in a fireworks factory. "Oh! Yes!"

She turned back to Adam, enthusiasm doubling.

"Okay, so, you know Sir Pentious." Charlie started.

"Who?"

"You know ... the one that tried to attack you with the big airship?"

"The snake guy?"

"Yes! Him! Anyway, Emily contacted me and she told me that he got REDEEMED!"

"That snake fucker is in Heaven!?" Adam barked, voice cracking with disbelief and pure, visceral offense. "The guy who tried to shoot my fucking face off from a hot-air dumpster? He got into Heaven!?"

"Yes! Isn't it amazing?" Charlie nodded furiously, still clutching the now-glitter-smudged pamphlets to her chest like they were sacred scrolls.

"Guess your shitty nonsense of Hell being Forever was full of crap, just like you." Vaggie continued sharply, unable to resist throwing gasoline onto Adam's already blazing temper.

Adam whipped his head around to glare at Vaggie, the rage pouring off him in palpable waves. "Oh, you really wanna do this, Vagasaurus? Still sore about your little boo-boo?"

Vaggie's single eye narrowed dangerously, her fists clenched so tight Charlie was worried her nails might draw blood. "You mean the eye your psycho lieutenant ripped out?"

"For sparing a cannibal." Harper smiled pleasantly before deadpanning. "Shouldn't fucking betrayed us."

Vaggie made a guttural sound, starting forward—but Charlie threw an arm out to hold her back, wearing a smile that somehow managed to be both panicked and cheerful.

"Okay! Okay! Let's not lose focus here!" Charlie said quickly, her voice higher pitched than usual. She turned pleading eyes to Adam, still clinging desperately to her new stack of pamphlets. "Look, if even Sir Pentious can redeem himself—after, let's be honest, being kind of a terrible person—then there's definitely hope for you! We just have to—"

Adam slammed his fist onto the desk so hard the wood cracked beneath his knuckles. Pamphlets fluttered off the edge like dying birds. Charlie yelped and stepped back into Vaggie, who steadied her with a glare aimed squarely at Adam.

"Listen up, Princess," Adam growled, voice dropping low and vicious, leaning over his desk with murder in his eyes. "let me spell it out nice and fucking simple for you—I DON'T WANT FUCKING REDEMPTION!"

"But—"

"No fucking buts!" Adam snapped, the sheer force of his anger making Charlie flinch. "I did Heaven's dirty work! I defended that place from your precious fucking Sinners for centuries! And the second things got messy, what'd they do? They kicked me and my girls out like garbage!"

He pointed furiously out the shattered window toward the Exorcists outside, now merrily scooping blood into rusted drums. "Those girls out there trusted Heaven! They fought and died for it, and what did they get? Heaven in all its fucking wisdom decided that they deserve Hell for whatever fucking reason. Thanks a fucking lot Sera!"

He straightened up, chest heaving, the room shaking from the force of his fury. Charlie swallowed, visibly shaken but somehow still determined. She held his gaze, voice trembling but sincere.

"You did commit genocide." Vaggie snidely replied.

"That Sera fucking approved." Adam angrily countered. "Yet I don't see her in this shithole with us."

"Adam, I—I get it. Heaven hurt you all but that's why redemption matters. It's not about Heaven, it's about you! It's about healing and—"

"Don't give me that crap!" Adam barked, cutting her off so sharply Charlie flinched again, her pamphlets scattering on the floor like abandoned confetti. "Healing? Redemption? Did you not see what I did to the fish guy? You think I'm just acting out for attention?"

He gestured violently toward the still-smoking brazen bull behind him, steam leaking out like a grisly fog machine. "News flash: I like this shit! I'm good at this shit! No bitchy Sera to answer to! No one giving me shit about my 'attitude'! Just need Lute and the rest of the Exorcists here and we're golden baby!"

Charlie stared up at Adam, her eyes wide and pleading even as her voice shook with stubborn hope.

"That's not true! Deep down, you're hurting—and I know that beneath all this anger and ... and fish murder, you want to change and go back to Heaven! This is Hell! You can't WANT to stay in Hell!"

Harper snorted quietly, failing to suppress her amusement.

Adam dragged a hand down his face with an exasperated sigh. "Look, Princess. You're obviously hopped up on optimism, or delusion, or fucking glitter fumes—maybe all three. But let me make this real clear, one last goddamn time: I'm not going anywhere near your fucking Hotel."

Vaggie stepped forward, glaring. "Good! Because the last thing I want is you polluting our space with your arrogant ass."

Charlie shot her a pleading look. "Vaggie—"

"No, Charlie! I'm done playing nice with this psychopath." Vaggie snapped, eye blazing with fury. "He doesn't care about redemption, he doesn't care about anyone but himself! He's a lost cause!"

Adam leaned forward slowly, fingers splayed menacingly on the cracked desk. His voice dropped low, dangerous. "Careful there, Vagasaurus. Keep talking like that, and I'll give you another matching scar for fucking symmetry."

"I like to see you try." Vaggie's fists tightened, and for a moment, it seemed the room itself held its breath, waiting for the spark to ignite a full-on explosion.

But Charlie intervened, stepping desperately between them, hands raised like a referee at the world's most inappropriate boxing match.

"WAIT! Wait, please—just listen! Adam," Charlie turned to him, voice trembling, "you're right! Heaven ...  argh, fuck it! They screwed you, betrayed you! You have every right to be angry—but look at what you've already accomplished down here!"

She gestured dramatically toward the broken window, where Exorcists now cheerfully stacked barrels of blood and viscera. One had started taking selfies with the Loan Shark's corpse.

Adam raised an eyebrow slowly, genuinely baffled. "You're pointing at a barrel full of fish-guy innards. Is this another weird compliment?"

"No—I mean, yes—wait, kind of?" Charlie floundered, scrambling to find her footing again. "What I mean is, you've made a community! You brought order! The Exorcists are ... well, mostly thriving, besides the occasional—"

"Fish murder." Harper supplied helpfully.

Charlie nodded rapidly. "Exactly! See? You still have leadership qualities! Imagine what good you could do if you put all that energy into helping instead of hurting!"

"Of course, I'm the fucking First Man." Adam says, ignoring the second part of her sentence.

Charlie lit up instantly. "YES! And if we just refocus that energy, redemption is a sure thing for you!"

Vaggie groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Charlie, for the love of Satan, can we please just leave?"

But Charlie was undeterred, practically glowing with optimism again, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Please, Adam, you were a good man once. Wouldn't it feel better to help others instead of drowning fish people?"

Adam's fists clenched on the edge of the desk. His teeth ground together so hard Harper heard it from across the room.

"You really think you know me, huh?" Adam's voice had dropped low, carrying a deep, simmering anger. "You think you're gonna skip in here, with your confetti cannons, and your stupid fucking pamphlets, and your big shiny ideas, and somehow 'fix' me?"

Charlie gulped but nodded bravely. "I—I know I can."

Adam straightened up, chest heaving, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple. He pointed sharply toward the shattered window. "Get out."

Charlie flinched. "But—"

"Pay for my fucking window and GET. THE FUCK. OUT!" Adam bellowed, voice booming like a grenade. "Go back to Heaven? Fuck that! Better to rule in fucking Hell than beg for scraps from assholes in halos!"

"Then don't drag the others down with your sorry ass! You're a lost cause but the others deserve better than fucking you!" Vaggie shouted, unable to hold back anymore, her voice cracking with fury and frustration. "You talk like some revolutionary, but you're just a fucking tyrant. They would all be clamoring for what we have to offer!"

"Go ahead and try bitch! I'm not stopping them from leaving! If they want to fucking go to your shitty hotel they're free to go!" Adam snarled, stepping out from behind the desk. His boots hit the ground like war drums. "You think I own them? That I'm holding them hostage!?"

"I bet they can't wait to leave your ass!" Vaggie gritted out, stepping forward. "Come on Harper! You don't have to listen to this asshole!"

Harper didn't move.

She just stared at Vaggie, dead-eyed, one brow slightly raised—as if she'd just been asked if she wanted to trade in her sword for a fidget spinner.

Charlie turned to Harper too, her eyes wide, hopeful. "You don't have to stay here." she echoed softly. "You're not trapped. You could come with us—start over."

For a moment, Harper said nothing. Her silence was heavy. Deliberate. Even Adam glanced at her from the side, his expression unreadable beneath the mask but still tense, tight.

Then Harper finally tilted her head, cracked her neck once, and said, "You think I'd follow you?"

She stepped forward.

Not toward Vaggie.

Toward Adam.

She moved with the calm certainty of someone who had already decided where her loyalties lived—and died. Her boots clicked once, twice against the tile as she came to stand beside him, just behind his shoulder, her arms folded loosely.

"You don't get it." Harper said simply, her voice quiet but resolute. "And I doubt you ever will."

She looked at Vaggie—then Charlie—and for the first time in a long time, her expression was stripped of sarcasm or menace. She looked tired. Determined. Fierce.

"You fed us to cannibals. Some of us were eaten ALIVE." Harper paused just long enough for the silence to feel like a slap. Her voice was steady, but something deeper—gravelly and raw—itched beneath every word.

"Some of them still wake up screaming, remembering the sound of their own bones breaking." Harper's gaze didn't waver. "So why the FUCK would we ever follow you back to the same side that let it happen?"

Charlie opened her mouth, but Harper cut her off with a razor glance.

"No. Don't answer that. You don't get to answer that. When we fell, it was Adam who found us. Adam who picked us up. Adam who rallied and gave us purpose again."

"He didn't have to." She stepped fully beside him now, standing tall. "He could've walked away. But he didn't."

Adam didn't speak. Didn't move. Just stared, jaw tight, as Harper stood there beside him.

"You want to talk redemption?" Harper asked. "Adam is the only one we trust to even try giving it to us. Not Heaven and certainly not fucking you."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Charlie looked like she'd been slapped with a bible and a bucket of guilt all at once. Her mouth worked uselessly for a moment before she whispered, "Don't you want something better?"

Harper's gaze didn't soften. "This is better. Maybe not for you. But for me? For us? This is the only place that makes sense."

Vaggie stepped forward, a muscle twitching in her jaw. "So you're just going to follow him off a cliff?"

Harper smirked—sharp, humorless. "If I do, at least I'll know who pushed me. And it wasn't him."

She turned her back on them then, moving to Adam's side like a soldier taking her post.

Charlie's hands trembled at her sides. "Harper ... I didn't come here to fight. I came to help."

"Then you better fucking turn around because I promise you, no one here wants what you're offering." Harper's final words were flat, final, and they dropped like a coffin lid slamming shut.

Adam didn't speak. He didn't have to. The silence he allowed said everything: You've overstayed your welcome. His hand flexed slightly, and though he hadn't reached for a weapon, every motion in the room shifted—Harper leaning forward, boots tensing, breath held.

"I ... I don't believe that!" Charlie whispered. Her voice cracked like the shimmer of a dying candle. "I believe there's still good in you. In all of you!"

ESPECIALLY IN ADAM!

It was quite an odd sight to see the positivity return to her after all that.

But there it was—bright and stubborn, blooming back to life on Charlie's face like a daisy punching through concrete. Her eyes shimmered again with hope. Unshakable. Inexplicable. Infuriating.

To everyone else's surprise, Charlie jumps onto Adam's desk and cups his face in her hands. "Don't worry Adam! Because even if you can't believe in yourself right now, I'll believe enough for both of us!"

"For fucks sake you crazy bitch! I said I don't want what you're selling!" Adam staggered back, knocking his chair over with a metallic screech as Charlie's hands clutched either side of his mask.

"GET OFF ME!" he barked, his voice echoing like a grenade in a coffin.

But Charlie didn't flinch. Her eyes were locked on his, wide and impossibly sincere, her hands pressing firmly against his cheeks like he was a stray cat about to bolt.

"I mean it, Adam!" she declared. "I believe in you! And one day, you're going to thank me for not giving up, even when you were at your absolute worst!"

"What the fuck is—"

But Charlie puts a finger to his mouth and shushes him.

Actually shushes the First Man.

Adam's jaw snapped shut with a click, more from sheer what-the-fuckery than obedience. Even Harper looked briefly stunned, halfway between drawing a weapon and witnessing a public execution in real time.

Charlie leaned closer, her nose nearly bumping into his mask. "I have a foolproof plan."

Adam's eye twitched.

"I'll have you at the hotel soon enough Adam!" Immediately, she turns around and makes a beeline for the door, grabbing Vaggie by the wrist and hauling her along like a woman possessed.

"Don't come back till you fix my fucking window!" Adam shouted after her, but the door had already slammed shut behind the manic ray of sunshine and her aggressively skeptical girlfriend.

A long, brittle silence fell over the office.

A streamer drifted down from the cracked ceiling, twisting lazily in the stale air before landing on Adam's boot.

He stared at it.

Then at the broken window.

Then at Harper.

"Shall I get Carmilla to order a new window Sir?" Harper grunted, wiping glitter off her sleeve with the slow disgust of someone realizing optimism leaves a residue.

Finally, Adam let out a long, soul-dragging sigh. The kind of sigh that came not from the lungs but from the bone marrow.

"... Yeah." he muttered.

"We're not leaving empty-handed!" Charlie declared after they turned the corner, still breathless, both from the sprint and from pure, uncut madness.

Vaggie tugged her arm out of Charlie's grip the second they were out of earshot from the office and hissed. "What the hell was that?!"

Charlie, glitter still sparkling in her hair like a radioactive unicorn, turned with the most self-satisfied grin a girl has ever worn after almost being murdered. "That, Vaggie, was step one."

"Step one of what?"

Charlie whipped a second pamphlet out of her boot with all the flourish of a magician pulling a dove out of her sleeve. "Operation: Adam-sion! ... You know, a combination of Adam and redemption?"

Vaggie blinked. "For fuck sakes Charlie, I rather take our chances with redeeming Alastor then launch Operation: Adam-sion."

Charlie's grin widened like she'd just been given a lifetime supply of glitter and blind faith. "Oh come on, Vaggie! You saw the way he twitched! The sigh! The streamer! That man is one emotional breakdown away from booking a suite at the hotel."

Vaggie stopped dead in her tracks. "What the fuck are you seeing in him that I'm not!?"

Charlie's eyes sparkled like someone had laced her soul with pop rocks and delusion. She turned fully to Vaggie, placing her hands on her hips with the posture of a woman who had absolutely not just risked her life to caress the First Man's face mid-rage spiral.

"What I see," Charlie said earnestly, "is a man in pain."

Vaggie threw her arms up. "He just threatened to give me a second eye socket! That's not pain, Charlie!"

Charlie wobbled in place like an overexcited bobblehead. "Which means he's cracking! All we need to do now is wedge hope into those cracks and wiggle until he breaks open."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard!" Vaggie gritted, flailing her arms in sheer disbelief.

"Don't worry, we're not going for the big fish right now. We're going to start small." Charlie says, fishing out a piece of paper and marker before scribbling down a truly deranged-looking flowchart with the manic energy of a conspiracy theorist and the color palette of a kindergarten art fair.

At the top, written in bubble letters with tiny hearts over the I's: "OPERATION: ADAM-SION"

Charlie presents the chart to Vaggie. drawing a thick pink circle around the stick-figure Exorcists, each one smiling with suspiciously wholesome enthusiasm for beings trained to flay demons alive.

"Step One: Win the Heart of the Army!" Charlie announced.

Vaggie stared at the chart, her eye twitching as she took in what she was seeing. "... You drew hearts on their spears."

"I wanted it to be motivational!" Charlie beamed, flipping the marker in her hand like she was about to teach an art therapy class for war criminals. "Anyway, we start small—recruit one of them. Just one! We don't need to knock over the whole building. We just need to find the loose brick."

Charlie tapped the chart and underlined "Loose Brick?" next to a stick-figure with an uncertain frown and a dotted heart overhead.

"This entire district has like a hundred or two hundred Exorcists. If we get one to join the Hotel—" Charlie continued, her eyes gleaming like she'd just invented kindness, jazz, and fire simultaneously, "—then the others will see that redemption is possible! It'll be like social proof! You know, peer pressure but, like ... positive?"

Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose so hard she might've bruised the bone. "You mean like a redemption pyramid scheme."

"EXACTLY!" Charlie chirped.

"Pyramid schemes aren't usually a good thing."

"It is in this case!" Charlie retorted. "Once we get more and more of them into the Hotel, Adam won't be able to help himself and he'll follow them right through the front door—straight into redemption!"

Her finger jabbed the final box on the chart—a glorious stick-figure Adam holding a house key labeled "Hazbin," flanked by Exorcists in glittery uniforms and party hats. Tiny musical notes danced above their heads under a banner that read: "WELCOME, FIRST MAN!"

"Hon, I know they aren't Adam but those ... bitches are like Lute!" Vaggie hissed, jabbing a finger at the flowchart.

"Come on Vaggie! You were with the Exorcists once you know better than anyone that not all of them are like Lute." Charlie said, her voice gentle now—less manic, more sincere.

"Yeah, well, they are remarkably similar." Vaggie retorted. "Just look at Harper."

"And I'm sure we will find one who is like you and that's exactly who we'll start with."

Charlie tapped the flowchart again, this time circling a stick-figure Exorcist she had drawn with one eye and a little scar. Next to it was the label: "Target #1 – Vaggie Type."

Vaggie looked like she wanted to argue—but paused.

Because damn it, Charlie might actually have a point. There are roughly two hundred Exorcists so statistically speaking one of them had to be just as fed up, jaded, and emotionally repressed as she used to be.

Vaggie sighed through her nose, brushing glitter out of Charlie's bangs with a tenderness she would never admit aloud. "... You're impossible."

Chapter Text

"Suspended!?" Lute cried out, her wings flaring instinctively in protest, feathers bristling like blades. "After what they did!?"

Sera didn't flinch—as expected of the High Seraphim. She knew Lute would react this way. In truth, she'd braced for worse.

"Yes." Sera said firmly. "The Exterminations are suspended. Indefinitely. You and the rest of the Exorcists are to stand down—effective immediately."

Lute stared at her like she'd been slapped. The words didn't register at first.

Stand down!?

INDEFINITELY!?

Her wings twitched once, twice, then folded against her back with brittle, trembling precision. Her fists remained clenched.

"Permission to speak freely, ma'am."

"... You may."

"Forgive me Lady Sera." Lute said slowly, voice shaking not from fear but from barely bridled fury. "But WHAT. THE. FUCK!"

Sera's expression remained unreadable, though a faint flicker of pain passed through her eyes. She kept her hands clasped in front of her, regal, composed. But her silence said more than any words could.

Lute stepped forward, jaw trembling. "You can't mean this! Adam—"

"—is dead." Sera said, and though her voice was soft, it hit with the finality of a gavel striking stone. "I understand in these trying times, you want something to fight. But I will not allow you to drag Heaven into a war over grief."

"They fucking started it!" Lute shouted. "This is a war they asked for!"

"No. The Exorcists attacked the Hazbin Hotel where Lucifer's daughter resided. By attacking her, our contract with Lucifer has been nullified." Sera continued, her voice low and measured. "Without a new contract, Lucifer can simply intervene and the death toll would be catastrophic."

But Lute was already shaking her head, disbelief etched into every line of her face. "She harbored Sinners! We had every right to go in and kill Sinners as per the agreement! She armed those cannibals! She attacked us first for doing our job!"

Sera and Lute stared.

One, cold as marble.

The other, burning like wildfire.

"Regardless of who cast the first stone." Sera continued. "Heaven's position is now untenable. Especially now with new information coming to light."

"New information?" Lute echoed, her voice low and tight. "What are you talking about?"

Sera turned away for a moment—just long enough to glance at the grand stained-glass windows behind her, dimmed by clouded skies. She didn't answer right away.

"A soul from Hell has been ... redeemed." Sera continued carefully, each word deliberate, as if afraid the sentence itself might spark revolt. "Sir Pentious."

Lute blinked. Once.

Then again, harder—like the very concept refused to land in her mind properly.

"... What?" she whispered, not because she didn't hear Sera, but because she couldn't comprehend it.

"Redeemed." Sera repeated, turning back to face her. "Fully. Judged. And welcomed into Heaven."

"SO WHAT!?" Lute growled. "For this, you let over 200 of ours die, Including Adam!?"

Sera didn't look away. She had no choice but to stand still and endure Lute's fury.

"Their deaths are regrettable, however, with proof now that redemption is truly possible for the damned, justification for the Extermination is ... no longer absolute." Sera finished, her voice steady. "Emily and I are now working with Charlie Morningstar to see if there is a way to expand—"

"This is bullshit!" Lute slammed her fist into the marble table hard enough to send cracks spidering across its pristine surface. "YOU signed off, year after year—on every Extermination. You watched us go down there! You praised our efficiency! And now—now—just because one soul wiggles their way back into Heaven, suddenly we're the monsters!? We are the mistake!?"

Sera's face remained composed, but the line of her jaw tightened. "I never said you were the mistake. We worked with what we had at the time and now, times have changed."

Lute stared at her. Really stared. And then—slowly—her lips peeled back into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"And Adam? My sisters!? Where is their justice!?" Lute questioned. "You are defending the Sinners that killed and ate them!"

"Justice," Sera said, softly. "is not vengeance. Heaven doesn't believe in an eye for an eye. I am not defending the actions of those Sinners—"

"Then what are you doing?" Lute snapped, stepping around the table now, her light armor clinking with every sharp, purposeful movement. "Because it sure as Hell looks like you're handing out forgiveness to the ones who slaughtered us!"

Sera turned to fully face her, and though her expression remained serene, her shoulders were rigid beneath her robes. "I am trying to build a future. One where no more have to die."

Lute's laugh came out strangled, like it was choking on shards of glass. "You've already let them die."

Sera's eyes darkened slightly, a flicker of something long-buried surfacing—grief, guilt, maybe even self-hatred. But she didn't allow it to show for more than a heartbeat. She was the High Seraphim and she had to do what was best for Heaven as a whole.

"And their sacrifices will not be in vain." Sera replied, voice barely above a whisper but ringing with unshakable conviction. "Their memory will guide what comes next."

"You can't let the Princess and those cannibals get away with this." Lute growled, trembling. "You can't just pretend it didn't happen. You know what they did!"

"Which is why I am suspending the Exterminations indefinitely." Sera countered. "Leaving aside the fact that a soul from Hell has been redeemed, the denizens of Hell are now armed with angelic steel. To what capacity? I don't know. So until we figure out the extent of their capabilities—and until we are certain we are not sending more to die—I will not authorize another Extermination. Especially now that Lucifer has free reign to intervene."

Lute stared in stunned silence for a moment. Her breath shook in her chest like it was trying to claw its way out of her ribs.

Then—with a snarl and a scream—she flipped the entire marble table.

It upended with a deafening CRACK, splitting in half as it slammed onto the floor, stone shattering in protest. Papers and scrolls scattered through the air like feathers, books flapping open mid-flight before falling silently to the floor. A chunk of the table slammed against the dais and skidded to a halt at Sera's feet.

"... I wish I had died with him." Lute's voice cracked on the last word—but she didn't cry. She didn't falter. Her hands trembled at her sides, but her spine stayed ramrod straight, her wings flaring once in violent grief before collapsing tight against her back.

"I wish I had died with him." she repeated, softer now, but no less venomous. "Because at least then I wouldn't have to stand here and listen to you betray everything he stood for."

YOU FUCKING COWARD!

Sera's robes fluttered slightly in the aftermath of the table's destruction, yet she stood still as a statue carved from judgment and sorrow. Her voice, when it finally came, was low—pained.

"He wouldn't want you to throw your life away for vengeance, Lute."

"Don't you DARE." Lute spun on her heels, finger outstretched like a blade. "Don't you put words in his mouth!"

Lute storms out of the office, slamming the door so hard that the hinges creaked under the strain.

"Let me through!" Verosika shouted angrily in the Exorcist standing guard to the district. "I want to see your fucking dickhead boss!"

Luna, who had just finished securing a fresh ammo belt over her shoulder, turned at the familiar voice, her ears twitching in irritation.

"First my shit get stolen and now this?" Luna grumbled, stepping forward with her rifle casually draped over her shoulder. "What the fuck do you want?"

Verosika spun on her heels, eyes flashing a vivid pink behind her oversized shades. She tossed her hair back, scowling. "Oh great, it's you. I thought you looked familiar. Tell your guard dog here to back off, before I start breaking things."

Luna narrowed her eyes, wholly unamused. "Careful. You're standing on our turf now, Popstar. Make a scene here and you'll get dropped faster than your last shitty album."

Verosika snarled, her lips curling into a venomous sneer. "Cute. Now quit being a fucking pain and take me to Adam. He fucking owes me!"

"He owes you nothing." Kaela continued flatly, strolling up to Luna's side, a toothpick dangling lazily from her mouth.

"Oh yes he fucking does! He ruined my concert with his rockstar bullshit!" Verosika hissed. "You know how hard it is to get a gig in Pride!?"

Kaela cocked her head, spitting the toothpick to the side as she casually unslung her rifle and rested it across her shoulders.

"If it's a fight you want," she drawled, "you're barking up the right building."

Verosika scoffed, summoning a glowing pink whip from thin air with a snap of her fingers. It crackled with heat and attitude. She stepped forward, close enough for their breath to fog between them. "Try me, bitch."

A tense silence crackled between them—until a high, wet squelch interrupted from the alley.

Tricia, still hauling the oil drum full of blood, waved up at them cheerily.

"Hey Luna! This chick with the whip giving you trouble? I got room in the barrel!"

Luna didn't look away from Verosika, but she called down, "Not yet. Stand by."

Verosika huffed through her nose, visibly restraining herself. "Ugh. Look. I'm not here to throw hands—unless you push me. I just want to talk to Adam. That's it."

"I don't see why we should—" Luna says before being cut off by a hard yank. Kaela pulled Luna aside with a firm grip, her voice dropping low enough to escape Verosika's earshot but laced with sarcasm.

"Adam did say he wanted to try a new waterboarding technique." Kaela muttered, tilting her head toward the blood drum Tricia was still sloshing around like a demented lemonade stand. "I say we let her talk. Worst case, we get a new test subject."

Luna groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "You just want an excuse to dunk a popstar."

"Yeah." Kaela replied immediately. "Obviously."

Luna sighed and turned back to Verosika, expression unreadable but eyes glinting faintly with irritation.

"Fine." she muttered. Luna jerked her head toward the checkpoint. "You want to see Adam? Then move your ass. But don't try anything stupid."

Verosika rolled her eyes and strutted past the two Exorcists, her heels clicking dramatically on the cracked concrete as Kaela and Luna followed closely behind.

The trio made their way through the Industrial District. Sinners and Exorcists turned their heads as Verosika passed—some gawking, some whispering, a few pointing and laughing. A group of Exorcists paused mid-chili break, one muttering, "Ain't that the pink bitch?"

Verosika raised a middle finger high without breaking stride.

As they reached the foot of the building, Verosika paused just long enough to pop her gum. She tilted her head back and stared up at the building's top floors, hands on her hips and eyes Adam's silhouette through his window.

Adam wiped the last smudge from the corner of the freshly installed industrial-grade, triple-reinforced, glare-resistant window that Carmilla had delivered to him. He leaned back, admiring the craftsmanship like it was a fine painting.

"Amazing work, Sir," Harper said, arms folded as she inspected the freshly installed window. The glass gleamed under the industrial lighting, a pristine sheet of clarity amid the grime and soot of the office.

"Triple-sealed. Impact tested. UV filtered. You could shoot a fucking cannon at it." Adam said with smug satisfaction, polishing a smudge off with his sleeve. "Let's see those glitter goblins break this one."

Harper nodded, impressed despite herself. "Carmilla really outdid herself with this one."

A brick sailed through the air like an angry comet and exploded through the center of the new window in a glorious, slow-motion catastrophe. Glass detonated outward with a shriek of metal fatigue and splinters, cascading over the desk, Adam, and Harper in a glittering death shower.

Adam didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't even breathe.

A single shard of glass slipped from his shoulder and plinked off his desk with an almost apologetic tone.

"Hey dickhead!" Outside, Verosika blew an exaggerated kiss through the broken pane. "Guess who!"

Staring at the shards scattered across the floor like the remains of his sanity, Adam slowly, painfully straightened to his full height. The room was dead silent—save for the soft whine of warped metal settling where the window used to be.

Harper didn't move either. Her expression had gone eerily still, as though she were weighing two vastly different paths: one that ended in mass homicide, and the other in immediate homicide.

"Reinforced? Fucking ass is what it is." Adam gritted out through clenched teeth, the words practically vibrating with barely contained fury. His eye twitched. His hands—still lightly dusted with Windex—clenched into fists. He walked, very slowly, very deliberately, over to the edge of the shattered frame. Bits of glass crunched under his boots like brittle bones. He placed his hands on the jagged metal of the frame and leaned forward, staring down at the alley below.

"YOU FUCKING BITCH!" Adam bellowed, the words ricocheting through the alley.

From the alley, Verosika laughed like a woman who'd just keyed a Lamborghini and left a lipstick kiss on the windshield. Adam's entire body vibrated with fury, his eye twitching like it was trying to eject itself. He pointed a trembling, accusatory finger downward.

"Kaela, Luna! Bring her pink ass up here!" Adam gritted, his voice dropping into that special register reserved for customer service complaints. "NOW."

"Shall I call Tricia to bring the barrel over?" Harper asked dryly, brushing a shard of glass off her shoulder with the weariness of someone who knew this was only the beginning of the day's disasters.

Adam didn't even look at her. He was still leaning over the shattered window frame, one eye locked on Verosika like a laser-guided missile primed to ruin her existence. His jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might fuse shut.

Harper crossed the room, boots crunching over glass as she calmly pulled the industrial roller blinds down over the remains of the now-re-destroyed window.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Target sighted." Charlie whispered excitedly, ducking behind a rusted pipe as she peered across the industrial complex through a stolen pair of binoculars.

Beside her, Vaggie crouched stiffly, arms crossed and glaring with the silent fury of a woman being dragged into emotional war crimes. "You said that fifteen times already."

"This time it's real!" Charlie chirped, twisting the binoculars dramatically. "Look! Look look look—top of the scaffolding by the north smokestack! See her?"

Vaggie grumbled but leaned forward to take the binoculars anyway. She scanned the industrial skyline—and then paused.

There, perched like a silent gargoyle above the maze of crisscrossing catwalks, was an Exorcist. Alone. Helmet off. She was staring out over the city with the kind of heavy stillness that screamed "I don't belong here."

"It's just like in those movies we watched where the grizzled war veteran climbs to a rooftop to brood in silence because she's questioning everything!" Charlie whispered, eyes shimmering with barely restrained glee. "That's our brick, Vaggie. The loose one. She's cracking!"

Vaggie peered a little longer through the binoculars before letting out a tired sigh that felt like it'd been waiting to escape her lungs all week.

"I'm not saying you're wrong but ... she is just probably on a smoke break." Vaggie continued, her voice flat and skeptical.

"Well, I'm going to prove you wrong." She snatched the binoculars back with the enthusiasm of someone spotting a wounded puppy she must adopt. "Look at that slouch. That's the slump of someone who is tired of it all."

Charlie whipped out her Operation: ADAM-SION flowchart again and start furiously scribbling in it before presenting it to Vaggie.

"See?" she whispered, jabbing her finger at the freshly added section: a stick-figure Exorcist on a rooftop with a tiny thought bubble that said 'Am I the bad guy?'

"Fine. Fuck it. Lets do it." Vaggie grumbled, already regretting everything about her life that had led her to this moment. "But this time, let me talk to her. She and I are somewhat familiar with each other."

The Exorcist in question—lean, sharp-eyed, with close-cropped platinum hair and a jagged scar tracing her cheekbone—sat with one boot dangling over the edge of the scaffolding, a half-burned cigarette pinched loosely between two fingers. Smoke curled lazily into the overcast sky, trailing upward like a ghost reluctant to rise. She dragged on the cigarette and exhaled slow, eyes scanning the skyline until they settle on the white orb that was once her home.

Heaven.

A place where she used to feel clean.

Now?

She flicked ash off the side of the railing, watching it fall into the yawning maze of rusted pipes and steaming vents below. The silence around her was loud—churning vents, distant shouts, and the occasional bang of machinery clattering together—but in her head, it was quiet.

That was the dangerous kind of quiet.

Her name was Jessa.

She was one of the first to rush out the portal and straight to the Hazbin Hotel, her blood boiling with the need to kill the Sinners that resided there. But in her excitement, she failed to avoid the shield that quickly erected around the hotel.

But it wasn't the shield that broke her.

It was what came after.

In every Extermination before that, those Sinners would have run away screaming at the sight of her and her sisters.

But not this time.

This time, the Sinners were waiting and to their horror, they were equipped with angelic steel, the only thing capable of causing them permanent harm. If they had simply killed her quickly, maybe she wouldn't be haunted now.

But the cannibals didn't kill Jessa quickly.

At first, it was just a blur—movement, blood, screaming. Her spear was torn from her hands before she could even do anything and then the biting started.

Not slashing. Not stabbing.

Biting.

It was clear to her that these cannibals were more excited then anything to finally get their first taste of angel flesh. They swarmed her like hyenas in a feeding frenzy, not even bothering to finish her off first.

The first of them had a mouth full of jagged angelic steel implants. The grind of those teeth against her light armor—steel on steel—like some rat chewing through a tin can. Then came the pop as her breastplate caved inward, exposing the soft, angelic flesh beneath. That's when she screamed—not in pain, not yet—but in disbelief. In betrayal. As if her own divinity had failed her.

And then came the real pain.

Another mouth latched onto her shoulder, the metal teeth biting through her. It didn't feel like a wound. It felt like she was being unzipped. A tearing, white-hot agony that split down her back as the others joined in—one pulling off her helmet and biting her scalp, another raking through her ribs like they were clawing open a present.

Jessa didn't feel the cigarette burning down between her fingers.

Didn't feel the wind tugging at her hair.

Because she was back there.

Pinned beneath a dozen howling mouths.

That wet crunch when they clamped their teeth into her wing joint—like celery snapping. The way one of them moaned after ripping out a handful of her feathers and chewed it like gum, blood dribbling down his chin, eyes rolling back like he was tasting Heaven itself.

"Please—please—stop—" she had begged, choking on her own voice as they as they sawed through her wing with an angelic steel knife.

The sound of footsteps—two sets, light and cautious—pulled Jessa from the blood-stained prison of her memories.

She blinked hard, her cigarette now nothing but a smoldering nub that had burned down to her fingertips. She didn't flinch from the heat. She simply let the ash fall, as if it had always belonged there.

Her hand drifted slowly toward her belt—not for a weapon, not yet. Just instinct. Just readiness. Her gaze, cold and unreadable, slid sideways to the metal catwalk behind her.

Charlie and Vaggie had the good sense not to sneak. Not exactly.

But they were quiet—especially Vaggie, who moved like someone trained not to be seen until it was too late. Charlie, meanwhile, had the posture of a kid at a zoo trying not to spook the last endangered tiger on Earth.

"Hey Jessa." Vaggie said softly, keeping her hands visible and her stance non-threatening.

"Vaggie. If I was in my right mind, I would toss you and your friend over this ledge right now." Jessa didn't move. Her voice was flat, like a heart monitor just before the beep dies. "But I'm not in my right mind nor the right mood. So say whatever dumbass thing you came up here to say."

"You ... you knew it was me?" Vaggie asked, stunned.

"A good guess." Jessa replied, her voice still iron-flat. She didn't turn to face them, not yet. The cigarette had fused a faint, red welt into her fingers, but she still didn't drop it. Her stare remained locked on the distant skyline like she could peel back the clouds and see something better on the other side. "I can smell the soap. Lilac. No one here smells half as good."

Charlie gave a small, nervous laugh. "Wow! You have an amazing nose!"

Jessa very slowly turned her head toward them.

Charlie immediately shut up.

Vaggie stepped slightly in front of Charlie—an old reflex. "Look. We're not here to fight. We just want to talk."

"Talk about what?" Jessa asked. Her voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. She flicked the cigarette away at last—it arced out into the abyss below and vanished.

Charlie stepped forward gently, her voice the gentlest thing for miles. "We want to help you."

Jessa laughed.

It was empty—a dry rattle in her throat like her soul was trying to cough something up and couldn't find anything left.

"You want to help me?" she echoed, eyes flicking from Vaggie to Charlie. "You're the fucking reason I'm even here."

Vaggie had imagined a totally different sort of reunion in her head. One where she appealed to Jessa's past as a sister-in-arms. One where maybe—just maybe—Jessa didn't look at her like she was a traitor like everyone else had assumed her to be.

But Jessa did look at her that way.

And it only served to reinforce the negative emotions clenching inside Vaggie like barbed wire wrapping her ribs. As such, she could no longer hold back on calling them out despite how devastatingly personal this was about to get.

"We were defending ourselves, Jessa," Vaggie said, carefully measured. "We weren't the ones who made the first move."

"Oh, so sorry." Jessa said with a scathing chuckle. "Fighting with the worst of Hell? Yeah, sounds noble as shit."

She rose slowly from her perch, the catwalk creaking under her boots. Her movements weren't aggressive—yet—but deliberate, a pressure cooker of trauma sealed behind shaky restraint. Her platinum hair gleamed in the ambient industrial light, dull with soot and neglect. Her scar, fresh and raw, twitched when her jaw clenched.

Vaggie's eye stayed locked on Jessa's hands, watching the way her fingers flexed—not reaching for a weapon, but itching, like muscle memory trying to recall violence.

"Yeah, well, these people are a hell of a lot better than my so called 'sisters'." Vaggie replied, not backing down.

"Of course you would feel right at home with the freaks." Jessa snarled, stepping forward just once—but the sound her boot made echoed like a warning shot across the catwalk.

Before Vaggie could respond, Charlie was quick to pull Vaggie behind her and inserted herself between the two.

"Okay! Let's maybe take a breath?" Charlie said, her voice doing that high-pitched wobble it got right before things exploded.

Jessa tilted her head. The motion was slow, eerie. She looked at Charlie the way a cat looks at something it's considering knocking off a ledge just to see what it sounds like when it hits the floor.

"You. You can fuck right off. You're the last person I ever want to hear from!" Jessa's voice cracked like a whip, every syllable wrapped in raw nerve and spite. "Feeding my sisters and I to FUCKING CANNIBALS!"

Charlie flinched at the outburst, her bright expression faltering—but only for a second. Then, incredibly, impossibly, that same stupid hope began leaking back into her eyes.

"I—I didn't feed anyone to anyone!" she said, her voice tight, trembling, but stubborn.

In a very VERY technical way, what Charlie said was true. Alastor was the one that promised the cannibals taste of angel flesh ... she just didn't correct him ... or stop him. It was in the heat of the moment and she needed the cannibals help. She also wasn't expecting the Exorcists to return as Sinners so you know, go figure.

Jessa didn't move for a long moment. Her breathing was shallow, like she was trying to calm herself before the shaking in her limbs betrayed her rage. Or her fear. Finally, she turned her back on them again—partly to keep herself from lashing out, partly because she couldn't bear them seeing her face. Not now. Not when it was threatening to crack.

"... I haven't slept since." Her voice was barely audible. The kind of confession that didn't want to be heard.

Charlie blinked, stunned into silence.

"I close my eyes and they're there again." Jessa continued, voice thinner now. "I can still feel their teeth. I wake up feeling like I'm being chewed alive. I hear wings being torn from bone like it's happening again. And I can't scream because every time I try, I'm swallowing my own fucking feathers."

She laughed bitterly—ugly and hollow and all wrong. "Funny, right? Big bad Exorcist, afraid of the dark. Afraid of fucking Sinners."

Charlie stepped forward slowly, not saying anything, just listening.

Jessa's shoulders sagged—barely, but noticeably. She pressed a hand to the railing like she needed the cold metal to stay grounded.

"The only time I can sleep ..." Jessa paused. Her next words were so soft Vaggie almost missed them. "... is when Adam or someone else holds my hand."

That silenced even Charlie. Not because it was ridiculous, but because of how not ridiculous it sounded.

Vaggie's face softened in shock. "He—does that for you?"

Jessa gave a dry chuckle. "Only if I ask. Only when I really need it. He doesn't say anything. Just sits there and lets me hold on."

Charlie felt her throat tighten. This wasn't the hardened rooftop guard anymore. This was a girl who had been mutilated, tossed aside, and survived something that should've broken her completely. And now she was stitching herself back together with whatever pieces were left—and Adam, of all people, was one of those pieces.

"... You know," Charlie said gently, carefully stepping closer, "you don't have to keep living like this. I mean it. You could come with us—"

"You think I'm just going to abandon the only family I have left? Where do you get the fucking ego?" Jessa exhaled through her nose, long and hard. "Right, you're Lucifer's daughter. How could I fucking forget."

Charlie flinched as if she'd been slapped.

Vaggie stepped forward, her fists clenched but still at her sides. "You don't get to throw that in her face. Charlie didn't make you suffer!"

"Maybe not directly but she let it happen," Jessa snarled, her voice breaking like a bone halfway through. "You think I care about technicalities? Someone let the wolves in. Someone held the leash. And someone watched while they ate us. Alive or otherwise."

The words rang out over the scaffolding like gunshots. Vaggie stiffened beside Charlie, ready to step in again, but Charlie didn't move. She just stood there, absorbing Jessa's pain like it was meant for her—because maybe it was.

Charlie's eyes shimmered again—but not with hope this time.

With shame.

Quiet. Real. Earned.

"And I'm trying to help you!" Charlie choked out. "I know what happened was terrible and you're still suffering because of it. And I should have done a hundred things differently. But I'm here now, trying to make things right. And if you come with us, we can get you redeemed and back into Heaven in no time!"

Jessa turned again. Slowly. Her face was tight, trembling in the jaw, the scar on her cheek pulled taut like old stitches threatening to split.

"Then say it." Jessa growled, each word low and heavy like a loaded gun.

"Say ... what?" Charlie asked, confused.

"Say. You're. Sorry."

Charlie's lips parted. And then ... she hesitated.

Vaggie felt it—like the air itself dropped a degree. Her head snapped toward Charlie, one brow arched in sudden, urgent disbelief.

Charlie blinked. Looked down at her hands, then at Jessa. "If you need proof, we have Sir Pentious who recently—"

"That's not what I fucking asked." Jessa stepped forward, bootfalls like the countdown to a detonation. "I didn't ask for some moral epiphany. I asked for three fucking words."

Vaggie stepped closer to Charlie, instinctively bracing, but Charlie raised a hand—gently, stopping her.

"I am trying—"

"YOU'RE NOT SORRY!" Jessa shrieked, suddenly.

...

It starts with sorry.

That was the lesson Charlie had once taught Sir Pentious. That if you couldn't say "I'm sorry." you couldn't begin redemption.

And now, here she was.

Choking on it.

"We did what we had to do!" Charlie shouted, the words exploding from her chest before she could stop them.

She had to defend the Hotel.

Protect her friends.

As much as she might want to deny it or deflect the blame, a cannibal army did defend her hotel—and she let them.

HEAVEN DIDN'T GIVE HER A CHOICE!

The silence that followed that admission was deafening.

Jessa stared at Charlie like she was trying to bore a hole through her skull—not with heat, but with cold. The kind of cold that gets into your marrow and stays there for years.

"So that's it?" Jessa asked, her voice shaking in a way that no longer sounded like grief. It sounded like recoil. "You kill us, let us be eaten alive ... and you can't even fucking apologize?"

Charlie opened her mouth—

Then closed it.

Because she couldn't.

Not because she didn't feel guilt.

Not because she didn't believe Jessa deserved to hear it.

But because if she said she was sorry—truly sorry—she would have to admit that everything she built was soaked in blood she couldn't wash out.

Seeing her girlfriend like this, Vaggie quickly acted on her protective instinct and raised her spear to Jessa throat. However, Jessa made no move against her.

"Don't." Vaggie said, voice quiet, shaking. "Be grateful we're trying to save your sorry ass."

The blade's edge hovered just below her chin, a breath away from cutting—but she stood her ground like a woman who had already been broken, and was now simply too tired to care what happened next.

She met Vaggie's eye without fear, without even anger now. Just emptiness.

"Do it." Jessa said quietly. "You clearly think I deserve it."

Vaggie's grip tightened. Her jaw clenched. For a moment, her own trauma screamed through her bones, through her blood, louder than the voice of reason.

And now she was daring her?

"Do it." Jessa repeated, even softer now. "Don't go getting cold feet on me now. From what I heard from the others, you didn't have any problem before."

Vaggie froze.

That single breath—the one between killing and not—hung in her lungs like a boulder suspended by a single fraying thread.

The spear trembled.

Jessa's neck was bare. Vulnerable. An easy strike. No armor. No resistance. Just one twitch, one impulse, one slip—and it would all be over. She wouldn't even scream. Vaggie could tell that much.

She wanted this.

Not as mercy. Not as punishment.

She wanted Vaggie to prove it.

Prove that Charlie was just a smiling liar, and Vaggie was still the Exorcist who betrayed them.

The spear tip wavered.

"Vaggie." Charlie whispered, her voice trembling. "Don't."

If she did it ... then everything they were building—the Hotel, the dream, redemption—would die right here on this scaffold.

The spear lowered.

"You want me or them to come to your fucking hotel? It isn't happening till you actually mean the words you're too afraid to say." Jessa's voice was razor-thin now, whispering over the edge of collapse, but it sliced clean through the thick silence like a guillotine. "I'm not leaving this place for an ideal. I'm not walking into your redemption scam because you flinched at an apology. You want to help me or anyone else here? Own it. All of it. The deaths. The choices. The fucking cannibals."

"That's enough!" Vaggie snapped, stepping fully in front of Charlie now, spear lowered but posture crackling with fury. "Every one of us made choices we can't take back!"

"Then you better accept the fact that those choices come with consequences." Jessa continued calmly, bitterly—like a verdict being read aloud.

Jessa turned her back again, slowly stepping toward the edge of the scaffolding. Her voice, when she spoke next, sounded far away. Almost like it was meant more for herself than them.

"I'll find my peace in my own way. And maybe Adam and my sister's are the only reason I haven't eaten an angelic steel bullet yet. Not you. Not Heaven. And certainly not your damn Hotel."

Jessa's boots thudded softly against the catwalk as she walked away—no drama, no final flare of anger. Just tired, decisive steps.

Vaggie spun around and wrapped her arms around Charlie, pulling her close as if shielding her from the emotional fallout that still crackled in the air like distant gunfire. Charlie didn't fight it. Didn't even blink. She simply sagged into Vaggie's embrace like a candle finally giving out, all her manic conviction collapsing in on itself.

"Don't listen to her hon. She doesn't know what the fuck she is talking about or what we went through." Vaggie whispered fiercely, her voice laced with protective fury. "She is the one who should be apologizing to us."

"..." Charlie didn't respond.

Verosika may have underestimated the First Man.

"Wait! Wait! Wait!" Verosika shrieked, writhing against the leather restraints pinning her arms and legs to the iron slab. Her voice echoed like a siren across the blood-slick room.

She had walked in, ready to give Adam a piece of her mind when Harper, Kaela and Luna grabbed her like a doll in a tornado and strapped her down within seconds.

Verosika's shrill protest was cut short by the metallic clunk of a crank being locked into place. Adam stood beside the rusted iron slab, sleeves rolled up, mask expressionless—but his body language? Positively thrumming with cathartic anticipation. Harper stood in the corner with her arms folded, an unimpressed eyebrow raised as she leaned against the wall, observing with the air of someone watching a very specific kind of car accident she'd secretly hoped for.

"Nope. Not hearing it," Adam repeated flatly, hoisting the barrel with all the joy of a man taking out the trash—with extra malice. Blood and bile sloshed audibly inside, thick and slow, the smell alone enough to turn a lesser demon's stomach. "You broke my window and I can't have people making a habit of it so congratulations, I'm going to make a fucking example out of you."

"WAIT!" Verosika screamed again, twisting against the restraints with a desperation that had long since shed its pride. "I know where there are more of your Exorcists!"

Adam froze work. The thick, red-black sludge in the barrel sloshed violently against its sides, inches from her face. His head turned slowly—mechanical, deliberate—as if he wasn't sure whether he heard her or just hallucinated out of sheer hatred.

"...What did you just say?" Adam asked, his voice deathly quiet.

Verosika swallowed, the heat of the bile inches from her nose. "I said I know where more of your people are! Exorcists! Real ones. Freshly turned Sinners!"

A long beat passed.

Then another.

Harper shifted slightly against the wall, her eyes sharpening. "Where?"

"Let me go and I'll tell you!" Verosika pleaded.

Adam turned the spigot just enough for a fat, crimson droplet to slip out and land on Verosika's nose with a wet plop. The smell alone made her gag. Her face contorted in horror as the droplet oozed down, tracing a lazy, mocking path toward her lips.

"Or," Adam said, voice low, dangerous. "... you can tell me now."

"Fuck, fine!" Verosika gasped, squirming as the drip of bile slid over her upper lip like some demonic snail trail. "Valentino! The fucking pervert has some of your girls working for him!"

Adam straightened up slowly, the spigot handle still clutched in one hand, but now utterly still.

His entire posture changed—not relaxed, not tense, but something primed. The kind of stillness that came right before impact. He didn't look at Verosika yet. Instead, his gaze was fixed somewhere far away—on the idea of Valentino. On the implication.

Harper's arms uncrossed. Slowly. Her eyes narrowed as she pushed off the wall and stepped forward. "You'd better not be lying," she said, her voice tight with something far colder than anger. "Because if you are—"

"I'm not!" Verosika blurted, spitting bile off her lips as it reached her tongue. "I'm not, okay!? I saw them while I was discussing streaming my concert with Vox!"

"... Let her go." Adam finally said, his voice low and unreadable.

Harper blinked, surprised—but only for a second. Then she nodded and crossed to the slab with steady, purposeful steps. The restraints groaned as she unbuckled them one by one, the leather straps snapping free with wet, sticky sounds. Verosika immediately rolled to the side and dry-heaved onto the floor, wiping bile from her mouth with the back of her wrist.

"You came just to tell me this?" Adam didn't sound curious. He sounded suspicious.

Verosika, still gasping, flopped onto her back and glared up at him, her hair slick with sweat, her cheeks flushed with equal parts fury and nausea. "I didn't come to tell you shit! I came to yell at you for wrecking my concert! You fucking owe me!"

"Pretty stupid of you babe. But seeing as how you got me this juicy info, I think we can work something out." Adam smiled as he held up the Hazbin Hotel pamphlet. "In fact, I think I got the perfect place for you to perform."

Chapter Text

Charlie dragged her feet into the lobby, glitter-stained, dirt-smudged, and emotionally hollow. Her arms hung limp at her side like a flag of surrender. Vaggie followed close behind, bruised in more ways than one.

Alastor popped his head from around a corner. "You're back early! And I don't see any sign of our First Man guest. Dare I ask how the it went?"

Charlie didn't answer. She just walked past him like a sleepwalker, dropped her flowchart on the nearest chair, and collapsed face-first onto the couch.

"It went as well as you'd expect." Vaggie muttered, slumping into an armchair.

Alastor blinked, eyes widening slightly. "Ah. So the idea of redemption was utterly rejected I take it? Like in all your past attempts?"

"No!" Charlie lifted her head suddenly, face flushed, eyes still watery. "Look ... they didn't EXACTLY say no!"

"They sure as fuck didn't say "Yes" either." Vaggie's words hung in the air like smoke—bitter, clinging, and slow to clear. "So can we PLEASE fucking give up on them!?"

"We can't!" Charlie shot back, sitting upright now. "Because the fact is, Adam and the Exorcists are our best shot at redemption on a large scale!"

Vaggie and Alastor could only stare as Charlie's expression slowly tightened—like the pieces of herself were coming back together, each one fitting tighter, harder. Vaggie especially couldn't comprehend how Charlie could still be pushing this.

"How can you still be fighting for those fuckers!?" Vaggie snapped. "THEY DON'T WANT IT!"

"THEY DO!" Charlie stood up, trembling, not from fear or fragility—but from the stubborn, delusional engine of faith that powered her even now. "They have to want it."

To Charlie, this wasn't just about hope anymore. It was logic.

IT HAD TO BE!

Because the fact is, is that the Sinners in Hell have never experienced Heaven.

They didn't know what they were missing. They were tossed into Hell after their deaths without ever seeing what could have been. The splendor, the koalas and the rainbow sprinkles. She herself had only visited Heaven once for less then a day but that one day was enough to show her how much better Heaven's environment is.

Charlie could still remember how it smelled—like clean clouds and sunlight, like the inside of a music box that only played lullabies. She remembered how the light felt, how it didn't just warm your skin, it cradled your soul.

And Adam?

The Exorcists?

They'd lived there.

Charlie gripped the edge of the couch cushion like it was the last solid thing in her crumbling reality. Her mind churned, frantic and furious, trying to stitch reason into rejection.

"I know Adam is lying." Charlie said, voice cracking. "They all are!"

Her fingers curled tighter into the couch cushions, knuckles whitening. Vaggie watched the tension ripple through her girlfriend's shoulders—like a storm cloud holding back lightning.

"Hon, calm down—" Vaggie stepped forward, arms out gently like Charlie was a live wire about to snap loose.

But Charlie didn't calm down.

She couldn't.

"I'm not wrong, Vaggie." Her voice was shaking now—not just with anger or grief, but with terror. "I'm not wrong."

If she was wrong about this, then what was all this for? The Hotel. The mission. Her dream ...

NO!

SHE'S NOT WRONG!

Alastor tilted his head curiously. "Well, to be fair, its hard for them to want redemption after—"

"SHUT UP!" Charlie shrieked, spinning on him so suddenly that even he went quiet.

Alastor blinked, eyes widening just a fraction. Not out of fear—no, not Alastor. But interest. Curiosity. Fascination, even.

"Since I started this Hotel, no Sinner has joined willingly for redemption!" Charlie screamed, hands shaking, voice cracking at the edges. "Not one! Not really! Angel joined because we're letting him live rent free, Niffty and Husk are here because of Alastor and Alastor ... Alastor is here because he was bored!"

Charlie's voice cracked into a pitch so raw it didn't echo—it hung there, like a broken promise. Her chest heaved. Tears prickled the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away violently.

"... But Sir Pentious—" Vaggie tried again.

"—Was a fluke." Charlie turned toward her with eyes like cracked glass. "I was so happy when he first showed up. The first to EARNESTLY try redemption ... but instead, he was a spy."

"And it worked out in the end, Sir Pentious got redeemed." Vaggie said, trying to salvage something from the emotional wreckage unraveling in front of her.

Charlie turned away, slowly. Her shoulders slumped—but not in relief. In collapse.

"You're missing the point." she whispered, voice brittle and wet. "He didn't come for redemption. He came to spy. He didn't want it. He just stumbled into it."

"And now, even with him redeemed and evidence right in front of them ... no one has come." She turned toward them again, her eyes now wide and haunted, like a doll left too long in the rain. "If even Adam and the Exorcists who were from Heaven, experienced it, lived it, still don't want to give redemption a shot—then who is left?"

The words hit the room like thunder—raw and trembling, not loud but undeniable. Charlie stood in the middle of the Hotel lobby, her arms hanging at her sides like dead weight, her expression hollowed by the truth she couldn't unsee. Vaggie didn't have a comeback. Alastor—ever smiling, ever smug—simply watched.

"I thought …" Charlie's lip trembled, a tear slipping down her cheek despite her effort to blink it back. "I thought if I just showed them it was possible … showed anyone … then everything would start to change. That the redemption idea would catch on. That someone would finally want it."

She looked down at her trembling hands like they weren't hers. Like she couldn't understand why they were empty.

"Even the people who knew what they lost … still don't want it back."

She let the silence thicken. Let the truth fill her lungs like smoke.

"I thought I was doing something good. But now … maybe I'm just forcing everyone to pretend I'm not wasting my time."

The words finally dropped her. She collapsed to her knees on the hotel floor.

"I'm not wrong …" she whispered again, but this time it sounded like begging. "I can't be wrong."

"You're not wrong, hon. You're not. You just—this is a setback. That's all." Vaggie rushed to her, kneeling beside her and wrapping her arms around her girlfriend's shuddering form. "Look at the progress you made with Angel despite everything. Despite his cynicism, his addictions—he's still here. He stayed, Charlie." 

Vaggie’s voice cracked with urgency, her arms tightening protectively around Charlie's trembling frame. "That means something."

Charlie didn’t respond. Her face was buried against Vaggie’s shoulder, body slack with a kind of grief that felt more existential than emotional. She wasn't crying hard. She wasn’t even wailing. The quietness of it was worse—because it was the kind of quiet that sinks in and doesn't leave.

"Look at me hon—" Vaggie gently cupped Charlie’s face in her hands, lifting her chin just enough so their eyes met. Her own gaze was damp now too—not from frustration, but from love. Desperate, stubborn love. "These things take time. But I'm sure, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday, this hotel lobby will be filled with Sinners eager for redemption."

"Its just ... Sera and Emily are expecting some progress or result and if I ... if I can't show them something—anything—" Charlie whispered, her voice cracking under the pressure. "Our upcoming meeting, they'll—"

"It won't come to that." Vaggie said quickly, her thumb brushing a tear off Charlie's cheek. "We'll figure something out. We always do."

But the words tasted hollow, even in her mouth.

As the two hug it out, a quiet, lingering stillness settled over the Hotel lobby like the ash after a fire—warm, but dead. The silence held for a moment longer … until a faint hammering noise echoed through the front windows.

Tap-tap.

Then again. Tap-tap-tap.

Charlie and Vaggie stiffened in place. Alastor, standing a few paces away with his hands neatly folded behind his back, slowly turned his head toward the source of the sound.

BANG.

This one had weight to it. Metal on wood. Then came the screech of nails being drilled in. Alastor stepped to the window, whistling softly to himself. With one finger, he peeled back a flap of the curtain just enough to peer outside into the streets.

And what he saw made his grin widen by just a millimeter.

Outside the Hazbin Hotel, a stage was being built.

Not a simple one, either. A full-blown structure, hastily thrown together with scavenged scaffolding and tarps, speakers on either side, and rows of spotlights that looked like they'd been ripped off a stolen concert rig.

Alastor's reflection flickered faintly in the glass as he peered out, his eyes narrowing with amusement—and something else. Not quite concern. But interest. The kind that suggested opportunity. Or disaster. Often the same thing in Hell.

Charlie and Vaggie stood up, eyes following his gaze. Charlie rubbed her eyes roughly and crossed to the window on shaky legs.

Outside, the makeshift stage was coming together quickly, like a wartime bunker being disguised as a concert set. Fallen Exorcists bustled about with purpose—hauling cords, securing lights, checking sound equipment with a professionalism that looked utterly out of place in this part of the city.

"Well, well." he murmured, tone light as ever but tinged with an edge of anticipation. "Looks like we may be receiving more guests sooner than expected."

After the battle at the Hazbin Hotel between Charlie Morningstar and her rag-tag group of misfits against Heaven, the existence of Angelic Steel weapons became known—and its value skyrocketed to unprecedented heights overnight.

It wasn't just a weapon anymore.

It was THE weapon. The only substance in creation proven to kill those angels once thought invulnerable. The black market exploded with whispered rumors and wild bounties.

And Vox wanted it.

Desperately.

Unfortunately, Carmilla Carmine was the sole Overlord in Hell with direct control over the supply of Angelic Steel and frankly, probably the only one in the know how on how to forge them into weapons.

Naturally, everyone wanted a piece.

Carmilla Carmine—the cold-blooded industrial queen of the Industrial District—was already feared for her control over Hell's black market weapons trade. Now? She was untouchable. The bitch practically sweated profit margins and contracts.

"It's insulting." Vox muttered, watching an endless loop of Carmilla clips play across the curved wall of monitors behind his desk. Each one paused on her smirking face—half-shadowed by goggles, every frame a portrait of capitalist contempt. "I'm trying to give her money. Lots of it. And she ghosts me? ME? Practically her biggest customer!"

"Stop fucking whining." Velvette snapped without looking up from her phone, one leg kicked over the other as she lounged on a velvet love seat shaped like a screaming mouth. "You're acting like a simp with Wi-Fi problems."

Vox twitched.

Across the room, Valentino exhaled smoke in a long, satisfied plume, his body laid out on the couch. His shades glinted with lazy menace.

"You are sounding a little desperate, Voxy." he said, dragging the word like a blade across a throat. "She's just playing hard to get. Let the bitch sweat. Makes the payoff better."

"We're not the ones with the fucking leverage!" Vox snapped, whirling around from his monitors. His circuitry flickered along his jaw, jagged with static. "She doesn't need us. That's the problem."

Velvette finally glanced up, raising one eyebrow under her cotton-candy bangs. "So? Far as I'm concerned, no more of that shitty "Meeting of the Overlords" nonsense."

"Don't you two fucking get it!?" Vox yelled, stomping over. His face glitched again—jagged stripes of static tearing through his smug veneer like a digital aneurysm. "That bitch has angel-killer tech."

In truth, Vox wasn't worried about the Angelic Steel that Carmilla has a monopoly on. It was the Fallen Exorcists turned Sinners that worried him. Their existence was no secret and they had been littered all around Pentagram City after the battle at the Hotel.

They weren't such a problem since they weren't well armed and the Sinners outnumbered them greatly. However, they had recently rallied together and made their own home in the Industrial District. And for whatever reason, Carmilla saw fit to recruit them as her security.

Now not only were they armed with their usual spears and swords, they also had guns and explosives that rendered the number advantage the Sinners usually had meaningless.

If Carmilla decided to have them assassinated ...

"Well, well, well. Voxy, you owe me." Valentino's grin widened as his phone buzzed, casting a soft blue glow over his fingers.

Vox turned, glitch-static flaring across his cheek like a warning.

"… What the fuck are you smiling about?" he growled.

Val lazily flicked ash into the open mouth of a screaming skull-shaped ashtray and held up his phone. The screen glowed with one name.

CARMILLA CARMINE

[Message: Let's talk business.]

"Looks like the Ice Queen decided to reach out." Valentino said, his voice syrupy with smug satisfaction. "And guess whose number she chose?"

Vox stormed forward, hands clenched, sparks of light twitching under his skin. "You're kidding."

Val shrugged with all the smugness of a man being handed the nuclear codes. "Guess I'm just more charming. Took the bitch long enough to notice."

"Are you fuckers ready to GET. FUCKED. UP!" Verosika's voice exploded through the speakers like a glitter-coated bomb, distorted slightly by the sheer force of her scream. The crowd made up of Sinners and Hellborn roared back in reply. Smoke machines belched pink and lavender haze across the makeshift stage. The lights flared like a rave had crashed into a warzone. Explosions of glitter burst overhead from jury-rigged pyrotechnics that looked like they'd been salvaged from a fireworks warehouse fire.

Verosika stood front and center, one stiletto heel propped on a monitor, her mic held high like a scepter of authority. Her backup dancers whirled behind her in carefully choreographed carnality.

"THIS ONE GOES OUT TO A CERTAIN SHITHEAD WHO TRIED TO WATERBOARD ME!" she shouted, voice spiked with fury and fabulousness. "FUCK YOU, ADAM!"

Off to the side, Harper was coordinating the stagehands with military precision, clipboard in hand, headset crackling in her ear like it owed her rent. She didn't even flinch as a stage light crashed just inches from her boots.

"Get that replaced five minutes ago." she barked into the headset, not looking up. One hand scribbled notes on her clipboard.

"Harper?"

"Oh great." Harper muttered, her tone flat as a dead heart monitor. She didn't look up from her clipboard.

"You finally wised up and left Adam to work for Verosika?" Vaggie asked dryly, arms crossed as she stared across the now-crowded staging area.

Harper finally looked up from her clipboard, her eyes so dry and unimpressed they could have sanded wood.

"No." she deadpanned. "In fact, Adam has us doing this as a 'gift' for you and the Princess."

Despite nearly bawling her eyes out almost an hour ago, Charlie managed a stunned blink. "Wait ... what?"

Harper's clipboard snapped shut with a loud clack. "Yeah. You heard me. Adam said—and I quote—'The bitch ain't gonna stop pestering us so we're going to give her what she wants'."

"That's ... actually kind of nice!" Charlie blinked again. "I KNEW IT!"

ADAM DOES WANT REDEMPTION!

"Oh, I can't wait for you all to join the hotel!" Charlie beamed, the embers of her hope reigniting. "I promise, this is just the beginning! You'll love it here—we have counseling, workshops, homemade cookies every Friday—"

Harper held up a single, silencing finger. "Stop. Talking."

Charlie blinked, smile still clinging to her face like duct tape on a sinking boat.

"We are not joining your crappy daycare." Harper's flat tone cut through Charlie's rekindled hope like a scalpel.

Charlie blinked. "But … the concert—Verosika—this whole thing—gift?"

"You wanted Sinners in your hotel right?" Harper pointed toward the now-growing mob gathered just beyond the concert barricades. "Well, Adam decided to help you advertise."

Charlie followed the gesture—and her breath caught.

The crowd was massive.

Not just fans of Verosika, but curious onlookers. Wandering Sinners. Drifters. Hooked by the music, or the free drinks, or the simple curiosity of what the hell a full-scale pop concert was doing in front of the Hazbin Hotel. Some were dancing. Some were arguing. Others stood awkwardly at the edges, watching like wolves sniffing out a new hunting ground. But they were there. Hundreds. Maybe more.

"Hey you lot, before I end my show—" Verosika shouted over the roar of the crowd, her voice now silky smooth but laced with playful venom, "—I got something to say."

The lights dimmed to a sultry violet. Her dancers froze mid-pose, forming a living tableau of sass and smirks.

Verosika flipped her hair dramatically and strolled to the very front of the stage, mic cradled in one manicured hand, the other hand resting on her hip. Her stiletto heels clicked against the platform.

"You all know me. You know I don't do anything for free." Her voice oozed through the air like a perfume cloud, drawing cheers, whistles, and at least one bottle thrown in affectionate agreement. "But this time? I'm making a very special exception."

She turned slightly, her back arching in a pose designed for cameras and chaos.

"Because today's concert—sponsored by the fucker who ruined my last show—" she flashed a fanged smile at the nearest stage camera, "—is dedicated to all of you Sinners looking for a 'second chance'."

The crowd quieted. Confused. Suspicious. Curious.

Verosika held the pause for dramatic effect. Then, with one perfectly lacquered nail, she pointed behind her—to the Hazbin Hotel looming like a fever dream behind the stage.

"That's the Hazbin Hotel." Verosika presented.

A beat passed.

Then a BOO! rang out from the crowd.

Then another. Then several more.

“Lame!”

“Join for fuck!? The Exterminations are gone!”

"I want to redeem that pussy of yours instead!"

"Well here's a fun fact for you pervs out there. That building right there?" She flicked her tongue against her fang and grinned wide. "You know who is staying in that dank hotel!? ANGEL FUCKING DUST! That's right! The fucking pornstar!"

The crowd erupted in shrieks, catcalls, and outright animal noises. A beer can flew into the air and didn't come back down.

"And best of all?" Verosika purred, sauntering along the lip of the stage. "Something not well known."

She paused again, basking in the crowd's fevered energy. Her silhouette was framed by bursts of fireworks and the crackling sizzle of pyrotechnics duct-taped to speakers. Her smirk widened like a shark smelling blood in the water.

"It's free."

Another beat.

Then—

The crowd lost their shit.

"... fuck." Charlie muttered.

In the lobby of the V Tower, the Vees—or rather, Vox—eagerly waited for the arrival of Carmilla's mysterious representatives.

The lobby, like the rest of the tower, was a sensory assault: velvet walls pulsed faintly with embedded speakers playing lo-fi jazz, every surface gleamed with polish too perfect to be clean, and the floor lit up under your feet in time with your heart rate—an unsettling feature Vox was particularly proud of.

Velvette rolled her eyes behind her heart-shaped sunglasses. "I don't see why you had to put up all this crap just to impress her 'representatives'. Just 'cause she's the only manufacturer of Angelic Steel, she thinks she's Lilith now."

"Angelic Steel that need I remind you would greatly benefit us." Vox finished with a static-glitched sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as Velvette groaned behind him.

He still can't believe how laid back Velvette and Valentino are about the precarious situation they could be in. Carmilla has the only means of permanently killing Sinners and the manpower to effectively use it.

The elevator dinged.

All three Vees turned at once.

From the gold-gilded doors stepped three figures in dramatically bad outfits.

Carmilla's so-called "representatives."

Adam's was objectively awful: a dollar-store fedora perched atop his head, oversized sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a gaudy fake mustache that curled at the edges like he had stolen it from a cartoon villain.

He wore a bright red T-shirt that said "SUPREME DICKMASTER" in bold white letters.

Luna stood to his left, chewing gum and wearing a pink hoodie that said "BABE 1."

Kaela stood to his right in an identical hoodie labeled "BABE 2," though hers had blood on the sleeve and at least one visible bullet hole.

A hush fell over the lobby.

Velvette snorted loudly, immediately taking a picture with her phone. "Holy shit! Your fashion senses are—"

Vox lunged forward and slapped a hand over Velvette's mouth, his eyes darting toward the newcomers.

"Don't mock the people who sell the only weapons that can kill us." He hissed through clenched teeth, "I'm trying to making a fucking deal here."

Adam stepped out first—confident, slow, radiating the subtle body language of someone deeply offended by the mere existence of everyone in the room. His "SUPREME DICKMASTER" shirt gleamed under the neon lighting like a divine curse.

Valentino's sunglasses slid down his nose.

"… What the fuck did that say?" he asked, voice low, not out of disbelief—but rage.

Adam adjusted his fake mustache with a completely straight face.

Adam announced to the room, "The name's Dickmaster. Supreme Dickmaster. And these are my bitches."

Kaela gave a lazy two-finger salute. "Yo."

Luna blew a bubble with her gum until it popped, sticking to her lip like blood in a cartoon. "Sup."

Valentino's expression twitched. A vein pulsed in his temple. "You don't just get to take that title."

Adam blinked once behind the sunglasses. "What, 'Supreme?'"

"No." Valentino snapped, rising from the couch in one fluid motion. "Dickmaster. That's my fucking title."

"Damn. Really?" Adam asked, tilting his head. "You? Pfft. Yeah, right."

Valentino seethed, lighting a cigarette with a tremble in his fingers. "Decades of reputation, degradation, domination—you think you can just show up in that cheap ass shirt and—"

"Anyway," Adam cut in. "We're here to talk business."

"Don't cut me off you little—" Valentino snapped but just as quickly with Velvette, Vox's other hand found its way over the Moth Overlord's mouth.

"And we are happy to have you here," Vox said with a strained, static-laced smile, both hands now working overtime to muzzle his volatile colleagues. One on Velvette. One on Valentino. "Forgive the outbursts. Everyone's just so excited. RIGHT!?"

Valentino and Velvette both mumbled furiously into Vox's hands. One of Velvette's teeth grazed his thumb.

"I will electrocute you." Vox hissed at her, smiling like a broken TV ad before turning back to his guests. "Excited! So very excited and eager! Why don't we all move to the business lounge?"

Adam said nothing. Just stood there in his "SUPREME DICKMASTER" shirt like a monument to nuclear disrespect. Luna picked something out of her teeth. Kaela adjusted her hoodie and let her fingers linger just a little too long over the bulge of a weapon tucked beneath it.

Adam gave a slow nod and adjusted his mustache again. "Lead the way, Glitch-Boy."

The doors to the VeePee Lounge hissed open.

Chapter Text

"No! No! No!" Charlie screeched as a Sinner barrel-rolled past her and into the coffee table, sending pamphlets and coasters flying like debris in a hurricane. She tried to grab him, but he slipped from her grasp with a wet squelch that suggested he'd either been drinking or oozing something alcoholic.

Another Sinner kicked open the front door wider, hollering to the street, "FREE FOOD AND PORNSTAR INSIDE!" before vanishing into the growing mob.

Vaggie swung her spear like a traffic baton, jabbing it into the chest of a demon trying to unplug the reception desk's computer. "GET OUT OF THAT! That's the Wi-Fi!"

Charlie whirled toward the stairs just in time to see three Sinners leap from the second floor railing and onto the lobby's chandelier. The fixture groaned with their combined weight, swaying like a noose in a thunderstorm.

"No no no no NO!" Charlie shrieked, flapping her arms like a frantic dove in a burning chapel. "Please come down!"

"You heard her boys!"

All three grinned and with a synchronized jump, forced the chandelier to rip clean out of the ceiling. Several Sinners below scattered with a mix of shrieks and cheers as the chandelier came crashing down, exploding into a rain of glass and gold.

Across the room, Angel Dust was using a chair as a makeshift weapon, swinging it like a folding warhammer against a particularly sticky Sinner climbing the bar counter.

"Back the fuck up, you crusty bathmat!" he snarled, cracking the chair over the Sinner's head. The wood splintered. The Sinner didn't even flinch—just giggled and drooled as he continued his assault.

Angel groaned. "This is why I don't do free gigs!"

Husk was behind the bar, desperately slapping at hands reaching for the booze. "You touch that scotch and I swear to Satan I'll feed you your own liver through a goddamn straw!" he barked, stabbing at grabby claws with a bar spoon. One Sinner managed to snatch a full bottle of Scotch and vanished into the crowd like a greased possum.

From the kitchen, an explosion of flour burst into the air like someone had weaponized a bakery. A rolling pin clattered across the lobby floor, bouncing off a dazed Sinner's head. A second later, Niffty came skittering out, dual-wielding ladles like twin scimitars.

"So many BAD boys!" Niffty manically grinned.

She lunged into the fray, ladles flashing, knocking plates, heads, and a tray of deviled eggs into the air with equal enthusiasm. One Sinner shrieked, slipped on mashed potatoes, and faceplanted into the punch bowl.

Charlie stumbled backward, bumping into Vaggie as more Sinners poured through the open doors like rats into a burning opera house. "We have to do something!"

"Where the fuck is Alastor!?" Vaggie yelled again, ducking as a Sinner hurled a velvet armchair across the lobby like a discus.

Another window shattered as a Sinner on rollerblades burst through it mid-backflip, scattering ceiling tiles and someone's pants in every direction.

"Motherfucker!" Vaggie roared, jabbing her spear into the floorboards. "Can this get any worse!?"

"FOOD FIGHT!" Someone bellowed from the depths of the kitchen—right before a full roasted pig exploded out of the swinging double doors like a meaty cannonball. It struck the reception desk, knocking the entire counter over followed by a chorus of startled screams. A conga line of unhinged Sinners surged after it, arms with plate full of different foods.

"No!" Charlie ducked as a bowl of something green and steaming flew past her head. "No food fight!"

But her pleas fell on deaf ears as even more culinary chaos erupted from the kitchen like Hell's worst cooking show. Pies of all sorts of flavors soared overhead like sugar-encrusted mortars, leaving greasy streaks across the lobby walls. A banana cream pie splattered against a framed portrait of Charlie, Lucifer, and Lilith—right over Lucifer's face, as if the universe was editorializing.

Before she could scream again, a flaming baguette—yes, flaming—whizzed past her face and embedded itself into the curtain.

Charlie's eyes widened. "No no no no—"

The curtain caught instantly.

Within seconds, crimson velvet was engulfed in bright orange flames, climbing like a devil's tongue toward the ceiling.

"FIRE!" Vaggie screamed.

Several Sinners immediately cheered.

One raised a solo cup and shouted, "Hell yeah! This is the best fucked up party ever!"

"PUT IT OUT! PUT IT OUT!" Charlie screamed, scrambling toward the blazing curtain with a throw pillow in both hands. She smacked at the flames like she was trying to suffocate a volcano. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"

A Sinner leapt off the banister with a ketchup bottle in each hand, shrieking, "FOR SAUCE AND GLORY!" before crashing into a group of partygoers and smearing the walls with condiments like Jackson Pollock possessed by Gordon Ramsay.

Angel Dust ducked a flying cake tin and hissed. "This is worse than that time I did coke off a trampoline mid-orgy. At least then I had dignity!"

Behind the bar, Husk had resorted to lighting a Molotov cocktail—not to throw it, but to threaten the other Sinners into calming down. "You touch one more fucking bottle, and I swear to Satan's crusty ass, I will burn this whole place down myself!"

"Don't you fucking dare Husk!" Vaggie growled, stabbing her spear into a table leg to prop up a barricade.

"WILL EVERYONE STOP THROWING SHIT!" Charlie screamed.

"I hope you three are comfortable," Vox said with his most winning, digitized smile. The synthetic static in his voice softened just enough to feign sincerity, though the flicker in his pixels betrayed a hint of panic.

Adam sat with his boots propped arrogantly on the edge of a crystal glass coffee table—one that cost more than most Sinners' souls. He was flipping a coin between his fingers without even looking at Vox.

The coin made a soft ping every time it spun in the air.

Kaela sprawled on a velvet chaise lounge like she owned the place. She was clicking through the massive, wall-mounted television—half-watching a slow-motion reel of Sinner executions set to classical music, half-inspecting the remote.

Luna had opened the minibar and was actively emptying it, bottle by bottle. Half the mini bottles were already lined up like shot soldiers on the coffee table next to Adam's boots. She didn't even look at Vox—just made direct eye contact with a security camera in the corner, grinned, and poured two different liquors into a flower vase.

"That's not a glass." Vox said tightly.

"Excuse me?" Luna replied, taking a sip directly from the vase. Her lips curled into a smirk, daring him to repeat what he said.

Vox's circuitry flickered again, a thin burst of static tearing across his jaw. He pulled in a breath he didn't need and forced another smile.

"... Nothing. I didn't say anything." Vox replied before turning away and whispering to himself. "Just think of the deal Vox. Just think of the deal. Think of the Angelic Steel."

He turned back to his guests with another forced grin, the digital equivalent of stretching duct tape over a bursting water main.

"Oh how rude of me. I didn't get your names." Vox offered with another smile—this one more desperate than polite.

Adam flipped the coin again and caught it without looking. He rolled it across his knuckles. His face, still obscured by sunglasses and that awful fake mustache, remained unreadable.

"Didn't fucking give 'em." he said flatly, voice smooth and venomous.

Kaela, still draped like a bored mob princess, didn't even look up. "Yeah. Didn't ask for yours either, 'TV Boy.'"

Vox twitched.

"R-right. Haha. Very, very funny. Names aren't important—what is important is that we're all here. Comfortable. Relaxed." A smile pixelated back onto his face like a corrupted GIF. "Anyway, I'm sure Carmilla needs you three back ASAP so lets talk business."

"Y'know, this table's a little low. Got anything taller I can rest my fucking nuts on?" Adam didn't even smile as he said it. Just stared at Vox through those oversized sunglasses, fake mustache twitching slightly with the movement of his mouth.

Vox's left eye flickered. Literally. A short-circuit sparked at the corner of his digitized iris before he managed to suppress it.

Velvette leaned in from her seat nearby, giggling into her phone. "I like him."

Valentino growled under his breath. "I hate him."

Vox clapped his hands together too quickly. "Excellent joke. So ... refreshingly informal. Now then, let's talk Angelic Steel."

He pulled a glowing, sleek screen out from behind him with a dramatic flick of his wrist, displaying charts, diagrams, and projections with that unmistakable Overlord polish. "We're prepared to offer Carmilla—"

"Hold it glitchy." Adam interrupted, not even turning his head toward the screen. "First thing first, we have a condition of our own. If you fucks don't fulfill it, we aren't going to have a deal."

Valentino, sprawled across his half-burned velvet couch with a cigarette dangling between his teeth, narrowed his eyes. "A condition?" he sneered. "We're the ones with the money, sugar. We don't take conditions. We offer prices."

Adam leaned forward slightly, flipping the coin one last time—only this time, he didn't catch it. He let it hit the glass table with a sharp, ringing plink. It spun there for a long second before landing with a soft clink—tails.

He looked up at Valentino with an edge of deliberate calm.

"A little bird told me you fucks got some rare ... Exorcist merchandise. Specifically, the ones who fell during the Hotel fight." Adam said, voice coiling with quiet menace.

Valentino's cigarette paused halfway to his lips. "And what does it fucking matter to you?"

"Simple." Adam leaned back, his arms draped lazily across the couch like a predator stretching before the kill. His voice lowered to a slow, deliberate growl. "You've seen the people Carmilla has as security now and she has taken quite a shine to them. Can't fucking blame her. Those bitches are awesome. So in exchange for them, she'll provide weapons."

"Pfft." Valentino scoffed, blowing a lazy plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "Those sluts are fierce but too fierce for my taste. Not worth the upkeep."

Kaela snorted from the chaise lounge, still scrolling the channels. "Too much of a pussy to handle them."

Valentino's sunglasses glinted as he turned his head slowly. "What the fuck did you say?"

Kaela looked over lazily. "You heard me, cumrag."

Before Valentino could advance, Vox stepped between them, practically vibrating with digital anxiety. His screen-glow flickered in static spasms.

"Now now now! No need for posturing! We're all professionals here!" Vox laughed, the sound an uneven burst of autotune and static. He slapped his palms together again with the cheer of a man trying to hold back a dam breach with duct tape. "Val, you did have some of them before, right?"

"Yeah. Picked up a few of them throughout the city. Bitches wouldn't break no matter how I sliced." Valentino shrugged like he was bored. "So I sold them."

Adam's fingers stopped drumming.

For the first time since entering the room, the temperature dropped.

Not literally—but everyone felt it. That awful pressure. Like something old had just shifted inside the man in the fake mustache and novelty T-shirt.

"Guess we aren't making a deal after all." Adam said, his tone hollow, almost amused. His hand ready to summon his axe while Kaela and Luna reached for their hidden weapons.

But before it could escalate, Vox yanked Valentino aside so fast it was a miracle his cigarette didn't fly out of his mouth. They vanished behind one of the towering neon pillars.

"WHO did you sell them to!?" Vox hissed, his voice glitched and guttural.

Valentino just adjusted his sunglasses and rolled his neck like a lazy predator. "Relax, Voxy. I didn't sell 'em to Heaven, if that's what you're scared of."

"Not funny." Vox's hands twitched.

"If you two are done making out, how about using that as a bargaining chip for the weapons?" Velvette interrupted, peaking her head around the pillar.

Vox quickly composed himself with a deep, jittering breath and plastered on the fakest smile he could render before returning out to face Adam.

"So good news—we can get those Exorcists back!" He chirped like a salesman.

"We can?"

"Shut up Val." Vox chided Valentino before clapping his hands together and turning back to face Adam. "However, those Exorcists aren't cheap and we will need to talk price if—"

Adam snaps his fingers and Luna immediately pulls out a suitcase and slams it onto the table. She snaps it open with a flourish—and inside gleams a cold, lethal array of Angelic Steel weapons.

Vox, Velvette, and Valentino leaned forward in unison. All posturing, all arrogance vanished like a computer crash.

Angelic Steel.

So much of it.

Adam leaned back lazily, arms crossed. "One suitcase per Exorcist."

"Per—?!" Valentino started to shout, but Vox's heel dug into his shoe so hard it nearly broke skin.

"We accept!" Vox said instantly, smoothing his smile even as sweat practically short-circuited his circuits.

ALASTOR IS SO FUCKED!

"But to get them back will take time—"

"We can wait." Adam says, slamming the suitcase shut.

The lobby looked like it had been hit by a biblical plague made entirely of mashed potatoes, sex toys, and regret. Chunks of food still dripped from the chandeliers—well, what was left of them. Most of the curtains were scorched or melted. The air smelled like rum-soaked gravy, scorched velvet, and panic sweat.

Charlie stood in the middle of the room, panting, trembling, streaked with soot and frosting. Her hair clung to her cheeks in singed strands. Her pride had followed shortly after.

"EVERYONE OUT!" Vaggie bellowed, voice cracking like a porcelain plate hitting a stone floor. "OUT! OUT! OUT! IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, THEN CONGRATULATIONS—GET THE FUCK OUT!"

The Sinners hesitated—mostly because many were still drunk, high, or mid-conga. But then Angel Dust flung open the front doors with both arms and shouted.

"She said OUT, you crusty fucking dumpster-dwellers! Go puke on someone else's carpet!"

That did it.

Like a tide breaking, the crowd began to spill out—tripping, swearing, still stealing things as they went.

"Fucking buzzkill."

"Knew they were lame."

"Angel is missing out on my dick."

The last straggling Sinner stumbled out of the ruined front doors, clutching a toaster under one arm and a stolen framed photo of Lucifer under the other. Vaggie gave the Sinner a kick in the ass as a farewell gift, slamming the doors shut behind him.

Silence.

"Yay! Now my favorite part!" Niffty chirped, twirling through the debris like a blood-sugar-fueled ballerina in a battlefield. Her eye sparkled as she surveyed the smoldering wreckage with all the glee of a kid in a candy store—if the candy was moldy dishes, scorched curtains, and glass shards.

"CLEANING TIME!" she sang, pulling a mop and swinging it over her head like a halberd.

"I don't get how she finds that fun." Angel slumped into a splintered armchair with a grunt, brushing cocaine and glass off his lap.

"Mess attracts roaches and Niffty just loves that." Alastor voice seemingly coming out of nowhere, tendrils of shadows rippling from the floor as he materialized from the corner, revealing the Overlord with a beaming smile.

"Would you look at that." Alastor chirped, stepping lightly over an overturned table. "I simply leave for a few hours to retrieve my new cane and the hotel is in tatters. Dear oh dear, where would this hotel be without me."

Alastor's cane clicked against the debris-strewn floor as he strode across the lobby, his grin stretched wider than sanity allowed. Behind him, tendrils of shadow unfurled and worked at removing glass shards and broken furniture.

"You would have been an even greater help if you had been here hours ago." Husk grunted, tossing a half-burned coaster onto a scorched couch.

Alastor merely chuckled, the kind of sound that slithered under the skin like static. "You know me, Husker. Busy, busy, busy. Always a song to sing, a corpse to dig up, a few souls to meddle with. Plus, I had to pick up my new cane."

The lobby had fallen quiet—except for the soft slap of Niffty's mop and the occasional clink of broken glass.

Charlie stood in the middle of it all. She didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared at a crusted pie slowly oozing down the wall beside the smashed family photo of her, Lucifer, and Lilith.

A lump rose in her throat.

"None of them ..." she whispered.

Vaggie, nearby, looked up from re-fastening a curtain rod with makeshift twine. "What, babe?"

Charlie didn't respond. Her eyes were glassy, fixed on the empty space where the chandelier used to hang.

"Not one stopped. Not one apologized. They wrecked everything. They almost burned the Hotel down and then they cheered. Like it was funny."

"Charlie ..." Vaggie stepped forward gently. "Look, this is all Adam's fault! He was the reason Verosika even made her stage there and the reason all those Sinners trashed our hotel"

"But why would—"

"He's an asshole! Plain and simple!" Vaggie shouted, her hands balling into fists. "He wanted to humiliate you, to show you that your dream—our dream—is a fucking joke to him. He does all this in hopes of watching us crash and burn."

Were it anyone else, the story would've ended there—with tears, bitter truth, and the sound of Vaggie's voice echoing in the broken lobby like a judge slamming the final gavel.

But Charlie wasn't just anyone unfortunately.

She blinked slowly, as if rebooting. Her lips parted slightly, her breath hitched, and for a moment, it looked like she might cry again.

Then—

She smiled.

Vaggie's anger wavered. "Babe …?"

Charlie's eyes lit up—not with clarity, but something worse: realization. Her smile widened. Then widened further.

"Oh my Satan." Charlie breathed, voice trembling not with grief, but manic revelation. "That's it!"

"What's—" Vaggie squinted. "No! Charlie, there is no—"

"That's why he did it." Charlie said, spinning on her heel like a deranged ballerina. Her voice bubbled like boiling syrup—too sweet, too hot, too wrong. "Adam didn't do this to humiliate me. He did this … to test me."

A long pause. Vaggie blinked slowly, like she wasn't sure if Charlie had just entered stage four denial or early-onset psychosis. "… Huh?"

"It's a test!" Charlie said, eyes wild with righteous delusion. She clutched her chest like the holy spirit had just punched her heart. "He's trying to see if I'll give up on him! He wanted to see if I'd quit when it got hard! But we proved him wrong!"

"Charlie, no!"

But Charlie wasn't listening anymore.

"Don't you see Vaggie!? He's being a tsundere!" Charlie gasped, her pupils dilating like as if she were on meth. "How could I have been so clueless!? He's being a tsundere! Of course! That's why he's so angry and cruel and emotionally unavailable!"

"What the fuck is a tsundere." Husk questioned as he tried salvaging what bottles remained unbroken.

"It's when someone's really mean to you, but secretly they care! Deep down!" Charlie explained, gesturing with both arms like a preacher. "They lash out because they can't handle how much they like you!"

"I think you've inhaled too much asbestos." Angel Dust commented. "Does this Hotel even have asbestos?"

She turned toward the shattered remains of the chandelier and spread her arms wide, like she was welcoming the end of days with a song.

"Don't worry Adam! You can try to hide behind your macho man attitude but I can read between the lines!"

HE WANTS REDEMPTION!

Charlie spun again, her hair, streaked with ash and dust, clung to her cheeks as she turned to face the smoking ruins of her once-pristine lobby.

"He wants to be redeemed!" she declared, her voice rising in octave and certainty. "He's just scared!"

"Of what? success!?" Vaggie snapped.

"EXACTLY!" Charlie cried, grabbing Vaggie's shoulders. "That's how you know! It's classic tsundere behavior! Loud gestures! Mixed messages! Sabotaging things because he's afraid of being vulnerable!"

Vaggie groaned into her hands.

"But don't worry Adam! I'm not giving up on you!" Charlie proclaimed. "I bet right now, he is sitting somewhere smiling, pretending he’s not impressed with my resolve!”

She thrust a hand toward the shattered front doors like she was addressing an invisible camera crew.

“‘She didn’t back down.’” Charlie said in a voice that was definitely not Adam’s but tried to sound deep and dramatic. “‘She kept believing in me even after I gave her every reason to quit.’”

Charlie placed a soot-smeared hand over her chest, eyes shimmering like shattered glass under a spotlight. Her cheeks were flushed, her posture triumphant, as if she were ascending from martyr to saint.

"She saw the real me," she whispered in her Adam impression, holding her arms wide. "She believed in the man beneath the blood and the rudeness."

"Okay, no. No no no." Vaggie walked over and grabbed Charlie’s shoulders again, this time with a gentle but urgent grip. “Babe, listen to me. This. Is. Adam! He is just fucking with us! The man has made it very clear he DOESN'T want redemption!”

“No!” Charlie said with unnerving serenity, brushing soot from Vaggie’s lapel. “He's scared to admit he’s lost. Lost in Hell, lost without Heaven, lost without hope. BUT THAT'S WHERE I COME IN!”

ADAM NEEDS HER NOW MORE THEN EVER!

SHE'LL BE ADAM'S 'HOPE IN HELL'!

“This isn't some anime!” Vaggie practically shrieked.

“Not with that attitude.” Angel Dust mumbled, cradling a half-melted martini glass. “But hey, if we start getting flashbacks and power-ups mid-fight, I’m in.”

"Husk," Vaggie mumbled in defeat, "how much bourbon do I need to drink to blackout hard enough and forget what I just heard?"

Husk didn't even look up from the shattered bar as he cradled a surviving bottle. "More than we got left."

As they waited for Valentino to return with the Exorcists, Adam, Kaela and Luna had turned the lounge into a pigsty. The lounge had transformed from decadent chic into something resembling a college dorm after finals week. Empty liquor bottles littered the velvet furniture like shrapnel. 

On the couch, Adam had leaned back in a position that suggested either total boredom or utter disdain—probably both. He adjusted his sunglasses with one hand, lazily spinning the Mario Kart steering wheel controller in his other.

"God damn it, Kaela." he grunted, glaring at the screen, "blue-shell me again and I'll fucking blue-shell your ass."

Kaela chuckled, aiming her controller pointedly. "You snooze, you lose, Dickmaster."

"I'm sorry," Vox piped up, his voice brittle with carefully contained digital anxiety, "but could you kindly remind me again how exactly we arrived at this … arrangement?"

His head was currently displaying Mario Kart, split-screen, with Adam, Kaela, Luna and Velvette clustered around it. Luna snorted, mashing buttons frantically as she took another sharp turn.

"You didn't have a console." Luna smirked, not even glancing at him. "But you are HDMI compatible."

"I'm a powerful Overlord of Hell!" Vox whined, his voice glitching with something close to desperation. "I control broadcast networks, economies of attention! You cannot just … plug into my skull!"

"You're also a shitty Toad." Adam shot back dryly. "Less whining, more racing."

"I'm Bowser!" Vox corrected, the voice crackling. "And I'm in fourth place!"

Kaela flipped her controller sideways, bumping Adam's kart off Rainbow Road. "Correction: fifth place."

"You snooze, you lose, Vox!" Velvette snickered, smirking wickedly as she flicked the joystick to shove Vox's Bowser off Rainbow Road again. Vox's screen-face flashed briefly in digital anguish before quickly resuming the gameplay, pixels twitching in annoyance.

The lounge doors slammed open suddenly, startling everyone inside. Valentino strode in, cigarette clamped between his teeth, pulling on several steel chains with obvious annoyance. At the end of those chains stumbled ten Exorcists—each one battered, bruised, and glaring daggers at their captor, wrists shackled, steel collars fastened tightly around their necks.

"There!" Valentino snarled, yanking the chains and forcing the Exorcists to stumble forward, nearly falling to their knees. "Ten Sinner Exorcists."

Adam resisted the urge to get violent.

Not because he didn't feel the impulse—every muscle in his body tensed like coiled springs, the veins in his temples throbbing beneath that ridiculous fedora—but because violence, in this particular moment, wasn't productive.

Not yet, at least.

"Great work Val!" Vox congratulated before lowering his voice to a whisper. "Please tell me it didn't cost—"

"Oh, it cost." Valentino growled around his cigarette, yanking the chains hard enough to draw a few muffled gasps from the Exorcists. "But I fucking got them back so just charge them extra or whatever."

The newly arrived Sinner Exorcists immediately recognized Adam despite his disguise and one hand gesture from him told them all they needed to know.

He had a plan.

"Well, color me surprised." Adam said as he inspected the Exorcists. "Didn't think you would fucking deliver."

Valentino lit another cigarette with a snap of his fingers, the ember reflecting in his shades as he leaned back against a lounge chair. "So? You gonna jerk off over 'em or what?"

Adam ignored him. His sunglasses glinted as he stepped forward, the click of his boots a rhythm of restrained fury.

"I assume they aren't under any contract?" Adam questioned. "Wouldn't want you guys pulling a—"

"Chill out, pimp." Valentino blew out a plume of smoke, waving his hand lazily. "They WERE under contract with whoever had them but I bought their fucking freedom."

He noted the state they were in—battered, bruised, yet still defiant. Despite the shackles and chains, each Exorcist stood tall, eyes sharp, quietly communicating their readiness to act at his signal.

"You girls alright?" Adam asked, his voice calm, devoid of humor now. He didn't raise it, nor did he try to hide his genuine concern.

One Exorcist stepped forward—a short-haired brunette with a cut lip and fiery eyes. "Been better, sir. But we've endured worse."

Adam nodded, recognizing her. "Good to see you're still kicking, Mara."

Mara inclined her head, a faint smile crossing her bruised face. "Likewise, sir."

"Alright Vox, let's talk Angelic Steel." Adam says as he stepped back from the Exorcists. "How about some first hand experience?"

"No need for—" Vox replies but is cut off when a piercing shriek tore through the room. Everyone spun around in startled unison, eyes landing squarely on Velvette—collapsed to one knee, hands clutching her leg. Blood seeped rapidly through her fingers, dripping onto the plush carpet.

Kaela stood beside her, angelic dagger slick with fresh crimson, expression bored.

Vox glitched violently, his pixelated features twisted in digital horror as he watched Velvette clutch her bleeding leg.

"What the FUCK!?"

Luna sprang up, launching herself across the lounge table like a gymnast. Her boot connected beautifully with Valentino's jaw—a resounding CRACK echoing through the room as his sunglasses flew off his face in slow-motion elegance.

Valentino staggered back, eyes wide with stunned disbelief, before collapsing onto the luxurious carpet.

"Val!" Vox shouted, panic clear in his voice. He whirled around, glitching violently. "You—"

"Shut it, you shitty flat screen." Adam snarled, drawing back his boot and slamming it directly into the side of Vox's knee with devastating precision. 

A sickening, crunching snap filled the air.

"AAAGH—!" Vox's scream short-circuited, distorting into a broken sound wave as his leg buckled beneath him, the limb collapsing at a grotesque angle. He toppled sideways, landing with a dull, staticky thud. His screen-face flickered frantically, a distorted blue error message blinking rapidly across his features.

Adam leaned over Vox's trembling form, adjusting his absurdly oversized sunglasses. "As I promised, you three will get first hand experience."

He glanced over to the ten Exorcists who have since surrounded the three Overlords. "Now then, ladies. How about a little fucking payback?"

Kaela dropped the suitcase full of Angelic Steel weapons at the Exorcists' feet and the women eagerly grabbed the weapons, their eyes gleaming.

"Oh fuck." Vox's static crackled, his screen flickering erratically. "Wait—"

Adam sat down, propping his feet up on the coffee table, and pulled out his phone to record what is to come.

"Well, don't mind me." He grinned. "I'll just enjoy the show."

Chapter Text

After Charlie had calmed down from her epiphany, she sat cross-legged on the floor of the ruined lobby, surrounded by scorched velvet and pie crust shrapnel. Vaggie stood beside her, fists clenched, her voice flat with forced calm.

"He isn't a Tsundere."

Charlie didn't even blink. "He is."

"He doesn't want redemption."

"He does."

"He told you to your face that he didn't."

Charlie smiled softly, like she was speaking to a confused child. "Because he thinks he doesn't. But it's classic deflection."

"How many times does Adam have to let you down before you finally get it, Charlie!?" Vaggie snapped, the strain in her voice pulling tight like a noose.

"You just don't see it." Charlie said gently, her voice so serene it was almost chilling. "I'm sure Adam was skeptical about Sir Pentious's redemption and heard about how we needed more Sinners in the hotel so he sent all these Sinners to me to further prove redemption to him ... he just went about it in his own way."

"Look, Charlie, even if I wanted to believe that," Vaggie said, her voice cracking at the edges, "there's no universe where him sending a bunch of random Sinners who never expressed any desire to change—who trashed the place, nearly killed us, and lit the damn curtains on fire—somehow counts as a thoughtful gesture!"

...

"Sweetie, I know you want to believe in him," Vaggie said, kneeling beside her now. Her tone softened, the heat in her voice giving way to weariness. "But this isn't just optimism anymore. It's delusion. You're chasing something that doesn't exist."

Charlie's eyes shimmered with emotion, but she didn't reply. She just stared at the cracked lobby floor, her hands resting on her knees, soot still smeared across her suit. The broken chandelier sparkled faintly in the corner, glass pieces catching what little light still flickered from the ruined sconces.

Vaggie exhaled, brushing ash from Charlie's shoulder. "Please, just—just look at what he's done. You're so focused on the idea of redemption that you're ignoring what he really is."

Charlie opened her mouth—but then stopped.

Her lips parted, then closed again. Her brows furrowed, just slightly. For the first time in what felt like hours, her manic glow dimmed.

Vaggie saw it. Felt it. That breach in the delusion. Her voice softened, trembling with urgency.

"That's it. Just ... just think. Just for a second."

Charlie's gaze dropped to her hands. Her fingers trembled faintly. The weight of everything—the shattered Hotel, the scorched dreams, the laughter of the rioting Sinners still echoing faintly in her ears—it pressed against her ribs like a tombstone.

Was Vaggie right?

Her earlier reasonings seem so fragile now, in the cold aftermath. The things she'd told herself—about tsundere behavior, about secret gestures of kindness behind Adam's actions—suddenly felt distant. Silly, even. Her chest tightened with the weight of uncertainty, her breath catching as if her own heart were second-guessing her.

Charlie closed her eyes.

Then—

A sound.

A chime. Faint, metallic. Not like a bell—but more like a chain being plucked.

Her eyes snapped open.

A familiar soft pink light shimmered in the air near the bar.

Angel Dust was still slumped in his chair, a half-burned martini glass hanging from one limp hand. He was muttering something sarcastic under his breath about dry cleaning and insurance, but something else was happening.

Around his neck, something flickered into visibility—a glowing pink chain.

"Val is—Wait, what the fuck!?" Angel jerked upright, nearly tripping over the side.

The chain pulsed like a heartbeat, the links glowing with a soft, sickly pink radiance and it seemed to grow brighter and brighter with each pulse.

"Shit! What the fuck!? What the fuck is Val doing!? What the—"

Then—without warning—the chain snapped.

Not with a bang but with a clean, crystalline crack, like the world's most delicate glass being shattered. The glowing links splintered mid-air, dissolving into iridescent dust, vanishing as if they had never existed at all.

Angel Dust stumbled backward with a choked gasp, hand flying to his throat. His fingers brushed bare skin.

Everyone present went wide-eyed, especially Alastor who knew full well the meaning behind the chain's sudden vanishing.

"… Well, now," the Radio Demon muttered, cane paused mid-tap. "That's … new."

Angel Dust scrambled toward the ruined television, slipping once on mashed potatoes before righting himself and grabbing the remote. The screen flared to life—half cracked, but functional. Static buzzed briefly before giving way to a chaotic news broadcast.

"BREAKING NEWS! The once-dominant trio of Vox, Valentino, and Velvette have been forcibly removed from power earlier this evening in what one might call a hostile fucking takeover!" Katie snarled, her tone far too gleeful for the gravity of her words. "Word on the street is that Carmilla Carmine, the Iron Bitch of the Industrial District herself, has seized control of the V Tower—alongside some new, seriously dangerous muscle. And frankly? About fucking time."

Charlie and the others stared in silence as Katie continued, somehow looking smug and manic.

"In a surprising move, our new Overlord in charge has decided to flip the iconic "V" on the tower upside down to form an "A" for who the fuck knows why? We have Tom Trench on the scene to find out more."

The screen sputters before splitting into two frames.

"Are you there, Tom?"

A second window buzzes to life. Tom Trench, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, is standing in front of the newly rebranded "A Tower".

"Yes Katie! I'm standing in front of the—"

"Move your fugly face out of the way, Tom. Everyone wants to see the fucking tower."

Tom Trench let out an audible sigh and dutifully stepped aside. The camera panned upward, revealing the once-proud "V" sigil of the Vees—now snapped, twisted, and crudely welded upside-down.

But the most prominent feature of the new symbol?

Valentino's body was used was used as the line in the "A".

Tom Trench flinched as the camera zoomed in on the grotesque display.

Valentino's mangled body was draped over the bottom of the jagged metal sigil like a sacrificial offering—sprawled horizontally, arms spread cruciform, impaled through the wrists and ankles by jagged bars of glowing Angelic Steel. His sunglasses had been shattered, one lens lodged deep into his cheek, and his once-pristine fur coat was soaked in his own blood, hanging from his form like rotting lace.

"You told me you were going to negotiate with them, NOT KILL THEM!" Carmilla's voice cracked like a whip across the shattered lounge of the A Tower.

Adam didn't flinch. He was calmly finishing a glass of something expensive and stolen, seated on what used to be Valentino's favorite chair. Now, it was bloodstained and slightly on fire.

"I fucking winked at you when I said it, didn't I!? That's code for 'Motherfuckers gonna die!'" Adam downed the last of the drink and exhaled like someone finishing a casual workout. He stood, dusted off his hands, and gestured toward the tower's shattered window where the skyline of Pentagram City now glowed a little dimmer—darker in tone, sharper in silhouette.

"Come on, Carmy." he said with a smirk. "Tell me you're not impressed."

"You can't just casually drop taking over the Vees' territory on me!" Carmilla snapped, heels clicking over broken glass as she paced toward him.

"Geez, fucking relax, won't you?" Adam replied, stretching. "My girls got a little carried away and now you have three fewer rivals and a shiny new building plus a shit ton of territory. That's what they call a win-win."

"Win-win?" Carmilla growled. "You KILLED three Overlords in my name. There's no walking that back."

"And?" Adam blinked slowly. "Isn't that what being an Overlord is all about? Reputation. Fear. Results. Congratulations, you're terrifying now. You're fucking welcome by the way."

"And logistics has been a nightmare!" Carmilla snapped, her tone scathing. "Even with the newly recruited Exorcists and some morel coming out of hiding, with two territories, their numbers will be stretched thin."

"With YOUR newfound reputation, my girls won't need to work as hard because anyone fucking dumb enough to test you is going to remember what happened to these Vee fucks."

Carmilla folded her arms tightly, lips drawn in a hard line. When Adam had suddenly informed her they now owned the entire V Tower, she assumed it was a bluff. Maybe some obnoxious stunt to humiliate the Vees. She hadn't expected him to actually take the damn building.

The Vees, especially Velvette, had been somewhat of a pain to deal with so on the one hand, their permanent death was a welcome surprise. On the other, the logistical nightmare of taking over their operations was not. Revenue streams, supply lines, the souls previously under contract with the Vees now freed ... it was her problem now.

Fortunately, getting the people that were previously under the Vees to sign new soul contracts with her was considerably easy once she included a slight step up in working conditions. The true trouble were the other Overlords.

With Vox, Valentino, and Velvette eliminated, the balance of power had been obliterated—and nature, even in Hell, abhors a vacuum. Every Overlord would have loved to jump at the chance to stake a claim in the ashes of the Vees' empire. But thanks to Adam, she was now the de facto Overlord presiding over the Entertainment District of Hell.

While this has uplifted her image, it also painted a target the size of Lucifer's pride on her back.

No one trusts a sudden winner in Hell.

Even fewer trust a winner backed by former Exorcists with Angelic Steel.

Peace had always been very tenuous amongst the Overlords but now it was splintering fast—like glass under pressure, just waiting for the next tap. Thank fuck she was the one with the Angelic Steel.

"Anyway, while you're dealing with all of ... that, I'll be remodeling the joint." Adam smirked, arms folded. "A whole floor for torture, a floor for training, a floor for your little logistics and each floor will have a smoothie bar! Fucking love smoothies!"

As Adam rambled on to no one in particular, Carmilla quietly left and soon found herself looking back at the 'A' Tower.

Carmilla stood at a distance, her expression unreadable as the 'A' Tower loomed against the dark skyline. The jagged sigil still glowed faintly with, casting pale reflections on the glass around it. Below, workers—mostly former Vees-affiliated souls—were being ushered into their old roles by the Exorcists.

Overall, when she weighs the pros and cons, the pros outweigh the cons.

Barely.

But barely was enough in Hell.

Carmilla exhaled, the breath fogging briefly in the chill night air, and lit a cigarette with a match that flared like a dying star. Her gaze flicked up to the impaled body of Valentino.

"Fuck me sideways." she muttered, taking a drag. "I'm in business with a fucking lunatic."

And unfortunately, said lunatic was VERY good for business.

Tom Trench jogs awkwardly through a crowd of reporters and Sinner spectators outside the newly claimed "A" Tower.

"Carmilla! Carmilla! Tom Trench, Channel 666 News—now under your ownership, apparently—uh, two quick questions: What happens to the souls previously under the Vees? And uh … what are your plans for the network?"

"They're free." she said simply without hesitation.

A collective gasp—or maybe just a sharp inhale from Tom—rippled through the crowd.

"Free?" Tom echoed. "You mean … actually free?"

Carmilla smiled, just slightly. "Yes. Free from their previous contracts. Free from forced labor, exploitation, and the Vees' charming brand of creative entertainment."

"But," Carmilla added, her tone shifting just enough to signal the fine print, "this is Hell."

She held up a hand, and behind her, several freshly freed Sinners—many still dazed and confused—were being looked after by the Exorcists.

"Freedom," Carmilla continued, "doesn't mean survival. And many of you remembered why you sold your souls to the Vees or any of the other Overlords in the first place. Which is why you're welcome to sign on with me."

The crowd went silent. Carmilla let the hush settle like ash. She knew how to hold a room—even when the room was a horde of damned souls and greasy reporters.

"Because let's face it. Voxtech isn't going anywhere and I need the people who run it." Her lips curled into the kind of smile that could slice a throat in a boardroom. "So here's the offer. Same work. Better pay. Fewer whips. One dental plan. And most importantly—"

She turned slightly. Behind her, Exorcists stood lined up, armed to the teeth in angelic steel armaments. Enough to make several Sinners flinch.

"—protection. You've seen my district and how the quality of life in it has improved thanks to my new ... associates."

Carmilla let the pause linger, allowing the implication to seep in like a subtle threat. Her voice lowered, becoming smoother, silkier—like honey laced with venom.

"So. Consider this an invitation." she continued evenly, her gaze sweeping across the faces watching her closely. "Join me willingly, and together we build something better. Or refuse, and try your luck."

The reporters erupted in a flurry of questions and shouting, cameras flashing—but she simply strode back into the tower, letting her words echo in the silence she'd left behind—less a pitch and more a warning.

Whatever hope Vaggie had that Charlie would snap out of it died when she turned away from the flickering television, eyes shining like a cultist seeing prophecy confirmed.

Angel Dust stood in stunned silence, one trembling hand still grazing the spot on his throat where the chain had been. His breathing was ragged, shallow—like a diver breaking the surface after being submerged for too long.

"I'm free ..." Angel whispered in disbelief before the biggest smile crossed his face. "I'M FUCKING FREE!"

Angel Dust grabs Husk by the collar, plants a lipstick-streaked kiss on his scruffy cheek, and cackles like an old witch.

"HAH! I'm fuckin' free! I'm unchained, untethered, unstoppably SEXY!" He throws his arms wide like a Broadway star at curtain call. "Valentino can suck my dick from whatever pit he's bleeding out in!"

Husk mumbles something like "Get off me" but there's no real bite to it. He cracks open a bottle and watches Angel spin like a glittery tornado. He suspects there might be a catch or what not but right now, he didn't want to ruin Angel's moment.

Charlie beams and joins Angel in his celebration. She claps her hands together like a kid on Christmas morning, eyes wide and sparkling.

"I knew it! I knew Adam was a good man!" Charlie declared with manic glee.

Vaggie quickly grabs Charlie by the shoulders.

"Charlie! Look! Really look!" she said, spinning Charlie around to face the television once more. "Adam did a hostile takeover and mutilated the Vees!"

Charlie's pupils sparkled, her mouth twitching in the beginnings of a deranged smile. She looked not at the carnage on screen but through it—through the blood, the fire, the weaponized corpse forming the bar of the "A" sigil.

"As the good man that I know Adam is, he couldn't stand by and watch the injustice. He saw what the Vees were doing to all those poor souls, and he acted." Charlie declared, her voice filled with trembling awe, as if describing a saint. "The story of Adam, First Man, living life in Heaven is now in Hell and finally sees how shitty life is for Sinners and decides to help!"

"Oh please." Husk interrupted. "He is doing what YOU could have done. You're the Princess of Hell. Your dad's literally Lucifer. But I've never seen you or him give a shit about Overlords owning souls before."

Charlie turned slowly toward Husk, her beaming expression dimming—just slightly.

"Well, you know my Dad ... he is uhhh, a work in progress but hey! He's going in the right direction! At least he believe in my hotel and my mission now!"

Husk raised an eyebrow at Charlie's soft admission. "Right. And you?"

Charlie hesitated. Her smile faltered—but not entirely.

Her fingers curled faintly in her lap. She turned her gaze downward, not in shame, but in conflicted memory.

"I …" she began, then stopped. "I thought that maybe through the Hotel ... we'd never need to fight."

The room fell still again.

"I believed," she said quietly, "that if I could just show them another way—if I could give them a place where change was possible—then the rest would follow. The Overlords ... the systems ... everything. I thought they'd see."

Her voice was trembling now—not with madness, but earnestness. That deeply buried hope bleeding back to the surface.

"I didn't speak out against soul contracts because I thought if I just waited—if I gave everyone the benefit of the doubt—if I stayed patient and kind and hopeful—then they'd realize on their own. That they'd want to stop. That they'd choose it."

She looked up at Vaggie now, eyes wide—not with delusion, but a gutting kind of fear.

"Because if they didn't… then the only other way to free those souls would be by force. And I wasn't ready for that. I didn't want that."

She drew a shaky breath, staring down at her trembling hands as if she expected to see blood. "I wanted to prove that we didn't have to become monsters to defeat them. That if we could offer kindness, forgiveness, and mercy—then maybe, just maybe, the world would respond in kind."

Vaggie's shoulders softened, the anger and desperation bleeding from her expression, replaced by something tender and wounded. She knelt down again beside Charlie and gently took her hands, squeezing them reassuringly.

"I know that's what you want, Charlie. And that's why I love you. You're the only person I've ever met who could think like that. But …" She hesitated, biting her lip, searching for the gentlest words. "Not everyone deserves that kindness. Not everyone is capable of accepting it."

Charlie swallowed hard, her fingers tightening reflexively around Vaggie's. Her gaze drifted again to the cracked television, to the grisly display of Valentino's body, to Carmilla's calm, ruthless confidence. She opened her mouth again, searching for words, when—

"My, my, my!" Alastor's voice sliced cheerily through the somber tension. He stepped forward, his cane clicking sharply against scorched floorboards. "Such moral quandaries and heartfelt revelations! Always the most entertaining part of any good story!"

Vaggie shot him a murderous glare. "Do you fucking mind, Alastor?"

"Not at all, my dear!" Alastor smiled brightly, his static buzz rising, playful and sharp. "But you know, Charlie, this is such an obvious sign of Adam's inner goodness, I dare say you should capitalize on this moment and inform Heaven. Surely the Host above would be most delighted to hear that their once-fallen golden boy is finally showing signs of repentance."

At first, he had thought Adam being in Hell would have been an ironic delight—Heaven’s beloved golden boy brought low, ripe for ridicule, a once-pure man now clawing through the muck like everyone else. It had all the makings of a delicious tragedy.

But now, intentionally or unintentionally, Adam was revealing more then he would have liked revealed. Overlords permanently dying by Angelic Steel was a rare occurrence and the subsequent freedom of the souls under them was a closely guarded secret amongst the Overlords.

Alastor's smile twitched for half a second—so quick no one noticed, but his mind was already racing behind the static. If Charlie connected the dots too clearly—if she started realizing that the death of an Overlord meant freeing the souls beneath them, and Adam continued to demonstrate this—then eventually, other souls might get ideas.

And if they got those ideas?

The Exorcists would become weapons not of Heaven, but of Hell’s own revolution.

"What! No! That's a bad idea!" Vaggie protested. "Don't try to justify what he did! Adam didn't kill the Vees to free those souls!"

Charlie shook her head. "But what if he did both? What if—what if freeing them was the point? Maybe it's not the method we would have chosen, but…" She looked to Angel, still reeling with stunned euphoria. "I can't deny what I saw. He freed Angel and countless others."

"And put them under Carmilla!" Vaggie countered.

"Who is objectively better to work for … I think." Charlie replies with an awkward chuckle. "Plus, its a choice for them."

Vaggie looked at her like she'd just suggested setting the Hotel on fire.

"Charlie!" she said, carefully, as if speaking to a toddler holding a loaded gun. "You cannot seriously believe this is okay."

"I'm not saying it's okay!" Charlie replied quickly. "I'm saying it's … better. Or at least, a step toward better. A violent step. A horrifying step. But—" Her voice caught.

"—but it's something," Charlie whispered, voice barely audible, her gaze fixed back on the television again. Valentino's twisted form hung grotesquely in the 'A', and Carmilla calmly declared her newfound dominion. Yet to Charlie, it wasn't the blood or violence that stuck out—it was the faces of those souls, confused but unshackled, blinking into the blinding lights of freedom.

Vaggie shook her head slowly, disbelief warring with sorrow on her face. "It's not enough. Not like this."

Charlie squeezed her hands, desperation thickening her voice. "But maybe it's the only way Hell can understand! Maybe Adam knows something I don't—that down here, kindness alone won't change things."

Vaggie gently released Charlie's hands, sadness shading her expression. "Then what's left of your dream, Charlie? If you let yourself believe that—if you let yourself think Adam's methods are justified—then what exactly are we doing here?"

Silence filled the room like smoke. Angel Dust paused his celebration, looking awkwardly between Charlie and Vaggie. Husk quietly poured another drink, eyes fixed anywhere but on them. 

Finally, Angel breaks the silence.

"Forget all this! I'm finally fucking free! We should be celebrating."

"Angel," Charlie whispered, voice cracking with vulnerability. She tried to smile, her eyes still glassy with tears, as if fighting to piece together something shattered and fragile. "I—I am happy for you. So, so happy."

Angel Dust hesitated, his euphoric grin faltering slightly at the raw sincerity in Charlie's voice.

Charlie looked down at her trembling hands again. "But Vaggie is right ... at least, partially. Maybe—maybe I didn't want to see how bad things really were. Maybe I was naïve."

Vaggie's eyes softened as she knelt down once more beside Charlie, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her girlfriend's tired face.

...

"BUT ONCE I TELL HEAVEN ABOUT WHAT ADAM IS DOING, THEY'LL EXTEND THEIR FULL SUPPORT!" Charlie's voice rose again, fierce and desperate, the brief vulnerability swallowed up by a sudden, manic conviction.

"Charlie—" Vaggie started, reaching out gently, desperately trying to calm the rising tide of delusion.

But Charlie pulled away, already pacing now, gesturing wildly as the scattered debris crunched under her heels. "This is exactly what they need to see! Heaven's hesitated because they weren't sure redemption was achievable on a mass scale—but with Adam's help, though, it is!"

"By murdering Overlords!?" Vaggie's voice cracked with frustration, hands balled into trembling fists. "This is just the Exterminations with extra steps!"

"Do I think he could have approached it differently? Yes! Of course! But I can't ignore what he did do!" Charlie's eyes shone bright as stars, her voice growing feverish, almost ecstatic. "We'll be a team—a dream team!"

"Adam doesn't want to be your teammate, Charlie!" Vaggie shouted desperately, her voice echoing through the ruined lobby like a scream across a canyon. "I don't know how many times I can repeat this to you! He doesn't want anything to do with us!"

"Because we're not giving him what he wants." Charlie replied, her tone suddenly calm and measured, as if simply explaining a basic fact. "And that's where Heaven comes in! Once I get word from Heaven, we tell him that Heaven sees him and approves. Once he realizes Heaven hasn't given up on him, he'll stop pushing us away and JOIN THE HOTEL!"

Vaggie stared at her, exhausted.

"Its all coming together! Adam 'subtly' telling us he wants redemption by trying to help us by getting Sinners into our hotel. Adam freeing those Sinners from the Vees. And now, I have an upcoming meeting with Heaven where I can recount Adam's heroism to them and in turn, gain their full support!" Charlie said breathlessly, spinning as if already envisioning the glorious future. "ITS FOOLPROOF!"

"HE'S NOT FUCKING HEROIC!" Vaggie shouted but Charlie was already halfway down the staircase.

"Charlie—!" Vaggie moved to follow, but Angel Dust held out a hand, stopping her.

"Don't bother." he said quietly, the usual sarcasm drained from his voice. "I've seen this before in bitches crazier then her. So relax, once Heaven or Adam breaks her little heart with a healthy dose of reality, she'll come crashing down. Real hard."

Vaggie stared at Angel for a long moment, jaw clenched. Then, with a long exhale, she sank back down into a half-collapsed armchair and buried her face in her hands.

"You ... you don't believe Adam is actually good, do you?"

Angel Dust leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable for a rare moment. The joy of his freedom still hummed beneath his skin, but it was already beginning to compete with the cold, bitter tangle of reality that was setting back in.

"… I believe he did a good thing," Angel said at last, voice low. "He freed me. I'm not gonna sit here and pretend that doesn't mean something."

Vaggie watched him, her features tightening.

"But I'm like ninety percent sure my freedom was a happy accident that just happened to line up with his vengeance kink." Angel continued, "while I'm grateful and would probably suck him off if he asked, the fact is, he wasn't doing it for us."

"I just wish Charlie could see that." Vaggie murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chapter Text

What is the right decision?

That's the question Sera wrestles with everyday as the Head Seraphim of Heaven. Every decision she makes isn't just a matter of policy—it's a matter of souls. Of balance. Of belief. 

Was it right to have the Exterminations in the first place?

Yes.

At that time, Hell was overpopulated and poised to uprise. The threat they posed to Heaven—no matter how small—couldn't be ignored. The last thing Heaven wants is for Sinners from Hell to ruin the paradise that had been hard-earned by the Winners.

Was it right to continue the Exterminations after the threat had been sufficiently quelled and the uprisings reduced to a distant memory?

...

At first, yes.

The logic held. A culling once a year to keep the damned in line. A reminder. A show of power. An act of divine maintenance, some called it. Sin is like rot—it spreads if left unchecked. Hell must never be allowed to fester.

But with each successive year, the Sinners fought back less and less till eventually, they just started hiding.

Not resisting.

Not challenging.

Just … cowering.

And that's what Heaven wanted. For them to understand the weight of their damnation. For them to remember that they had no place in paradise and that no amount of violence or anger on their part would ruin paradise.

THAT HELL IS FOREVER!

But did the Extermination loss its necessity at some point?

Sera never said it out loud—never even allowed herself to fully think it until recently—but the question gnawed at her like a splinter under the skin.

One could argue that it was because of the yearly Exterminations that Hell stayed docile. That the sight of Exorcists with their angelic weapons was enough to keep the rabble trembling in their hovels, too afraid to rise again.

That fear was a kind of peace, however cruel.

But cruelty wasn't an issue. She kept telling herself that the Sinners deserved this fate. They weren't good in life so they weren't owed kindness in death.

Until ... Sir Pentious.

A Sinner that, against all odds and everything she had ever known in Heaven's entire history, found redemption and made his way into Heaven.

Suddenly, the Exterminations didn't feel like righteous maintenance anymore. They felt like a wall. A final, unscalable wall keeping the damned from ever proving they could change.

If one could make the climb, how many more could?

And if that was true …

Her stomach tightened at the thought.

Before she could even properly figure out what she believed, the questions started to multiply all thanks to Emily. Heaven's resident Joy-Bringer quickly spread the word of Sir Pentious's redemption to any and all who would listen.

Fortunately, she was able to get Emily to keep quiet about the existence of the Exterminations for the time being. However, Sera knew that that silence wouldn't last long and the knowledge of the Exterminations coming to light fully would eventually come to pass.

Already, some of those present during the hearing of Charlie Morningstar were already spreading word of the Exterminations but she was easily able to chalk it up to Adam's simple over exaggeration. But with his death, that convenient excuse would die with him and the questions would soon arise once more.

But Sera wasn't too worried.

While redemption does sound like the better solution on paper, the efficacy of such a method remains deeply questionable. And there in lay its crux.

Redemption was slow.

Painfully slow.

Even if every Sinner in Hell wanted it—which they didn't—it could take decades, centuries, to reform enough of them to meaningfully reduce Hell's numbers. After all, there is only one hotel and one Charlie. In the meantime, overpopulation would swell like a boil ready to burst, and unrest would spread again.

And that was assuming the Exterminations were stopped and redemption could ever scale.

Sir Pentious was one.

One soul out of billions.

This has led her down to two paths.

One path was simple.

Charlie fails.

The Hotel collapses under the weight of Hell's chaos, and the great experiment dies as quickly as it began. The proof of concept crumbles. Redemption is shown—conclusively—to be a naïve fantasy. And when that happens, Sera could reaffirm the necessity of the Exterminations without challenge.

The other path … was far more dangerous.

Charlie succeeds.

Not with every Sinner—Sera was too pragmatic to imagine such an absurd thing—but with enough. Enough that it didn't warrant the continued need for the Exterminations.

And then the backlash would come—not from Hell, but from Heaven.

Because if redemption had always been possible—if, from the very beginning, there had been a way to pull souls out of Hell en masse—then every life lost in every Extermination would hang on her shoulders.

Which is why its crucial that knowledge of the Exterminations is kept under wraps for as long as possible. On the off chance that Charlie's plan makes significant progress, Sera will then throw the full weight of Heaven behind her and help to redeem as many as possible. The positivity that would follow should be enough to stave off any scrutiny directed at her.

This plan is foolproof.

"I'm so glad you've changed your mind about redemption! Just imagine how much Charlie could change Hell." Emily beamed as she and Sera sat in the conference room of the Heaven's embassy.

Sera gave Emily a warm, measured smile—the kind that concealed far more than it revealed.

"Yes." she said, folding her hands neatly on the table. "It's … worth pursuing. Given the right structure. The right … safeguards."

Emily practically vibrated in her seat. "Safeguards? Oh! Like more volunteers? Maybe we could even send some of the Exorcists down there to help! We could—"

Sera held up a hand, the gesture calm but absolute. "One step at a time, Emily."

Emily nodded, though her excitement dimmed slightly. "Right. Slowly."

After some minutes of patient waiting, the eager footsteps they'd been expecting echoed down the marble corridor—quick, hurried, almost skipping. The double doors burst open and Charlie Morningstar all but tumbled inside in a whirlwind of blonde hair and radiant, fever-bright eyes.

"EMILY!" she squealed.

"CHARLIE!"

The two collided in the middle of the room like teenagers reunited after summer break. They clutched each other, bouncing on their heels, talking over one another in a dizzy rush of words.

"I've missed you SO much!"

"You look AMAZING, even with the—oh my goodness, is that pie in your hair?"

"Yes, but it's part of a VERY long and no doubt important story—"

"—Ahem."

Charlie and Emily both froze mid-laugh at Sera's polite but cutting interruption. The warmth between them didn't vanish, but it did temper, like a candlewick bending under a breeze.

Charlie straightened, brushing a few stray crumbs from her suit and trying to look presentable.

"Sorry! I just—oh, I have so much to tell you!" she said, clasping her hands like she might physically burst with anticipation.

Sera gestured gracefully toward the long table. "By all means, sit. We were hoping you could give us an update on the progress of your hotel."

Charlie obeyed instantly, practically sliding into her seat with the restless energy of a child on their birthday. Emily followed, leaning toward her like they were about to swap juicy secrets.

"So, tell us Charlie!" Emily said in excitement and wide eyes. "How many more people have joined your hotel now that they know redemption is possible?"

"Well—okay—so, there have been some incredible ... developments!" Charlie began, her words tripping over each other in their rush to escape.

"That is good to hear." Sera nodded as she pulled out a quill and paper. "Exactly how many has your hotel taken in since Sir Pentious?"

Charlie's flinch was small, but Sera caught it immediately. Charlie's fingers curled around the edge of her chair. "Well… none exactly. Yet. But—"

Emily blinked. "None?"

"It's not because I haven't been trying!" Charlie insisted, her words tumbling over themselves as she leaned forward. "Technically, just earlier today, a whole bunch of Sinners did come to the hotel! They were—uh—very energetic!"

Emily tilted her head. "Energetic how?"

Charlie's smile froze in place, a little too wide. "Well … a concert happened. Sort of. There was … music, and uh … dancing … and some light property damage."

Sera's quill stopped mid-scratch. "Property damage?"

Charlie waved both hands quickly. "But nothing we couldn't fix! But the important thing is—"

"—That you haven't recruited anyone new." Sera finished, her voice calm as ice over deep water.

Charlie's shoulders sagged, but she forced the smile back onto her face. "Technically … no. But I have been working on something even bigger than that. Something that could change everything."

Emily leaned forward like she was about to hear a fairy tale. "Ooh, what is it?"

Charlie opened her mouth, already tasting Adam's name on her tongue—

"Before you answer," Sera cut in, "we do need to address sustainability. As it stands, your Hotel is not meeting intake expectations. If you intend for Heaven to provide additional support, we'll require a measurable increase in redeemed candidates."

Charlie blinked. "Right, but—"

Emily jumped in to Charlie's defense before she could finish. "Come on, Sera, even if she hasn't recruited anyone, she definitely has a plan to—"

"—Do you have one?" Sera asked, turning that steady, assessing gaze on Charlie.

Charlie froze, mouth still half-open. "A plan?"

"Yes." Sera folded her hands again, her tone pleasant but absolute. "A structured, replicable framework for moving Sinners from damnation toward redemption. Not just invitations to live at your hotel."

Charlie's eyes darted between them. "Well, uh … the Hotel is the method. You bring them in, you make them feel welcome, you help them see they're capable of change—"

"That's philosophy," Sera said softly. "Not a plan."

Emily frowned. "I mean, it is kind of a plan—"

"No." Sera continued, her voice like silk over steel. "A plan is measurable. A plan has steps, milestones, benchmarks. What you've described is … hope. And hope without structure collapses under its own weight."

Charlie's knuckles whitened on the table edge. She could feel Adam's name clawing to the surface of her thoughts—this was the moment, the perfect moment to tell them everything, to explain how his actions proved he was already walking the road to redemption—but Sera was looking at her like a teacher waiting for the correct answer to a test.

All that positivity and excitement she had earlier curdled into pressure.

Her mouth went dry.

This was supposed to be it—the meeting where she'd tell them Adam was the missing piece, the proof they needed that redemption could work on anyone. But the weight of Sera's question pinned her in place, as if speaking the wrong words would shatter the whole conversation before it began.

She tried again. "I do have something. Someone, actually—"

"Then perhaps," Sera said smoothly, cutting her off without even raising her voice, "you might first explain how that someone fits into a system. If you're building a house, you don't start with the curtains. You start with the foundation."

Emily leaned in, smiling brightly. "But I like curtains!" she said, trying to lighten the moment. "And I love stories about people—maybe if Charlie tells us about this someone, we'll see how they fit into the plan?"

Sera's gaze didn't waver. "When there's no plan, the story doesn't matter."

Charlie's hands clenched in her lap. Her brain screamed Adam—his smirk, his victories, the way she knew deep down he wasn't as far gone as he pretended—but she could already feel the conversation slipping. Every time she reached for his name, Sera pulled her back to numbers, structure, measurable results.

And the truth was … she didn't have them.

"I—" she started, but Emily jumped in again.

"Maybe we should focus on what's already working!" Emily said, glancing between them like a peacekeeper. "The Hotel has worked before. Sir Pentious is proof. So maybe the next step is figuring out how to repeat that, right?"

"Exactly," Sera said. "and repeating something requires knowing why it worked the first time. You have other guests in your hotel so what's their status?"

Seizing the opportunity to paint herself and the hotel in a better light, Charlie straightened in her seat, relief flickering across her face.

"Oh! Well, Angel Dust—"

"The ... pornstar?" Sera's voice didn't change, but something about the pause she gave before "pornstar" made the title feel like an accusation.

"FORMER pornstar!" Charlie said quickly, trying to inject as much optimism into her voice as possible. "If you want progress then get this. Angel Dust is free of that moth-man Valentino!"

"That's amazing news!" Emily clasped her hands together, beaming. "That's a major step forward for him!"

"I suppose." Sera reluctantly admits. "How were you able to accomplish this?"

Charlie froze. "Well … it's not exactly that I personally—"

Emily jumped in, still beaming. "Oh, but the Hotel must have had something to do with it, right?"

Charlie's smile turned nervous. "Right! I mean, yes, totally. Indirectly." She laughed a little too loudly. "It's kind of a long story, but the important thing is, Angel is free now and—"

"Indirectly?" Sera repeated, tone as smooth and cutting as a scalpel.

Charlie's fingers drummed against the table. "Yes, but if you just hear me out, I can explain how someone else is actually—"

Sera leaned forward slightly. "Charlie. We are not here to discuss someone else. We are here to determine if YOU can produce consistent, repeatable results from your own actions. If you cannot identify exactly what freed this… Angel Dust, then you cannot use him as proof of your system working."

"But—"

"And without a system," Sera went on, "this entire enterprise is nothing more than charity housing with an impractical mission."

Just as Sera had predicted, the daughter of Lucifer had nothing concrete to show. With how flustered and cornered Charlie looked, it was obvious Sera had already won this exchange.

Charlie's smile stayed plastered on her face, but it was the brittle kind now—one sharp word away from cracking entirely. Her mind kept screaming Adam's name like a lifeline, but Sera's gaze was a wall she couldn't climb. Every attempt to steer the conversation toward him had been neatly severed before it could leave her lips.

Emily, sensing the tension, tried to jump in again. "Maybe what Charlie needs is more time—redemption isn't an overnight thing! If we pressure her too much—"

"And how long can we afford to wait?" Sera's voice was calm, but there was iron under it. "It took you and your hotel six months to redeem Sir Pentious and the cost of redeeming him was paid in the blood of hundreds of our Exorcists and your Sinners."

"That isn't fair!" Charlie retorted sharply. "Heaven brought the Exterminations forward! If you hadn't, maybe I could have redeemed Sir Pentious without the needless bloodshed!"

"Even if that were the case, the fact remains that six months or a year for a single soul isn't viable." Sera finished, her tone unflinching. "At that rate, you will need thousands of years to make a measurable impact—assuming the Sinners are willing and no new souls arrive in Hell."

The more Sera prodded, the more she was sure that the Exterminations would be unshakably justified.

Sera could already see the path before her, clear and simple: Charlie would keep throwing herself at this doomed ideal, bleeding effort into a mission that would never produce results fast enough. And when the numbers stayed the same—when Hell's population kept growing despite her "efforts"—Sera would have her proof.

Redemption would be declared an impractical fantasy, the Hotel shuttered, and the Exterminations reaffirmed as the only viable method.

Charlie's hands tightened into fists on the tabletop. She wanted to shout that this wasn't how it worked, that people weren't numbers to be tallied up on a ledger. She wanted to tell them that if they listened, heard what Adam has done so far, that they'll see that redemption can be scaled with his help and Heaven's support.

Frustrated with how she could hardly get a word in, she finally decides to just blurt it out.

"ADAM!" The name landed in the room like a dropped sword.

Emily's face lit up immediately and Sera's quill stopped mid-word. Her gaze sharpened, cutting to Charlie like a hawk spotting movement in the grass. "... Adam?"

Charlie leaned forward, speaking fast before Sera could interrupt again. "He's alive! Well—okay—technically he's a Sinner now, but that's not the point—"

Emily gasped, clasping her hands to her mouth while her body bounced in her seat. "And the Exorcists? You mean they're alive too?"

"Yes! Most of them!" Charlie's voice was bright, relieved to finally say the words. "They're with him, and they're—"

"—Sinners." Sera's tone flattened the word into something cold and heavy.

The warmth in Emily's face faltered. "They're alive, Sera! The Angelic Steel didn't kill them! And if they're alive, they can change! They can be redeemed! We need to tell Lute!"

Sera didn't answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on Charlie, unreadable, but the faintest flicker crossed her face—something between calculation and distaste. "Adam ... alive?"

"... yes?" Charlie wasn't expecting the way Sera's voice wrapped around the name. It wasn't surprise—not fully. More like someone tasting an old bitterness they'd thought long buried. "He is the one that freed Angel's soul."

"What else!?" Emily says in gleeful urgency, practically leaning over the table.

Charlie recounted everything to them. From Adam rallying the Exorcists in Hell to taking over the Vee's territory and freeing the souls under their contracts. While she did, neither Sera nor Emily interrupted, both engrossed in this newfound information.

With each story recounted, Emily's grin only grew wider, her joy spilling over like a sunrise cresting the horizon.

But Sera ... Sera didn't smile.

If anything, the deeper Charlie's recounting went, the more still Sera became.

Not stiff—still, like the air before a storm. Her quill remained poised over the page, but she hadn't written a single word since Adam's name left Charlie's mouth.

"This is amazing Charlie! Once Lute and the others hear about this, I'm sure they'll spare no expense at trying to help him." Emily finished with a grin so wide it could split her face. "We could bring him back! Bring them all back! Just imagine—Adam, the First Man, restored to Heaven, leading the way for every lost soul who ever thought they were beyond saving!"

"Exactly! That's what I've been trying to say—he's already making a difference." Charlie nodded enthusiastically, feeding off Emily's excitement. "So!? What do you think? Do we have Heaven's support?"

"Of course! Why wouldn't—" Emily wanted to continue but Sera forcefully turned Emily around, stopping her mid-way.

"Emily, please pass this letter to Lute. I'm sure she will be pleased to read what is in it. I'll take care of the rest here."

Emily beamed as she took the envelope from Sera's hand, clutching it like a sacred relic. The thought of Lute learning of Adam's survival and the subsequent joy it would bring her seemed to radiate from Emily like sunlight.

She didn't notice how tightly Sera's fingers lingered on the letter before letting go.

"Oh, absolutely! She'll be over the moon once she learns Adam is alive!" Emily gushed before turning back and waving at Charlie. "Don't worry Charlie, we'll have Adam and the Exorcists redeemed in no time. I believe in you!"

The click of the closing doors left the embassy conference room steeped in silence. Sera sat perfectly still, her hands folded neatly over the pristine page in front of her.

"So ... as I was saying earlier. Adam feels that he was done wrong by Heaven and I think that is why he is acting the way he is. So if you could give him a message or let me deliver a letter to him, I could—"

"No."

Charlie blinked, thrown by the bluntness. "... No?"

"Charlie Morningstar, if you wish for Heaven's support, you will have it. However, on the condition that Adam and the Exorcists that follow him remain in Hell."

The words landed like iron bars slamming shut.

Charlie's smile faltered. "Remain—? But—"

Sera's tone stayed composed, almost gentle, but every syllable was weighted with finality. "Heaven will not extend its hand to them."

Charlie stared, unsure if she'd heard correctly. "How can you say that!? Just because they've become Sinners, you don't want them!?"

Did Sera hate Adam?

No.

Did she wish he stayed dead?

... It was a preferable outcome.

Why?

For Sera, it didn't matter if they were Sinners or not. What mattered was that Adam ... didn't know when to shut up.

Hearing Charlie talk about what Adam has done so far has made her see a path where redemption COULD work—and that was the problem. Any positivity that would arise from this would be credited to Adam, taking away her control of the narrative.

Worse, If Adam were to ever be redeemed and enter Heaven once more, there was no doubt in her mind that he'll talk about the Exterminations and if he talked long enough, he'll implicate her and everything she'd done to keep her hands clean in the eyes of the masses.

And if it isn't Adam, the Exorcists that get redeemed are enough to give her a headache.

"From what I heard so far, Adam seems to be quite comfortable in Hell. Perhaps he would rather stay there than come back." Sera finished, her words smooth as still water hiding a sharp drop beneath.

Charlie shook her head vehemently. "No—no, you don't understand! He only thinks that because in his eyes, Heaven betrayed him! He thinks you abandoned him, cast him aside like trash! But if you just reassure him—"

"—No."

The interruption was soft, but it cut like a blade.

Charlie's words caught in her throat. "But—"

"Charlie Morningstar." Sera said, voice calm, patient, and final, "Adam is not a candidate for redemption. Nor are the Exorcists who follow him. Whatever changes you believe you see in him … they can stay in Hell with him."

ADAM WILL NOT ENTER HEAVEN!

If the price for keeping Adam away from the pearly gates was her, and by extension, Heaven's reluctant support for Charlie's hotel, then so be it.

Charlie stared, stunned. She didn't want to believe it but the look in Sera's eyes told her there would be no arguing this.

Charlie opened her mouth, desperation bubbling up, but Sera's posture didn't shift. The woman sat there like a marble statue carved to look pleasant, her expression carrying the faintest shadow of something colder. Not quite hatred. Not quite fear. But the unmistakable presence of a decision already made long before Charlie had walked through the door.

Sera extended her hand toward Charlie, a golden angelic glow dancing faintly around her fingers as if she were offering a blessing.

"In exchange for ensuring Adam and his Exorcists remain in Hell," Sera said, her voice slow and deliberate, "you will have Heaven's full cooperation in other matters. Acknowledgment. Supplies. Volunteers, should you need them. The Exterminations will end after one more cycle and I will even allocate additional personnel in the form of cherubs to aid you in the hotel."

Charlie's jaw went slack.

"You—you're bribing me?!"

"I'm offering you support. The choice of words is yours." Sera's head tilted slightly, her expression a serene mask. "Do we have a deal?"

Everything Sera was offering was everything Charlie had been dreaming of since the Hotel opened.

She could feel her heart pounding—her brain shouting that this was it, the miracle she'd been waiting for. Supplies. Volunteers. An end to the Exterminations. Her father would stop worrying. Vaggie would stop looking at her with that mix of pity and exhaustion. Hell could finally breathe.

And all she had to do ... was leave Adam behind.

Is that the right decision?

"You're my last hope. I've never reached out to you before but Charlie just refuses to give up on him. No matter what I say, she clings to this fantasy that Adam can be saved. She doesn't understand what he really is—what he's capable of." Vaggie's voice was low but firm, her words steady in a way that suggested she'd already rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in her head.

Blitzo sat across the desk, his eyes narrowed slightly—not because he understood the gravity of what she was saying, but because nobody walked into I.M.P. looking like they'd already decided to damn themselves further before even signing the contract.

"Okay ..." he said slowly, leaning back. "Not usually how folks start a fucking hit request, but I'm intrigued. Keep going."

Vaggie glanced toward the frosted glass office door, making sure it was shut. "Charlie thinks he's redeemable. She's obsessed. The more violent he gets, the more she twists it into proof he's just… misunderstood. If she keeps this up, she's going to burn herself out—or worse, get herself killed."

Millie's warm, country-girl smile softened a little at the edges. "And you think if Adam's gone, she'll finally—?"

"She'll finally wake up." Vaggie said. "She'll stop chasing this impossible dream."

Blitzo waved a hand. "Look tits, I love to help you out but there's a reason we don't target Sinners. You know, the whole 'not dying unless by angelic steel' clause? And last I checked, we don't exactly have a Costco membership for that stuff."

With Adam and Carmilla's tight control over the supply of Angelic Steel, it was near impossible to get any unless you were an Exorcist.

Which was exactly what Vaggie was.

With her own spear in hand, she drops it on his desk, the metallic clang making Loona glance up from her phone.

Only the spearhead shone with that telltale celestial gleam—the kind of glow that whispered permanent death in Hell.

Blitzo's brows shot up. "Is that—?"

"Angelic steel." Vaggie's tone left no room for doubt.

Loona tilted her head, curiosity flickering. "You're okay with us melting it down?"

"I would do anything to save Charlie." Vaggie said with determination. "Just like how she saved me."

Blitzo whistled low, picking up the spearhead and weighing it in his hand like it was a bar of solid gold. "Damn. You know how many times I've asked Sinta for one of these? And by Sinta, I mean whatever random hooker I was fucking around with in Sinsmas."

Moxxie, ever the voice of reason, shot Blitzo a wary glance. "You know that's not just some hunk of metal, right? That spearhead could maybe give us—what—three, four bullets tops?"

Blitzo tapped his pen against the desk, eyes locked on the gleaming weapon like a raccoon staring down a shiny coin. "Four's plenty if you know how to aim. And baby, I know how to aim!"

"ONE DEAD FIRST MAN COMING UP!"