Eddie On a Cross: A Hazbin Hotel Fanfiction

by Kiki94NightWitch588

Eddie, aka Headshot, is a sinner demon assassin. To give his sister a better future, he leaves her at the Hazbin Hotel. An accident convinces him to stay and use his powers for good. Adam's return will disrupt everyone's lives, a birthday present will prove dangerous, Charlie will discover his dual nature, and Angel Dust will finally find someone who truly loves him.

12. Unintended: Ashes and Invitations

Despite Charlie being utterly drained from the morning's intense training, the day at the Hazbin Hotel was surprisingly smooth—almost as if the building itself had found its own rhythm, a fragile yet functional balance.

The entire staff, supported by the veteran guests—the ones who joined the Hotel before redemption even seemed like a real possibility—moved with an almost flawless coordination. Everyone had their own role, a task that fit perfectly into the complex puzzle of the establishment.

There were civic education workshops, where sinners with dark pasts learned the basics of coexistence. Trust exercises, designed to test the fragile bonds forming within the Hotel's walls. Support groups, created to help guests fight their worst vices, providing even the most reluctant demons with a space to confront their own weaknesses.

Some sinners, who had been psychologists or therapists in life, took it upon themselves to guide others through the labyrinth of their minds, helping them face their inner demons. It was a vicious cycle of the damned trying to help the damned… but, surprisingly, it worked.

In the midst of all this, Eddie and his security team had found their natural place. They had divided the entire building into six main zones, each under the vigilant watch of one of them.

Eddie took charge of the lower floors, where new arrivals often lurked—wary, desperate, and ready for anything to survive. His sharp gaze and imposing presence were usually enough to keep things in check.

Muto, with his unwavering samurai-like calm, patrolled the middle floors alongside Tiger, whose impulsive nature was tempered by his friend's discipline. Yaga, with her veteran soldier's wisdom and experience, handled the west wing of the upper middle floors, while Linda, pragmatic and direct, covered the rest.

Sprock oversaw the top floors. The little guy—despite his often unstable state of mind—operated a three-meter-tall humanoid machine with terrifying precision. The metallic armor groaned slightly as it moved through the upper corridors, where Lucifer and Alastor resided.

Of course, neither the King of Hell nor the Radio Demon needed protection. Their power was so overwhelming that no sinner, no matter how reckless, would dare challenge them openly. However, Sprock's presence wasn't unnecessary.

He was just crazy enough to stand between them if needed, even at the risk of being vaporized. And honestly? That made him the best candidate to ensure that the two didn't end up tearing each other apart—especially when their disputes veered into personal territory.

Their never-ending arguments over who was the more suitable father figure for Charlie had practically become routine. On one side, Lucifer: her biological father, distant but caring. On the other, Alastor: the Hotel's twisted host, seemingly attached to her in his own way… yet as manipulative as ever.

Sprock, despite his small stature and erratic mind, transformed when he had a purpose. Inside his mechanical suit, every movement became precise, calculated, as if merging with the armor granted him a confidence he lacked outside of it. His usually restless eyes sharpened with focus, and his face, often plagued by nervous tics, became unreadable—a mask of pure control.

Watching how things were running, Eddie couldn't help but feel… strangely satisfied. Everything seemed to be in place. Every piece of the puzzle fit. Every cog in the machine turned as it should.

But he knew better.

This was Hell.

And in Hell, peace was nothing more than the calm before the storm.

And right on cue, trouble wasn't far behind.

Just before lunch, Eddie's phone buzzed insistently.

Lucifer had sent a message in the staff group chat.

Emergency meeting. Effective immediately.

Eddie groaned, already irritated.

He had to ask Muto and Tiger to cover the lower floors, an extra burden they accepted begrudgingly. Their expressions left no doubt—they weren't thrilled about the sudden workload.

«Look.» Eddie sighed, trying to placate them «If you take over my section for this meeting, I'll give you the rest of the day off.»

Only then did they agree, though reluctantly, leaving Eddie free to attend the meeting without further complaints.

With his pistols still strapped to his belt, he made his way toward the usual meeting room, the one they used for sudden, unplanned gatherings.

The hallway seemed longer than usual. Every step echoing against the marble floor only worsened his growing irritation.

As expected, he was one of the last to arrive.

And just as expected, Vaggie shot him a glare so sharp it could've cut through steel the moment he walked in.

Eddie, unfazed, simply shrugged and ignored her, slipping into the empty seat next to Husk with nonchalant ease.

«Alright.» Eddie crossed his arms over his chest, his tone edged with irritation. «I had to give two of my guys the day off just to be here. This better be important.»

Husk shot him a sideways glance, raising an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing. The air in the room was thick with tension, and Eddie could already tell—whatever this meeting was about, he wasn't going to like it.

The low murmur of conversation died instantly as Lucifer entered the room. The atmosphere turned heavy, like the very air had drawn in a breath and refused to let it out.

Eddie, still seated with his arms folded, felt a shiver of anticipation crawl down his spine. He braced for the worst.

The King of Hell looked like hell himself. His golden eyes were veined with an eerie, bloodshot glow. Dark circles sat heavy beneath them, stark against his usually flawless pale skin. His pristine white suit was visibly wrinkled, the creases poorly concealed by a half-hearted attempt to straighten them out.

Lucifer was well aware of his disheveled state. With a distracted motion, he smoothed down his jacket, long, elegant fingers brushing over the crumpled fabric before adjusting his bow tie with mechanical precision.

«Thank you for coming on such short notice.» he finally spoke, his voice raspier than usual. He was trying desperately to maintain some semblance of composure, but no one in the room missed the tension tightening around him.

Then, with a fluid motion of his hand, a folded card appeared at the center of the table.

The striking contrast of red and black clashed violently against the golden lettering that shimmered under the dim room lighting.

All eyes locked onto the piece of cardstock. The silence deepened, broken only by the soft rustle of the card settling onto the wood.

Most of the room simply observed the object in curiosity. Angel Dust, however, turned pale. His usual cocky attitude shattered in an instant.

Eddie caught it immediately. The way Angel's jaw clenched. The way his hands curled into trembling fists against his thighs. The way his breath hitched, just for a second.

And Eddie understood.

Shit.

The trouble was just beginning.

Lucifer, maintaining an air of detachment, began to pace slowly around the table, hands clasped behind his back. «This arrived just this morning,» he announced, his voice attempting to sound casual but failing to hide the tension beneath.

«It seems that Valentino is celebrating fifty years of business with a… what did he call it? A "gala party" or something of the sort.»

Reaching his larger, more extravagant chair—positioned close to his beloved daughter's seat—he dropped into it with a heavy sigh.

«The event is scheduled for next week and…» His voice lowered just slightly, as if reluctant to say the next part out loud. «He's requesting a member of the royal family to attend as a VIP guest.»

Charlie let out a nervous laugh, casting a hopeful glance at her father. «But obviously, we're going to decline, right, Dad?»

Lucifer didn't answer right away. He simply stared at Charlie, his expression somewhere between sadness and resignation. Charlie stiffened. Her smile vanished.

«Right, Dad?» she repeated, her voice quieter this time, tinged with unease.

While Lucifer hesitated, Eddie reached for the invitation, turning it over in his hands. His friends leaned in slightly, peering over his shoulder.

It was exactly what you'd expect from Valentino—gaudy, indulgent, dripping with obscene luxury and excess. The golden ink glowed against the rich velvet black and crimson cardstock, the elaborate script announcing:

"50 Years of Excellence & Entertainment: An Unforgettable Night."

Below that was a list of planned activities, each more ostentatious than the last.

Private burlesque performances. Exclusive auctions for "memorabilia" that barely skirted the edge of decency—one item explicitly listed was Angel Dust's first stripper underwear, and that was one of the less offensive listings.

And then, in bold, eye-catching gold, one feature stood out above all:

"THE ONE AND ONLY ANGEL DUST—MAIN ATTRACTION OF THE NIGHT."

Eddie gripped the card a little tighter.

His stomach churned. Angel's name was on full display. Like a prize. Like a damn trophy.

The room remained eerily silent for a moment before Husk muttered, «This reeks worse than usual.» His tail flicked irritably. «Look at the way he's putting Angel on display…»

Cherri scoffed, crossing her arms. «Typical. That asshole does everything he can to remind everyone he owns Angel.»

Eddie couldn't speak. Not immediately. Because he was trying not to lose his fucking mind. Not to curse every god in Norse mythology—and not only that. Not to let the rage clawing at his chest spill out into something dangerous.

Because seeing Angel's name plastered across that invitation like a piece of property made his blood boil so hot that it could probably scare even Lucifer. He fought to keep his veins from glowing. Because he knew if they started glowing… he wouldn't be able to stop himself. And he might just do something really, really stupid.

Charlie's voice was unusually firm as she insisted «Dad, tell me we're rejecting that invitation.» She was completely unaware of the storm brewing inside Eddie.

Lucifer let out a weary sigh, rubbing his temples as if trying to stave off a growing headache. «It's an official invitation» he explained, his voice tired but steady. «He didn't send it randomly. He wants us there as an influential part of Infernal society. After your… transformation, I made Sir Pentious' redemption public, and apparently, that restored some of the status I had lost. If we refuse to attend, we'll lose that standing again.»

«Fuck status!» Vaggie exploded, jumping to her feet. «We can't put Charlie in danger just to keep up appearances! Do I need to remind you what that bastard did to her last time?!»

Lucifer's gaze sharpened instantly. «What do you mean 'last time'?» he asked, dangerously calm.

Charlie opened her mouth, scrambling for an excuse, but Vaggie didn't give her the chance. «Valentino used a damn handshake as an excuse to lick her entire arm!»

Silence.

Then—fire.

An oppressive wave of heat filled the room as Lucifer ignited in flames. Red horns burst from his forehead, and his pupils vanished, leaving behind two burning embers.

«HE DID WHAT?!» His roar shook the walls like thunder.

Charlie instinctively raised her hands, trying to de-escalate. «Dad, nothing happened—»

«The hell it didn't!» Lucifer thundered, his heat scorching the floor beneath him. «We're going to that damn party, and if nothing else, it'll be to wipe that smug grin off his face!»

Charlie huffed, crossing her arms. «Dad, do you really think I can't defend myself?»

Lucifer stilled. Slowly, his irises reappeared within the molten red of his sclera, though his demonic form remained intact.

Charlie took the opening and pressed on. «I could have retaliated right then and there, but that would've gone against everything I stand for. If I claim anyone can be redeemed, but then I go around beating or killing whoever wrongs me, what kind of example would that set? And if I attack one of the Vees, I'd be starting a war.»

Lucifer's flames began to dim, his breathing gradually evening out. With a slow exhale, he collapsed back into his chair… which, now reduced to ash, crumbled beneath him.

Niffty appeared at his side with her usual eerily cheerful grin, pulling out a comically oversized fire extinguisher and expertly putting out the last traces of the smoldering seat.

Lucifer got to his feet with a look of utter irritation. With a snap of his fingers, a new chair materialized, and he flopped back into it, running a hand through his hair in frustration. «Damn it.» he muttered under his breath.

Beneath him, Niffty had already begun cleaning up the ash.

Charlie met his gaze, her voice softer but still steady. «This isn't just about safety or status.» she took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. «If I go, I'm indirectly saying I condone what he does.» Her expression hardened. «It would be an insult to Angel.»

Lucifer was silent for a long moment, watching his daughter with an expression that was more serious, almost contemplative. Then, ever so slowly, he tilted his head and smiled—this time, without a trace of irony.

«…Unfortunately, you're right.»

«Oh, speaking of which…» Husk turned to Angel, shaking the invitation with a look of irritation. «Legs! This thing is happening in a week, and there's no way it was a last-minute decision. Why the hell didn't you tell us?»

Angel scoffed, slipping back into his usual mask of arrogance. «Oh, I don't know, maybe because I don't have to report every damn thing that happens at work?»

Eddie arched an eyebrow, his voice low and firm. «No, but at the very least, I'd know where to find you if you needed help.»

Angel's smirk faltered just a fraction, offended. «Oh, right, and then what? You gonna come crashing in on a winged horse, clad in shining armor and a flowing cape to sweep me off my feet?» With exaggerated dramatics, he arched his back, stretching unnaturally as if he were about to faint. «Oh, Shotty, save me! I'm just a poor damsel in distress! Slay the dragon and carry me away!»

The room fell into a heavy silence, as if a grim realization had dawned on everyone at the same time. No one here could actually do anything against Valentino.

Angel straightened up again, his expression sobering. «Look… it's not that I don't appreciate it, but I don't want you there. I don't need to see your pitying faces while Valentino…» He hesitated for a fraction of a second, carefully choosing his next words. «…has me perform. It's not a big deal. I'll do some burlesque, a couple of pole routines, end the night with a romantic number to calm the crowd… maybe entertain some last-minute VIPs, then I go home. Nothing I haven't done before. I… I'm used to it.»

Those last words made Eddie's blood boil. His claws—shorter than the usual demonic standard, but still sharp—sank into the wooden table, leaving deep scratches across its surface.

His dark eyes flickered with something almost imperceptible, but heavy. His voice was quiet, but each word fell like iron. «You shouldn't be used to it.»

Angel went rigid. The sarcasm drained from his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, an edge of something dark curling at the edges. «I'm under contract, Shotty.» His mismatched eyes held something bitter, something resigned. «That bastard owns me.»

Silence.

Not the ordinary kind, but the deafening kind.

Angel looked away first, refusing to meet Eddie's gaze. His upper hands drummed anxiously against the table, while his lower arms curled tightly around himself in a subconscious attempt at self-protection.

Eddie's antennae stiffened slightly. He could smell the tension in the air, feel the silent distress vibrating beneath Angel's skin, the way he was struggling to keep it all buried.

Charlie, sensing the storm brewing between the two, interjected in a gentler voice, shifting the focus. «We need to come up with an excuse.» She exhaled slowly. «In my heart, I can't go.»

Lucifer, who had been idly polishing his cane with an air of practiced indifference, chimed in with deceptive lightness. «At the very least, we could make sure Valentino doesn't treat him too terribly.»

Angel's jaw clenched. He scanned the faces around him, sensing something unspoken, something simmering just beneath the surface. Husk scratched the back of his head, looking almost guilty. Charlie looked ready to say something diplomatic. And Eddie—Eddie was watching him with that quiet, watchful intensity, the kind that meant he was already planning something.

Angel's antennae twitched back slightly. «Wait a damn minute.» His voice sharpened with suspicion. «You're not about to tell me that you guys are thinking of—»

Charlie's face gave her away before she even opened her mouth.

Angel groaned, exasperated. «Oh, for fuck's sake! You aren't listening!» His voice rose louder than intended. «You're only gonna make things worse!» He jabbed a finger at Charlie. «Charlie! Wasn't the disaster you caused at the studio enough?!»

Charlie dropped her gaze, the weight of guilt still fresh. But Angel wasn't done.

«Just stay put at the hotel. Stay safe.» His eyes locked onto Eddie's, sharp but betraying the faintest tremor in his hands. «And especially stay the hell away from Valentino. I'll handle it.»

Without missing a beat, Eddie pulled out his phone and started tapping out messages.

«Too late.» he said flatly.

Every head at the table snapped toward him.

All eyes filled with questions.

Angel's brow furrowed, arms crossing tight over his chest. He didn't like that cocky little smirk on Eddie's face. Not one bit. «What the hell are you doing, Shotty?»

Eddie barely glanced up from his phone, a sardonic half-smile playing on his lips, but his eyes still carried that undercurrent of tension thick in the air. «Let's just say my old job put me in touch with people… who know people… who know people…» His thumb scrolled casually across the screen. «…who can get me an invitation.»

Angel shot up from his seat, pupils blown wide from a mixture of anger and panic. «Oh, oh, oh, hell no! Absolutely not!» His voice wavered, just enough to betray the anxiety beneath the bravado. He took a step forward, pointing one of his upper hands straight at Eddie. «You, of all people, should not be there!» He was breathing a little too fast, barely keeping himself together. Eddie had no right to do this.

«Do I need to remind you that Valentino wants you in his collection?!»

Eddie didn't look away. Not even for a second.

His antennae tensed slightly, picking up every flicker of emotion radiating off Angel—fear, frustration, and barely restrained desperation.

Then, he spoke.

«Fuck what Valentino wants.»

The words left him without hesitation, low and razor-sharp. «I'm not about to stand by and watch him break you just to satisfy some degenerate's fetish. Or to stroke his own goddamn ego.» His tone was still calm, but there was an edge to it—cold, controlled rage, coiled beneath the surface. Eddie's usually dark, unreadable eyes flashed, just for a second, with a faint blue glow. He tapped his phone one last time, sending off the final message before locking the screen. «If you really think I'm gonna sit on my ass while he throws you to his guests… then you don't know me at all.»

Angel stared at him, breath caught in his throat.

That look. That conviction. That glow in his eyes.

It was terrifying.

It was dangerous.

It was handsome.

"No, wait—did I really just think that?"

«Whoa, whoa, whoa.» Charlie stepped in before the tension in the room could boil over. Her tone was sharper than usual, carrying an authority none of them had ever quite seen in her before. «I'm not letting you two idiots walk into the dragon's den alone. And if you think I'm gonna sit back while either of you does something stupid without supervision… you're dead wrong.»

Eddie shrugged, completely unfazed. As if her input was just a minor inconvenience.

«With or without you, Charlie, I'm going to that party.» His voice didn't waver for a second. «I've already made up my mind.»

Then, with a half-smile that never quite reached his eyes, he added, «And there's nothing you can say that'll change it.»

Vaggie, who had been watching this whole mess unfold with thinly veiled frustration, leaned her elbow on the table and sighed. «And this is why I call you "Headshit".»

Charlie folded her arms, exhaling sharply as she slumped back into her chair.

«Great.» she muttered, voice rigid with irritation. «You're going no matter what. And I can't afford to lose my personal trainer… which means I'm backed into a corner and have to go to this farce.»

A thick silence settled over the group, tense and heavy.

And then—like a blade slipping between ribs—Alastor's voice slithered into the air, light and unbothered.

«Look at it this way, my dear: You're not attending to support Valentino.» His grin was sharp, predatory. «You're there to put him in his place.»

Charlie blinked, caught off guard, as Alastor continued, his voice laced with something sickly sweet.

«We can spin it this way: the day you… lost control, it wasn't just stress.» He let the silence stretch for effect, letting his words sink in, curdle in the air. «It happened because you learned exactly how Angel is treated at work.» Another pause, deliberate, poisonous. «And while you can't break his contract… you can make our dear pimp pay for it.»

Charlie's eyes narrowed, searching his face.

«We can?»

Alastor merely shrugged, feigning indifference. «We never really told anyone why you lost control that day, did we? It could be… anything.» His eyes gleamed with a familiar, mischievous glint—one that made it abundantly clear he had already made the decision for them.

Angel clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. «Oh, great. So the official excuse is gonna be, "Charlie lost her shit for my sake and now she's coming to stir up trouble at Valentino's?"» He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated. «That's fucking stupid.»

Alastor chuckled, but his tone turned noticeably colder, sharper. «You know what isn't stupid, my effeminate fellow? The fact that Headshot needs to stay close to you. Very close.»

The room tensed.

Angel stiffened, his sharp gaze narrowing with suspicion. «And what the hell is that supposed to mean?»

Alastor tapped his fingers against the table in an absent rhythm, like he was playing some private melody only he could hear. «It means his mere presence makes people uncomfortable. And if anyone can use that unease to their advantage, it's Headshot.»

Eddie said nothing. But his antennae twitched just slightly.

He didn't miss the undertone in Alastor's words. This wasn't just about protection.

He tried to pick up any scent from the Radio Demon, but all he could detect was a strong, overpowering cologne. Damn it. That bastard was a step ahead. He was covering his tracks. It would take Eddie hours to pick apart the layers of artificial scent masking his real intentions.

Alastor didn't give him the chance to respond.

«It's imperative that he's there. Always. Otherwise…» He paused, his grin stretching wider. «Well, who's to say what might happen?»

Angel let out a harsh scoff, spinning away with a scowl, his nerves completely fried. «Fucking idiots. All of you.»

Charlie, still visibly conflicted, took a moment before reluctantly nodding.

They were right.

«Alright… so, Headshot goes in as a guest. I officially attend as the furious princess. Cherri and Husk will slip in with the tech crew. Vaggie is my bodyguard.» She turned to her father. «Dad? Are you coming with me?»

Lucifer studied her for a beat. Then, with a gentle, fatherly smile, he answered «You know I'd never leave you alone, Duckling.»

Charlie exhaled, relieved. Then she turned back to the others. «Alright. Then it's settled.»

Cherri, practically buzzing with excitement, shot her hand up.

Charlie sighed, already knowing what was coming. «Yes, Cherri?»

«Can I bring tiny explosions?»

Eddie huffed. «Only if you use them after we leave.»

Husk, taking a lazy sip from his flask, grumbled «And I guess that means I'm keeping an eye on you two idiots.»

Alastor, ever smug, added, «And I, of course, will be staying here… watching the disaster unfold from afar. For now.»

Angel dragged a hand over his face, shaking his head. «I knew this was gonna turn into a shitshow.»

Eddie watched him, his lips curving into the faintest smirk.

«Probably.» He said it with an unsettling amount of calm. Maybe even amusement. Then, tilting his head slightly, he locked eyes with Angel, something deeper flickering in his gaze. «But if it keeps you safe, it'll be worth it.»

Angel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but it was no use. «You're such a dumbass.»

Eddie tilted his head further, the ghost of a grin still there. «I know.»

Charlie pushed up from her seat, placing her hands firmly on the table. This was it.

«Alright, then I'd say we're done here. Now… we just have to hope this all goes smoothly.»

Husk snorted, already pulling another flask from his pocket. «It won't go smoothly.»

Cherri cackled, leaning back in her chair with a wicked grin. «Oh, but that's the fun part, isn't it? Boring parties are a waste of time.»

One by one, they all started getting up. The weight in the room eased just slightly, tension unraveling now that the plan was set.

Angel didn't leave right away. His gaze drifted across the faces around him—this strange, chaotic family he had somehow ended up with in Hell.

He hadn't asked for any of this. He never wanted attachments. Too risky.

And yet… was it really so wrong to think he was lucky?

Just as that thought settled in his chest, Eddie stood from his seat. He didn't say anything. Didn't make a sound. Just walked toward the door with his usual measured calm.

But right before he stepped out, he stopped.

Turning slightly, he glanced over his shoulder at Angel.

«Keep your eyes open, Silly.»

Angel didn't respond.

His heart stuttered. Then kicked back up. Too fast. Too hard.

"Dumbass". He thought.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop the small, stubborn smile tugging at his lips.

The door clicked shut behind Eddie, leaving the room strangely—lighter.

Husk groaned, shaking his head once more. «This is gonna be a fucking disaster.»

Angel kept staring at the closed door, heartbeat still too erratic.

"Probably" he thought. "And that's exactly why I can't let him get involved."

—

Eddie took a moment to unwind before heading back on duty.

He'd decided to make Tiger and Muto earn their free day, making them sweat a little longer by leaving them in charge of his section for a while. Meanwhile, he allowed himself a brief interlude in his room.

His quarters were in the mid-upper levels of the hotel, an area patrolled by Linda. Unlike Yaga, she was… flexible. A whole pack of cigarettes or a few bars of chocolate could easily buy her silence. So, with no one to bother him, Eddie took a few minutes to breathe, just enough time to think about his next move.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stared at the faint glow of the Deus Ex Machina wrapped around his wrist. The bracelet almost seemed to be staring back at him, a silent, impenetrable presence.

He sighed. Despite wearing it for months now, it still felt like a weight on his soul.

The silence was abruptly shattered.

The door slammed open so violently it nearly bounced off the wall.

Angel Dust stormed in, filling the space with his usual chaotic energy like an explosion. «You and I need to talk. Right now.»

Eddie looked up, unfazed. «By all means, come on in.» he quipped, deadpan.

Angel completely ignored the sarcasm. «Yeah, yeah, 'knock knock' and all that bullshit.» He kicked the door shut behind him with way too much force, shoulders tense. «Just listen to me for once.»

Eddie turned to face him fully, scratching at the skin beneath the bracelet. «What's the matter, Silly? Miss me already?»

Angel's movements were erratic—sharp, restless gestures that carried a frantic edge. The physical manifestation of the storm raging inside him.

«Look, Shotty, if you really wanna protect me, then here's what you do—stay the hell out of it.»

His voice wavered. Just barely.

It was a tiny, almost imperceptible detail. But Eddie caught it.

And so did Angel.

As if realizing his mistake, he crossed his lower arms over his chest, trying to steel his expression.

Eddie remained still, locking eyes with him.

«You and I both know that's not happening.» he said, voice steady. «I made you miss a Valentino shoot barely a week after meeting you. What makes you think this gala will be any different?»

Angel's expression flickered, but his tone didn't waver. «Yeah, and I wanted to slap the shit out of you for that back then. You think this is any different?»

Eddie's voice remained level as he stood up. «Then do it.»

The challenge in his tone was clear, but there was no arrogance behind it. No mockery. Just unwavering, solid calm—a wall against Angel's hurricane.

Angel froze, breathing heavy. His upper arms twitched, like he was actually considering it, while his lower arms tightened around his waist.

Eddie took a slow step forward, placing his hands on his hips. «Go on, Silly. Slap me.» His voice dropped to a near whisper, but it wasn't provocation. It was an invitation. Let it out. Use me. If it helps you breathe, do it.

Angel opened his mouth, ready to snap back, but nothing came out.

The air in the room felt heavier. Denser.

Eddie wasn't joking.

Angel swallowed hard. Then, barely above a murmur, he muttered, «…Fuck you.» And looked away.

Eddie's shoulders relaxed just slightly, arms crossing. «Then stop talking bullshit.»

Angel ran a hand through his hair in frustration, his gaze darting around the room like he was looking for an escape. But there was none.

«Shotty, you don't get it. You can't be there!» Angel's voice rose in sheer exasperation. «Valentino's already planned everything—the performances, the auction, the guests… If you show up, you'll just make things… more fun for him!»

Eddie tilted his head slightly, watching him intently. «What do you mean?»

Angel let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. «I mean the more you fight back, the more he'll want you.» The words came too fast, too raw, carrying something he couldn't quite name yet. «That bastard loves a challenge, and if he thinks you're one, he'll make you part of the show.» He paused, his gaze locking onto Eddie. «And trust me, you do not wanna know what happens when you become part of a Valentino show.»

Eddie didn't break eye contact.

The faint blue glow in his irises flickered, overtaking his usual violet hue. «Then I'll find out if I have to.»

Angel exploded. «Are you a fucking idiot?!» His chest rose and fell rapidly, hands clenched into trembling fists. «You're throwing yourself into the deep end over a show that has nothing to do with you!»

«It has everything to do with me.» Eddie's voice was dry. Sharp. Final. No hesitation.

Angel's eyes widened, fury masking something else—fear, maybe. «Why? Huh?!» His arms flung wide in sheer frustration, fingers curled like claws ready to sink into Eddie's skin. «Why the hell do you care what happens to me?!»

Eddie clenched his jaw.

He'd asked himself that question too.

Why did he care this much?

Why did his stomach knot every time he saw Angel dodge a hit with that damn cocky grin? Why did his hands curl into fists just thinking about Valentino's grip on him? He'd always told himself it was friendship. A strange, fast friendship that had formed too quickly, maybe because he'd been alone for too damn long.

But he knew it wasn't just that.

Because deep down, buried beneath all his denial, there was a voice—quiet and brutal—that whispered: "I'd burn the world for you."

Even if he wasn't ready to admit why.

So instead, he gave a half-truth.

«Because you shouldn't be used to this.» The words came out sharper than he intended. A blade's edge. Harsh. Real.

Angel froze. The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy.

Then—he laughed.

It was dry. Empty. Void of amusement.

«But I am.»

No challenge. No snark. Just a cold, detached fact.

The smile he wore wasn't an expression—it was a scar. «And you better get that through your head, Shotty.»

Eddie didn't answer immediately. He studied him. Every twitch, every shift, every silent scream locked behind that smirk.

Angel wasn't meeting his eyes. Didn't want to.

Because he knew Eddie wouldn't back down.

And he didn't.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was lower. Softer. The sharpness from earlier had dulled, but his conviction remained.

«Yeah. Maybe you are.» He acknowledged it without hesitation. «But that doesn't mean you have to keep accepting it.»

Angel's gaze snapped up, surprised.

He hadn't expected that. Not from him.

Eddie stepped forward. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just certain. «You've got your friends now.» Another step. «You've got me.»

Angel's eyes widened slightly.

The space between them had shrunk. Too quickly.

Eddie didn't stop. He closed the distance just enough, his voice dropping to a whisper—soft, but louder than any scream in the silence between them.

«And as long as I'm around, I'll do what I can to minimize the damage.»

Angel's heart skipped a beat.

Then kicked back in. Too fast. Too hard. His breath hitched, and he had to mask it with another dry, hollow laugh—fragile, like glass on the verge of cracking.

«You say that like it's a good thing.»

Eddie barely smirked. Just a fraction. But it was real.

«It is.»

Angel shook his head.

He needed to leave. Now.

Before those words dug in too deep. Before they carved their way inside him in a way he'd never be able to ignore.

–

Angel had already turned halfway toward the door when Eddie's phone vibrated on the edge of the bed. He wouldn't have even paid attention to it—until he saw the name flashing on the screen.

Moretti.

His blood ran cold. His lower arms tightened around his waist, as if holding himself together.

Eddie noticed the shift immediately. His antennae twitched ever so slightly, picking up the strange mix of fear and tension radiating from Angel.

But for now, his focus was elsewhere.

With unnerving calm, he picked up his phone and scanned the message. Then, with a faint smirk, he turned the screen toward Angel.

«Well, Silly, seems like there's nothing you can do now.» He waved the phone in front of him, his smirk sharpening. «Don Moretti still owes me a favor from a past job.» He tilted his head slightly, as if they were just discussing casual business. «Of course… a favor like this comes with a price. He's asking me to handle something for him before the gala, but he won't say what over text. Understandable.»

Angel went rigid. Every fiber of his being screamed danger.

«Moretti?» His voice dropped an octave, tight with disbelief and barely restrained anger. His eyes narrowed, sharp with incredulity. «Why the fuck are you dealing with someone like Moretti?!»

Eddie spread his arms, looking almost amused. «Because I was a hitman. Duh!» He started toward the wardrobe with practiced ease, completely unfazed. «It was normal for me to deal with dangerous people.»

Angel just stared at him, his heart hammering—though this time, it wasn't just from anger.

«The Morettis aren't just dangerous, Shotty.» His voice came out lower now, almost a whisper. «They're fucking monsters.»

Eddie felt the shift. The scent of fear clung to Angel like static in the air. But he ignored it, focusing instead on selecting weapons for the job. He grabbed a pistol, flipped it in his palm with muscle memory precision, and checked the magazine. «Angel, we're in Hell. No one here's a saint.» He snapped the magazine back into place. «Morettis are monsters, Valentino's a monster…» He shrugged, as if the distinction hardly mattered, while picking up a rifle and inspecting it with an expert eye. «We're all bastards here—some worse than others.»

Angel's next words came out too fast, too raw, before he could even think to stop them.

«Yeah? Well, the Morettis were so bad that I chose Valentino over them.»

The second the words left his mouth, he froze.

His hands slapped over his lips, as if he could somehow shove the confession back in. But it was too late.

Eddie turned sharply, shock flashing across his face. «What do you mean you chose—»

But then—he stopped.

Like the sharp click of a bullet loading into place, something in his mind snapped into alignment.

A missing puzzle piece. A thread left dangling for too long. And now, it unraveled in front of him with violent clarity.

The air in the room turned heavy. Time slowed.

«…Wait.»

His voice dropped. Suspicion hardened into something else. Something undeniable.

He set the rifle down without breaking eye contact and stepped forward.

His gaze narrowed as his mind worked, connecting the dots.

Every single member of the Moretti family he'd ever met had one thing in common.

They were spiders.

Big. Elegant. Lethal.

Eyes that watched too closely.

Deals too dirty.

And standing right in front of him was someone who fit that description perfectly.

His stare swept over Angel, scrutinizing every detail with a new lens.

The shape of his eyes.

The way he carried himself.

That sharp, arrogant defiance.

And then—a name detonated in his head like a gunshot.

Arakniss.

He knew that name. He had worked with him. And now, it all made sense.

Eddie's gaze locked onto Angel with the intensity of a sniper scope.

His voice was lead-weighted, sinking deep into the silence.

«No way… you look just like Arakniss. The son of the boss.» His breath hitched for a fraction of a second. «You… You're a Moretti.»

Angel didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

The way he crossed his upper arms and averted his gaze said everything.

A shadow of disbelief crossed Eddie's face. Without thinking, he placed his hands on Angel's shoulders, desperately searching for any flicker of emotion behind that carefully constructed mask. «So the mafia family you told me about… they were the Morettis.» His breath hitched slightly, his pulse picking up. «Why didn't you tell me?»

Angel stayed still for a moment, then let out a bitter, humorless smirk. «You've met them, right?» he muttered, still avoiding Eddie's eyes. «Not exactly the best company to keep.»

Eddie took a slow, measured breath, trying to keep his emotions in check, but when he spoke, his voice wavered just enough to betray him. «It wasn't really a choice, was it?»

Angel didn't move, but his silence screamed louder than any confession.

Eddie took a step closer, his grip tightening slightly. «You didn't end up with Valentino because you wanted to be a star.» He swallowed hard. «You ended up with him because—»

«Quit it!» Angel snapped, louder than he intended. His upper arms moved on instinct, shoving Eddie's hands off him like they burned.

His breathing was uneven, his whole body coiled tight like a string about to snap. He was shaking. His lower arms wrapped around his torso like they could hold him together.

He wouldn't—couldn't—look Eddie in the eye.

«It wasn't a choice, Shotty.» His voice dropped to a whisper, barely more than a breath. «It was… the only way out.»

Then he moved. Fast. Stumbling back as if just being near Eddie was too much.

He turned on his heel, pacing across the room with restless, uneven strides. Anything—anything—to avoid that look. That fire in Eddie's eyes, burning with anger, pain, and—worst of all—understanding.

Anything to keep himself from feeling the warmth of his touch.

Eddie inhaled slowly, forcing down the storm raging inside him. His anger wasn't for Angel. No—that was the last thing he felt.

His rage was for the world that had shackled him to that non-choice.

«For Thor's sake, Angel.» His voice came out low, edged with barely restrained fury. «If Don Moretti has an extra invite, that means he's gonna be at the gala too. Probably with his whole damn famigghia.»

Angel let out a sharp, bitter laugh. «Welcome to my personal hell, Shotty.»

Eddie shook his head, his expression hardening. «And now you expect me to just stay out of it? To sit back and watch while you get caught between two monsters and no one does a damn thing to help you?»

Angel blinked, then growled, «I don't want you getting pulled in with me!»

Eddie grabbed his phone and flicked it up with a sharp motion, shoving the screen toward Angel like an accusation. «Well, guess what? It's too damn late for that!»

Angel opened his mouth to argue—but closed it just as fast.

He knew. He knew from the moment Eddie said his father's name that there was no getting him out of this now.

His eyes burned, still filled with anger, but there was something else beneath it. Something raw.

«What the hell, Headshot?!» he snapped. «Why are you like this? Why are you so damn stubborn?!»

Eddie didn't hesitate. «Because I don't care what your contract says. You're not property, you're not an object, you're not a fucking toy. And I'm not gonna let you go through this alone.»

The hardest hit Angel had ever taken—wasn't from the Morettis. Wasn't from Valentino.

It was those words.

He stood there, silent. His head shook once, his step faltering backward. «You can't save me, Headshot.» His voice was trembling, thin as torn paper. «No one can.»

Eddie caught his wrist—not forceful, not trapping. A firm, steady anchor that kept Angel from running. He turned him toward him, and finally—finally—their eyes met.

«I'm not here to save you, Silly.» Eddie's antennae twitched, picking up every flicker of tension, every hint of fear. And something else. «I'm here to stand by you.» His voice was unwavering. Absolute. «Whether you like it or not.»

Angel didn't move. Something inside him shook. His lower arms wrapped even tighter around himself, a desperate attempt at protection.

He didn't know how to deal with this. With affection that wasn't conditional.

He was used to being wanted. A fantasy, a commodity to be bought and sold. But this? This was real.

His gaze searched Eddie's violet eyes, looking for some sign of mockery, of deception, of well-wrapped lies—but all he found was genuine concern.

And maybe… something more. Something deeper. Something terrifying.

Angel shook his head, like he could shake it off. Whatever it was.

He pulled away from Eddie's grasp with a sharp motion, spun on his heel, and reached for the door.

But just before stepping out—he stopped.

He didn't turn back. He couldn't.

His voice was low. Unsteady. «If this whole thing goes to shit, Shotty… I'm dragging you down with me. To a hell worse than this one.»

Behind him, Eddie exhaled a quiet laugh. A faint, electric blue glow pulsed in his eyes—brighter, stronger.

The violet in his irises faded, swallowed up by that telltale light. The one that betrayed everything he wasn't ready to admit.

«Can't wait.» His voice was steady. Gentle.

Angel smirked, just a little. Then the door shut behind him with a thud.

Eddie was alone.

But inside him—everything was chaos.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his mind still stuck in that moment when Angel had trembled just slightly beneath his touch. The tension in his arms. The break in his voice. His eyes.

Unique. Eerie. Unfiltered.

They had looked at him with no masks, no sarcasm, no walls. For just a moment—Angel had let him see his soul.

And in that moment, something inside Eddie ignited.

He glanced down—and his breath caught.

Right beneath the pendant Angel had given him—the one he never took off—a soft, pulsing blue glow illuminated his skin.

It throbbed, faint and rhythmic, right above where his heart was hammering too fast, too hard.

He didn't need a doctor to know exactly what that meant.

Eddie let out a sharp breath, trying—failing—to push back the rush of emotions flooding through him.

"Not now." He didn't want to deal with this.

He stood abruptly, grabbed his leather jacket, and threw it on with a rough motion.

But it wasn't enough.

Even beneath the thick material, his skin still glowed.

Faint blue light pulsed beneath the veins in his hands, spreading like a secret he could no longer hide.

And on his wrist, the Deus Ex Machina shimmered.

Like it understood.

Like it had been waiting for this moment.

—

Angel stormed out of Headshot's room, his heels clicking against the hallway floor with every determined step. His heart was pounding—too hard, too fast.

He could still feel the spot where Headshot had touched him. It didn't burn in a painful way. It wasn't a mark of violence or possession. It was… something else.

It was like his skin had sung under his touch. Like every fine hair on his body had stood on end—not from fear, but from something strange, something exhilarating.

Angel clenched his teeth. No. He didn't like this feeling.

He had been grabbed a thousand times. Pushed, pulled, pinned down. Hands had touched him in ways that had left him numb, immune. But no one—no one—had ever touched him like that.

Gently.

He reached the elevator and pressed the button without thinking. His free hand moved on its own, ghosting over the spot on his arm where Headshot had grabbed him. It was an unconscious motion, as if his body refused to forget that sensation.

It was ridiculous. This wasn't the first time they had shared casual touches. They'd exchanged pats on the back, playful punches, even the occasional hug. Nothing new. And yet…

No touch had ever felt like this.

This reaction—this nonsense—wasn't like him.

The elevator arrived with a metallic ding, and Angel stepped inside. He crossed his arms, forcing himself to calm the erratic rhythm in his chest. He'd been touched in far more intimate ways. Hands had possessed him, explored him, used him. He had been the subject of forced passion, imposed desire, power wielded like a whip.

But that touch…

That had been tender.

And tenderness made him uncomfortable.

Not the way Valentino did. Not the way clients did. That was a dirty, rotten discomfort, the kind he wanted to escape from. This was different.

This was a tension that sent a thrill through his spine.

A warmth he couldn't extinguish.

The elevator descended, and Angel hugged himself a little tighter, like he could contain the storm inside his chest.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to feel like this.

This wasn't the first time someone had said kind things to him. It wasn't even the first time someone had told him he wasn't an object. And yet… yet no one had ever said it like that.

Headshot hadn't said it to convince him. He hadn't said it to manipulate him. He hadn't said it to comfort him.

He had said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Like it was obvious that Angel wasn't a toy.

Like it was obvious that he had people who cared about him.

Like it was obvious that he wasn't alone.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

"What the fuck is happening to me?"

Angel leaned back against the wall of the elevator, one hand still clutching the arm where Headshot had grabbed him.

The elevator doors slid open to his floor.

He didn't move.

Why couldn't he move?

Why did it feel like everything had shifted in an instant?

He pressed a button, sending the elevator downward again.

He needed to talk to someone. Now.

Fishing out his phone from his jacket, he scrolled through his contacts, searching for something—someone—that could ground him. Someone familiar. Someone safe.

He stopped at a name: Cherri Bomb.

Angel bit his lip, hesitated for just a second, then hit the call button.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then, a voice full of energy, probably still chewing something, answered.

«Angel? Christ, I'm eating, what do you want?!»

Angel opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

The words wouldn't come out.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence on the other end. Then, Cherri's voice shifted—more focused now, sharper.

«…Angie? You good?»

Angel lowered his gaze to the elevator floor, his hand still gripping his arm.

Then, finally, he sighed.

«No.»

A pause. A deep breath. Then, with an edge of warning in his tone, he added: «And if you tell anyone that I called you because I'm freaking out, I swear to God I'll blow your damn head off.»

—

When Headshot wasn't around, Angel found refuge at the Hazbin Hotel's bar with Cherri Bomb and Husk. That counter was their second home—the one place where, for a little while, they could leave Hell's drama behind. Husk, perpetually stuck serving drinks thanks to Alastor, would just watch them with his usual cynical stare, while Angel and Cherri drank without restraint, letting the alcohol loosen their tongues and lower their inhibitions.

Tonight, though, there was no lively chatter, no jokes, no teasing.

Angel Dust sat at the bar, staring at his untouched Pink Martini like it held the answers to all his problems.

Cherri sat beside him, elbow on the counter, chin resting in her palm. She'd been watching him silently for a full two minutes, waiting for him to do something besides glare at his drink. Eventually, she gave up and started first.

«Alright, Angie. You called me out of nowhere, said Headshot touched you, but right as I was about to go break his face, you clarified that it wasn't in a sexual way.» She tilted her head, her single eye glinting with curiosity. «I decided to humor you because, honestly, now I need to know what the hell this is about, but I can't just sit here watching you build up the courage to talk forever.» She straightened up and gave him a light punch on the shoulder. «C'mon, bestie, tell me what's eating you.»

Angel took a deep breath. He ran a hand down his face, then lowered his gaze to his arm—the exact spot where Headshot had grabbed him.

His fingers traced over it, as if trying to relive the warmth, the weight of that touch. «It's just… I don't know what's happening to me.»

Cherri raised a brow but stayed quiet, letting him talk.

Angel kept rubbing at that spot. «He grabbed my arm. That's it. Just my arm. And I feel like I'm losing my mind.» His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper. «My heart's in my throat, my legs feel shaky, my fingers won't stop trembling…» He stopped, clenching his fist like he was trying to choke down whatever impulse was clawing at him. «And I keep touching this stupid spot like I'm looking for something, but I don't even know what!»

His frustration snapped. With a sudden motion, he ran both hands through his hair, gripping it tight before dropping his arms onto the counter and burying his face in them.

«What the hell is happening to me, Cherri?» he muttered, voice muffled.

For a moment, the only sound was the quiet clinking of glasses as Husk continued wiping them down.

Then, Cherri and Husk exchanged a glance.

Cherri pointed at Angel and silently mouthed to Husk: "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Husk squinted. "Depends. What are you thinking?"

And that's when Cherri suddenly clutched her head, burst out laughing, and nearly fell off her stool.

«AHAHAH! No way!»

Angel turned his head just enough to glare at her with one eye.

«Oh, come on, Angie.» Cherri gasped between laughs, wiping at her eye. «I thought you two would maybe hook up, but you're actually—» she sucked in a breath, shaking with amusement, «—you're actually—» but she couldn't finish. She was laughing too hard, nearly choking on her own disbelief. «I can't believe this!»

Angel watched her lose her mind, his expression shifting between confusion and mild concern. When it became clear she wasn't going to stop anytime soon, he turned to the grumpy feline behind the bar.

«What the hell's wrong with her?» he asked, jerking his thumb in her direction.

Without pausing in his glass-cleaning, Husk smirked. «Wake up, Legs. She's losing it 'cause she can't believe you're catching feelings.»

Angel blinked.

«What?»

Husk took a sip from his flask. «Buddy, you're screwed.»

Angel inhaled deeply, straightened up, and slapped on his usual cocky smirk. Then, with an exaggerated wave of his hand, he let out a theatrical laugh.

«Me? Catching feelings? Have you met me?!»

Cherri wiped away a tear, finally settling down. «I gotta say, this side of you is refreshing, but yeah, babe—you're done for.» She gave him a playful punch to the shoulder.

«Oh, please!» Angel scoffed. «I am Angel Dust! Performer, porn star, professional whore! I don't do ridiculous things like—» he grimaced mockingly «—love!»

Cherri propped her elbows on the counter and rested her chin in her hands, grinning like a cat that just caught a canary. «Then why do you keep rubbing your arm?»

Angel froze.

His hand was moving again.

For a second, he stared at it like it wasn't his own. It traced slow, absent-minded circles over the spot where Headshot had grabbed him with that damn gentleness. The motion was light, barely there—like his body was trying to hold onto that feeling.

Like he couldn't let it go.

Cursing under his breath, he forced his hand to stop. «It's nothing,» he dismissed quickly. «I just—itchy spot, y'know? Gloves all day…»

«Legs...» Husk deadpanned «...you're not wearing gloves.»

Angel froze.

Oh.

…Shit.

He'd spent extra time on his manicure that morning and decided to go bare-armed all day to show it off.

His excuses were running thin.

His brain scrambled, reaching for a way out, a distraction, anything.

«Okay, okay, everybody shut up.» he raised two hands like he was calling for a ceasefire. «Just because my body has a minor—and I mean minor—impulse to touch that spot does not mean I have a crush.»

Cherri and Husk exchanged another glance.

Husk took a lazy sip of his drink. «Oh yeah. Sure. Of course.»

Cherri exhaled slowly, giving him a knowing smirk. «Angie, babe, I get that you're slow, but this is slow even for you.»

«I am not slow!» Angel huffed, crossing his arms in offense.

Cherri lifted a single finger. «You're still rubbing your arm.»

Angel glanced down.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

His hand was moving again. He yanked it away like he'd just touched a hot stove.

Angel made a broad gesture, as if trying to reset the entire conversation. «Even if—AND I'M SAYING IF—there was something weird going on, it could be anything. It doesn't necessarily mean it's…» He cleared his throat. «…that kind of thing.»

He immediately launched into a desperate list of excuses.

«Yes, it's TRUE we're friends. It's TRUE we care about each other. It's TRUE we enjoy spending time together. But just because Headshot is kind, protective, smart, reliable, and stupidly fucking sexy, doesn't mean that I—»

He stopped.

His heart skipped a beat. His breath caught in his throat. His brain short-circuited for a solid second.

And then it hit him.

Like a freight train at full speed.

It wasn't just that he couldn't find a flaw in him—it was that every detail, every gesture, every damn look had already gotten to him a long time ago.

All those little moments he'd ignored…

Every time Headshot looked at him with that protective gaze, like nothing in the world could hurt him as long as he was there.
Every time he called him Silly in that soft, almost affectionate voice.
Every time he found himself subconsciously searching for him in a crowd.
Every time he made him feel like he actually mattered.

This wasn't just friendship.

These were symptoms.

Clear. Undeniable.

Mouth twitching to hold back another burst of laughter, Cherri leaned in, squinting at his stunned expression. «Somebody call Kitty—her ship is sailing!»

Angel slumped slightly, as if the weight of his realization was physically crushing him. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. «Oh, fuck.»

He buried his face in his hands, eyes staring blankly ahead as his brain scrambled to make peace with his heart.

Because the truth was…

Since meeting Headshot, everything had changed.

He could handle Valentino's shitty studio a little better. That disgusting, rotten place that produced filth on demand.
Every minute spent by his side felt like a blessing.
Every time Headshot wore something he'd specifically picked out for him, his heart skipped a damn beat.
Just thinking about him made a genuine smile creep onto his face.

Angel swallowed thickly, feeling like the room had suddenly run out of air.

And then, in the quietest, most defeated tone, he finally admitted the inevitable.

«Holy shit. I'm actually fucking smitten.»

Husk let out a deep chuckle, throwing his arms open. «Well, good morning, Legs! Took ya long enough.»

Cherri gave him a smug, cat-like grin. «Honestly, I can't believe you're just now figuring this out.» She shook her head. «You've been flirting with him for weeks. And not just for fun. For real.»

Without a word, Angel grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his martini in one go. He slammed it on the counter and waved at Husk.

«I need another one. Actually, just keep 'em coming until I say stop.»

As Husk started mixing another Pink Martini, he raised a brow. «Uh, that bad?»

Angel let out an exasperated laugh, voice a little louder than it needed to be. «Bad? THIS IS A FUCKING DISASTER!»

His second Pink Martini arrived. He knocked it back like it was a shot.

Then he slammed the empty glass onto the counter so hard Husk actually paused, eyeing him with a slow, deadpan look.

«Legs, if you break my glasses, I'm making you swallow 'em.»

Angel completely ignored the threat.

«I'm Angel Dust! The porn star!» he groaned, dragging both hands down his face. «I don't fall in love! It's not part of the damn package!»

Cherri raised an eyebrow. «And yet, here you are—tipsy, spiraling, and freaking out because you just realized you're totally gone for a winged beefcake.»

«He's not just a winged beefcake!» Angel snapped, throwing all four arms in the air. «He's Headshot! The toughest, kindest, sweetest, sexiest guy I've ever met—FUCK!»

He grabbed his head, as if he could physically yank that thought out of his brain.

Husk poured him another Pink Martini, his expression still the same bored deadpan. «So what's the problem? At least this time, you picked someone who doesn't treat you like shit.»

Angel took the glass with one of his lower hands and downed it in one go.

He ran a hand down his face, took a deep breath, and then, in a low, hopeless murmur, muttered: «Valentino.»

Cherri immediately sobered up.

«If he finds out…» Angel licked his lips, already tasting the fear creeping in. «If he finds out, he won't leave him alone.»

His hands tightened around the edge of the bar.

«If Valentino figures out I actually care, that he's important to me…» He swallowed. «It won't just be me he tries to ruin.»

Cherri shrugged. «So don't tell him.»

Angel's eyes snapped wide open. «What the fuck are you talking about?!»

Cherri rolled her eyes. «Honey, unless you walk up to him with a megaphone and scream "I'M IN LOVE WITH HEADSHOT!", I doubt he's gonna figure it out on his own.»

Husk nodded, ever the pragmatist. «Yeah, buddy. You're a pro at acting. Just keep your cool and don't get caught.»

Angel wanted to scream. «Guys! We're talking about Valentino! That bastard always knows when something makes me happy!»

Cherri's smirk turned downright devilish. «Angie. When's the last time Valentino gave you an orgasm?»

Husk immediately choked on his drink, shooting her a scandalized, disgusted look. «What the hell kinda question is that?!»

Ignoring Husk's reaction, Angel responded with complete deadpan disinterest. «And how the hell is that relevant?»

«Just answer.» Cherri pressed.

Angel sighed, thinking for a moment.

Between scenes, Valentino always wanted his share.
And he was a terrible lover.

The worst part? Angel had to pretend it felt good. Always.
Bored looks, tears, suppressed rage—he could only get away with those when Val wasn't looking.

Otherwise, he wouldn't stop.

The only way to make it stop? Fake it. Flawlessly. Make it sound real enough to fool him.
Angel had gotten too good at knowing exactly when Valentino was close, the exact moment to pull out his best fake orgasm—one refined over the years, believable enough to satisfy him.

And him?

At best, he was just bored and unsatisfied.
At worst, everything fucking hurt.

What a miserable excuse for a man who fucked like garbage.

And the thought that he'd once thought he wanted him? That was the worst part of all.

«Honestly…» Angel admitted bitterly, «…I don't think he ever did.»

Husk started wiping the counter a little slower, his expression darkening. He didn't comment, but it was clear he was disturbed by the answer.

Cherri, unfazed, slammed her fist on the bar. «See? That asshole doesn't have a fucking clue what makes you happy. If he cared at all, he'd know the difference between a fake orgasm and the real deal. No matter how damn convincing you are.»

Angel froze.

Her words echoed in his head, bouncing around like a bell he couldn't unhear.

Cherri leaned back, crossing her arms. «Val's great at telling when you're rebelling, when you're scared. But happiness? He doesn't even know what the fuck it looks like. You're safe, Angie. Just don't tell him, and you're good.»

«You said it yourself, Legs.» Husk added, finishing up his cleaning. «The bastard owns you in the studio. Outside of it? You've got free reign, and you know it. He makes you think you're not free, but it's all a load of bullshit. He's just a scumbag who doesn't know how to control you without making you scared.» Husk let out a low chuckle. «And even if he did find out—what the hell's he gonna do? Headshot's built like a damn tank, moves like a ninja, and the only reason he hasn't put a bullet in Val's skull is because Charlie asked him not to.»

«And Val is a ten-foot giant with poisonous saliva and breath. Even Headshot was afraid of him the first time he met him.» Angel muttered darkly.

Husk hummed. «Yeah. And he still risked his ass to get you out of that hellhole. Tell me I'm wrong.»

Angel sat in silence for a few minutes, absentmindedly rotating the freshly refilled glass in his hand. He wasn't sure if he should knock it back or stay sober enough to actually think.

Husk was right. That idiot Headshot had always gone out of his way to help him—pretty much since the moment they met.

When he dropped him to the V-Tower.
When he dragged him out of an alley, wasted off his ass, just to bring him safely back to the Hotel.
When he put up with his bullshit during that shopping trip with more patience than a saint.
When he took a bullet for him. An angelic bullet.

And in front of Valentino—despite the fact that Angel saw the terror in his eyes, lurking beneath that wall of false indifference—he didn't run. He didn't abandon him to face his demons alone. He had improvised some ridiculous plan just to sabotage the filming, just to buy him one night of peace.

And soon, he'd be facing his own damn family just so he could sneak into his boss' party and stay by his side.

Angel took a deep breath and ran a hand down his face. «I don't get it.» he muttered.

Cherri tilted her head. «Get what?»

Angel gestured, frustrated. «I appreciate what he does, really. But I don't deserve any of it. That idiot keeps risking his life for me! And I just… I don't get why!»

Cherri threw her arms in the air. «Then you're a fucking idiot!»

Angel snapped his head toward her, wide-eyed, stunned. Cherri had never spoken to him like that before.

And she wasn't done.

«Say it!» she pressed. «Say 'I'm a fucking idiot, I know!'»

«What the fuck, Cherri?!» Angel sputtered, incredulous.

«No, what the fuck should be my reaction!» she shot back, exasperated. «Wake the hell up, Angel! This guy saves your life, respects you, sees your issues without making you feel like a burden, does everything to make you happy and, to top it all off—he literally glows when he looks at you!» She leaned in, pointing at him like he was the dumbest person alive. «Activate those last two brain cells! Why the hell do you think he does it?!»

Angel leaned back, shoulders slumping against the stool, still gripping his glass in one of his lower hands. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, like the answer might be written up there.

He whispered. «Why does he?»

Cherri shook her head, laughing in disbelief. «Because you're important to him, dumbass!»

Angel let out a dry chuckle—empty, humorless. He hunched forward, arms wrapping around himself like he was trying to hold himself together.

«But I don't want to be important.»

The words hit the silence like a gunshot.

Cherri stilled. Husk stopped wiping the counter.

Angel squeezed his eyes shut for a second, like saying it out loud had physically hurt him. «If I'm important, then… he can hurt me.» His voice dropped lower, almost fragile. «And I don't want— I can't— not after…»

Husk exhaled, then knocked back another drink. «Legs...» he muttered, voice gruff but not unkind, «You've spent too much time around people who taught you that love is just a trap. But it ain't always like that.»

Cherri reached over and took his hand, squeezing it. «Headshot isn't Valentino.»

Angel swallowed, his breath hitching just slightly. «I know. And that… that scares me even more.»

Husk took a slow, deep breath. He put down the rag, the bottle, and the empty glasses. Then, without a word, he pulled a deck of cards from his pocket and began shuffling.

The soft, rhythmic flick of the cards slipping against each other filled the silence.

«Legs, you don't have to start a relationship if you're not ready.»

Angel had been expecting some kind of push, an attempt to convince him—but that? That threw him off. He glanced at Husk, uncertain, while the old cat calmly laid four face-down cards on the bar.

«But!» Husk continued, his voice firmer. «If you never take the chance, you might miss out on the best thing that's ever happened to you.»

Angel froze, confused. Cherri grinned, shifting in her seat, intrigued.

Husk flipped the first card: Two of Diamonds.

«Love's a gamble, Legs.» He let the deck glide effortlessly between his fingers before pulling a card from nowhere—a Seven of Hearts—and placing it beside the first. «You can sit out, play it safe, tell yourself it's easier that way. But if you never put a single chip on the table… you'll never win.»

The third card: Ten of Spades.

Angel swallowed.

Husk leaned forward slightly, his sharp feline eyes locking onto him. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he turned over the final card: Ace of Hearts.

«And you know what?» He tapped a claw against the card. «You're holding a damn royal flush, and it'd be stupid not to play it.»

He let the words sink in before continuing.

«Think about what you've got in your hand: Headshot's got the looks, a heart of gold, a strategist's mind, and the combat skills of a trained killer.» With a flick of his wrist, the deck vanished from one hand and reappeared in the other. «And on top of all that, it's painfully obvious the guy is nuts about you. Hell, he glows when you're around—like a damn Christmas tree!»

A new card appeared between his fingers: The Joker. Husk slid it across the counter toward Angel, smirking.

«But most importantly…» His tone shifted, turning serious. «He's not Valentino.»

Angel's stomach clenched. Fear slithered back under his skin.

«Val's powerful.» Husk admitted, shuffling the cards lazily. «He's a piece of shit with deep pockets, connections, a bunch of bootlickers, and poison in his breath.»

He flipped another card: King of Spades.

«But you know what Headshot has?»

One by one, Husk laid out more cards, each move precise, deliberate.

Jack of Hearts. Ten of Clubs. Ace of Diamonds.

«He's got you.»

Angel's breath hitched, his eyes fixed on the cards.

Husk pulled out another one. King of Hearts.

«And he's got us.»

Another. Queen of Hearts.

«And he's got Charlie.»

Then, without placing it down, Husk turned over a final card—one different from the rest. It was completely blank, except for a single golden seal in the center.

Angel didn't need to see the rest. He knew what that card meant.

Lucifer.

Husk raised his glass in a silent toast. «So tell me, Legs.»

With a flick of his wrist, the deck vanished entirely, and he smirked.

«Do you really think you're in this game alone?»

Angel didn't answer right away.

He bit his lip, lowering his gaze. His fingers tightened around his untouched drink, as if grounding himself—steadying the part of him that felt like it might collapse under all of this.

He wasn't alone.

Maybe… he never really had been.

Husk let out a long sigh, shaking his head. «Take it from a washed-up loser.» He knocked back a sip. «Don't let this slip through your fingers.»

Angel clutched his glass.

Once, he would've laughed in the face of anyone who told him to take a chance on something as ridiculous as love.

Love. What a joke. Fairy tale bullshit for suckers. A cheap trick to sell romance movies.

And yet…

His hand was still there. Still pressed against the spot where Headshot had touched him. Not because it hurt.

Because, fuck, he missed it.

He craved it without even realizing it.

Angel inhaled sharply, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair.

«…Okay.»

Husk paused, looking up from the glass he'd been wiping. «What?»

Angel exhaled, arms crossing over his chest as he threw them both a theatrical glare. «Okay, fine! I'll try! Hope you two are happy!»

Cherri shot her arms into the air. «HALLELUJAH! HE'S SEEN THE LIGHT!»

Angel clenched his jaw. Then, shaking his head, he let out a short, bitter laugh. He downed the rest of his drink, then stood, dusting off his top with a sharp flick of his wrist.

«I'll try.» His voice was steady. Resolute.

Then, glancing back at them with his signature cocky smirk, he added:

«And if he breaks my heart, I'm making you two eat the pieces.»

Husk smirked. «If he breaks your heart…» He leaned on the counter. «…we'll use his wings as bar décor.»

«They'd look great up there!» Cherri chimed in, grinning.

Husk raised his glass. «To Legs—who finally decided to go all in.»

Angel let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes.

He was so screwed.

—A Few Hours Later

"Damn it. Damn it all." Eddie thought as he practically power-walked through the hotel corridors. "Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to give those two the rest of the day off?!"

Covering three zones by himself wasn't exactly easy. The day had been relatively quiet, but the sheer amount of ground he had to cover was way too much for one person. Every time he heard someone raise their voice or something crash in the distance, his pulse spiked—only for it to turn out to be a group of girls screeching over a model's photo or some heavy object tipping over.

By mid-afternoon, he was so drained that he had to force himself to take a break—praying that nothing urgent would happen in the meantime.

The hotel's buffet area was open for anyone looking for a mid-day snack. The tables were stocked with all sorts of treats: an array of pastries, fresh fruit neatly cut into bite-sized portions, a tray of mini sandwiches stuffed with various fillings, and a selection of hot and cold beverages—tea, coffee, fruit juices, and of course, that obnoxiously pink, non-alcoholic cocktail the hotel was famous for. A drink that everyone seemed to love. Everyone except Husk.

Eddie trudged toward the buffet, exhausted but determined to recharge. He stacked his plate high—a mountain of pancakes drowning in maple syrup and whipped cream, a slice of chocolate cake so loaded with sugar it looked dangerous, three cream-filled cupcakes (because one was never enough), an overflowing glass of mango-orange juice—the sweetest combo available—and a couple of candy canes to chew on later.

With a sigh of relief, he dropped into a chair and immediately started devouring his meal. If nothing else, the food at the hotel never failed to make his day a little better.

"Just ten minutes of peace." He thought.

But deep down, he knew fate wouldn't be that kind.

And, of course, trouble found its way right into the buffet area.

With hesitant steps, Emily entered.

The seraph tried to greet those she passed, offering polite nods and soft "hellos." But every single one was met with nothing. At best, a dismissive glance. At worst, a sneer of pure contempt.

Her shoulders sagged slightly. She sighed.

Grabbing a plate, she carefully placed a single purple cupcake on it. She reached for the sandwich tray—only for a figure to step in her way.

A demon.

One of the guests.

Tall and broad, his scaled skin glinted under the lights. A pair of thick, curved horns protruded from his head. His expression twisted into something that barely qualified as a grin—something smug, something spiteful—as he loomed over her.

«Well, well, look who finally decided to show their holier-than-thou ass around here.» His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Emily stilled, gripping her plate a little tighter. «May I take a sandwich?» Her tone remained calm, but she already knew the answer wouldn't be kind.

The demon let out a barking laugh, flashing his sharp teeth.

«Oh, sure! Take a sandwich. Take a room. Hell, why not take our entire fucking lives—just like your damn exorcists took my brother's?»

Emily flinched. Her hands trembled slightly around her plate. «I swear, I didn't know that—»

«BULLSHIT.» He cut her off sharply.

By now, other guests had started to watch. Some out of curiosity. Others with irritation.

Eddie, mid-bite into his chocolate cake, froze.

Every instinct in his body flared.

One look was all it took to assess the situation.

Silently, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, set his plate aside, and stood up.

Meanwhile, the demon kept ranting.

«I spent my entire damn life devoted to the church—only to end up in Hell anyway! And that wasn't enough for you assholes? You had to make it worse?!»

In three long strides, Eddie was there, stepping up beside Emily. His cold, piercing gaze locked onto the demon.

«Got a problem?» His voice was calm. Steady.

But there was something lethal in his tone. A quiet, underlying threat. The kind that sent chills down a person's spine.

The demon might've been taller than Emily, but not Eddie.

Faced with him—tall, broad, wings tucked but still imposing—the guest's confidence shattered. His posture shifted. The smugness evaporated. Raising his hands, he forced out a nervous laugh. «No, no, of course not! We were just, uh… talking.»

«Good.»

With one firm motion, Eddie grabbed the demon by the shoulder and moved him aside, effortlessly clearing a path for Emily.

His voice dropped lower—sharp, dangerous—as he flashed a slow, predatory grin.

«I'd hate to take a special interest in you, pal.»

The demon stiffened.

«Because trust me—I can fuck you up in more ways than one.»

The blood drained from the demon's face.

And without another word, he turned on his heel and bolted—disappearing into the crowd like a scared rabbit.

Emily let out a quiet breath of relief as she finally grabbed the sandwich she'd been eyeing earlier. She glanced up at Eddie with a mix of gratitude and something close to reverence.

«Thank you...» she murmured.

Eddie waved it off with a casual flick of his hand. «Don't mention it. You can sit at my table if you want. No one's gonna bother you there.»

Emily hesitated for a moment, then gave a small, appreciative smile. She clutched her plate a little tighter and carefully sat across from him, as if making sure she wouldn't take up more space than necessary.

Eddie went back to devouring his mountain of sugar, but he kept an eye on her from the corner of his vision. Angels weren't exactly common in Hell, and it definitely wasn't every day he found himself sharing a meal with one.

Emily studied her sandwich for a few seconds before lifting her gaze. «You're the new guy, right? Headshot, I think? The Hotel's Shield?»

Eddie smirked. «At this point, I've been here for almost two months. So much has happened that it feels like two years. Feels weird still being called 'the new guy'.»

«Oh, sorry,» she said, taking a small bite of her sandwich. «It's just that, to me, you are new. You weren't around when I first met Charlie.»

«A lot has changed in a short time.» Eddie noted. He twirled his fork between his fingers before stabbing a piece of cake. «Hell, I don't think I'd even recognize myself from a few weeks ago.»

Emily tilted her head slightly, watching him with curiosity. «And what were you like a few weeks ago?»

Eddie exhaled, running his thumb along the handle of his fork before answering. «Paranoid. Isolated. Pissed at the world.» A wry smirk tugged at his lips. «That last part... well, guess some things don't change.»

Emily didn't reply right away. She lowered her gaze to her sandwich, thoughtful. «I get it.»

Eddie raised an eyebrow. «Do you?»

She nodded. «Yeah. I've had to rethink a lot of things I once took for granted. It's... hard to admit you were wrong. To realize you spent so much time believing in something that turned out to be... different.»

Eddie studied her for a moment. There was something about her words—something that resonated deep in his chest, something uncomfortably familiar.

«And now?» he asked. «Have you found a new truth?»

Emily gave a small, almost shy smile as she turned her sandwich in her hands. «Not yet. But... I think I'm heading in the right direction.»

Eddie nodded slowly, setting his fork down on his plate. «Well, if you ever need backup on the way there, you know where to find me.»

Emily blinked in surprise before her smile grew just a little wider. «Thanks, Headshot.»

Eddie leaned back in his chair, grabbing another forkful of cake. «All part of the job.»

Emily eyed Eddie's plate with curiosity. The sheer mountain of sweets in front of him was impossible to ignore. She let out a small laugh. «Isn't that... a little too much sugar?»

Eddie smirked, clearly expecting the question. «For most people? Yeah, absolutely. But for me? It's what I need to function.»

Emily's amusement faded into surprise. «Wait, really?»

Eddie nodded, popping a bite of pancake into his mouth before explaining. «I'm a butterfly, Emily. I tried eating regular food, and it worked for a while. But if I actually want to feel good, I need a ridiculous amount of sugar. And since I skipped a meal earlier, this? This is just the bare minimum.»

Emily studied him with open curiosity, as if trying to piece together a puzzle. «That's so fascinating… But I guess it does make sense.» She tapped her chin in thought. «Some of the entomologists who made it to Heaven told me that most insects rely on nectar and sugar to survive.»

«Exactly,» Eddie said, spearing another bite of pancake with his fork. «And since I can't exactly go around drinking nectar from flowers like a normal butterfly, I make do with pastries and fruit juice.»

Emily let out a small giggle, genuinely intrigued by the idea. Then, after a pause, she frowned slightly. «And what happens if you don't get enough sugar?»

Eddie shrugged. «Weakness, dizziness, extreme fatigue. If I go too long without it, I start feeling like I'm about to pass out. I've learned to manage it.»

Emily's brows knit together in mild disapproval. «Then you should be taking more breaks to eat properly. Skipping meals isn't exactly smart.»

Eddie barked out a laugh. «Tell that to Charlie. She never lets it go whenever she catches me working nonstop.»

Emily shook her head with an amused smile. «She's right.» Then, with a teasing nod toward his overloaded plate, she added: «So this isn't indulgence—it's survival.»

Eddie grinned. «Exactly. And I'm savoring every single bite.»

Emily chuckled, taking another bite of her sandwich.

«You know, at first, I thought you'd be more... broody.»

Eddie raised an eyebrow. «Broody?»

She nodded.

«I mean, you're an ex-hitman. You go by Headshot. You've got that whole lone-wolf, battle-hardened thing going on... I just expected you to be more serious. More quiet.»

Eddie smirked, giving a half-hearted shrug. «Most of the time, I am.» Then he lifted a forkful of syrup-drenched pancake and grinned. «But tell me—how the hell is anyone supposed to be broody with a plate full of sugar in front of them?»

Emily burst out laughing. «Okay, fair point. You win.»

Emily watched Eddie eat as she slowly worked through her sandwich, but one last question gnawed at her mind.

«Hey… why did you start killing people?»

A shadow passed over Eddie's face. He let out a quiet sigh before admitting, «It was either that or risk ending up in the hands of an Overlord. If I'd stayed on the streets of Pentagram City, picking pockets to survive, one of those bastards would've caught me eventually.»

Emily blinked, her expression shifting from curiosity to shock.

«Wait… Pentagram City?» Her brow furrowed. «Are you saying… you became a hitman after you died?»

«Yeah.» Eddie confirmed, drizzling more whipped cream onto his pancakes as if the topic was nothing unusual. «Long story. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime.»

But Emily wasn't about to let it slide that easily.

«Hold on.» She leaned forward slightly. «You're telling me that when you were alive, you weren't one?»

«That's right.»

«Then… why did you end up in Hell?»

Eddie's gaze dropped slightly as he stirred the whipped cream on his plate with his fork. Then, in a flat, matter-of-fact voice, he said: «Suicide.»

He paused for a beat before adding: «And maybe… for killing my father.»

Emily's breath hitched, her eyes widening. But before she could speak, Eddie went on.

«It wasn't by choice. If it were up to me, I never would've done it.»

He reached for the collar of his jacket, pulling it down just enough to expose the scars marring his torso. The marks stood out against his green-tinted skin—etched reminders of something far worse than death.

«But he did this.» Eddie tilted his head toward the scars, his eyes locked onto Emily's. «And not just that. He beat me. Burned me. Cut me. Kept me locked up. Used me as a punching bag for months.»

His voice remained controlled, but tension settled into his shoulders—an old, familiar weight he carried. It was still progress. Not too long ago, even thinking about his past would have made him spiral.

Emily sat frozen, unable to tear her gaze away from the scars.

Eddie exhaled slowly. «The last time I saw him, he decided I was 'impossible to fix.' He said he was going to kill me.»

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth for a moment.

«But I was faster.»

Emily's breath came in shallow, controlled inhales, as if afraid that making a sound might shatter something delicate in the air between them.

She hesitated before asking, carefully, «Was it… an accident? Or…?»

Eddie shook his head. «Nothing accidental about it.» His voice was lower now, edged with steel. «If I hadn't stopped him, I would've died.» His tone was calm, detached—but the way his fingers tensed around his fork told a different story. «He grabbed me by the throat. Slammed me to the ground. Pressed a gun to my face.» Eddie's expression darkened, but he kept his voice steady. «I knew it was over. He was stronger, bigger. But he got cocky. Thought I didn't have anything left in me.»

Emily swallowed hard, hanging onto his words.

«I had a knife tucked up my sleeve.» Eddie continued. «Swiped it when he wasn't paying attention. Only thing I could do was pull it out and drive it into his throat.» His fingers twitched slightly. «I had to twist it. Twice.»

Emily flinched slightly, but Eddie gave her no time to dwell on it.

«There weren't a lot of other options.» he finished with a shrug, as if relaying a simple fact. But his eyes—locked onto his untouched pancakes—told a different story.

Emily sat still, her gaze fixed on the scars he had covered up once more. For a long moment, she couldn't find the right words. An awful, burning sense of injustice curled inside her chest.

Eddie, meanwhile, just went back to his food, like they'd been chatting about the weather. But Emily knew a mask when she saw one.

«That's not fair.» she murmured.

Eddie flicked his gaze up at her. «Welcome to Hell.»

Emily shook her head, still reeling. «You were a victim. And even after everything, you still ended up here.»

Eddie froze for a fraction of a second. Then he huffed a quiet, bitter laugh.

«You think I'm the only one?» He gestured vaguely to the room. «Hell's full of people who weren't born monsters. Some made a bad choice. Some never had a choice at all. And some?» His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. «The system was rigged against them from the start.»

As he scanned the room, his gaze landed on a pair of familiar figures at a nearby table.

Tiger and Muto.

Perfect timing.

He called out to them, loud enough to get their attention.

Tiger raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Muto, as always, remained unreadable—the smooth mask of his face giving away nothing.

«Hey, come over here for a sec!» Eddie called, motioning with his hand.

Tiger groaned but got up anyway, Muto following behind with his usual silent, measured steps.

«What do you want, boss?» the thug asked, shoving his hands into his pockets as he approached the table.

Emily watched them with a mix of curiosity and mild tension. Muto didn't unsettle her too much—he was eerily quiet, unnervingly still—but Tiger had that brawler's swagger, the kind that made him look like he was one wrong word away from throwing a punch.

Eddie leaned back slightly against the table and gestured toward Emily with a tilt of his chin.

«We were talking about redemption. And how… let's just say, the system isn't exactly fair.»

Tiger chuckled. «Oh, so now you wanna tell my life story? That's adorable.»

Eddie ignored him and turned to Emily instead. «I was telling you about people who ended up here without really being monsters. Well, here are two perfect examples.»

Emily hesitated, looking between them. «What… what did you guys do to end up in Hell?»

Tiger smirked, nudging Muto's shoulder. «Wanna go first, buddy?»

Muto stared at him blankly for a moment, then shook his head.

Tiger spread his arms in mock surprise. «Wow, shocker.» Then he turned to Emily. «Muto was a samurai. A warrior with a code, the whole deal. Had to kill himself for honor, and—well, here he is.»

Emily's eyes widened in shock. «He had to… kill himself for honor?»

Eddie nodded. «Seppuku. In certain eras, it was considered an act of valor.»

Emily's gaze dropped to the table, her thoughts spinning. «But… then why did he end up here?»

Tiger shrugged. «Hell doesn't give a damn about nuance. You off yourself? You end up here. Doesn't matter why.»

Emily pressed her lips together, visibly disturbed. Then she turned to Tiger. «And you?»

Tiger smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. «Oh, I was an idiot. But not the evil kind, y'know? Just your average hotheaded dumbass.» He gave a lazy shrug. «Spent my life on the streets. Gangs, theft, a few too many fights. But no murders, nothing really bad. But you know how it is—once the cops have their eyes on you, you're screwed. And if you die at the wrong time, in the wrong place, Heaven doesn't even look at you.»

Emily looked more and more shaken. She turned to Eddie, as if searching for some kind of confirmation.

He just nodded. «Told you I wasn't the only one.»

Emily lowered her gaze, gripping what was left of her sandwich. Her voice was quieter when she finally spoke.

«Then there really is something wrong with the system.»

Tiger let out a laugh—short, sharp, and bitter.

«Sweetheart.» he said, smirking as he spread his arms. «Welcome to Hell.»

Eddie dismissed his guards with a tired smirk before turning his attention back to his plate. He wasn't hungry anymore, but he still toyed with his fork, idly pushing around the last remaining piece of cake.

Emily, on the other hand, seemed deep in thought. She stayed silent for a moment before murmuring, almost to herself: «Now it's much clearer to me why Charlie built this place.»

Eddie looked up, intrigued.

Emily continued, her voice thoughtful. «I mean, I liked the idea from the start, even though I thought it was impossible. You know, when you grow up in Heaven, you're taught to believe that anyone who ends up in Hell is irredeemable—evil beyond saving, incapable of change. And that everyone in Heaven is perfectly good, the ideal reflection of Elohim.» She paused, gaze lowering slightly. «This narrative had already not convinced me because of Adam... but then Lucifer's own daughter came along with something new: the idea of redeeming those who were already in Hell.»

Eddie leaned back in his chair, listening intently.

«Creating a place where they could stay, temporarily. A safe island to retreat to and heal. The other angels laughed at the idea, but for me… I was excited. Even then, though, I had no way of knowing if it could actually work.» Emily sighed, her fingers curling around the empty glass in her hands. «But when Charlie presented her case in court up there… I saw Angel Dust's actions in the sphere.»

Eddie tensed—just barely. His antennas twitched slightly, his ears straining at the mention of that name.

Emily, however, was too caught up in her memories to notice.

«He wasn't perfect.» she admitted «But he was… good. Really good.» A small smile played on her lips. «Aside from the pills, he didn't do anything wrong. He made sure the little one among them didn't overdo it with alcohol. He stopped her from stealing, kept her from causing trouble. And when she broke down crying, he comforted her. And then...» She hesitated, as if recalling something particularly striking. «Then he stood up to that massive moth who claimed to own him. He challenged him. Not for himself, but to protect the people he cared about.»

Eddie felt his jaw tighten. "Valentino". Just thinking about that bastard made his blood boil.

Emily turned her gaze on him, searching. «Tell me, Headshot… why would someone like that be trapped down here?»

Eddie bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't have an answer. Or rather, he had too many, and every single one of them pissed him off. Because Angel didn't deserve to be in this place. Because the system had crushed him before he'd ever had a chance. Because the people who should have protected him had tossed him aside like garbage.

And because, lately, Eddie couldn't imagine Hell without him.

«All I know is that, in life, he was born into the mafia, which meant he had to be part of it.» His voice was quiet but firm. «And he hated it so much he chose Valentino instead. That moth you saw. Just to escape, he gave up his soul to him. And he regretted it. Deeply.»

Emily fell silent, absorbing his words. Her expression darkened, something close to grief crossing her face. «He chose slavery just to escape a fate he didn't want…»

Eddie nodded slowly, his grip tightening around his fork. Just saying it out loud made his stomach twist.

«And now?» Emily tilted her head slightly. «What does he have left?»

Eddie took a slow breath, steadying the storm inside him. «Now he's here.» His voice was quieter now, but there was something heavy in it, something raw. «Trying to build a life for himself, to make things right. To not let it drag him down.»

His gaze dropped to his plate, unfocused. «But he's still in that damn cage.»

A thought. A memory.

Lucifer had once told him there was a way out. A way to break Angel's contract. It required a seraphim—or a higher-ranked angel—with Grace.

Eddie's heart skipped a beat. His pulse quickened as realization dawned, a spark of hope igniting in his chest.

«But…» He looked up at Emily, urgency creeping into his tone. «Lucifer once told me that you could free him. You're a seraph, and you still have Grace. Maybe it's too much to ask, but… could you…?»

Emily studied him for a long moment, then lowered her gaze, shaking her head with quiet sorrow.

«If I could do it, I'd already be flying to set him free, Headshot.»

The light inside Eddie flickered out as quickly as it had sparked. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a moment, he felt empty.

Emily's expression was grave as she continued. «It's not that simple.»

She hesitated, glancing around the buffet hall as if ensuring no one else was eavesdropping. Then, she leaned in. «Heaven is in the middle of a civil war. Two factions are fighting for control. The Conservatives—the ones who want to keep things the way they've always been, including the Exterminations. And the Progressives, which I'm part of, who want to support Charlie and actually give sinners a chance at redemption. But we're walking on a knife's edge, and we have to be careful.»

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. When she spoke again, her voice trembled—not with fear, but with restrained fury. «If I were to break Angel's contract right now, I'd be violating divine law and would be stuck here. And believe me, on any other occasion I wouldn't care!»

As she spoke, something changed. A deep, intense blue aura flared around her, and multiple glowing eyes appeared in her hair and across her wings, revealing her true angelic form. Even her halo shifted, splitting open to reveal a third eye at its center, gazing at Eddie with an unearthly awareness.

«I'd Fall in a heartbeat if it meant proving Charlie right.» Her voice was laced with fire—conviction and frustration entwined.

Then, slowly, the glow faded. Emily forced herself to calm down, returning to her usual form. «But I can't.» Her voice was quieter, more controlled. «Sera and the others need me to be an ambassador, not a revolutionary. For now, at least. So I have to keep my Grace intact as long as possible.»

Eddie slumped back into his chair, chest heavy as if someone had dropped a mountain onto him. For a second, he'd felt so close to giving Angel the key to his freedom. And now, he was right back where he started.

It wasn't fair.

Nothing in Hell is.

Emily scanned the room again, making sure no one was listening. Then she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a whisper.

«However…» she murmured. «You already have the solution in your hands, Headshot.»

Eddie's head snapped up, eyes wide. «What?»

With a knowing smirk, Emily tapped her own wrist with her finger.

Eddie understood.

His gaze dropped to the Deus Ex Machina on his wrist, its soft blue glow pulsing in rhythm with the energy that coursed through his veins whenever adrenaline kicked in.

Slowly, he looked back up at Emily, his eyes wide.

She nodded, as if she had expected his reaction. «Lucifer wasn't wrong when he said you need an angel with Grace to break a demonic contract… but that's not the only way. What you're wearing? It's literally a piece of Elohim himself. But I'm guessing you already knew that.»

«Yeah, I got that much.» Eddie muttered.

Emily tilted her head. «It follows its own rules, sure, but it also follows yours.»

Eddie scoffed, irritation creeping into his voice. «Oh, really? Because as far as I can tell, this thing only does whatever the hell it wants!»

«That's because you need to meet it halfway.» Emily explained patiently. «Before it listens to you, it wants you to fulfill seven principles—»

«Adam already told me about them.» Eddie crossed his arms, not in the mood for a lecture.

Emily smirked. «Then you know that all you have to do… is ask.»

Eddie's expression darkened. «No. Not unless I fulfill all of them.»

Emily blinked, surprised. «But… you have them all, don't you? You're authentic, you're humble, you're—» She stopped mid-sentence.

Something clicked.

Her face shifted, her expression growing more careful, more sorrowful.

«Oh… oh no.» Her voice was barely a whisper. «"Forgive the one who hurt you most". And I'm guessing… that's your father.»

Eddie tensed instantly.

Emily had just hit a nerve—hard.

His fingers curled against his armrests, his breath turning shallow.

«It's not that simple,» he said, his voice quiet but laced with barely contained tension.

Emily studied him carefully, trying to read past the walls he had thrown up.

«You have to forgive him.» Her words weren't a suggestion. They were a verdict.

A lump formed in Eddie's throat. His fingers threaded through his hair as his breathing grew heavier.

«How the hell am I supposed to do that?» he snapped, frustration rising like a storm in his chest.

«Am I just supposed to look that bastard in the face—the one who ruined my life, the one who turned me into what I am—and tell him it's all fine?! That I forgive him?!»

The bracelet on his wrist glowed, reacting to the turmoil inside him.

Emily shook her head. «Forgiveness doesn't mean saying it's okay. It doesn't mean forgetting.» Her golden eyes softened, touched with something like sorrow. «It means cutting the chain that still ties you to him. Don't do it for him, Headshot. Do it for yourself.»

Eddie sagged slightly against the back of his chair, exhaling a slow, shaky breath.

He knew she was right.

Deep down, he'd always known.

But how? How was he supposed to let go of something that had shaped him? That had broken him? That had nearly killed him?

His gaze fell to the bracelet again.

And then, almost involuntarily, he thought of Angel.

Angel, who smiled despite everything.
Angel, who still fought to move forward, even though he was caged.
Angel, who deserved to be free.

If he could forgive…

If he could let go…

Then the Deus Ex Machina would answer.

And Angel… would be free.

The weight of that realization hit him like a freight train.

His head spun. His hands trembled.

Emily said nothing. She simply watched him with quiet understanding, knowing he needed time to process the sheer magnitude of what he had just realized.

Eddie closed his eyes for a long moment. His chest felt too tight, his thoughts too loud.

But then, slowly, he nodded.

He didn't know if he could do it.

But he knew he had to try.

—Two Days Later, Hazbin Hotel Gym

«…23… 24… 25! You can rack it now.»

Eddie helped Charlie return the barbell to its place—easily the lightest one he'd ever handled, but for the princess, it might as well have been a truck.

Panting, Charlie collapsed back onto the bench. «Damn…» she muttered. «Maybe I should've started with the theory first.»

Yaga gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder. «Keep at it, princess. It only gets easier the more you do it.»

Linda glanced around the gym. «Adam still not here?»

Charlie let out a breath. «I let him sleep in. He'll join me for his training later.»

Before anyone could respond, Sprock suddenly dropped onto the bar like a damn gremlin, clinging to it with wide, unsettling eyes. «A dangerous display of misplaced trust…» he whispered dramatically.

Charlie blinked, confused. Eddie crossed his arms with a sigh. «Sprock, get down.»

«And if I don't?» the small demon shot back, gripping the bar tighter like some kind of lizard.

Yaga raised an eyebrow. «If you don't, Headshot might decide to start using it for his reps, and you'll end up as flat as a pancake.»

Sprock didn't move. Instead, he started swaying slightly and mumbling to himself. «Pancakes… I like pancakes… good pancakes…»

Charlie, visibly unsettled, inched away from the bench, carefully sliding to a safer distance. Once she was sure she wasn't within immediate gremlin attack range, she turned to the others and asked, «Okay… what exactly is his deal?»

Ironically, that question seemed to snap Sprock out of it. His head twisted at an unnatural angle, his glowing eyes gleaming. «I am the direct cause of the Chernobyl disaster.»

A heavy silence dropped over the gym.

Charlie's eyes widened in pure, unfiltered what-the-hell. «Wait… what?!»

Sprock nodded vigorously, as if he had just revealed an undeniable universal truth. «Oh yeah, all my fault! I pressed a button I wasn't supposed to, but in my defense…» His voice dropped to an ominous whisper. «…it was glowing.»

Eddie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. «Sprock, you died in the 80s. Do you really think you had access to a nuclear facility?»

Sprock shrugged. «Hey, you never know.» He then turned to Yaga, who was watching him with her usual unreadable expression. «C'mon, you believe me, right?»

Yaga snorted. «I'd believe you if you said you short-circuited a Game Boy. A nuclear reactor? That's a stretch.»

Sprock clutched his chest dramatically. «You dare doubt my destructive potential?! And to think—I was this close to teaching you how to cause an interdimensional blackout using a paperclip and some chewing gum.»

Linda, who had been stretching up to this point, shook her head with an amused smile. «Which is exactly why no one lets you touch the equipment in this gym.»

Sprock pointed at Eddie. «He gets to touch them!»

Eddie scoffed. «Because I don't try to take them apart looking for cosmic secrets.»

Charlie, still mildly shaken from the whole Chernobyl confession, crossed her arms. «So, just to be clear… you didn't cause the Chernobyl disaster.»

Sprock stared at her for several seconds without blinking. Then, with an eerie, almost smug grin, he whispered «…You can't prove that.»

Yaga chucked a towel at his head. «Get down and go do something useful.»

«Ugh, fine.»

Sprock flipped off the bar with an effortless somersault, landing next to Charlie like a cat. Then, just as quickly as he had appeared, he scurried away behind a rack of weights, his voice trailing off in a chilling whisper: «Pancakes… goooood pancakes…»

Charlie stiffened, shooting a glance at the others in search of answers. Nobody had one.

Eddie simply sighed and shook his head. «We're never gonna understand him.»

Then, clapping his hands once to regain focus, he turned back to Charlie. «Alright, princess. Time to get back to lifting.»

Charlie groaned, dramatically flopping back onto the bench. «This is Hell inside Hell…» she muttered, repositioning her hands on the bar with the resigned air of someone who knew there was no escape.

That was when Eddie's phone buzzed. He barely had time to glance at the screen before a name flashed across it.

Moretti.

His breath hitched—just slightly—as the familiar sounds of the gym filled the background, weights clinking, conversation flowing. For a moment, he closed his eyes, took a breath, then exhaled. «Uh… guys? You know that thing I had to do…?»

Tiger turned toward him with a knowing smirk. «Yeah, yeah. Go do your thing.» He gave Eddie a light pat on the shoulder. «We'll take care of the princess.»

Charlie immediately sat up, frowning. «Wait, what do you mean take care of?»

Eddie chuckled, slipping his phone back into his pocket. «You know—the people I need to meet? The ones who are supposed to get me that invite? Well, I gotta go see them.» He smirked. «You'll be in good hands with my men.»

Silence.

Then, the unmistakable sound of Yaga and Linda crossing their arms in unison, their gazes fixed on him with pointed expressions.

Eddie lifted his hands in surrender. «…And women.»

A loud clang echoed from across the gym as some equipment crashed to the floor—Sprock's doing, no doubt.

Eddie sighed. «…And the weird little gremlin.»

Charlie studied him for a long moment. Then, her lips curled into a knowing smirk. «You know… I'm only letting you go because I'm rooting for you two.»

Eddie froze. For a second, he hoped he had misheard her. Because deep down, he knew exactly who she meant. And no matter how hard he tried to ignore it… the heat rushing to his face and the faint blue glow flickering across his arms completely betrayed him.

In the next second, Eddie spun around so fast it was almost suspicious. «Welp—look at the time! Gotta go! See ya!» He was already halfway to the exit before anyone could react, moving with a speed that screamed tactical retreat.

The reaction from his team was immediate—and brutally telling. Tiger let out a heavy sigh, dropping his arms to his sides with clear disappointment. «I lost the damn bet, didn't I?»

Yaga smirked, folding her arms with slow, deliberate satisfaction. She stepped up beside him, clapping him on the shoulder like a victor claiming their prize. «Oh, absolutely.» Her grin widened with pure, unfiltered smugness. «Start counting your losses, tough guy.»

Tiger took a deep breath. He shouldn't have bet against those two.

—

Meeting Don Moretti was never a casual affair. He was a man who walked a razor-thin line between respect and fear, and if you wanted to stay on the right side of that line, there were very strict rules to follow.

First rule? You had to be invited.
No one just showed up at his doorstep unannounced. If Moretti—or one of his enforcers—hadn't personally granted you an audience, knocking on his door was the same as signing your own death warrant.

Second? Presentation mattered.
It didn't matter who you were or how much power you had in Hell—to Moretti, elegance was a sign of respect.
No jeans, no baggy sweaters, no casual wear. You had to show up looking your best—preferably in a well-fitted, understated suit. Nothing flashy. Tattoos? Best to keep them covered. Weapons? Sure, but hidden.

And above all else—discretion was key.
Out in the field, you could handle business however you wanted, but in front of Moretti? You had to be measured, composed. No arrogance, no theatrics. The Don had no patience for show-offs, and anyone foolish enough to play the tough guy in front of him usually ended up paying for it.

Standing in front of the mirror, Eddie adjusted his suit, exhaling slowly.

It was an old one—kept aside for occasions exactly like this. He hadn't worn it in a while, and it fit a little tighter around his shoulders than he remembered—a testament to how much training at the Hazbin Hotel was paying off.

His wings were neatly tucked away, carefully folded into their recesses so they wouldn't ruin the fabric. His dark hair was pulled back into a tight, precise bun—a style that, ironically, only made him look even more masculine.

Running a hand down the front of his jacket, he smoothed out the dark fabric, adjusting his collar and making sure his tie was perfectly in place.

Finally, he took a step back and gave himself one last once-over in the mirror.

The man staring back at him looked nothing like the one who spent his days lifting weights and protecting the Hazbin Hotel's guests.

This version of him was colder, sharper. A man ready to walk into a room where a single wrong move could mean trouble.

Eddie inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

"It's just a meeting. Get in, listen, get out. Handle the job. No bullshit."

Grabbing his phone, he fired off a quick text.

"On my way."

Then, without another moment of hesitation, he stepped out of his room—headed straight for one of the most delicate meetings of his afterlife.

He walked toward the entrance with measured steps, but every movement felt heavier than usual.

Like his feet were made of lead. Or maybe concrete.

He exhaled sharply, shaking off the unsettling thought. "Now's not the time for mafia clichés".

He was so focused on the mission ahead that, at first, he didn't even notice the figure leaning casually near the exit.

«Going somewhere, handsome?» The sultry voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Only then did he really see her.

Standing before him was a drop-dead gorgeous demoness—young, stunning, her flawless makeup accentuating seductive, bedroom eyes. Golden-blonde hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, and her long, skin-tight red dress left little to the imagination. A daring slit ran up her leg, emphasizing every perfect curve. Holding a long cigarette holder between her fingers, she exhaled slowly, watching him with a playful smirk as a curl of smoke drifted through the air.

Eddie stifled a groan of frustration."Great. Another 'Headshot victim'."

His accidental charm had already caused enough problems, and he didn't have time for yet another unwanted suitor. He had more important things to deal with. He needed to shut this down—fast, without coming off as rude, and get to that damn limousine.

Taking a deep breath, he put on his most diplomatic tone. «I'm sorry, miss, but I really don't have time for—»

Then he froze. His antennae twitched. A scent.

Honey and tobacco. Faint but unmistakable.

It was coming from her. And there was no way that was just perfume. Slowly, his eyes narrowed.

«What the fu—»

He rubbed his eyes hard, as if trying to clear an illusion.
No. No way.

Leaning in slightly, he took a better look at the demoness's face. The details were there—the shape of the eyes, the curve of the lips, that smirk, dripping with mischief, just waiting to break into a laugh.

And suddenly, it all clicked.

«ANGEL?!»

His voice cracked between shock and utter disbelief.

Angel Dust chuckled, dropping the sultry affectation and revealing his usual playful drawl.

«Well, guess that means I'm convincing.»

Eddie couldn't process it. But there was no denying it.Standing right in front of him, dressed to kill, flashing him a femme fatale smile, was none other than Angel Dust.

Except… a female version of him. Eddie stood frozen for a long second, then his whole body tensed like a bowstring. «What the hell—how—what are you wearing?!»

He'd never admit it, but something about this was seriously throwing him off. Angel had always struck the perfect balance between twink and femboy—just the right amount of playful and provocative, naturally magnetic without trying too hard.

But this? This was different.

Seeing him fully dressed as a woman, posture poised and every movement carefully calculated, it was… unsettling.

Angel crossed his arms, looking mock-offended. «First of all, it's called dragging, and it's a form of art. Second, I can't exactly waltz into Daddy Dearest's party looking like my usual fabulous self, now, can I?»

At those words, Eddie's brain stalled. And then? It clicked.

Angel wasn't here just to give him a heart attack with the whole Marilyn Monroe meets femme fatale act. He was tagging along on the mission.

The realization hit Eddie like a truck. He shook his head and jabbed a finger at him. «Oh, hell no. Absolutely NOT, Angel.»

Angel took a slow, deliberate step forward, eyes glittering with amusement as he exhaled a soft stream of smoke from his cigarette holder.

«Too late, sweetheart.» The tone was light. Playful. But his eyes weren't. «I've already made up my mind. And there's nothing you can say to change it.»

Eddie stiffened. Because those words—he'd said them before.

Back in the hotel. At the meeting. And hearing them thrown back at him now from Angel—they didn't sound so right anymore. He dragged a hand down his face.

«For Thor's sake… You are going to get me killed, you know that?»

«Oh, please.» Angel rolled his eyes. «You act like I don't know how these things work.»

Eddie clenched his fists. «You grew up with them, Angel. You KNOW you can only get in by invitation! And how the hell did you even find out—»

Before he could finish, Angel pressed a manicured finger against his lips, silencing him.
The simple touch made his pulse skip. Because even in drag, Angel still knew exactly how to mess with his head.

«First of all...» Angel started, smirking: «...you've got your sources, I've got mine. Second—do you have any idea how easy it is to distract my old man? All I gotta do is flash a little cleavage and bat my lashes, and boom.» Dropping into his femme voice, he swayed his padded hips dramatically. «Pretty women don't need invitations, darling.»

Eddie shuddered. «He's still your father, Angel. What if he—what if he tries to take you somewhere… private?»

«Then I play my cards right so he won't.» Angel winked, his glossy lips curling into a confident smirk.

Eddie? He felt like his soul was about to leave his body. He dragged a hand down his face, taking a second to process the sheer insanity of what was happening.

«For the love of Thor…» he muttered, more to himself than Angel. «This is insane. If he recognizes you, you're dead. And if I'm with you, I'm dead too.»

Angel shrugged, far too relaxed. «Then let's not get recognized.»

Eddie threw up his hands. «Oh, sure! Because a dress, some hip padding, and a little contouring is totally gonna hide the fact that you're the ONLY damn albino spider demon in all of Hell!»

Angel scoffed, crossing his arms. «Wow, no faith in my skills. Look, I put effort into this, okay? Only two arms out, the others tucked away, contouring on point, lips glossy as hell.» He twirled a lock of hair. «And need I remind you, I'm an actor, sweetheart. I fake orgasms for a living. You really think I can't fake being a femme fatale for a few hours?»

Eddie stared at him for a moment. Then exhaled slowly. «…You're impossible.»

Angel grinned victoriously. «And yet, you adore me. Admit it.»

Eddie opened his mouth to retort— But then Angel looked at him. Really looked at him. For just a second, the playfulness faded. Like he actually wanted an answer.

Eddie clenched his jaw, looking away. «…Don't do anything stupid.»

Angel's smirk softened. «Sweetheart, when do I ever do anything stupid?»

Then, without waiting for a response, he sauntered past him, moving like a dream, every step deliberate, hips swaying in perfect rhythm.

Eddie stood frozen, watching him go.

This wasn't just a mission anymore.

And as he exhaled sharply, knowing damn well he'd already lost control of the situation…

He followed.

Straight into the limousine. Straight into the lion's den. Straight past the point of no return.

—

The car was already waiting outside the hotel—a long, sleek white limousine, its golden trim gleaming under the streetlights, radiating both opulence and intimidation. The kind of wealth that didn't just want to impress—it wanted to remind you exactly where you stood.

Eddie took a deep breath. He couldn't afford distractions.

He turned to Angel, who immediately slipped into character, flashing a sultry femme fatale smile as soon as Eddie opened the door for him.

«Oh, what a gentleman…» Angel cooed in his "feminine" voice, batting his lashes in a perfectly calculated motion.

Eddie felt something inside him shift. Again.

It was weird. Too weird. He had always had clear-cut tastes, and yet… the way Angel moved, the confidence in his performance, the sheer ease with which he embodied the role—it all got under Eddie's skin in a way he couldn't quite explain.

The answer, really, was simple. "Because it's still Angel. Duh."

Shaking the thought away before it could take root, he stepped into the limousine.

The cabin was spacious, upholstered in cream-colored leather with gold accents that mirrored the exterior. A warm, low light bathed the space, casting soft shadows across the seats. And hanging in the air was that unmistakable scent—honey and tobacco.

Eddie was wrapped in it before he even realized Angel had already made himself comfortable.

Legs elegantly crossed, those red high-heeled boots gleaming under the dim light, every movement he made was an effortless blend of grace and provocation, designed to highlight every curve. There was nothing remotely masculine about him in that moment.

Eddie looked at him and thought: "Damn… he really is convincing."

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, trying to ignore the restless energy in his gut.

A faint mechanical hum cut through his thoughts.

The divider between the driver's seat and the back lowered slowly, revealing the rearview mirror—and in it, the sharp, wary eyes of the driver locked onto Eddie.

With a thick Brooklyn accent, the driver grunted, «Listen, kid, I'm tellin' ya as a friend—if that doll shows up in front of Don Moretti, ain't no guarantee he's gonna like what he sees.»

Eddie was silent for a second, analyzing the tone, the meaning beneath the words. The fact that the driver had taken the time to warn him wasn't something to ignore. It meant one of two things: either he actually gave a damn about Eddie's survival, or he was just the kind of guy who didn't wanna have to clean blood off the seats.

Angel, on the other hand, was completely unbothered. He took a slow drag from his cigarette holder, blowing out the smoke in a languid, unhurried swirl.

«Don't worry.» Eddie replied coolly, crossing his arms. «I can handle myself. And she…» he shot a look at Angel, who returned it with a playful, almost innocent smile «…knows how to behave.»

The driver held his stare for a second too long, then snorted before rolling the divider back up, shutting out any further discussion.

Eddie turned back to Angel, who was watching him with amusement. «See? You worry too much,» Angel said smoothly.

Eddie clenched his jaw.

Angel was about to get them both killed. And he knew he couldn't afford to let his guard down for even a second.

—

Right on the edge of the border between Carmilla's district and the Vees' turf stood Villa Moretti—a towering beast of white marble and gold leaf, built on the blood of countless victims and the sweat of those who had dared to challenge the wrong kind of power.

The mansion loomed over its surroundings with ostentatious arrogance, hidden behind towering stone walls, which were in turn concealed behind layers of carefully trimmed hedges, as if the sheer excess of its luxury had to be shielded from the eyes of the rest of Hell.

At the heart of this fortress stood a massive golden gate, separating Moretti's domain from the chaos beyond. Two grand ionic columns flanked it, framing an entrance fit for royalty, while above them perched a marble cherub—a grotesque mockery of innocence, standing against the crimson and black backdrop of the Pride Ring.

As the limousine rolled up to the gate, it groaned open with a long, unsettling creak, like Hell itself was holding its breath.

Beyond the gate, the gardens were just as extravagant—manicured lawns stretched on either side of the driveway, dotted with statues of mythical figures and angels frozen in tragic poses, as if Moretti had tried to capture some lost beauty within stone. At the center of the circular courtyard stood a massive fountain, its twisted dolphin sculptures spewing an inky black liquid from their mouths, a dark and twisted parody of elegance.

The driver pulled up smoothly, cut the engine, then turned in his seat, his expression dead serious.

«If anythin' happens to ya in there, I ain't seen nothin', I ain't heard nothin', and I don't know ya.»

Without waiting for a response, he stepped out and opened the door.

Eddie took a moment to take in the entrance. Those massive doors, carved with intricate scenes of damnation, seemed to pulse under the garden lights, as if the Inferno itself was alive within the wood. An invitation. A warning. Both at once.

Then his gaze dropped to Angel.

That idiot was strutting forward like he owned the damn place, hips swaying, every step in those impossibly high heels executed with the precision of a professional.

Too confident. Too relaxed.

Eddie clenched his jaw. Every single fiber of his being screamed at him to grab Angel, to yank him back, to remind him that this wasn't a stage and that one wrong move could turn his little performance into a funeral procession.

But before he could say a word, Angel turned slightly, lips curling into a teasing smile as he cast a sultry glance over his shoulder, batting his lashes.

With a voice like velvet, he let the words drip off his tongue with the grace of a blade grazing skin before slicing deep.

«What are you waitin' for, baby? Don Moretti hates to be kept waitin'.»

Eddie froze for just a fraction of a second.

It was surreal. Strange. Almost hypnotic to see Angel in this role. Too perfect. Too convincing.

He took a slow, steady breath. He had to stop letting himself get distracted.

There was a job to do.

Setting his jaw, he followed Angel inside, knowing full well that from this point forward, every step they took would be weighed, judged, and—if things went south—punished.

—

The inside of Villa Moretti was just as ostentatious as the gardens—if not worse.

A shrine to baroque excess and decadence, where every inch of space was designed to overwhelm and suffocate at the same time. Gold-framed mirrors reflected the flickering glow of candlelight, multiplying the illusion of an endless, oppressive expanse. Crystal chandeliers, heavy as hanging threats, loomed from the frescoed ceilings, while hand-carved furniture stood adorned with intricate designs—leaves, flowers, grotesquely contorted faces, frozen in expressions of agony and lust.

Everything shimmered in gold, as if luxury could somehow conceal the rot underneath.

Eddie and Angel were led through the corridors by a small, scurrying Imp valet, whose quick, servile pace carried them to a secluded lounge.

The moment they stepped inside, darkness swallowed them.

The only source of light came from a fireplace at the far end of the room, its flickering flames casting long, restless shadows across the walls and heavy carpet. The fire crackled softly—the only sound aside from their footsteps.

The air was thick, saturated with the sharp scent of leather, cigars, and power left to stagnate.

Eddie felt it pressing in on him. Every malicious intent. Every unspoken hostility, brushing against him like invisible threads, just waiting to tighten.

A butterfly caught in a spider's den.

And the spider was right there, waiting.

Seated before the fire in a grand crimson armchair, surrounded by his family and enforcers, Don Moretti awaited them.

Like his son, the boss was built like a spider—only bigger. Broader. Deadlier. His stocky frame was covered in thick black fur that seemed to absorb the light, his extra eyes clustered so closely together it was impossible to tell exactly where he was looking.

He didn't need to raise his voice to command fear.

To his right, seated in a smaller, less ostentatious chair, was Arakniss.

The spitting image of his father, only thinner, shorter—like a faded echo of the same danger.

His narrow eyes locked onto Eddie with an expression that promised nothing good.

The tension was immediate, heavy.

Then, Don Moretti smiled.

It was slow, deliberate—an empty show of warmth. His hands moved in a lazy, almost casual motion, the kind of gesture made by men who never had to rush for anything.

When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with Sicilian lilt, as smooth and slow as a snake coiling around its prey.

«Eddsciòtte! Ah, how long's it been, picciò? Must be years, eh?»

He clapped his hands twice, and like well-trained machines, a group of Imp valets hurried to set up two chairs and a small table before him.

«Sit, sit, old friend. Make yaself comfortable, eh? Mi casa es su casa.»

The invitation had the unmistakable taste of a trap.

Eddie knew it. But he had no choice.

He sat down carefully, maintaining perfect posture—relaxed, but never vulnerable. Angel, beside him, did the same. He rested one hand delicately on his thigh, the gesture fluid, calculated. From beneath long, fluttering lashes, he threw a sly, unreadable glance at Don Moretti.

The boss studied them for a long, quiet moment, his smile never reaching his eyes.

«Now, when a man gets invited, usually, he brings somethin'.»

The silence that followed was heavy.

«So… either ya walked in here empty-handed, like some kinda maleducatu…» Moretti's gaze flickered toward Angel, lingering just a second too long. «…Or I gotta assume this little bamboletta ya got sittin' next to ya is my gift.»

Tension coiled around Eddie's throat like a noose.

Angel didn't flinch. He let his fingers drift lazily over the fabric of his dress, as if completely at ease in the role. But Eddie could hear the thump of his own pulse, sharp and fast against his ribs.

There was no hesitation in his response.

«Do I look like an amateur, Don Moretti?»

His voice was steady, careful—each syllable measured with precision, because he knew every word would be weighed against him. He met Moretti's gaze head-on, unflinching.

«As we speak, a courier is on his way with a special delivery just for you.»

He allowed the briefest pause—just long enough to hold suspense.

«A bottle of Romanée-Conti. A certain someone who recently arrived in Hell knew how to bottle it. Got right to work.»

Moretti's eyes narrowed.

Arakniss tensed.

Angel kept smiling.

Eddie braced for the next move.

Then—Moretti laughed.

A deep, theatrical sound—fake as hell. But it was enough. "For now, you're not in trouble."

Eddie didn't react. He kept his face neutral, letting the boss have his little show.

«Ah, ya always know how to pull yaself outta the fire at the last second, huh, picciò?»

The tone was amused. But Eddie knew the real test hadn't even begun.

Angel, ever the perfect femme fatale, smoothly crossed his legs, his stiletto boot brushing against the plush carpet in a slow, deliberate motion.

«Oh, but what do you expect, Don?» he interjected, voice syrupy sweet, lashes fluttering. «A man like him knows exactly how to treat a gentleman of your caliber.»

Eddie's blood ran cold.

"Too much". Angel was pushing too much.

Instinct took over. He leaned slightly toward him, murmuring through clenched teeth, «Silly, let me do the talking.»

Angel didn't even have time to respond before a flat, unimpressed voice cut in.

«Silly? What kinda name is that?»

Arakniss was watching them now, suspicion and irritation mixing in his gaze. His voice was low, edged with menace—bored, but waiting.

Like he was itching for an excuse to call bullshit on this whole act.

Eddie cursed himself.

A colossal screw-up.

The air in the room tightened, every passing second stretching unbearably.

He needed to fix it. Fast.

«Uh—Sally.» He corrected immediately, forcing his tone to remain casual. «Her name. The lady here is… uhm…»

"Shit. I can't think straight."

But before he could finish, Angel stepped in with terrifying ease.

«His future wife!» The words rang out with unshakable confidence. And as if to prove it, Angel lifted his hand—flashing a diamond ring on his left finger, sparkling brilliantly in the firelight.

Eddie went stiff. He had to physically resist the urge to scream.

But Angel wasn't hesitating—no, he was committing, giving the ring a delicate little flourish, letting it catch the glow of the flames with perfect elegance.

Eddie could feel the weight of every gaze now locked onto them.

Tension stretched tight as a bowstring.

Moretti studied them, expression unreadable. Arakniss squinted, clearly skeptical. One of the enforcers standing in the shadows raised a single brow.

Eddie had no choice. He had to play along.

He inhaled slowly, then nodded—steady, confident, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

«That's right.» His voice came out smoother than he expected. «That's why she's accompanying me.»

Angel shot him a victorious look, that damn smirk curling at the edges with pure mischief.

Eddie, on the other hand, was imploding.

Moretti let out a real laugh this time.

«And here I was thinkin' you was a finòcciu like that disgrace of a son I got.»

Eddie didn't react.

Angel's smile didn't waver. But his fingers curled ever so slightly against the armrest. A tiny, almost imperceptible motion—but Eddie caught it.

He knew Angel well enough to know that beneath that flawless makeup and mask of confidence, there was a fire burning dangerously close to the breaking point.

But Angel didn't let it show. Instead, he let out a lighthearted laugh, bringing a hand to his chest with an air of playful scandal.

«Oh, Don, what are you saying?» he gasped theatrically. «My dear husband is a very virile man, I can assure you.»

Eddie fought the urge to rub his temples.

Virile.
Husband.

If he didn't already feel like dying, he sure as hell did now.

"Tonight, I swear to the Gods, I'm killing myself again."

Moretti kept laughing, slapping his thigh while Arakniss simply stared, his cold gaze cutting through their little act.

«Virile, huh?» The boss's eyes gleamed with irony. «Tell me, bedda, how long ya been screwin' him?»

Eddie's heart skipped a beat.

Angel didn't flinch. If anything, his smile widened. Too wide. Dangerously wide.

"Oh, fuck."

«Don Moretti...» Angel sighed, laying a slow, deliberately teasing hand on Eddie's thigh «...that's not the kinda question ya ask a lady.»

His fingers trailed down, just barely brushing along the fabric.

Eddie's brain short-circuited.

Moretti laughed harder.

Arakniss didn't.

And in that exact moment, Eddie realized—Angel was playing with fire.

He had to stop him. Now.

On instinct, Eddie caught Angel's wrist. His grip was firm but controlled. With his other hand, he lightly pressed against Angel's shoulder, guiding him back into his seat.

All without breaking character.

«Sally, Sally, sweetheart!» he exhaled, shaking his head with the exasperation of a husband indulging his wife's antics. «Please, darling, let me handle the conversation with the gentlemen.» He leaned in slightly, just enough to brush his cheek against Angel's in a display of carefully measured intimacy. «So we can get outta here, and I can finally focus on the mission, alright?»

Angel blinked, lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. Then, agonizingly slow, he withdrew his hand from Eddie's thigh and sighed. «Oh, of course, tesoro. You know I can't say no to you…»

Eddie held his breath. For a moment, he thought he might just drop dead on the spot.

But then, Moretti chuckled. A low, amused sound as he leaned back into his chair with a theatrical sigh.

«You always been a smart picciotto.» He ran a hand over his thigh, tapping his fingers idly against the fabric.

«Well, I kept ya on edge long enough.»

Eddie wasn't fooled. The game wasn't over.

Moretti settled in, pulling a cigar from the inside pocket of his jacket and rolling it between his fingers before lighting it with deliberate slowness.

«Now tell me… how's Bruce doin'? Heard he joined that Hazbin Hotel too.» The boss let out a short laugh, heavy with irony. «Seems like a whole lotta bullshit to me, but hey… who am I to judge?»

Eddie kept his expression neutral.

«Bruce is fine.» he answered without hesitation. «The Hazbin Hotel is a safe place. Better than that rundown shack he was livin' in before.» A brief silence. Eddie knew Moretti was testing him, watching for anything hidden between the lines. «But I didn't come all the way here for small talk, Don.»

Moretti smirked around his cigar. «No, no. You here for a favor.» He flicked his wrist lazily, sending a curl of thick smoke into the air. «I hear ya want an invitation… to that so-called Valentino Gala.» The words hung in the air. Then, the boss tilted his head slightly, studying Eddie with a smile that never reached his eyes. «Tell me, figghiu miu… why the hell ya gettin' involved in this fuckin' circus?»

Eddie stayed calm, but he felt his shoulders tighten. «I got my reasons.» He kept his answer vague, hoping to steer the conversation away.

«Oh yeah?» Moretti exhaled another slow puff of smoke.
«And we gonna hear 'em, or you plannin' to play mysterious like always?» Arakniss's voice cut in, dripping with passive-aggression. Sarcastic tone, real challenge.

Eddie didn't give him the satisfaction. Didn't need to.

A simple flick of Moretti's fingers—barely even a movement—and Arakniss shut up immediately, sinking back in his seat.

«Pardon my boy.» The boss finally lit his cigar with a gold match, the acrid scent of tobacco spreading thick through the room. «Still holds a grudge 'cause he thinks you were the one who put an end to the Guild.»

Eddie didn't react. Moretti took his time, watching him like a cat plays with a mouse before the kill. «And if I'm bein' honest?» He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl between them. «Ain't like he's wrong.»

A few of the enforcers exchanged glances.

Arakniss clicked his tongue, visibly irritated by the turn the conversation had taken.

Eddie stayed quiet.

Because in that moment, he knew—Moretti wasn't just feeling him out anymore. He was making a move.

«Tell me somethin'… you liked it there, didn't ya?»

Eddie didn't answer right away.

Moretti was dragging him back.

Back to when the Guild of Assassins still existed.
Back to when Eddie wasn't a guardian—just a weapon.

«Last time we heard 'bout ya, ya was still standin'… in a fuckin' bloodbath.» Moretti's voice was calm, almost nostalgic. «I remember it real well.»

The silence in the room grew heavier, thick like smoke that wouldn't clear.
The crackling fire was the only thing that still felt alive.

Eddie felt the weight of the past press against his throat like a blade.

Then, with that carefully measured theatrics of his, Moretti leaned forward slightly.
Rested his elbows on his knees. «You liked it there… 'til ya killed 'em all.»

The words dropped like a hammer.

Eddie didn't flinch. He didn't have to.
He could feel the stares on him.
One of Moretti's men held his breath.
Arakniss lowered his gaze, as if he already knew exactly where his father was going with this.

«Ahhh, right…» Moretti continued, savoring every word. «One faction against the other… and then, boom! Everyone dead.»

Moretti shook his head with a vague smile, but his eyes were sharp as knives. He leaned in just slightly, rolling his cigar between his fingers.

«I gotta wonder, Eddsciòtte…» His voice was smooth, deliberate. He watched Eddie the way a predator studies prey—one that don't even know it's already dead. «You still got it? Can you still do a job clean?» He tilted his head, letting the silence stretch like the edge of a blade between them. «Or you still that same picciotto who loses his head?»

Eddie's heart didn't even skip a beat.

He was used to this.
To these questions.
To living in the shadow of what he used to be.

But Angel wasn't.

Angel tensed immediately. Not his usual, dramatic kind of tension, the kind he could turn into a sultry pose or a teasing laugh. No. This was different.

Eddie heard it—the brief hitch in Angel's breath.
His smile didn't drop. But it cracked, just a little. And the fingers that had been playing so confidently on his thigh a second ago? They curled around the fabric of his dress, just slightly.

Eddie noticed.

Because he knew Angel.
He knew how he laughed to deflect.
How he teased to dodge.

But he'd never seen Angel's eyes go so empty, even for just a second.

Angel wasn't used to hearing Eddie described like that.

And more than that—he didn't like it.

The air in the room felt heavier.

Eddie caught the scent of disappointment rolling off Angel, and the weight of it nearly crushed him. Angel kept smiling, but now it looked like a mask stretched too tight—one wrong move away from cracking clean in half.

Eddie lowered his gaze, just for a second. He wanted to tell him something. Anything. But Angel wouldn't look at him. Instead, he took a slow breath and repositioned himself in his chair with a grace that felt too mechanical—like an actor remembering his lines after a moment of dead air.

And then he smiled again. Wide. Perfect. Fake as the orgasms in his movies.
But Eddie knew the truth. He felt it in the way Angel kept his back too straight. In the way his fingers—once idly playing with the hem of his dress—were now just barely clenched over his knee, the only sign he couldn't hide.

And in the silence that followed Moretti's question, Eddie realized something clear as day—

Right now, in this very moment, Angel Dust was reevaluating everything he thought he knew about him.

Eddie, the guardian. Eddie, the quiet, reserved man who held his hand without askin' for nothin' in return. Eddie, who wasn't like any of the men Angel had ever known. And now he was finding out—once upon a time, Eddie had been none of those things.

Eddie felt it—like a thread stretched too tight between them, ready to snap. But it didn't matter. Didn't matter how much his chest ached. He had to keep the act going. His voice came out steady. Measured. Perfectly controlled.

«It's been… years, Don.» A pause. Calculated. «Back then, I didn't even know I could do somethin' like that.» The weight of the lie settled on his shoulders like a lead blanket. «Now… I got my emotions perfectly under control.»

Arakniss scoffed, crossing his arms with a mix of skepticism and outright disgust. «Oh yeah?» His voice dripped with mockery. «'Cause far as I remember, controlling yourself ain't exactly your strong suit.»

Eddie ignored the jab. He had to. Couldn't afford to slip.

Moretti took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling a thick plume of smoke that hung in the air, heavy as the silence that followed his words. «Perfectly under control, huh?» He smiled, slow and indulgent, like a father humoring a kid who just told him somethin' impossible.

«Picciò, I known ya too long.» Eddie didn't answer. Because he knew Moretti was about to drive the knife in deeper. The boss tilted his head slightly, rolling the cigar between his fingers. «And ya know what never changes 'bout guys like you?»

A pause.

The crackling fire in the hearth made the wait stretch longer.

«At some point… the beast always comes out.»

Eddie kept his eyes locked on Moretti. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

But Angel did. Not much. Just the slightest tension in his shoulders, like a door in his mind had been kicked open, letting in thoughts he didn't wanna have.

Eddie could almost hear them. Fast. Scrambled. Heavy.

Moretti smiled, satisfied, and with a lazy flick of his wrist, he waved the conversation away—like ashes off his cigar. «But hey, this ain't the time for old stories, right?» His tone was light, as if he hadn't just gutted Eddie's past just to see how deep the blade would go. Then he turned to Arakniss, his voice suddenly sharp. «Piglia 'a fotografia!»

Arakniss scoffed, digging through his jacket with careless ease before tossing a photo onto the table.

Eddie lowered his gaze. The grainy print showed an Imp with bright orange skin moving through a rundown warehouse, weaving between stacks of crates and shadowy figures. Moretti drummed a thick, furry finger against the image. The dull thump against the paper seemed to make his words land even heavier. «You know how dis works, Eddsciòtte. I owe ya one, yeah… but dis is a big favor. And ya gotta pay up.»

His voice dropped an octave. Not an offer. A demand dressed as one. His eyes narrowed, cigar hanging from his lips. «Dis guy? He thinks he's smart. Thinks he can pull a fast one on da Morettis.»

He shook his head with a slow, almost amused smirk. «You're gonna fix dat for me. And you're gonna get back what he stole.»

Eddie picked up the photo, keeping his expression steady—even as his mind ran a mile a minute.

Angel. What was he thinkin' right now? Was he judgin' him? Pullin' away? Eddie felt stupid for lettin' him come here. Stupid for makin' him see this.

He forced his voice to stay neutral. «Dead or alive?»

Moretti shrugged, casual. «Fai come vuoi. Long as he don't show his face no more.» A small sound pulled Eddie back to the room.

The softest rustle of fabric. Angel had shifted in his seat beside him. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Eddie did. Too well.

Angel Dust always moved with confidence. With a natural, effortless grace. But now? Now, every movement felt measured. Controlled. And that kind of control was worse than any words he coulda said.

Then Angel spoke. And his voice was still smooth, still teasing, still sweet. But something was off. «Mmmh, Headshot… ya know what I'm thinkin'?» He stretched back into his seat with studied laziness, one hand dragging down his thigh like he was really enjoying the thought. «How 'bout a classic hit? Real vintage… just you, me, and a bullet in da right place.»

A shiver crawled up Eddie's spine. Angel was playing. But not for fun. He was covering something up. And Eddie knew exactly what.

Arakniss narrowed his eyes at him, suspicion written all over his face. «You talk a lot about shootin' people, doll.»

Angel let out a soft giggle, bringing his fingers to his lips in a coy little gesture, tiltin' his head like he was delighted by the conversation. «Oh, sorry! Too many gangster shows.»

Moretti watched him. For too long.

Eddie felt his own breath slow. Didn't dare look at Angel. Not after what he saw in his eyes. Beneath that perfect mask—something had cracked.

Finally, Moretti turned back to Eddie, resting his elbow on his chair's armrest, thoughtful. «Technically, dat invite's for my youngest boy.» He took a slow drag from his cigar, letting the smoke curl around him like a shroud. «But dat minchione… he's on the stage. Right in da middle of all dose people…» The boss's jaw clenched. The cigar bent slightly between his fingers. His voice dropped lower, heat coiled beneath it like smolderin' embers. «Valentino does it on purpose. He likes playin' with fire.» The air in the room felt thicker. Eddie saw the way Moretti's fingers dug into the armrest, the faint twitch of tendons beneath his fur. The cigar trembled under the pressure. «It's his way of tellin' me: 'He's mine now. I'll do whatever I want with him.'»

Angel tensed. Barely.

But Eddie felt it. His chest tightened. Didn't look at him. Couldn't.

Moretti exhaled slowly, as if pushin' the thought away. Like a man already planning when to settle the score. «But he ain't gonna get away wit it.» His voice dipped lower. A promise. «Fine, he took my kid from me… but dis?» He shook his head. Didn't finish the thought. Then, with deliberate ease, he turned his eyes back to Eddie. And let the words slip slow—poisonous as his cigar smoke.

«You want some advice? Enjoy da party… but make sure you're da first to leave.» The silence after that was loud. Eddie nodded slowly, gathering every ounce of control he had left.

«I'll make sure this Imp doesn't bother you again. With your permission… I'll take my leave.» He stood, feeling the weight of Moretti's gaze settle on him. Angel followed a beat later, adjusting his dress with a smooth motion. With studied grace, he let a lock of his wig tumble over his shoulder, then turned back toward Moretti with a dazzling smile and a playful little curtsy. «Pleasure meetin' ya, Don.»

Moretti didn't answer right away. Just watched him. Expression unreadable. Eyes hooded, measuring every inch of him. Then, low and absentminded, he murmured a final warning: «All'occhio, picciottu.»

Angel acted like he didn't hear it. Just fluttered his lashes and turned on his heel.

But Eddie knew that walk. There was tension in it. Behind them, Arakniss crossed his arms, eyes still fixed on Sally, suspicion etched deep in his face. «Somethin' ain't right with that doll.»

The meeting was over.

But the damage had already been done.

Eddie felt it—Angel's stare on him as they walked away. It wasn't the same as before. No playfulness. No warmth. None of that quiet, lingering desire he'd sometimes catch in unexpected moments. No. Angel was lookin' at him like he didn't recognize him anymore.

And that? That was the hardest hit of the night.

—

The silence between them felt almost unreal—thick, heavy, like the air after a storm. They were far from Villa Moretti now, but the echo of that conversation still clung to them, stuck to their skin like the lingering smoke from the boss's cigar.

Angel walked with his usual effortless grace, moving over cracks and potholes in the pavement as if he instinctively knew exactly where to step—even in impossible heels. Eddie stole a glance at him, noting how every motion was measured, deliberate. But the usual theatrics, the over-the-top flair that was so Angel Dust? Gone.

They hadn't spoken a word since they left.

Eddie felt the distance between them, and it wasn't just physical. It was deeper than the stretch of their shadows against the alley walls.

He'd disappointed him. He'd never pretended to be perfect, but from the moment Angel first noticed him at the hotel, he'd let him in. Just a little. And for a while, he liked it—being seen, wanted, even if it was all just a game to Angel.

After decades of solitude, it had felt good to be someone's center of attention. But now? Now, Angel wasn't even looking at him. No teasing smirk. No sly glances. No coy flutter of lashes laced with mischief. Just steady footsteps on the sidewalk. And silence.

And fuck, Eddie missed it. The playful back-and-forth. The relentless flirting. The way Angel could fill the air with biting wit, light laughter, that impossible mix of bold and sweet that he never seemed to get tired of offering.

It was ridiculous how much he missed it.

He was about to say something, anything, before the silence became something permanent—when Angel suddenly stopped. Spun around fast.

The hem of his dress swayed just slightly with the movement, hands on his hips in what could have looked relaxed. But his eyes?

Cold.

«So…» His voice was low. Too controlled to be natural. «…you wanna tell me why you never mentioned what really happened to the Guild?»

Eddie's stomach twisted. Shit. He'd rather take insults. Hell, he'd rather take a punch. Anything but this.

«I told you.» He kept his voice even, but he knew it wouldn't be enough.

Angel raised a brow, tilting his head just slightly—that same gesture he always did when someone tried to bullshit him.

«Oh yeah?» He crossed his arms, shifting his weight onto one hip in that perfectly balanced, too perfect way. «You mentioned internal conflicts.» A short pause, and then that smile—too sharp to be playful. «Not the bloodbath you left behind.»

Eddie let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. «Do we really gotta do this now?» He was so goddamn tired. But Angel, for the first time, didn't back down. He stepped forward and jabbed a sharp finger into Eddie's chest, not giving a single fuck that Eddie was bigger, stronger.

«Yeah, we do, actually.» That finger pressed just slightly into the fabric of his suit. «I told you everything about me, Headshot. Everything. And you?» He shoved him—sharp, quick. «You barely even mentioned the Guild! So tell me, why the fuck didn't you say anything?!»

Eddie clenched his fists. Didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to give those words power. But Angel wasn't done.

«You know what that felt like?» His voice wavered, just slightly, but his gaze never broke. «Finding out from someone else? From that piece of shit father of mine, while I'm sittin' there pretendin' to be some high-class whore just to get through the night?!»

Eddie's breath caught. He could feel Angel's heartbeat, hammering with anger, with something else, something worse—betrayal. And that scent. That goddamn scent. Bitter. Wrong.

«Angel—»

«Nah, fuck you!» Angel threw up his hands like he was physically pushing Eddie away. Keeping him out.

«You're not the guy who lies, right?!» His voice cracked—just for a second—but he didn't let Eddie get a word in.

«You're the guy who protects, the one who's always honest, the one I thought I knew!»

Eddie felt like something inside him was breaking apart.

Angel thought he knew him. And now, he was reconsidering everything.

The scent got worse. The honey almost gone now, leaving only smoke and something acrid—something Eddie had never smelled on him before. He couldn't take it.

«I didn't lie!» he snapped, voice harsher than he meant. «I told you what you needed to know.»

Angel blinked. Then he laughed. Flat. Cold. «Oh, right. Of course.» He nodded, slow, a bitter smile curling at his lips. «You get to decide what's necessary and what ain't.»

Eddie stepped forward, instinctively.

But Angel moved back before he could get close.

Not afraid. Disgusted.

Eddie froze. He'd never seen Angel look at him like that before.

Angel let out a sharp breath, shook his head, and turned on his heel. Started walking. His strides were long. Angry. Not theatrical, not exaggerated. Just real.

And he didn't throw a single quip over his shoulder. No snide remarks. No nothing. Just silence.

Eddie stood there, frozen in the dark, unable to move. Unable to speak.

Angel's scent faded into the air.

He was gone.

Maybe just for the night.

Maybe for good.