Poison

by Venka le fay

Angel Dust is given an overdose of a love potion by Valentino, causing him to collapse and fall into a coma upon returning to the Hazbin Hotel. Husk, Cherri, Charlie, and Vaggie scramble to save him, battling against time and the potion's effects. Amidst the crisis, the hotel's team uncovers the extent of Valentino's manipulative control over Angel, fueling their resolve to protect

3. Chapter 3

"Princess Morningstar, a word?" A reporter from The Pentagram Gazette called out, thrusting a tape recorder toward her. His voice cut through the chaotic buzz of the lobby. "Is Angel Dust really in a coma, as the Radio Demon claimed? What's his status?"

Charlie flinched slightly at the question, trying to maintain her composure. "We, uh…" she started, but hesitation crept into her voice. Ever since Alastor had broadcasted to all of Hell that Angel Dust was in a coma, the Hotel had become a circus of reporters and paparazzi. They flocked from every corner of the Pride Ring and beyond, from the polished professionals at Channel 666 News to the more salacious tabloids like The Underworld Scoop, each determined to dig up the latest dirt.

What had started as a trickle of inquiries quickly turned into a flood, a tidal wave of questions and accusations that battered Charlie every time she stepped into the public eye. The Hotel's front entrance had been transformed into a battleground, with reporters elbowing each other for position, cameras flashing like lightning, and microphones shoved in her face from all directions.

She had envisioned the media's attention on the Hotel would focus on her dream—a place of redemption and hope in Hell, a chance for lost souls to find their way. But now, the spotlight was glaringly fixed on Angel Dust's condition, and the entire narrative had shifted. Instead of discussing the revolutionary idea of redemption, every headline screamed about the scandal, the mystery, the supposed tragedy of a sinner in a coma.

The constant barrage was exhausting, and it was clear they wouldn't relent until they had every sordid detail. Charlie could feel the pressure mounting, a suffocating weight on her shoulders. She wanted to scream, to make them see the bigger picture, to refocus their attention on what truly mattered. But every time she opened her mouth to speak, another question was fired at her, relentless and unyielding.

The cacophony of voices blurred together, each one more demanding than the last. "What caused the coma? Vox said he overdosed on a love potion, is this true?" "Is Angel Dust receiving proper care?" "Will this affect the Hotel's mission?" "What are your thoughts about the news saying some of the Native Hellborn Demons in the other rings have died supposedly from Overdosing on Velvette's love potion?" The questions came faster than she could process them, each one pushing her closer to the edge.

"We're doing everything we can," Charlie managed to say, her voice strained as she fought to stay composed. "But I can't give you any more details at the moment."

She could see the frustration in the eyes of the reporters, their hunger for a headline unsatisfied. They were vultures circling their prey, waiting for her to slip, to say something that would feed the frenzy. The whole situation was spiraling out of control, and Charlie felt like she was losing her grip on the narrative she had worked so hard to create.

As the questions continued to fly, she longed for a moment of peace, a chance to breathe and gather her thoughts. But peace was a rare commodity in Hell, especially now. All she could do was stand her ground, even as the storm of inquiries threatened to overwhelm her, and hope that somehow, she could steer the conversation back to what truly mattered: the hope of redemption, the chance for a better future in a place where such things seemed impossible.

"Let me handle this," Vaggie said firmly, patting Charlie on the shoulder before stepping forward to face the sea of reporters. Her voice was steady, her gaze sharp as she addressed the crowd. "To answer your questions: Yes, Angel Dust is in a coma at this time. He returned to the hotel after a day of work at the studio, and the moment he walked through the doors, he collapsed. This incident was witnessed by our barman and another sinner who has since become a guest at our hotel. According to them, Angel's only words before losing consciousness were that he was given something."

The reporters leaned in, eager for more details, but Vaggie didn't falter. "Whether this 'something' was administered at the studio or if it is something Angel took it himself is not confirmed at this time. For now, Angel is being kept comfortable in his room, a familiar environment where we hope he'll feel safe if he wakes up."

The crowd buzzed with murmurs, but Vaggie continued without missing a beat. "In light of recent events, including the tragic deaths of Hellborn demons who may have been poisoned by a love potion from the Pride Ring, both King Lucifer and Princess Charlie express their deepest sorrow for the losses suffered. They encourage anyone who has lost a loved one to reach out so they can offer their condolences directly."

Vaggie's tone grew more resolute as she added, "The Sins who rule the other rings have been informed, and they have agreed to flag any further sale or distribution of love potions originating from the Pride Ring until further notice. That is all the information we can provide at this point in time."

She stepped back, signaling that the statement was over, and the reporters, though still hungry for more, knew they wouldn't get any further details today. The atmosphere was thick with tension, but Vaggie's clear and concise explanation had given them enough to chew on—for now.

"Sorry, everyone," Alastor interrupted with a voice that cut through the rising clamor of the press. Reporters, eager to pry out more information, surged forward, their microphones and cameras aimed like weapons. "No more questions at this time. Kindly make your way to the door."

The room fell into a brief silence as Alastor's words settled in. A few reporters exchanged hesitant glances before several made a hurried beeline for the hotel's front entrance, sensing the shift in atmosphere. But not all were so quick to retreat. Some lingered, hoping for one last chance to press their questions.

Alastor, growing impatient, allowed a dark smile to curve his lips as shadows around him began to stir. In an instant, his shadowy tendrils sprang to life, snaking through the air with a menacing grace. They wrapped around the remaining reporters, their cold, inky touch sending a chill down spines. With a swift, unceremonious motion, the tendrils lifted the reporters off their feet and tossed them outside as if they weighed nothing at all.

The hotel lobby returned to an eerie quiet, the only sound being the faint creak of the doors as they closed behind the last of the scrambling journalists. Alastor surveyed the now-empty room with satisfaction, his tendrils retreating back into the shadows as if they had never existed.

"I'm glad that's over," Husk muttered from behind the bar, pouring himself a stiff drink. "Those vultures would do anything for a story."

Vaggie, standing nearby with her arms crossed, shot Alastor a glare. "Did you really have to broadcast to all of Hell that Angel is in a coma?" she groused, her frustration evident.

Alastor, unperturbed, offered her a saccharine smile. "As a radio personality, my dear, I strive to provide my listeners with the honest truth," he simpered, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. "Would you have preferred I parrot Vox's claim that Angel voluntarily put himself in this state and is simply 'recovering' for an undisclosed amount of time? That sounded far more incriminating than the truth we've shared."

Vaggie clenched her fists, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. The weight of the situation bore down on her, a storm of anger and helplessness swirling inside. "Believe me, I want to hold the Vees accountable for this," she said, her voice steady but laced with a controlled fury. The tension in her words betrayed the restraint she was forcing herself to maintain. "But while we know they're involved, we can't prove that Valentino or any of the Vees are directly responsible. Even finding moth pheromones in Angel's blood isn't enough to nail them."

She hated admitting it, hated the feeling of powerlessness that came with it. Vaggie's mind raced, searching for a way to connect the dots, to turn suspicion into solid evidence. But every avenue seemed to lead to a dead end, and that only fueled her anger more.

Alastor's eyes gleamed with dark amusement, the corners of his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. He tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth and laced with a chilling undertone. "True," he said, his tone almost playful, "but in Hell, sometimes just the suggestion of guilt is enough to stir the pot." The radio demon thrived in chaos, and the mere idea of sowing discord among the ranks of the Vees seemed to delight him.

Vaggie shot him a sharp look, but she couldn't deny the truth in his words. In Hell, justice was a twisted concept, often warped by influence and power. She knew that better than anyone.

"There's also the matter of whether Angel will wake up," Lucifer interjected, his voice carrying the weight of authority and the gravity of the situation. It was rare for him to align with Alastor, but the circumstances left little room for disagreement. "If he does, we can't just let him return to the studio as if nothing happened. That would be a dangerous oversight."

Lucifer's eyes, usually filled with an aloof confidence, were now shadowed with concern. Despite his usual composure, the potential fallout from Angel's situation had even him on edge. The idea of sending Angel back into the lion's den without fully understanding what had transpired was unthinkable.

"Ah yes, that problem," Alastor mused, his tone contemplative, though the glint of amusement never fully left his eyes. "The idea that this entire situation exists due to manipulation is not only plausible but also… intriguing."

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, relishing the tension they created. "If there's one thing we know about Valentino, it's that he possesses a deceitful character. But deception often leaves traces, doesn't it?" Alastor's grin widened, a flash of his predatory nature showing through. "The trick is in finding them."

Vaggie's gaze hardened, her determination solidifying. "Then we need to dig deeper, find something—anything—that ties them to this. Angel deserves justice, and if we have to play their game to get it, so be it."

Lucifer nodded, the weight of leadership pressing on his shoulders. "Agreed. But we must tread carefully. If we're going to challenge Valentino and the rest of the Vees, we need to be prepared for the consequences."

"Who says we need to challenge them?" Husk commented, his voice gruff but laced with a hint of cunning. He leaned against the bar, taking a swig from a bottle of alcohol. "The main weakness the Vees possess is their arrogance. They're Overlords, sure, and powerful ones at that. But they assume that just because they hold those titles, it gives them license to do whatever suits them."

Vaggie's eyes narrowed, considering Husk's words. He was right; the Vees' arrogance had always been their Achilles' heel, a blind spot they were too proud to acknowledge.

Alastor's grin widened as he caught onto Husk's line of thinking. "Ah yes," he began, his tone dripping with dark amusement. "The last time the Overlords were gathered, Velvette made a grand spectacle of herself. She paraded around as if she were the very pinnacle of Hell's elite, flaunting her status with no regard for those who truly wield power." He chuckled softly, the memory clearly entertaining him. "I can't say I'd have had the patience of Zestial, though I do applaud Carmilla's restraint in not putting that girl in her place. Velvette may be the most recently established Overlord, but her arrogance far surpasses her experience. In all honesty, and though I'm reluctant to admit it, I believe Angel would be better suited for such a station."

Vaggie's expression softened slightly at the mention of Angel. The idea of him as an Overlord was almost unfathomable, yet something about it rang true. He had qualities that went beyond mere ambition, qualities that could make him a natural leader if he chose to embrace them.

"Unlike the Vees," Husk added, his voice more thoughtful now, "I don't get the impression the kid desires power. He's got the traits to be a leader and a protector, but there's no real hunger for dominance in him. If he really wanted to be an Overlord, he'd have claimed that role by now."

Alastor nodded in agreement, his eyes glinting with a rare moment of sincerity. "Precisely. Angel's strength lies not in his desire for control, but in his ability to inspire loyalty and care in those around him. The Vees, for all their power, lack that fundamental connection to others."

"Speaking of Angel," Vaggie asked softly, her tone full of concern. "Any change?"

"Nothing yet," Charlie said, her voice tinged with the weight of worry. She sat down heavily in the chair, rubbing her temples. "At least not according to Cherri." A week had passed since Angel had slipped into a coma, and the waiting was unbearable. Every day that passed chipped away at her hope. As much as she wanted to believe Angel could wake up at any moment, the harsh reality of his condition loomed large. The possibility that he might not wake up terrified her. The helplessness gnawed at her insides, a cold fear that refused to leave. "Cherri mentioned something strange, though. Apparently, Angel's mentioned having a father and an older brother here in Hell… but she said they're terrible people."

Vaggie frowned, her arms crossed as she leaned back against the wall. "Didn't you have some idea who they might be?" she asked, casting a glance in Husk's direction.

Husk, who had been quietly nursing a bottle of booze from where he stood behind the bar, sighed and set his dring down. "Yeah," he muttered. "I think Legs might have ties to the Ragno Clan. They're not exactly small-time players in Hell's underworld." He paused, his gaze drifting as if he were lost in thought. "Angel being involved with the hotel—especially after the whole incident with Adam's forces—probably has caught their attention. And with King Lucifer himself getting involved recently, would really attract their interest."

"But… why?" Charlie's brows furrowed in confusion, her expression conflicted. "None of us are a threat to them, and Angel's never talked about his family's business directly. Everything we know about the Ragno Clan, we figured out on our own. Why would that put him in danger?"

"It's more complicated than that," Husk explained, his voice low and gruff. He shifted from one foot to the other, looking a little uncomfortable as he thought through his words. "Angel might not have betrayed any of their secrets or broken any of their rules, but think about it. He's suddenly in the same vicinity with Alastor, one of the most dangerous Overlords in Hell, and on top of that, he's associated with Hell's royal family through you, Princess. To the wrong people, that could look like Angel's trying to gain power against them. Others might think he has access to resources or influence they can't touch. It could get messy real fast."

Vaggie's expression hardened as she listened. "So, you're saying they might see Angel as a threat even if he hasn't done anything?"

Husk nodded grimly. "Exactly. The Ragno Clan doesn't take chances. They don't wait around for a threat to get bigger—they crush it before it even becomes a problem. And Angel… well, if they think he's positioning himself with Alastor and royalty, that's more than enough reason to put him on their radar."

Charlie's heart sank as she processed Husk's words. The idea of Angel, still in a coma, being in danger even while unconscious was almost too much to bear. "But these guys are regular sinners, right?" Vaggie asked, trying to grasp at something that made sense.

"It's true they're regular sinners," Husk said with a sigh. "But don't let that fool you. Their power in Hell doesn't come from anything supernatural. It comes from their connections—alliances with Overlords, enforcing deals, running businesses, and pulling strings. They don't need to offer up their souls to hold power here. They just need the right leverage, and they've got plenty of that."

Charlie's stomach twisted with anxiety. The weight of the situation felt overwhelming. "So… what do we do?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper. "How do we convince them that Angel's involvement with the hotel isn't a threat to them?"

Husk shook his head. "You don't," he said bluntly. "You don't go looking for them. You track them down, they'll just shoot first and ask questions later. They aren't the sort of people who take kindly to being confronted. If they want something, they'll come to us on their terms. Even if they find no reason to assume that Angel or anyone here is a threat to them, there are still things here that might be to their advantage."

"Given what I saw of Angel's memories during the healing spell," Lucifer began, his normally jovial demeanor replaced with a rare, heavy solemnity. The lightness that usually danced in his eyes was absent, replaced by a shadow that weighed on his words. "I understand now why he chose to cut ties with them. It wasn't a decision born from anger or rebellion—it was survival."

"You saw Angel's memories?" Charlie asked, her curiosity piqued, though a creeping dread lingered at the edges of her voice. Her father's rare shift in tone unnerved her; whatever he had seen, it was clear it had deeply affected him.

"Sort of," Lucifer replied, his voice softer now, as if burdened by what he had glimpsed. "It was fragmented—flashes of emotion, sharp and raw. Mostly pain. His life at home wasn't just difficult; it was suffocating. He was trapped in an environment where love had conditions, where acceptance was offered only if he could be molded into something he wasn't. He wasn't unable to meet these expectations; it was more that those expectations asked him to betray himself, to silence who he truly was. And in a family like his, failure to conform meant punishment. One sibling was favored, groomed for the future, while another was discarded entirely, cast aside like an inconvenience."

Charlie frowned, the tension in her chest tightening. "That sounds… a lot like what happened to you in Heaven, doesn't it?" she ventured carefully. "You had all these ideas about creation, about things that could change and evolve, but the others saw it as stirring up trouble. Then, when you offered free will to humanity, everything spiraled. It led to Hell, to the rise of evil, and to you being cast out."

Lucifer's gaze softened at his daughter's words, a wistful smile briefly tugging at the corners of his mouth. "In some ways, it's similar," he admitted. "I was seen as a rebel, someone who threatened the harmony of Heaven simply by questioning the established order. But Angel's situation… it's different. He wasn't trying to challenge anything, he wasn't looking to upend his family's way of being. He just wanted to exist, to be seen as himself. But the world—his family—wanted to correct him, as though his very nature was a flaw to be fixed. He wasn't wrong or evil, yet they couldn't accept that."

"That was one of the darker realities of those times," Husk interjected, his voice carrying a note of bitterness. He sighed heavily. "I don't know what Heaven's views on homosexuality are, but in the living world—especially during Angel's and Alastor's lifetimes—anything that wasn't heteronormative was treated like a disease. People didn't understand it, and what people don't understand, they fear. So, what was feared was labeled 'unnatural', something to be fixed or eradicated. It was easier for society to demonize what they couldn't explain than to face their own ignorance."

Lucifer's expression darkened. "And it wasn't just society at large that did this. It was families—the very people who were supposed to love and protect you—who often became the harshest judges. They were the ones who couldn't bear the shame of a child who didn't fit into their vision. For Angel, that shame turned into something toxic. It was easier for his family to try to reshape him, to force him to conform, than to simply accept him as is. And when he couldn't—or wouldn't—be what they wanted, they punished him for it."

Charlie nodded slowly, her heart aching for Angel. She could see why he had severed those ties now, why the pain in his past still haunted him. "I can't imagine what that must've been like," she whispered.

"It leaves scars," Lucifer said softly, his eyes distant, as if recalling his own battles. "Scars that never truly fade, even when you've moved on."

---

The dark memories crept into the depths of his unconsciousness, always lurking, ready to tear him down or drag him into despair.

"Why fight such a pointless struggle?" a seductive female voice echoed in his mind, its tone a chilling mix of comfort and manipulation. "It would be so much easier to give in… just let the darkness consume you."

The voice was familiar yet elusive, one he'd heard countless times but could never quite place. He knew better than to trust it. This was the voice of deceit, the one that whispered lies designed to break him. It told him that if he became broken enough, Valentino would leave him, that he had no reason to exist. His blood family, the voice claimed, would rather kill him than welcome him back. His sister, meanwhile, must be happily living in a world beyond his reach, long since having forgotten him. "Just surrender. I can give you power, wealth, a new reason to exist in this world."

"I won't," Angel said firmly. "I've sold my soul. I'm not going to fall for that bull shit again. You've probably got strings attached to 'em."

"And Princess Morningstar doesn't have strings?" the voice taunted. "She promises redemption, but even you don't believe in such foolishness. Just because she presents a friendly face doesn't mean she won't mold you into what she desires—just like your family did. Or do you need to be reminded of what you've already lost?"

An image of his sister, Molly, appeared before him. She was a female variant of his own human appearance, with golden brown hair and butterscotch eyes, her kind heartedness setting her apart. Unlike Angel and his brother, Molly had never been involved in their family's dark dealings. She was aware of the shadows that hung over their father and brothers, but she was wise enough to avoid asking questions.

Molly Ragno had always been a light within the darkness of their family, her warmth and generosity making her beloved by all who knew her. She shared a deep bond with her twin brother, Anthony, a connection stronger than the closest of siblings. They had shared everything—secrets, laughter, even dreams. But as Anthony grew older, he was drawn into the family's expectations, something that Molly could see was hurting him both mentally and emotionally. The one thing that hurt her more, however, was knowing that this was something he could never share with her.

It was a life she could never be part of, and it was safer that way. Anthony, despite the ache of keeping her in the dark, cherished her innocence too much to shatter it. He convinced himself that by staying silent, by obeying their family, he was protecting her. Even when she expressed concern over the toll it was taking on him, he dismissed it, unwilling to burden her with the truth. She was an outsider in that world, and involving her would mean digging her grave along with his own.

Meanwhile, their father was introducing Molly to various men, seeing her as the Princess of their crime family—a tool to forge alliances and secure associations. Anthony saw the harsh reality: Molly was being bartered, marketed to the highest bidder. But when she finally found a suitor she agreed to court, it was a caporegime from an allied family. Anthony had crossed paths with him enough to know he was a good man, someone who would treat Molly well, offering a rare sliver of comfort in an otherwise bleak existence.

The image of Molly shifted to another memory, one designed to taunt him, to make him doubt himself. This memory cut deeper than the others he had seen—it was the moment his sister had died. The pain of it still lingered, raw and unresolved, a wound the darkness exploited to break him.

"What were you thinking of naming it?" Anthony asked, wringing out a hand towel and using it as a cool compress. He glanced around the small but comfortable bedroom of their brownstone in Brooklyn, the muffled sounds of city life drifting through the open window. Outside, the clatter of carriages mixed with the honk of early automobiles, and the occasional shouts of street vendors filled the air. It was 1940, and the world outside was restless, but inside this room, everything seemed suspended. There was a quiet intimacy as Anthony stayed by his sister's side. Molly, his immediate younger sister, lay exhausted in bed, pillows propping her up as she reclined. The large swell of her stomach pressed against the worn quilt, her face flushed from the late stages of pregnancy.

Molly had returned to the family home to prepare for the birth, seeking the comfort of the place she had grown up. She smiled weakly but contentedly as Anthony gently dabbed the cool cloth across her forehead. The midwife had advised that she rest as much as possible, and the women of the family had taken that advice seriously. Their mother, along with aunts, cousins, and the old neighbors from down the block, had all gathered to fuss over her. They clucked and cooed, bringing food and herbal remedies, sharing tales of their own labors as they tended to her needs.

Her husband came and went when his duties allowed, but with his own crime family business to tend to, he was often absent. Pops, their father, adhered to old-world values, believing childbirth was strictly a woman's concern. "Men got no place in it," he'd said many times, leaving the responsibility to the women in the house.

Their older brother, Michael, was much the same. Though he had his own children, he rarely involved himself with them as infants, preferring to disappear on "business" trips. The truth was, he spent much of his time nursing shots of whiskey at the local bar or slipping away to visit one of his many mistresses. The Ragno men lived by tradition, where family business took precedence over everything, even the birth of a new member.

Anthony, however, didn't share their cold detachment. For him, Molly was more than just family—she was his twin, his other half. He stayed with her, prioritizing her health over everything else, despite Pops' grumblings about where a man's place should be.

"What do you suggest, Fratello?" Molly asked with a playful smile. She had some ideas for names but wanted to keep the suspense until the little stranger arrived.

"Hmm," Anthony mused, leaning his head gently against the swell of her stomach as if listening to the life growing within her. "I'd say, if it's a girl, she should be called Maria… after our mother. And if it's a boy…"

"If it's a boy, I'd name him Anthony… after you," Molly said, her voice soft but certain.

"I... I don't know if Pops is gonna like that," Anthony said, his voice faltering slightly. "You know how he is..."

"He's still giving ya a hard time, Tony?" Molly asked, her concern evident.

"Pops and Fratello," Anthony sighed, lifting his head. "It's not like I can change being what I am, and they don't like it 'cause it makes me look… sick in the head. Believe me, I've tried suggesting other ways I could support the family business, but they ain't hearin' it."

"What you are has nothin' to do with them," Molly said firmly. "Pops only cares about his ego, and Fratello... well, he's got his own problems, being raised to follow in Papa's footsteps."

Anthony smiled weakly, appreciating his sister's unwavering support. "Yeah, but they don't see it that way. Pops expects me to fall in line, and Michael... he's already everything Pops wanted in a son."

"But you've always been everything I wanted in a brother," Molly said, reaching for his hand. "You don't have to live by their standards, Tony. You are more than that."

For a moment, the noise of Brooklyn seemed to fade into the background, and all that remained was the bond between them. In that quiet space, Anthony felt a glimmer of hope, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.

"Look, I can talk to my husband," Molly suggested, her eyes soft but determined. "He might know someone who could bring you into their group. I may not know all the details about our family's business, because I'm not *supposed* to know, but I'm not blind to what's going on. And I'm not going to just stand by and watch Pops destroy half my soul to suit his whims."

Anthony looked at her, taken aback by her resolve. "Molly, you don't have to get involved. It's dangerous, and I don't want you caught up in it."

"I'm already involved, Tony," she replied, gripping his hand. "Just because Pops keeps me on the sidelines doesn't mean I don't see what's happening to you. I've watched you suffer long enough. If there's a way out for you, I'll help you find it."

Anthony sighed, torn between gratitude and guilt. "I just don't want you to put yourself in a position where you'll have to choose between your husband's family and ours. This life... it doesn't let go easily."

Molly's gaze softened, but her resolve remained. "You're my brother, Tony. I'm not going to let them break you. I'll talk to my husband, and we'll figure something out—together. You deserve better than this."

For the first time in a long while, Anthony felt a flicker of hope. Unfortunately, that hope died not long after.

---

"Minestrone alla Ragno!" Anthony announced proudly, carrying a steaming bowl of the tomato and pasta soup as he stepped into the room. "Lovingly made by Mama." He grinned, but his smile faded as he glanced at his twin sister. Molly's face had gone pale, her eyes fixed on the wall with a distant, unfocused expression.

"Uh, Molls," he asked, his voice tinged with concern, "are you okay?"

Slowly, her gaze shifted to him, her face a strange mixture of bewilderment, fear, and joy. "Tony…" she whispered, her voice shaky. "It's time."

Anthony blinked, momentarily confused. "It's time…" he began, but then the realization hit him. "Oh! It's time!"

Quickly setting the soup down on a nearby table, he darted out of the room, rushing downstairs to alert their mother. The house quickly erupted into a flurry of activity, with family members and neighbors hurrying in and out, readying themselves for the birth. The air was filled with questions and hurried footsteps, everyone wondering the same thing: had the baby arrived yet?

The once-quiet Brooklyn brownstone was now alive with anticipation, the commotion of family members echoing through its walls. Anthony paced anxiously, his heart racing as he hoped everything would go smoothly for his sister. A midwife had been brought in to assist with the birth, and Anthony had offered his help, only to be brusquely rebuffed. Everything was being handled, they said, leaving him with no role to play.

He was relegated downstairs with his brother-in-law and the other men of the family. Each time he heard Molly cry out in pain, his heart clenched, and he longed to be at her side. He could feel the exhaustion creeping into her with every contraction. If only he were allowed in the room, he thought, he could somehow lend her his strength, support her through the agony. But instead, he was left to listen helplessly, hearing muttered concerns from the women upstairs about complications and the possibility of calling a hospital. Despite his anxiety, he was told his presence wasn't needed and was given vague assurances that it would be over soon.

At last, the sharp cry of a newborn echoed from above, cutting through the tension in the house.

"Hear that, fellas?" Molly's husband exclaimed, grinning ear to ear. "I'm a father. That's my kid…"

The men erupted into congratulations, clapping him on the back and offering celebratory words. But for Anthony, the wait felt endless. The first to see the newborn were Molly's husband and in-laws. After what seemed like an eternity, they returned downstairs to proudly announce, "It's a girl."

The news was met with a mixture of genuine praise and half-hearted remarks of "Oh well, better luck next time," as if the birth of a daughter was somehow less significant than that of a son. But Anthony hardly heard them. Without a word, he ascended the stairs, slipping away from the crowd.

His mother met him on the landing, her face lined with exhaustion and worry. "She's tired, Anthony," she said softly, "weak from the birth. You can see her, but just for a few moments."

Anthony nodded and quietly entered the dimly lit room where his sister lay. Molly looked pale and fragile, her hair damp with sweat, but her eyes brightened when she saw him. In her arms was a tiny bundle swaddled in blankets. Despite her exhaustion, she smiled, lifting her daughter slightly to show him.

"It's okay," Molly whispered. "I'm okay."

Anthony knelt by her side, gazing down at the newborn. "She's beautiful," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

For a brief moment, all the worry and tension melted away, replaced by the warmth of family and the quiet miracle of new life.

"Her name is Isabella Maria," Molly told him, smiling weakly as she allowed Anthony to gently gather the squirming bundle into his arms. The baby fussed at being removed from her mother's comforting embrace but soon quieted, sensing the warmth and safety in her uncle's arms. She cooed softly, her tiny fingers curling as if in recognition of someone she could trust.

In the days that followed, the house brimmed with joy and the steady rhythm of new life. Molly was tired but content, her newborn quickly becoming the heart of the home. Isabella's soft cries and delicate presence drew family members in and out of the brownstone, all eager to lend a hand. Molly's mother stayed by her side, helping with the baby's care, ensuring Molly got the rest she needed. Anthony visited often, doting on his niece and playfully teasing Molly about her new role as a mother.

But not all the reactions to Isabella's birth were as warm. Don Ragno, ever the patriarch, wasn't exactly thrilled that Molly's first child was a girl. He had simply shrugged, satisfied that Michael had already given him a grandson. Still, he couldn't resist making sharp, passive remarks to Anthony, implying that if he ever got married and had a child, a daughter would only cement his failure as a son in the eyes of the Ragno family.

Despite the joy that surrounded Isabella's arrival, subtle signs began to suggest that something wasn't right. Molly, once so vibrant, seemed unusually pale, her energy fading by the day. She complained of an overwhelming fatigue that went beyond the expected exhaustion of new motherhood. Her family, concerned but dismissive, reassured her that it was all part of the recovery process. "You just need time," her mother would say, offering cups of herbal tea. Molly herself brushed off the worry—she had always been resilient, and childbirth was taxing, after all. She was convinced that rest would restore her strength.

But as the days passed, Anthony's concern deepened. Molly seemed to grow weaker with each passing day, her energy draining like water from a cracked vessel. She struggled to stand for long, growing dizzy and lightheaded. Her once-rosy complexion became pale and almost translucent, and the dark circles under her eyes grew more pronounced. The women in the family continued to assure her that recovery took time, but Anthony couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that something more was wrong.

Yet, in the flurry of family life—the late-night feedings, the diaper changes, the constant hum of people coming and going—it was easy to push his concerns aside. It felt like everything would return to normal, given enough time.

Then came the night that would change everything.

---

It was a little past midnight when Anthony was abruptly awakened by the sharp cries of Isabella from the next room. The sound was different this time—louder, more urgent, cutting through the stillness of the night with a desperation that made his heart race. He lay still for a moment, expecting to hear the soft shuffle of his sister's footsteps moving toward the bassinet. But there was only silence, apart from the baby's wails growing more frantic by the second.

"God damn it," Don Ragno's voice growled from down the hall, laced with irritation. "Can't she shut that brat up?!"

Worried, Anthony pushed aside the blankets and hurriedly pulled on his night robe. Something was wrong. He moved quickly down the narrow hallway toward Molly's room, his footsteps light but his heart heavy with a growing sense of dread. He paused in front of her door, knocking softly. "Molly?" he called, his voice barely above a whisper. When there was no answer, he knocked again, a little louder this time. "Molly?"

Still, there was no response.

The baby's cries only grew louder, filling the quiet brownstone with an eerie, unsettling energy. Anthony's hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob, slowly pushing the door open. As he stepped inside, the sharp metallic smell of blood hit him almost immediately, filling his nostrils and twisting his stomach. The room was dimly lit by the small lamp beside the baby's bassinet, casting long shadows on the walls. He could barely make out the shape of his sister lying in bed, motionless.

Something was wrong.

Anthony crossed the room quickly, his breath catching in his throat as he reached out to gently shake Molly awake. His hand jerked back the moment his fingers touched her skin—she was cold, too cold. A chill ran down his spine as panic gripped him, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was feeling. His heart raced as he fumbled for the light switch, flooding the room with a harsh brightness.

What he saw next would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Molly lay there, perfectly still, her face pale but peaceful, as though she were simply asleep. But the blankets covering her told a far different story. They were soaked through with blood, dark crimson stains spreading across the sheets, the evidence of a battle her body had been fighting silently and fatally. Anthony's breath hitched, his vision swimming as the horror of the scene hit him like a wave, threatening to pull him under.

"No, no, no," he whispered, his voice shaking as he reached for her again, this time more frantically. "Molly, wake up! Please, wake up!" His hands trembled as he shook her gently, then more desperately, but there was no response.

Staggering back, Anthony felt the world spinning around him. The baby's cries, still piercing the air, faded into the background as his mind struggled to catch up with the terrible reality unfolding before him. He screamed for help, his voice echoing down the hallway, waking the rest of the house. Within moments, the brownstone erupted into chaos. His mother burst into the room, her face a mask of disbelief and grief as she rushed to her daughter's side. Don Ragno had also gotten up, he appeared to watch the scene impassively, before he lumbered to the phone to inform his oldest son of his sister's passing. The light of dawn was just beginning to light up the city skyline before the body was taken away by a coroner. Molly had passed quietly in the night, taken by a postpartum hemorrhage that had gone unnoticed.

It was only later that the family would piece together what had happened. Molly's body had been silently bleeding since the day of the birth. The fatigue, the dizziness, the paleness—all of it had been signs of the internal hemorrhaging that was slowly draining her life away. But no one had understood the gravity of the situation. The family had been so caught up in the joy of Isabella's arrival that they had dismissed Molly's symptoms as normal postpartum exhaustion. They hadn't realized that Molly was dying right in front of them.

In the aftermath of her death, the Ragno family was shattered. The brownstone, which had been filled with the sounds of new life just days before, now echoed with the grief of those left behind. Anthony, devastated by the loss of his twin sister, struggled with an overwhelming sense of guilt. He replayed the days leading up to her death in his mind, wondering if there had been something—anything—he could have done differently. His bond with Molly had always been stronger than anything else in his life, and now she was gone, taken too soon by something no one had seen coming.

Molly's husband, still numb with shock, took custody of their daughter, Isabella Maria. Though Anthony knew it was her father's right, he couldn't bear the thought of being separated from the baby. He requested to help care for his niece, to be a part of her life, and to one day tell her about the incredible woman her mother had been. He wanted to ensure that Molly's legacy lived on through Isabella, to share the stories of their childhood, of Molly's kindness, her strength, and her light.

But Don Ragno, ever the stoic patriarch, refused. "The dead should rest in peace," he had said coldly, his face a mask of indifference. "There's no use talkin' about what's gone. Your sister's gone, and that's that. Let her rest."

Anthony was heartbroken but powerless to change his father's mind. The old man's rigid beliefs and control over the family meant that Molly's memory would be locked away, unspoken, as though she had never existed. But in Anthony's heart, Molly would always live on. He couldn't forget her, and he vowed that, one day, he would tell Isabella the truth about her mother when she was of age to know.

Molly had been a bright light in a dark world, a kind soul who had brought warmth to everyone around her. Her legacy lived on through Isabella, a baby born into both joy and sorrow, but never without love. And while Don Ragno might have believed that the dead should rest in peace, Anthony knew better. Molly would never be forgotten. As long as he existed she would be remembered.

Angel hugged himself as the memory hit him like a physical blow. He had never forgotten his sister, and when he first arrived in Hell, he had searched for her. Yet, he quickly accepted that she might not be there—she had been too good-hearted for such a fate. As much as he missed his twin, he consoled himself with the thought that, wherever she was, she was better off without him. But the distance between them hurt more than any torture Hell could devise.

His ears pricked at the sound of a voice, one he never expected to hear. He was used to Charlie and Cherri chatting around him, and even Husk had confided his past to him once. But this person going out of her way to speak to him—that was something entirely unexpected.

---

Vaggie stepped cautiously into Angel's room, her internal conflict clear with every hesitant step. This decision went against her instincts—after all, she and Angel didn't exactly get along. The spider-themed sinner had a reputation for being crass, inappropriate, and difficult, traits that constantly grated on her nerves. Perhaps because they reminded her of Adam and how much of a sexist pig he could be. Angel did seem to thrive on pushing her buttons, and for the longest time, she had dismissed him as little more than a troublemaker. But something had changed over the past several months.

Since joining the hotel, Angel had proven himself in ways she couldn't ignore. It was easy at first to believe he had only joined to exploit Charlie's kindness, treating the hotel like a convenient refuge while he continued indulging in his vices. He often preferred to spend his free time outside of his seedy job at the studio drowning himself in alcohol or resorting to drugs. Vaggie had been quick to write him off, assuming he was just another lost cause who didn't want to change.

But as she watched him, little by little, her perception began to shift. She saw glimpses of something beyond the brash exterior. Angel wasn't just reckless or self-destructive for the sake of it—there was a haunted look in his eyes, a weight he carried in his every move, even when he was at his loudest and most obnoxious. Now, as she stood at the threshold of his room, she couldn't help but wonder if she had misjudged him.

Maybe his behavior wasn't just him being problematic for the sake of it. Maybe it was something deeper, something more painful. Perhaps it was a desperate, unvoiced cry for help. He never asked for it, never let anyone in, but the signs were there, if one cared to look. The way he isolated himself after a particularly rough night, the moments of vulnerability he let slip when he thought no one was watching—it all hinted at a brokenness he tried so hard to hide behind bravado and indulgence.

Vaggie sighed, her hand tightening on the doorknob for a brief moment before she released it. She hadn't come here to play psychoanalyst, but she couldn't ignore the nagging feeling in her gut that told her Angel might need someone to talk to him. Against her better judgment she turned the knob and entered the room.

The scene before her was almost tender, though the sadness woven into it made it achingly bittersweet. Angel lay on his back, his body unnaturally still, as if frozen in the deep grip of slumber, or something more permanent. His normally sharp features, often full of snark and sly wit, were softened by the stillness, giving him an air of peace that didn't quite belong. It was as if he had finally found rest, but at what cost?

Beside him, Cherri had shed her usual bold, unrelenting façade. The brashness that often crackled around her like a live wire was nowhere to be seen in this quiet moment. Instead, she lay curled beside him on the narrow twin bed, her body instinctively molding itself to his as though even in sleep she refused to leave him alone. Her arm was draped protectively across his midsection, as if she could shield him from the reality neither of them could escape. The silent connection between them was palpable, the way her fingers lightly brushed his fur spoke of something deeper than friendship, a bond born of battle and shared history.

Cherri's hair, typically a wild, fiery explosion that mirrored her chaotic personality, had come undone from its usual sparkler-like ponytail. The strands spilled around her face, softening her edges, giving her an air of fragility rarely seen. With her head nestled against Angel's shoulder, she looked far younger, her usual mischief and razor-sharp wit smoothed away by the vulnerability that came with sleep. Her single eye, often bright with defiance or dark humor, was closed, giving her a rare moment of somber peace that she didn't often allow herself.

At their feet, Fat Nuggets, Angel's beloved pet pig, completed the tableau of quiet tragedy. The little creature was nestled contentedly between Angel's legs, his small body curled into a tight ball, his pink snout resting gently against his trotters. He was also asleep, unaware of the weight of the sorrow that hung over the room. The pig, normally playful and excitable, seemed to sense the need for stillness, as if he too knew that this moment was different, a silent goodbye.

It was the kind of scene that would have brought warmth to anyone who stumbled upon it—a picture of companionship, loyalty, and affection—but the heavy shadow of sorrow that loomed over it all transformed it into something else entirely. This wasn't just a moment of rest; it was a fragile moment of holding on, a fleeting grasp at something already slipping away. And the sadness, the aching, unbearable sadness, made it impossible to fully appreciate the tenderness without feeling the sharp sting of what was being lost.

With reluctant steps, Vaggie approached the bed, her heart heavy. She placed a gentle hand on Cherri's shoulder, giving her a soft shake to wake her. "Cherri," she whispered, her voice barely breaking the quiet of the room.

Cherri stirred slowly, blinking her single-eye open. For a moment, she seemed disoriented, as though piecing together where she was and why. Her gaze swept the room before landing on Vaggie. The exhaustion in her expression was unmistakable, a weariness that ran deeper than lack of sleep.

"Let me watch over him for now," Vaggie offered, her voice steady, though the sadness lingered beneath it.

Cherri didn't argue, though her eye flickered over Angel's still face, her lips pressing into a tight line as if she were abandoning him by stepping away. "Why not," she muttered, exhaling a sigh that was as heavy as the room felt. "Fat Nuggets needs walking anyway." She rose from the bed, carefully scooping the small pig into her arms, though without her usual burst of energy or sarcastic quips. Her movements were slow, weighed down by the invisible burden she carried.

As Cherri left the room, Vaggie's eyes followed her with concern. For all the bravado the Bomber girl projected, Vaggie knew this was eating her alive. Ever since Pentious had been destroyed, something in Cherri had dimmed, a piece of her taken with the snake demon's fall. She had managed to mask it, to hide the pain behind a tough exterior, but Vaggie could see through it—Cherri hadn't been the same. Maybe it was easier for her to deal with, not having forged the same bond with Pentious as Angel or the others, but that didn't mean she was unaffected.

Vaggie had witnessed the weight of their grief firsthand. Husk, Cherri, and Niffty had collapsed in shock, their knees hitting the ground in collective despair at the sight of their fallen companion. And then there was Angel. Vaggie would never forget the look on his face—the way he had staggered back as though struck, the raw pain that had gripped him as he hugged himself tightly. His quiet, broken whisper had echoed in her mind ever since: "Fuck…you did good, buddy."

But now, with Angel on the edge, so fragile, Vaggie couldn't help but worry about what might come next. If they lost Angel too, she wasn't sure how Cherri would survive it. She might crumble completely, unhinged by grief in a way she hadn't yet shown.

And Charlie…

The thought of Charlie was almost too much to bear. Charlie, who had been the light for all of them, who had believed so fiercely in each of them, especially Angel. If they lost him, Vaggie feared that Charlie's heart would break beyond repair. The grief would be endless. The hotel had already been through so much loss, but the thought of losing Angel might be the one thing that could finally extinguish the hope that had kept them all going.

Vaggie knelt by Angel's bedside, her hand brushing against his. She needed him to wake up, to stay with them. Because if he didn't, the fallout would be more devastating than she could imagine.

Husk and Cherri had taken it upon themselves to care for Angel during his long, unsettling unconsciousness. Every few days, they would ensure the spider demon was bathed, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity in his vulnerable state. During these moments, Niffty would dutifully slip into the room, changing the sheets and making sure the blankets were washed and fresh. On the surface, Angel looked well-cared for—his skin clean, his hair combed back as though he had just woken from a peaceful sleep.

But beneath the veneer of care, the truth was far less comforting. If you looked closely, you could see the toll his unconsciousness was taking. The once-sharp lines of Angel's face were sunken now, hollows forming in his cheeks that hadn't been there before. His body, always thin but full of wiry strength, seemed to be wasting away. His limbs, once graceful and agile, were frail and gaunt, as though he was slowly withering into nothingness. Though sinners in Hell couldn't die from starvation, the suffering was still real. The lack of sustenance and movement was ravaging his body.

The length of time Angel had been out of commission had other consequences, too. His muscles, unused for so long, would have begun to atrophy. His limbs, once so agile and quick, would be stiff and weak when—or if—he ever woke up. Even with Lucifer's angelic healing power coursing through him, there was no guarantee of recovery. It wasn't just a question of if he would wake—it was how much of himself would still be there when he did.

And even if by some miracle Angel regained consciousness, he would be far from his usual self. The long period of inactivity would have left him weakened, his body needing time and care to heal and strengthen again. Vaggie knew he would require physical assistance, perhaps for quite some time, as he began the slow and arduous process of recuperating.

The thought of Angel reduced to this—helpless, fragile—was a gut-wrenching one. For so long, he had been a defiant, larger-than-life personality in the hotel. To see him like this was a brutal reminder of how fragile even the strongest among them could be. The others, especially Cherri and Husk, had done what they could to keep him comfortable, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

Vaggie glanced down at Angel's hand, resting limp and cold in hers. She squeezed it gently, though he gave no response. They all needed him back, needed the vibrant, sharp-witted spider demon who had somehow wormed his way into their hearts. But now, all they could do was wait—and hope that when he woke, there would still be something left of him to bring back.

"I know we haven't... well, we've never really gotten along," Vaggie admitted quietly, her voice soft but steady as she sat beside Angel's unconscious form. Her gaze lingered on his face, so still and lifeless, before she continued, "Still, the times when we have agreed have always been when it comes to things that affect this hotel—and more importantly, things that affect Charlie. That's why I'm here. It's been over a week since you lost consciousness, Angel, and Charlie… she's holding onto hope, but even that hope is starting to fade. And that scares me."

She paused, her fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeves of her blouse. It wasn't easy to admit, but Vaggie had never been one to back down from the truth. "This hotel—it was Charlie's dream, her vision. She's believed in it from the start, believed it could become something real, something that could make a difference in Hell. And you… you were the first soul to really listen to us, to hear her out and agree to join. I don't need to tell you it was obvious you were taking advantage of her kindness for your own gain. I saw that from the beginning. I told Charlie, over and over, that you weren't serious about this hotel, that there had to be someone else in Hell more worthy of redemption than you."

Vaggie sighed, her frustration clear, but there was something softer beneath it now—a vulnerability she didn't often show. "But no matter how many times I said that, Charlie wouldn't hear it. She always insisted I give it time, that you'd prove yourself, that you were worth saving. She had faith in you, even when I didn't. And… you did prove her right, didn't you?" Her voice softened as the truth of that admission hung between them. "I'll never admit this to you if you wake up," she added with a dry chuckle, though it quickly faded into a more somber tone.

"You saw what happened after Sir Pentious sacrificed himself," Vaggie continued. "It broke something in her. She's trying to keep it together for everyone's sake, putting on a brave face like nothing can touch her, but it haunts her. She's convinced that if she'd just tried harder—if she'd convinced Heaven sooner that redemption could work—then maybe Adam's attack wouldn't have happened, and Pentious wouldn't have had to make that choice."

Her voice cracked slightly, but she pressed on, the weight of her words making her heart ache. "And now, if she loses you too… I don't know if she could handle that, Angel. She's placed so much of her faith in you, more than I ever thought was possible. She truly believes you can be redeemed, that you could be the one to prove it's possible. But each day that passes with you like this... the more she feels like she's failed."

Vaggie's grip on his hand tightened, her emotions surfacing in a way she rarely allowed. "I'm worried she'll give up on this hotel, on everything she's worked so hard for. It's painful to see her like this, and even Lucifer doesn't know what to do. He agrees that we can't put the hotel's goals on hold for just one sinner, but… he also sees how this is tearing Charlie apart. She's lost so much already. I can't stand to see her lose any more."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. Angel lay motionless, silent, and Vaggie could only hope that, somehow, he was hearing her.

Finding nothing else to say, Vaggie rose from her seat, the weight of her words lingering in the room like an unspoken prayer. She hesitated as she reached the door, her hand resting on the handle. For a brief moment, her gaze flicked back to Angel, her eyes searching his still form as if willing him to stir, to give any sign of life—of hope. But the room remained unnervingly quiet, and Angel stayed as he was, trapped in that endless slumber.

It was a painful reminder of the evil that had been done to him, a lingering shadow over the hotel and all those who called it home. They had all fought so hard, endured so much, and yet here he was—silent, unmoving. A reminder of how fragile even the strongest could be in the face of the darkness that still thrived in Hell.

With a quiet sigh, Vaggie turned the handle and stepped into the hallway, the soft click of the door closing behind her the only sound to break the silence. The echoes of her thoughts followed her as she left Angel to his fitful, uncertain rest.

---

Within Angel's mind, the Porn Star had listened quietly as Vaggie's words washed over him. It wasn't like him to be so reflective, but something about what she was saying struck a chord deep inside. Sure, they'd never gotten along—not really. Vaggie was uptight, always so rigid in her sense of right and wrong, and Angel had always figured she needed to loosen up, maybe have a little fun. But as she spoke about Charlie—about the faith Charlie had placed in him, about her belief in his redemption—something stirred in Angel that he wasn't used to feeling.

He knew Charlie had wanted to see the best in him, even when he was openly taking advantage of her kindness. She'd never told him to leave or pushed him away, even though she had every reason to. That was strange to Angel, almost alien. He was used to being the one who got used, discarded when his value ran out. No one had ever looked at him and seen something worth saving, not for real.

The hotel had been different. From the moment he'd agreed to stay, it had felt like a refuge—a place where, for once, he wasn't constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for the hammer to drop. He had never let himself believe it would last. Hell had a way of chewing you up and spitting you out, and Angel knew better than to think he'd found something permanent. After all, every other place he'd ever thought of as home—a lover's embrace, a dingy one-room apartment, even the brothels he'd worked in—had eventually thrown him out. It was always the same. Sooner or later, they got tired of him, told him to pack his bags and leave. He had become numb to it.

The studio wasn't much different, except that it offered him a warped kind of residency. Valentino made sure of that, ensuring Angel could never fully escape, even when he wasn't on the clock. The soul contract had bound him to that place, chained him to Valentino's whims. But there was a twisted freedom in it, too. He could leave the studio when he wasn't working, and he took full advantage of that. Partying all night, losing himself in drugs, hiding out at Cherri's place, or finding a john willing to cover a motel room—anything to get away from the reality that he'd have to go back. And if he didn't go back, Val would find him sooner or later and make an example of what happens if you dare to leave.

Angel had always told himself it was fine. This was the best he could do in Hell. Valentino's grip on him was ironclad, and the spider demon had accepted that. Or at least, he had tried to. But hearing Vaggie talk about Charlie's hope, about how much she believed in him, left him with a gnawing doubt. Was it really true that no one outside the studio could help him? That no matter how far he ran, Valentino would always drag him back?

There was something unsettling about that idea now—more so than usual. Maybe it was because, for the first time, Angel was seeing that someone actually cared whether he made it out of this alive. Charlie, for all her sweetness and naïveté, had never given up on him. Even Vaggie, in her own way, was here because she didn't want to see him disappear.

A part of him wanted to believe it, wanted to believe that maybe—just maybe—he wasn't as lost as he had always thought. But the doubt lingered, like a shadow creeping in the back of his mind. Could he really break free from Valentino? Or was it just a fantasy, something too good to ever be true in Hell?

Angel didn't have the answers. All he knew was that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't so sure about anything.

His mind wandered back to that fateful day, the day that had set him on the path that led to where he was now. Before he became known as Angel Dust, before he was tangled in Valentino's web of pornography and exploitation, he had been just Anthony. He had dropped his family name—Ragno—hoping to distance himself from the crime family his father and brother ran. It wasn't easy living in Hell, especially trying to stay out of the reach of the family's shadow. He had to do things to survive, things he wasn't proud of. But he had managed, scrapping together enough money from countless blowjobs and other degrading hustles to afford a small reprieve.

That day, he'd decided to treat himself to a meal at *Inferno Bites & Brews* one of the few gastropubs in the city where the staff didn't look down on you because of how you had to survive. It wouldn't be much—a bowl of soup, maybe an appetizer plate—but at least it was better than starving. And the place had a way of making you feel like, even for a moment, you weren't just another lost soul in Hell.

Settling himself at the bar, Anthony accepted the menu, though there wasn't much point in looking. He already knew what he could afford, which was pretty much everything on the menu. His eyes skimmed over the tempting description of the *Lasagna Bolognese* but he knew that was out of the question. If he was lucky, he might get a complimentary slice of garlic parmesan bread with his soup.

As he mulled over his limited choices, a tall figure slid onto the bar stooll next to him. Anthony didn't bother looking up. The newcomer carried himself with a confidence that suggested he was an Overlord—probably bad news. The demon's form was moth-themed, a creature of the night, and Anthony immediately felt a twinge of wariness. Overlords were always bad news. Getting involved with one of them usually meant selling your soul, becoming a cog in their twisted power games. Anthony had always tried to avoid that scene. It was easier to stay invisible than risk bartering away his existence to become someone's plaything.

"Waiter," the Overlord called, his voice carrying a smooth, almost charming, Hispanic lilt. It was meant to be disarming, but it made Anthony's fur prickle. "I'll take an order of the grilled pork chops for myself, and one for this hungry soul right here."

Anthony stiffened as the Overlord placed his hand on the back of his chair, ordering a meal for him without asking. He opened his mouth to object, but the Overlord raised a hand to stop him.

"It's no problem," the moth demon said with a sly smile. "You look like you haven't eaten in days. Consider this a gesture of goodwill, a simple act of generosity."

Anthony frowned, suspicion creeping in. "Why though?" he asked cautiously.

"Why not?" The Overlord's red, pupil-less eyes gleamed. "I know what it's like to live in the gutters of Hell. This is just a kindness from one sinner to another."

Anthony hesitated, but when the waiter took his menu, he let it go. If this guy was offering him a real meal—something far better than the soup he could barely afford—maybe he should just take it. He glanced around, already planning his escape. If things got weird, he could always fake a trip to the bathroom and slip out. That was when he noticed it. The air smelled different. Among the usual Hellish odors of blood, rot, and garbage, there was something new—something almost pleasant. A mix of cologne and cigarette smoke, familiar but unsettling. It wasn't just the smell, though. Anthony felt his thoughts growing foggy, his instincts dulled.

Later, he would come to understand that this was how Valentino hooked his victims. The Overlord would release pheromones, weakening his prey's resistance, making them more susceptible to his influence. If he got close enough to touch or—worse—sleep with someone, they were as good as his.

But at that moment, all Anthony could focus on was the food. The plates arrived, and his stomach growled at the sight of the fragrant, juicy pork chops, glistening with herbed oil and served with a side of buttery mashed potatoes. His body screamed at him to eat, even as his instincts told him to run.

"Go ahead," the Overlord—*Valentino*—coaxed, his smile widening as Anthony hesitated. "Eat up."

With a reluctant glance at Valentino, Anthony picked up his utensils and cut into one of the pork chops, the aroma alone making his mouth water. The moment the meat touched his tongue, it was like nothing he had ever tasted before. It was rich, savory, and almost overwhelming. For a brief moment, everything else faded—the danger, the strange scent in the air, Valentino's watchful gaze.

As he continued eating, the world around him seemed to blur. Valentino's voice became a distant hum, his words just white noise. Anthony was vaguely aware that Valentino was still talking, but the food was too good, the warmth too comforting, and the haze in his mind too strong. Before long everything began to blur before his mind went blank.

---

The first sensation Anthony felt was pain, the kind he knew all too well. The dull ache that came after a john had been too rough, the bruises that lingered on his skin afterward. His mind swam, trying to piece together where he was, but as he became more aware, he realized he was lying on satin sheets—a far cry from the dingy places he was used to. Panic stirred in his chest as he tried to remember how he got here, but his memory was foggy, a haze blocking out anything after the bar.

Sitting up with a start, Anthony found himself in an unfamiliar room, decadently furnished with lavish details, yet none of it was familiar. He had no memory of entering this place.

"Ah, you're awake," a voice said, smooth and oozing with false charm. Anthony turned to see the Overlord from earlier, stepping out of the bathroom in a billowing red nightgown. His smile was predatory, the way a cat looks after catching its prey. Anthony's heart pounded, something deep inside him warning that this was wrong. The scent of cologne and cigarettes hung in the air, but it wasn't comforting—it was suffocating.

"Where am I?" Anthony asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, but he could feel something was off—something about himself didn't feel right.

"You are a guest in my quarters at the Vee Tower," the Overlord purred. "From now on, Anthony, you'll be taking up residence at my studio."

Anthony's breath caught in his throat. "Wait, how do you know my name?" he demanded, a chill running down his spine. He had never told this Overlord his name—never told any of his johns or anyone in Hell who he really was. So how did this demon know?

"You told me last night," the Overlord—*Valentino*—said with a wicked smirk. "During our little 'test.'" His grin widened, his eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure. "And now, I own you."

With a flourish, Valentino summoned a golden scroll, the contract materializing before Anthony's eyes. Taking it in trembling hands, Anthony's eyes widened as he read the words, horror dawning on him.

By the terms agreed upon in this contract, my soul is under the possession of Valentino...

His eyes scanned the clauses, disbelief twisting his gut.

Performance and Earnings*

Everything performed, done, or required of me on the grounds of the studio complex is fair, legal, and under my consent. This includes live performances, promotional appearances, and private shows for Valentino's high-profile clients. Valentino will receive 90% of all earnings derived from my performances, merchandise, and any other related commercial ventures. I retain 10% as an allowance for personal use and living expenses.

Image and Behavior*

I must maintain an image and behavior that aligns with Valentino's brand. This includes adhering to dress codes, promotional activities, and public appearances as dictated by Valentino.

Compliance and Punishment*

Any act of defiance or attempts to break the set terms and agreement of the contract will result in severe punishment.

Duration*

The contract is eternal, binding me to Valentino until such a time as Valentino is erased, releases me of his own volition, or this contract is surrendered to a more powerful demon.

Termination Clause*

The only way to terminate this contract, aside from Valentino's release, is for me to find a willing and equal substitute who would take my place, subject to Valentino's approval.

Soul Binding*

My soul is bound to the contract, ensuring that barring erasure by Angelic Steel, my spirit remains under Valentino's control.

Anthony's two-toned eyes filled with dread as he saw his name, his signature, scrawled at the bottom. There was no mistaking it—this was his handwriting. But he had no memory of signing it. How had he agreed to this?

"So you understand now?" Valentino's voice cut through his panic like a knife. "Your soul now belongs to me, and you will do whatever I desire."

"I never agreed to—" Anthony began to protest, but the words caught in his throat as Valentino summoned a leash, a chain of ethereal red smoke that wrapped around Anthony's neck and yanked him from the bed. He fell to his knees on the plush floor, the force of the leash making him gag.

"I have a contract that says otherwise," Valentino sneered, pulling the chain taut. "From now on, *baby, when I give you an order, you respond with 'Yes, Valentino.' So when I tell you that you will live at this studio, you say…"

"Yes… Valentino," Anthony choked out, his body trembling as the pressure on his neck intensified. It felt like his very soul was being squeezed.

"When I tell you that your name is Angel Dust now, you say…"

"Yes, Valentino," Anthony repeated, his voice a little stronger, though the name felt foreign on his lips.

"When I tell you that your place is on your back, legs spread, you say…"

"Yes, Valentino," he responded, though the words made his stomach twist in revulsion.

"Good," Valentino said, dismissing the contract and releasing the chain. But before Anthony could catch his breath, Valentino's hand shot out, gripping his chin with vice-like force. The Moth Overlord's nails dug into his skin as he tilted Anthony's head up, forcing him to meet his cold, red gaze.

"And *Angel*... you don't want to disappoint me," Valentino purred, his smile widening into something far more sinister. "Trust me, baby. You won't like the consequences."

There were so many unanswered questions swirling in Angel's mind about that night—questions he'd never fully gotten over. How had Valentino found him in that bar? Was it really just a coincidence? Or had someone tipped the Overlord off, knowing exactly where Anthony would be? He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to it, something deliberate about the encounter. Valentino had a way of making everything seem planned, like a puppet master pulling the strings from the shadows.

Even now, despite all the times Val had threatened him, promising that he was just as replaceable as anyone else, Angel had seen firsthand what happened to others at the studio. Sinners who didn't perform, who stepped out of line even slightly, were erased without hesitation. Their souls ripped apart for the smallest infractions, discarded like trash. Valentino had never been shy about showing Angel what happened to those who disobeyed, and it kept everyone in constant fear.

Yet, Angel was still here. Despite all the threats and Valentino's constant insistence that he could be replaced, the Overlord had never followed through on those threats. Angel was a top earner, sure, but there had to be more to it than just the money. If it were only about profits, Val would have moved on the moment Angel became too much of a hassle, just like he had with countless others. But for some reason, he kept Angel around—kept *exploiting* him, dragging him back every time he tried to escape.

Angel had his doubts that it was just about the money. There was something deeper, something about Valentino's obsession with him that went beyond business. Maybe it was the challenge of breaking him, the thrill Val got from seeing Angel bend but not break. Or maybe it was the twisted pleasure Valentino took in keeping him under his thumb, knowing that no matter how defiant Angel tried to be, he would always end up right back where Val wanted him: submissive, scared, and trapped.

There was a sick satisfaction in Valentino's eyes whenever he called Angel by that ridiculous stage name—*Angel Dust*—as if by stripping him of his real identity, he was stripping away everything Anthony had once been. Every time Angel caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, all dolled up in the persona Valentino had created for him, it was a painful reminder that he was no longer his own person. He was Valentino's creation now, molded into exactly what the Overlord wanted him to be.

And yet, despite all of that, a nagging doubt lingered in the back of Angel's mind. Maybe there was a way out. Maybe Valentino *wasn't* as untouchable as he made himself seem. There had to be a reason why Val kept him around, a reason why he hadn't just erased him like all the others. If he could figure that out, if he could unravel whatever hold Valentino had over him, maybe—just maybe—he could find a way to break free.

Angel felt the weight of his situation pressing down on him. He was stuck, bound by a contract he didn't remember signing, bound by fear that had been planted deep in his soul by Valentino's twisted games. The worst part was, after everything he'd been through, he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep fighting. But things were different now. He wasn't entirely alone anymore. He had allies—people who cared about him, who saw him as more than just a puppet in Valentino's twisted empire. Maybe they didn't know the full extent of his pain, but they were with him, and that mattered.

Cherri, for one, had become someone Angel trusted. He had let her see him vulnerable and broken in ways he had never allowed anyone else to see. But even Cherri didn't fully understand the depth of his struggle. She equated his pain with the stress of his work—of Valentino's endless abuse—not the existential agony of having to present himself as *Angel Dust, a false identity that had consumed everything else. She didn't know the feeling of being trapped behind a mask that wasn't his own. Not really.

And then there was Charlie. Sweet, hopeful Charlie. She seemed to see past the Angel Dust persona in ways others didn't. It was like she could sense that there was more to him than the brash, sassy porn star he had become. Her belief in redemption, in seeing the good in everyone, made Angel feel… something. Something he hadn't felt in a long time: the faintest hope that maybe he wasn't as far gone as he thought.

Husk, too, had been blunt with him. He told Angel outright that people would care more if he stopped hiding behind the porn star act, if he showed who he truly was. It stung to hear it, but Husk wasn't wrong. The only problem was, *who* was Anthony, really? Angel didn't know anymore. He had spent so long being Angel Dust—Valentino's creation, his star performer—that the lines between who he was and who he pretended to be had blurred beyond recognition.

The truth was, Anthony had never had a real sense of identity, even before all of this. Growing up, Molly, his sister, would always tell him to be true to himself, but that was easier said than done. The rest of his family—his father, his brother, even society—had spent his whole life dictating who he was supposed to be, what he was supposed to want, and what expectations he had to meet. When he did succeed at something, his efforts were dismissed or overshadowed by the demands of the family. And when he failed—or, worse, when he dared to step outside of the mold they had made for him—that was when he finally had his family's attention. But never in a good way.

His father, Pops, had always been the loudest voice, the one telling him who Anthony Ragno was supposed to be. And when Anthony couldn't live up to the family's expectations, when he failed in their eyes, that's when the anger came, the disappointment, the rejection. He had spent his whole life either trying to meet those impossible standards or rebelling against them. In the end, he had run from it all, hoping he could carve out his own place in Hell, only to fall into another trap—Valentino's.

Now, as Angel Dust, he had become something else entirely. But the truth was, *Anthony* had never really existed—not in the way people like Molly or Husk or even Charlie seemed to think. He had been shaped by others, by their demands and desires, and the person he might have been had been buried so deep under layers of expectation, disappointment, and survival that he wasn't sure he could find him again. If there even was anyone to find.

It was all too much. Too tangled. He was exhausted from wearing the mask, from pretending to be someone he didn't even know anymore. But if he let that mask fall, who would he be then? Would anyone care? Would anyone even recognize him without the persona he'd hidden behind for so long?

Maybe Charlie was right—maybe redemption was possible. But how could he be redeemed if he didn't even know who he really was?

Angel often found himself questioning how much of *Angel Dust* was truly him and how much was just a fabrication he'd created to survive. It was a confusing tangle—sometimes it felt like the brash, bold, vice-ridden persona of Angel Dust was his true self, stripped of all restraint. After all, Angel Dust was everything Hell expected him to be: flashy, defiant, unashamed of who he was. There were moments when he thought maybe *this* was who he was all along, and that *Anthony*—the quiet, scared kid running from his family's suffocating expectations—was the real mask.

But deep down, Angel always dismissed that thought, though it gnawed at him in quieter moments. He knew, in a way, that the Angel Dust persona was just that—a persona. A character he had been forced to create to survive Valentino's control and the harsh reality of Hell. A flashy facade, built from all the things he wanted others to believe about him. Angel Dust was bold, brash, unstoppable. He didn't care about anything, didn't get attached, and never let anyone see the cracks beneath the surface. But that wasn't the full truth.

Anyone who looked closely enough could see it, even if they didn't say it outright. The real Angel Dust wasn't the superficial creature he projected to the world. He was scared, lost, and had learned to hide behind drugs, sex, and bravado because it was easier than admitting the truth—that he didn't know who he was or what he really wanted. It was just easier to play the part, to be what everyone expected him to be, than to confront the deep well of hurt and confusion that lay beneath.

Angel Dust was a survival mechanism, plain and simple. A way to keep people at a distance and prevent them from seeing just how broken he really was. Sure, he had his fun moments—times when the persona gave him a kind of power, a way to control how others saw him. But it was never the whole picture.

The real Anthony, though? That was harder to pin down. He had spent so much of his life pretending, first for his family and then for Valentino, that he wasn't sure who he was beneath it all. Was Anthony just a scared kid, lost and rejected? Or was there something deeper, something worth saving, worth finding?

That was the question that haunted him most.

And then there were people like Charlie, who saw through it, who seemed to believe there was more to him than just the act. It terrified him as much as it comforted him. Because if she was right—if there was more to him than just Angel Dust—then who was he really?

---

Valentino grumbled as his gaze swept across the array of demons under his control, each one a piece in his twisted empire of exploitation. His studio was filled with sex workers, some drawn to him by promises of steady employment, the illusion of security in Hell's chaotic landscape. Others, less fortunate, had been coerced into binding contracts, signed in blood or fear, making it painfully clear that they were his property to use, abuse, and discard at his whim.

Each demon had their place in the hierarchy of Valentino's twisted domain, but as he looked them over, none held the same spark—none had the power, the presence, the star factor that Angel Dust possessed. Angel had been his prized asset from the start, the one who brought in the crowds, who kept Valentino's brand thriving. No one else had ever come close to Angel's level of popularity, his flair for performance, his ability to captivate an audience even when Valentino had him dancing on strings.

It irritated him, gnawed at him, that despite all the demons he had lured or broken into submission, none could match what Angel Dust brought to his empire. Angel was a star, but one that Valentino had never quite been able to fully control—despite the drugs, the manipulation, the threats. And that only made him more dangerous, more desirable to keep, but also more of a problem to manage.

Valentino clenched his fist, irritated by the thought. He had tried breaking Angel, pushing him down until there was no fight left in him, but the spider demon always found a way to claw his way back, defiant even in the face of all Valentino had done. It was infuriating—and yet, it was what kept the crowds coming back, what kept his studio at the top.

As much as he loathed admitting it, none of the others in his stable could hold a candle to Angel Dust. And that, Valentino knew, was both a blessing and a curse.

Valentino seethed as he thought about the pathetic attempts he'd made to replace Angel Dust. He had tried to push some of the more promising demons into the limelight, parading them in front of his most important clients, but none of it had worked. Each new face had been met with dwindling interest, and worse, revenue had taken a nosedive. He had even scouted talent from other clubs—Consent being one of them—but those demons hadn't managed to capture the public's imagination either. They weren't Angel.

Desperate to stop the financial bleeding, Valentino had enlisted Velvette to spread the word that his pornography studio was searching for its next big star. With Vox's help, they had organized a talent competition, throwing open the doors to any demon who thought they could stand on the same level as legends like Tiffany Titfucker or Angel Dust himself. The lineup had been a parade of absurd stage names—Johnny Thrust, Lola Vulva, Max Powers, Trixie Vixen, Duke Nasty, Blaze Heatwave—and while a few had managed to garner passing approval, the response from the audience was far from enthusiastic.

Sure, there were polite claps and a few comments like "They're pretty good," but overwhelmingly, the fans wanted one thing: Angel Dust. The chants echoed in Valentino's mind, as if mocking him. *"I like Angel Dust."* *"When is Angel coming back?"* *"BRING BACK ANGEL DUST!"* No matter how much he pushed new faces or reassured clients that the next big thing was on the horizon, it didn't matter. Angel Dust was the star, and no one could fill his shoes.

To make matters worse, Henroin had been hounding Valentino lately, complaining that Angel's absence was affecting their "association." Henroin wasn't just a loyal client; he had ties to some of Valentino's more lucrative under-the-table deals, and without Angel, those deals were in jeopardy. It was bad enough that the studio's public image was crumbling, but now even his private business ventures were at risk.

Valentino cursed under his breath. He had built an empire, and now it felt like it was slipping through his fingers, all because Angel Dust was out of commission. No matter how many flashy replacements he threw at the problem, the demand was the same: *Bring back Angel Dust.* And the longer Angel remained unconscious, the more Valentino felt his empire teetering on the edge of collapse.

He clenched his fist, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. Something had to change, and soon. Otherwise, everything he had built would come crashing down around him.

Valentino summoned the contract that bound Angel Dust to him, the scroll materializing in a swirl of red smoke. He scanned the familiar text, his eyes flicking over the clauses, searching for any loophole or obscure detail he could twist to his advantage in this mess. Normally, when one of his workers wasn't pulling their weight or became a liability, Valentino had them erased—clean and efficient. Angel had been threatened with the same fate countless times, told over and over that he was as replaceable as anyone else. The only reason he was still alive was simple: Angel made money. A lot of money.

But the threats had never been serious, not really. They were just another tool to keep the spider demon in line, to maintain the delicate association with the Ragno family. That dangerous nest of spiders was a key part of why Valentino and Vox had risen so high in Hell's twisted power structure. It wasn't common knowledge, but Don Henroin, the head of the Ragno clan, had more than just Arackness as a son. Hell had claimed his other offspring too, though few knew the details. Even Vox and Velvette weren't aware that Angel's true name was Anthony Ragno. All they knew was that Angel's connection to the Ragno clan was crucial to their business dealings.

As much as Valentino enjoyed keeping Angel under his thumb—feeding off the spider's defiance, his mouthy attitude, and watching him crawl back every time he tried to rebel—there were moments when even Valentino found himself growing tired of it. Angel Dust was a star, yes, but he was also a constant headache. Valentino had often considered following Vox's suggestion: erase Angel entirely, get rid of him, and find some other soul to prop up their brand. Vox had even suggested that it would do them good to cut ties with the troublesome spider demon altogether.

But there was one problem. Angel wasn't just any other sinner. Killing him outright, even with a blessed-steel bullet, would send all the wrong messages. It would be wasteful, a move that might damage their relationship with the Ragno family and even hurt their brand in Vox's ever-calculating eyes. No, killing Angel was risky, and while Valentino enjoyed playing with fire, this blaze could burn down the entire empire.

If only the extermination day hadn't been canceled because of that cursed hotel, Valentino mused darkly. He could have simply let Angel be swept away in Heaven's purge, wiping his hands clean without getting involved. But with exterminations off the table, thanks to the hotel's meddling, that option was gone—at least for the foreseeable future. The hotel had thrown more than just a wrench into Hell's carefully balanced chaos; it had sparked something bigger. Something far more dangerous. The Vees—Valentino, Vox, and Velvette—had taken advantage of the situation, secretly planning an attack of their own against Heaven, riding the wave of the hotel's disruption.

The idea of launching an all-out assault against Heaven sent a thrill through Valentino, one that made his skin prickle with excitement. The possibilities were endless. And as his mind wandered, he began to drool at the thought of something truly groundbreaking: live angels. Not just as trophies or war prizes, but in his films. Actual, living angels, broken and humiliated on camera for the masses of Hell to see. It would be his magnum opus. His empire would thrive like never before. *Forget Angel Dust* Valentino thought greedily. *Imagine the profit I could make off a real angel.*

The notion sent a dark shiver of pleasure through him, momentarily distracting him from the contract in his hands. But as much as he fantasized about new ventures, the reality was still rooted in the unconscious spider demon lying in a bed somewhere. Angel Dust was still the key to his current success, and without him, Valentino's empire was starting to crack.

Valentino's eyes flicked over the contract one last time, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. There was nothing new here, nothing hidden that could improve his situation or give him leverage in this mess. But then his gaze lingered on the most important detail—the clause that bound Angel's very soul to him. It was this piece of demonic magic that kept Angel tethered, no matter how far he tried to run, no matter how many times he tried to defy Valentino. Angel's soul was his, and that gave him a dangerous amount of power.

Valentino smirked, the gears in his mind turning. He couldn't kill Angel outright without raising suspicion or risking the delicate balance with the Ragno family. But if Angel was still bound to him—body, mind, and soul—perhaps there was a way to use the contract itself to force him back into consciousness.

Valentino traced a finger along the binding runes etched into the parchment, considering his options. Contracts like these were powerful, imbued with dark magic that could be bent and twisted in creative ways. If Angel's unconscious state was keeping him from performing his duties, then perhaps Valentino could manipulate the contract to force a response, to make Angel wake up and return to the studio, whether he was ready or not.

A wicked grin spread across Valentino's face as the idea took hold. Forcing Angel to awaken wasn't without risk—it could further weaken him, push him beyond his limits—but at this point, Valentino didn't care. His empire was crumbling, and if getting Angel back meant bending the rules of the contract, so be it. He had the power. He could make it happen. Whether Angel was ready or not, he would be dragged back into the world of the living—back into Valentino's clutches. And when he woke, there would be no escape.

---

Henroin's voice thundered through the phone, his impatience palpable. "You haven't heard anything about Tony yet?!"

"I got guys on it, Boss," Arackniss replied, his tone calm but cautious. "From what I've been hearin', Val's been trying to fill Tony's boots, but it ain't goin' well. Nobody's been able to replace him."

"So this whole coma thing ain't a joke?" Henroin pressed, clearly not convinced.

"Can't say it is or it isn't," Arackniss admitted. "If it's true, Tony would have to be pretty desperate to OD on that 'love potion' stuff. Considering that's how he died in the first place... I'm just glad Molls never lived to see him like this. He didn't really start hittin' the drugs hard until after she passed."

"He was always too weak to be of any real use to the family," Henroin muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Shoulda dumped that boy off at an orphanage the first chance I got."

Arackniss paused for a moment, thoughtful. "Maybe this ain't an accident, though. Ever since Tony joined that hotel the Princess is runnin', things have been off. Valentino said Tony'd get bored of that whole redemption scam and crawl back to the studio before the mid-year extermination, but he's still there. Something's keeping him, and it ain't just free housing. The way the Radio Demon mentioned the coma—he didn't flat-out accuse the Vees, but it sure sounded like there was more to it."

Henroin grunted. "You thinkin' Vox or Valentino's got their hands dirty?"

"Could be," Arackniss said slowly. "We know how Vox operates—he likes to manipulate the story. He's got everyone thinkin' Tony overdosed on his own. But there's been talk about other demons in the lower rings dyin' from this love potion stuff. Tony's the only sinner who's survived an overdose on it so far. It feels like the Vees are covering up something. They know more than they're lettin' on."

Henroin's voice dropped to a cold growl. "The whole reason that brat got scooped up by Valentino was so he wouldn't cause problems for the family. That was the deal. If one of the Vees is behind this coma, then maybe it's time we restructure that arrangement."

"Hold on, Pops," Arackniss cautioned. "We don't know if this changes anything yet. Tony wasn't even usin' our family name before he became Angel Dust. Hell, even now, most folks don't know that slut's part of our family. Sure, his ties to us might get out the longer he stays at that hotel, but that don't mean he's gonna rat us out to the Princess—or Lucifer, for that matter."

Henroin scoffed. "What's that blond brat gonna do, huh? Tell us to stop business? Try to force a family reunion?"

"Nah," Arackniss said with a smirk. "If she's ain't the bimbo that everyone thinks she is, she knows a family get-together with you, me, and Tony would be a bad idea. Hell, this whole 'redemption' thing might just be her way of workin' out her own daddy issues. Tony ain't got nothin' to gain by crossing us, and she sure as hell won't risk messin' with our operations."

Henroin was silent for a moment, weighing the words. "You're right. Still, I don't like it. Keep an eye on Tony. If the Vees *are* behind this, we're gonna have to send a message."

Arackniss nodded, even though his father couldn't see it. "I'll keep my ears to the ground, Pops. But we need to tread carefully. We don't want to make any moves until we know for sure what's goin' on."

"Fine," Henroin growled. "But if they've crossed us, they're gonna pay for it. No one screws with the Ragno family."

Arackniss hung up, a cold chill running down his spine. He knew his father meant every word. Picking up his fedora, he figured the time had come to rattle a few cages at this hotel on his own.

---

"You really need to look up his family here?" Husk asked, watching Lucifer intently as the fallen angel sat at the bar, flipping through the immense registry of Hell.

"You said he was part of the Ragno family, right?" Lucifer replied without looking up, his eyes scanning the endless names. "I'm just curious..."

"I said he *might* be," Husk corrected, his voice gruff. "I'm not 100% sure about that one. And even if he is, it's probably better for us if we don't look too closely. Besides, if Angel wanted us to know, he'd tell us himself."

Lucifer continued rifling through the pages. "This registry doesn't exactly tell you their life stories. It's just the basics: their human name, age when they died, known family members, and how they met their end." His voice trailed off for a moment as his eyes caught on a particular section. "Let's see… Ragnare… Ragni… Ragnoooo Wow." Lucifer's lips quivered, not sure if he should be shocked or impressed. "They've got quite the family down here."

"What is it, Dad?" Charlie asked, catching the slight change in his tone.

"Looks like the entire Ragno Clan is down here," Lucifer said, sounding almost impressed. "Parents, grandparents, siblings, even extended family—it's all here."

Charlie and Vaggie leaned closer, peering over Lucifer's shoulder. They stared at the list of names under the Ragno family, some of which were marked with thick black lines, while others were almost erased, with only faint details like age, relation, and cause of death remaining visible.

"The blacked-out names…" Lucifer paused, his finger tapping one of them lightly. "Those are the lucky ones. They made it to Heaven." His tone darkened as his eyes moved to the nearly erased names. "The erased ones… well, I don't think I need to explain what happened to them."

Charlie and Vaggie exchanged a grim look, both understanding exactly what Lucifer was implying. The erased names belonged to those who had been destroyed—slaughtered by angelic weapons. It wasn't a topic that sat well with Vaggie, especially given her past. When she had finally revealed that she was once an exorcist, the reaction from everyone had been predictable—shock, disbelief, and a sudden tension that hung in the air for days. Except for Angel. He had taken the news silently, though not without comment. He'd become unusually quiet about the subject, only offering vague defenses, like pointing out she might be sensitive about her lack of wings, before cutting the tension with one of his typical, passive-aggressive remarks about her small chest. It was the kind of humor that veiled something deeper, but no one had pried too much.

"A lot of the redacted names are either women or children," Vaggie noted, her voice steady though her eyes lingered on the blank spaces.

"Doesn't surprise me," Husk replied. "Most mob syndicates kept women out of the dirty business. They were seen as too valuable for the family to risk in that way. And kids… well, unless they were born as sociopathic little monsters, they're usually considered innocent enough for Heaven. So, most of the Ragno family who stayed out of the crime side of things probably had a good shot at the pearly gates."

"Wait, mob syndicates? You mean there were different groups?" Vaggie asked, her brow furrowing.

Husk grunted. "Oh, yeah. Italy had a few big players. The three major ones were the Cosa Nostra, the Camorra, and the N'Drangheta. Cosa Nostra was the most well-known, but the Camorra was deadlier. N'Drangheta though… they were the real danger. I've heard a few members of the Ragno family speak Italian, and they used a Calabrian dialect. So, if I had to guess, they're N'Drangheta."

Vaggie's gaze sharpened. "And how exactly do you know this?"

Husk's eyes didn't leave the bar. "I grew up in Vegas, remember? Watched the city turn from a dusty desert stop into a crime-filled paradise. During that time, you didn't get by without brushing shoulders with a few shady characters. Organized crime was everywhere, and Vegas became a hub for it. From the way Angel talks, I'd bet he died sometime in the 1940s."

Lucifer's fingers stopped flipping through the pages as his eyes narrowed on a specific entry. "According to this," he began, "there were two recorded Ragno deaths during that period. One was a sister, died in 1940 from postpartum hemorrhage at age 23." His voice softened slightly. "Poor thing. The other was a man—Anthony Ragno, murdered in 1947 at age 30."

"So, Angel's real name might be Anthony?" Charlie said, raising her eyebrows. "That actually kind of fits him."

"Wait a minute," Husk interrupted, his voice thoughtful. "You said the sister died in 1940 at age 23, right after giving birth."

"Yeah," Lucifer confirmed, looking up. "The child's name isn't listed, though. Must be well into her 80s by now."

"That's not the point," Husk continued. "If Angel was 30 when he died in 1947, that means he would've been 23 when his sister died."

"Wait… Are you saying Angel had a twin sister?" Vaggie asked, her voice suddenly more urgent.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Husk said, his eyes thoughtful. "There's a belief that twins are connected at the soul. When one dies, it can leave a lasting impact on the other. Angel's never mentioned a sister, but that could be because it's too painful, or maybe he's trying to protect her memory."

Charlie's mind raced back to a photo she had once seen in Cherri's room. In the photo, Angel had been staring up at Heaven, his expression distant, almost longing. *He wasn't longing for Heaven* she realized. *He was longing for someone who had made it there.* Everything clicked into place in her mind.

"Vaggie," Charlie said, her voice wavering between hope and apprehension. "We saw a soul in Heaven that looked like Angel—like she could've been his sister. She was in the crowd during that 'Welcome to Heaven' song."

"You mean that spider girl?" Vaggie asked, her brow furrowed. "When I was still in Heaven, I didn't pay much attention to individual souls. My job as an exorcist was to protect Heaven, not mingle. But I have heard her name before—Molly."

"Molly!" Charlie's face lit up. "Cherri told me she's heard Angel talking in his sleep about someone named Molly. That *has* to be his twin sister."

Lucifer, meanwhile, found his attention drawn to another name on the registry: Michael Ragno, age 42, died in 1954 after being crushed by a falling crate in a conflict with a rival family. *Michael Ragno... Michael.*

Suddenly, memories rushed back to Lucifer's mind. A face loomed before him, every part of this angel that was blue where Lucifer was red. Behind him, other siblings stood, each bearing the armor and wings of their rank. Raphael, with his broad shoulders and soft green eyes filled with disappointment, his emerald wings folded neatly behind him. Gabriel, his silver-white eyes closed, his effeminate face unreadable, wings wrapped around him like a shroud. And Uriel, the only sister, hovered above them all, her golden-yellow wings glowing in the divine light.

"Michael, please don't do this!" Uriel cried out.

"I don't like it any more than you do, Uri," Gabriel said quietly. "But it has to happen."

"If only you had listened," Lucifer growled defiantly, his fists clenched. "I would never—"

"For your betrayal," Michael said coldly, his blue eyes burning with divine wrath. "You will join your beloved Lilith in Hell."

"LUCI!" Uriel's voice rang out, her cry filled with anguish as Lucifer fell, plunging into the darkness below.

Lucifer blinked, snapping back to reality, his hand still resting on the registry. "Michael," he whispered, the name heavy with ancient memories.