As the radio crackled to life over the bar, the DJ's voice boomed, announcing the latest in Hell's music scene. "Verosika Mayday's new track 'Hell's Redeemer' has been making waves all across the underworld. Fans and critics alike are talking about her dramatic shift in style, moving from poppy anthems to something darker, heavier, and—some say—strikingly real."
Spawn glanced up, catching the announcement despite himself. The DJ's words faded, replaced by an audio clip from an interview with Verosika herself. The interviewer's voice came through, slightly muffled, asking, "So, Verosika, everyone's talking about 'Hell's Redeemer.' It's a huge change from your usual style. Some are saying there's a specific… inspiration behind it?"
A knowing chuckle came from Verosika. "Let's just say… there are things you experience that demand a different tone. Sometimes, you cross paths with someone, or something, that changes the way you see things. I won't say names," she added playfully, "but, yeah… recent events had an impact."
Spawn's brow furrowed as he listened. Even without mentioning him, the hints were unmistakable. Verosika wasn't just inspired by "recent events." She was inspired by him. The gritty lyrics, the intensity—it wasn't lost on him that she'd chosen a darker, heavier sound as if to match the shadows that always followed him.
Lucifer, catching Spawn's reaction, raised an eyebrow. "Interesting song, don't you think?" he mused, feigning casual curiosity.
Spawn clenched his jaw, trying to hide any irritation. "I'd call it… unnecessary," he muttered, glancing away from the bar.
It was a strange experience. He'd spent so long hiding, keeping everything private, and yet somehow this singer, someone he'd never even met, had captured some part of his struggle in her music. Whether he liked it or not, his presence in Hell was making waves.
Spawn huffed, crossing his arms. "Wouldn't mind having a word with her, straighten a few things out."
Lucifer chuckled, almost pityingly. "Good luck with that. Sinners? They're confined to here in hell. Rules are rules. Unless you're planning to jump rings yourself, the chance of seeing her is next to impossible."
Spawn grunted, seeming to let it go, but his thoughts churned beneath his calm exterior. Confined to the city? he mused silently, his gaze darkening. Well, that may be the rule for sinners…
The corners of his mouth twitched, just slightly, as he let that thought trail off. But I'm no sinner. Not in this world.
Spawn's mind worked through Lucifer's words with calculated determination. If sinners were restricted to their respective rings, that was a rule Lucifer imposed—a rule Spawn didn't intend to follow. He didn't come here to be limited, and he certainly didn't need anyone's permission. If this Verosika Mayday was indeed a succubus, Lust was likely her domain.
That gave him a direction, but he needed something more concrete. A landmark or a specific location would allow him to teleport directly there without any ritual or grand gestures. He'd moved between worlds, conquered Hell in his own dimension; slipping between rings here couldn't be any harder.
As Lucifer continued his conversation with Charlie, Spawn let his gaze drift, taking in the bar's patrons. He was careful not to draw attention, keeping his tone casual when he turned back to Angel, who was rambling on about something trivial beside him. "So… these rings of Hell," Spawn muttered, feigning disinterest. "What do they look like? You ever been to Lust?"
Angel gave him a mischievous grin, leaning in like he'd been waiting for someone to ask. "Oh, I wish I could go there. Lots of fun, if you're into the vibe. Or so I've heard, at least. There's this crazy neon city—endless parties, non-stop sinning, yadda yadda," he said, motioning with his drink.
Spawn nodded subtly, committing it to memory. That was enough of a target. With a final glance at Lucifer, Spawn silently resolved that he didn't need the king's blessing.
With a plan forming in his mind, Spawn approached Charlie. This time, he kept his tone carefully neutral, asking about her family's connections with the rulers of the other rings.
Charlie's face lit up. To her, it felt like a sign he was taking an interest in Hell's complex politics, maybe even wanting to integrate into the hotel's goals. "Oh, the royals of Hell are... complicated," she began, clearly excited to share. "Each ring has its own ruler tied to one of the Seven Deadly Sins, like Dad's role with Pride."
She went on, describing them with a blend of fascination and unease. "The ruler of Lust is Asmodeus, or Ozzie for short. He's… well, he's a bit of an eccentric. He controls the Lust Ring, which is probably Hell's flashiest. Neon lights, extravagant palaces, nightclubs everywhere." She gave a knowing smile, remembering her father's comments about the place. "Ozzie's pretty much the undisputed king of indulgence. They say his Pleasure Palace is the heart of Lust itself, impossible to miss."
Spawn absorbed her words, piecing together the image. A vibrant, flashy, excessive place… it was all he needed.
"Thanks for the details," he said, managing a rare, subtle nod of appreciation. Though inwardly, he mused that this Asmodeus was likely no different than the other so-called rulers of Hell. As he turned away, his focus narrowed, and he began calculating how best to use this new information to reach his target without leaving a trace.
Spawn moved through the hallways with purpose, leaving behind the hum of the lobby. The hotel's library was tucked away, a quiet refuge from the usual chaos. Once inside, he scanned the rows of shelves, the dim light casting shadows over countless leather-bound volumes, some crumbling with age, others looking recently added. He'd noticed before that this library held an odd assortment: old books on infernal lore, celestial records, and even a few oddities likely collected by the hotel's eccentric inhabitants.
He made his way to a section labeled "Rings of Hell." His hand hovered over a thick volume with an embossed cover reading The Realms of Sin: A Guide to Hell's Royal Houses. It seemed promising, so he carefully opened it, flipping past the ancient pages.
Near the middle, he found what he was looking for. A detailed engraving of Lust's ring sprawled across the page, capturing its opulent design and chaotic energy. It was just as Charlie had described: vivid lights illuminating towering structures, and, in the center, a grand palace encrusted with jewel-like lights—clearly the Pleasure Palace. The book didn't shy from the palace's infamous reputation, either. Brief mentions of Asmodeus were scattered throughout, hinting at his watchful, indulgent rule.
Spawn narrowed his gaze at the sketch. This was exactly what he needed. With the image burned into his mind, he closed the book, feeling a sense of satisfaction settle in. The route was clear now.
The quiet of the library was shattered as Spawn's necroplasm surged, pulsing with an otherworldly energy that lit the dim room in a sudden, eerie green glow. Shadows flared across the walls as his cape wrapped around him like a shroud, pulling him into the image he held in his mind.
With a loud crack that sent a gust through the shelves, he vanished, leaving a trail of swirling mist and a faint scorch mark where he had been standing. The light overhead flickered erratically in the aftermath, and a few books teetered off the shelves, thudding onto the floor.
The sound reverberated through the hotel, carrying through the lobby and the halls beyond, drawing curious and concerned looks from the guests and staff alike. Charlie, who had been nearby, turned her head sharply toward the library with a frown, already on her way to investigate.
But Spawn was long gone, materializing on the rooftop of the Pleasure Palace in the Lust Ring, the glow of the city's infernal lights stretching out before him in dizzying, pulsating waves. He steadied himself as he took in the decadent, sprawling landscape below, feeling the heavy, charged atmosphere of the Lust Ring wash over him.
This world, this kingdom...it felt vastly different, yet somehow familiar. But he wasn't here to be impressed by it. He scanned his surroundings, sharpening his focus on the palace below, determined to find Verosika Mayday and have his questions answered.
Spawn's eyes narrowed as he took in the Lust Ring below. Pentagram City was gritty, chaotic, filled with sinners scraping by in their constant cycle of debauchery and violence. But here, in the Lust Ring, it was...different. There was a strange order to the chaos—no street brawls or stray bullets like he'd seen in Pentagram City. Instead, the entire landscape seemed to pulsate with a charged energy, a perpetual haze of sensuality.
The architecture itself seemed to reflect it. Buildings curved and twisted like living things, adorned with neon lights that cast a warm, sultry glow across the streets. The air was thick with a smoky perfume, layered with faint, enticing music that slipped into his mind like a whisper, drawing his gaze to each street and corner as if they held some kind of secret.
Lucifer had hinted that sinners couldn't move to the rings, and for the first time, Spawn could see why. This place wasn't designed for anything but its own purpose, a seductive kingdom where every inch served the desires and whims of the beings who ruled it.
Spawn shook off the feeling of the place trying to worm its way under his skin. He had one objective here. He set his gaze on the opulent structure before him—Verosika.
If she wanted to use him as her "muse," he was here to make sure she knew exactly who she was dealing with.
Spawn took a slow breath, steeling himself for what he had to do next. He might have entered unnoticed, but if he wanted to move freely here, he'd need to look the part. He concentrated, feeling the familiar energy of his necroplasm shift beneath his skin, the green aura flickering as he willed his body to change.
His suit transformed, molding to the look he'd seen on Lust Ring residents—sleek, fitted clothing with an edge of elegance and allure. His cape transformed into a dark, tailored jacket with high collars, adorned with subtle hints of crimson and gold to blend in with the opulent aesthetic of this place. He altered his face just enough to lose his recognizable stoic expression, giving him a look that was more sly, more relaxed, and, above all, more fitting for the creatures who lived here. His eyes still burned faintly with a green glint, but they softened, giving a semblance of playful, flirtatious energy that he knew might make it easier to fit in.
Spawn took a moment to size himself up, adjusting his collar as he caught his reflection in a nearby tinted window. He barely recognized himself, but that was the point. Satisfied, he scanned the area, looking for any demon who seemed likely to give directions. Finally, he spotted a group of impish-looking demons lingering by an alley, laughing amongst themselves and glancing eagerly toward Verosika image on a nearby poster. Their chatter confirmed that they knew their way around.
Spawn approached them with casual strides, making sure to match their easy swagger. "Excuse me," he said, his voice low, smooth. "I'm looking for Verosika's place. Heard it's the spot to be, but... first time here." He tilted his head, flashing a casual, charming smile that felt unnatural, but would hopefully be convincing.
One of the imps, a tall one with a twisted grin, looked him over, sizing him up before chuckling. "Newcomer, huh? You're lucky, then," he sneered, giving Spawn a once-over. "You wanna head down this street, take a left by the statue of that succubus with the big… y'know." He gestured exaggeratedly, drawing laughs from his friends. "You can't miss it. Verosika's got the biggest palace in the district. She'll eat you alive, though," he added with a smirk.
Spawn gave him a nod, feigning a confident grin back. "Sounds like just my speed. Thanks." With that, he turned, blending back into the flow of the street and following the directions the imp had given him.
Spawn kept his pace steady, ignoring the lingering stares he received as he wove through the crowd. Inwardly, he grimaced, feeling a mixture of annoyance and discomfort. He'd always hated using his shape-shifting abilities in this way; molding himself to fit a place he didn't belong. It felt like he was trying on someone else's skin, and it never fit quite right.
He adjusted his jacket, hoping that the act would make him look more casual, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. A passing succubus shot him a smirk, her eyes tracing his silhouette with an approving glint. Two imps nearby whispered to each other, casting glances his way that were anything but subtle. He kept his gaze straight ahead, feeling like he was on display in a way he hadn't intended. Even in disguise, there was a predatory edge to his aura that seemed to attract them like moths to a flame.
Trying to push past the distraction, Spawn kept his mind focused on his destination. His goal was to locate Verosika's place, confront her about the song, and be done with this city of Lust and its prying eyes. But as he rounded a corner, a burly demon with gleaming red horns and a tailored suit stepped directly into his path, blocking his way.
"New in town?" the demon asked, voice slick with intrigue. He looked Spawn up and down with a knowing smirk. "Gotta say, you wear the place well."
Spawn tensed, biting back his urge to shove the demon aside. "Just passing through," he said coolly, keeping his expression composed. "I've got somewhere to be."
"Oh, I'm sure you do," the demon replied with a chuckle, "but maybe you'll want to stick around after. Place like this?" He gestured to the city around them with a sly grin. "It has a way of making folks want to stay a while."
Spawn clenched his jaw, forcing a thin, dismissive smile. "Appreciate the welcome, but I don't plan on being here long," he said, stepping around the demon and making his way down the street, Verosika's place finally coming into view just beyond a row of gold-lit shops.
The demon's gaze followed him, lingering a moment before he shook his head, muttering something Spawn couldn't hear. Ignoring the encounter, Spawn set his focus back on Verosika's place.
Spawn slipped through the bustling, decadent streets of the Lust ring, every corner exuding a different kind of indulgence. Towering above the neighboring buildings, Verosika's residence loomed—an ostentatious display of her wealth and reputation in Hell. It wasn't just any lavish building; it was a fortress of opulence, draped in crimson and black with gaudy golden accents.
As he neared, he took in the security stationed at each entry point, bodyguards patrolling in pairs, their expressions steely, weapons at the ready. She certainly didn't take chances, not that any of it mattered to him. He had no intention of taking the front entrance. Slipping into a dark alley, Spawn paused, allowing the shadows to wrap around him as he shifted back into his true form. The sudden release of his necroplasmic energy surged outward, cloaking him in his suit and cape, and without a sound, he leapt into the night sky.
Flying to Verosika's top floor, he scanned for any movement, any trap that might await him, but the balcony was empty, the windows cracked open as if in invitation. He landed, silent as a specter, his presence masked by the velvet dark that swallowed him whole. He could hear the muffled bass of music thudding from somewhere outside, a rhythm that matched the hedonistic pulse of the Lust ring itself.
The interior of her top-floor suite was exactly what he expected. The room was vast and dripping in opulence—thick, expensive rugs underfoot, walls lined with gold-trimmed mirrors, and crystal chandeliers casting dim, sultry light over everything. Plush couches and rich drapes surrounded him, the scent of luxury—perfume, alcohol, and something darker—cloying the air.
Taking it all in, Spawn's focus sharpened. He hadn't come to marvel at the decadence. He was here for answers. Pushing open the glass doors, he stepped inside, his expression hardening. It was time to finally confront Verosika.
Inside her lavish suite, Verosika lounged on an oversized velvet chaise, scrolling through her phone. Her fingers moved absentmindedly, but her eyes were sharp, flicking over comments and posts across her social media. Her latest single was all over the feeds—fans and critics alike were buzzing about it. While she'd expected some interest, the scale of it was both exhilarating and frustrating.
On the one hand, the response validated something she rarely got to explore. She'd broken from her usual pop-driven rhythms, pouring something raw and biting into her music. Hell's Redeemer felt genuine, a glimpse into a side of her that she'd kept under wraps. And she knew she'd nailed it—the haunting lyrics, the intensity of the vocals, the visceral pulse of the sound. It was something beyond the usual flirty, catchy tunes that everyone expected from her.
But as she kept scrolling, a part of her simmered. For all the praise, there was something superficial in the reception. They loved it, sure, but she could tell that most people saw it as just another track. They weren't taking it seriously, not seeing the soul she'd poured into it. The song was being swallowed up in the hype cycle, not regarded as a turning point but just a new, edgy look for her public persona.
Verosika bit her lip, exhaling a slow breath. She was proud of what she'd created, yet somehow, the shallow responses stung more than if the song had flopped. The weight of the attention pressed down on her, but it wasn't the kind of validation she'd hoped for. It was just noise, distracting her from what she really wanted to create, what she wanted people to understand.
Vortex, her imposing personal bodyguard, stood nearby, leaning against a marble column, his sharp eyes never straying too far from her. He had been by her side for years, and while most people found her aloof or distant, Vortex understood her better than anyone. He noticed her mood shift almost immediately.
"You okay, boss?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence of the room.
Verosika sighed, putting her phone down beside her. "It's nothing. Just... the song is doing better than I expected, but not the way I wanted it to. It's like they like it, but they don't get it, you know?"
Vortex nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed what she was saying. He was one of the few people who didn't brush off her thoughts or feelings—he actually listened, and that made all the difference. But even still, he could sense the frustration building in her. "Yeah, I get it. It's hard when you want something real, and all they see is the surface."
Verosika gave him a tired smile, thankful for the understanding, but the moment was short-lived. The sound of something faint, almost imperceptible, shifted in the atmosphere, as if the air itself had thickened.
Vortex's expression turned from concerned to alert. He straightened up, his gaze flicking toward the shadows of the room. Something wasn't right. "What is it?" Verosika asked, her attention pulled away from her phone again.
Vortex hesitated, then his voice dropped lower, tinged with a hint of disbelief. "You've got a visitor."
Verosika raised an eyebrow, annoyed. "I'm not in the mood for any visitors, Vortex. Tell them to get lost."
But Vortex's face was unreadable now—his gaze fixed on something behind her, at the upper level of the suite. "You don't get it," he said, his tone growing more serious. "You can't turn this one away."
Verosika frowned, following his gaze. Confusion and curiosity flared in her chest. "What are you—"
Before she could finish her sentence, the silence in the room shattered with a flicker of movement, and there, standing in the open doorway above them, was the last person she expected to see. Spawn.
Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, standing tall, his silhouette stark against the dim light of her luxurious penthouse. The eerie presence of his aura seemed to fill the space around him.
"You," she breathed, eyes narrowing, her voice a mix of surprise and wariness.
Vortex stood quietly behind her, his expression unreadable, but there was no mistaking the tension in the air. The laws of Hell were clear—sinners couldn't just come into the rings. Yet, here stood Spawn, his dark presence a stark contrast to the vibrant luxury of her penthouse. This didn't make sense, and it set every warning light flashing in their heads.
Verosika stood frozen for a moment, her breath caught in her throat. She wasn't scared—not exactly—but she was definitely wary. Vortex, however, was already stepping forward, positioning himself between her and the newcomer with instinctive protectiveness. His large, imposing figure cast a shadow over the floor, and his body language spoke of a readiness to pounce.
"Stay back," Vortex growled, his voice low and threatening. "You're not supposed to be here."
But Spawn's response was calm, almost dismissive as he began to move toward them, his eyes locked onto Verosika. Every step he took felt like a command, the weight of his presence almost suffocating the space between them. He wasn't in a hurry. He wasn't here to fight. He was here to talk.
"I just want to talk to her," Spawn said flatly, his voice dark, a warning beneath the surface.
Vortex wasn't having it. The hellhound let out a growl and moved to block Spawn's path. "I don't care what you want. You don't just walk into someone's home uninvited and expect a conversation," he said, trying to sound threatening, though there was an edge of uncertainty in his voice.
Spawn didn't flinch. His cape swirled around him, and with an almost imperceptible movement, he produced a weapon from beneath it—a gleaming shotgun. The metallic click echoed in the quiet space, and the barrel was aimed squarely at Vortex's chest. The sudden shift in tone was sharp enough to make Verosika's pulse race.
"Relax, pup," Spawn muttered, his voice as cold as ice. "You want to keep playing tough, I'll teach you to play dead the hard way."
Vortex's posture shifted slightly, but he didn't back down. His eyes narrowed as he studied the weapon in Spawn's grip. But despite his usual bravado, he could tell this wasn't a bluff. Spawn was ready to follow through, and Vortex wasn't quite sure how he would handle someone who could move with that kind of lethal precision.
Verosika, ever the strategist, stepped forward before the tension escalated any further. She raised a hand to calm Vortex, signaling him to stand down. "Vortex," she said, her voice sharp but steady. "Let him talk."
Vortex looked at her, a brief flicker of hesitation crossing his features, but he grudgingly stepped aside, though his gaze never left Spawn. He wasn't trusting this encounter, not by a long shot, but Verosika had given the order, and that was something he respected.
"Fine," Vortex muttered, though he still stood close, his body coiled like a spring, ready to act if needed.
With the immediate threat momentarily defused, Verosika turned her attention to Spawn, her posture guarded but curious. "So, you just decided to drop in on me?" she asked, her voice laced with both annoyance and intrigue. "What do you want?"