Spawn's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.
"They fed them information," Octavia went on. "Where you were, what you were doing, even who you were spending time with. I think they thought if they got rid of you, it would... I don't know… weaken the people you were close to. Or maybe they just didn't like you. Either way, it was them."
The cathedral seemed to grow colder as her words settled. Spawn stood still, silent, the flickering candlelight reflecting off his wings as he processed her confession.
"I tried to warn you," she added, voice breaking a little. "I really did. But by the time I got to the hotel… Charlie told me you were already gone. So I left. I couldn't even look at them."
There was a long pause before Spawn finally responded. "You didn't have to tell me that."
"I did," Octavia replied firmly. "Because it's not just that I don't want to go home—I can't. Not when I know what they did."
Spawn glanced around the dim, hollow cathedral, his voice echoing faintly against the cracked stone walls. "You realize I've got nothing here, right? Just four walls and a roof. No heat. No bed. No comfort."
Octavia shrugged, already making her way toward a dusty corner near one of the broken stained glass windows. "I won't take up much space."
Spawn raised a brow at that, watching her settle in as if this was the most natural thing in the world. "Last time I saw you… you were with your father. Why not stay with him?"
The moment the words passed Spawn's lips, Octavia visibly tensed. Her wings drew in tight, and a dark scowl etched itself across her face like a reflex. She didn't answer at first. But she didn't need to. Spawn could read the silence better than most.
Whether it was a falling out, another betrayal, or simply not feeling safe in her own home anymore—he saw enough in her expression to know that topic was a dead end.
He crossed his arms and turned away, respecting the boundary without question. "Alright," he said simply. "You can stay."
Octavia looked over at him, the scowl fading slightly, replaced by something much more subdued. Grateful.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
He gave no reply, but she could see it in his posture—subtle, but present. An unspoken understanding. Two exiles under the same broken roof.
"This won't be easy," he added. "And I don't know how long I'll be like this."
"I don't care," she said. "You're the only one that's ever made sense to me. Even if the whole world thinks you're a monster… you never pretended to be anything else. That's more than I can say for a lot of people."
As Spawn silently observed Octavia settle into her chosen corner—brushing dust off a cracked pew and dropping her things beside it—his mind wandered to a much darker, but oddly familiar time.
Back when he first emerged as a Hellspawn, he had spent a long time surviving in Rat City's forgotten underbelly. The smell of rot, rusted metal, and old concrete was a constant. But more constant than the stink was the sight of people. Real people. Cast aside, broken, abandoned by society.
He'd seen them all—war veterans with shattered minds, addicts clawing for their next breath of numbness, runaways who had fled from something worse than the cold. Men, women, kids, the elderly. Black, white, rich, poor—none of it mattered. Misery was a great equalizer, and Rat City had a population of survivors no one wanted to acknowledge.
And yet, despite the suffering, there had always been a strange sense of community among the lost. They didn't judge each other for how they got there. They just existed. Side by side. Silent witnesses to each other's pain.
So no—Spawn wasn't about to pass judgment on Octavia.
He understood.
There were times when "home" was just a word. A building. A prison dressed in wallpaper and false comfort. Sometimes, anywhere else was better. Even a crumbling cathedral filled with ghosts of forgotten faith.
His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before he quietly turned away. There was a long road ahead for both of them.
A memory burned in his mind like an ember buried deep in cold ash.
It was late—later than usual—when the woman stumbled into Rat City. The faint glow from broken neon signs painted her bruises in shades of red and blue, as if the city itself had wept for her. She was clutching her side, limping, and visibly shaking. Her clothes were torn... and she was visibly pregnant.
No one had to ask questions. The bruises told enough of the story.
The women of Rat City, hardened by their own battles, moved quickly. They wrapped her in blankets, found a half-decent mattress in the corner of a forgotten building, and shared what little food they had. She barely spoke, but tears streamed down her face for hours.
Spawn had watched it all unfold from the shadows—silent, unseen. That was his place back then. A specter in the alleys. But not indifferent.
And then, a few days later, he came.
The abuser stormed into the alley, shouting her name with venom in his voice. Said she was going to regret running. That no one would protect her. That he'd drag her back, even if she kicked and screamed the whole way.
He didn't know what Rat City was.
And he sure as hell didn't know who was watching.
Spawn never gave him the chance to lay another hand on her. He didn't even speak. He just appeared—a shadow solidifying into form. Green eyes glowing with quiet wrath.
The man didn't get a second chance to threaten anyone.
When it was over, the others didn't ask questions. No one thanked him, and he didn't expect them to. The woman simply cried harder that night, but this time, there was something else in her tears.
Relief.
Spawn never forgot her. Not her face, not her strength. And now, watching Octavia curl up in the corner of the cathedral—wounded in a different way, running from a different kind of pain—he felt the same unspoken pull to protect.
He didn't know what path lay ahead. But if someone tried to drag her back to a place she didn't want to be?
They'd have him to deal with.
Spawn's boots echoed softly off the cathedral floor as he stepped away.
Octavia's voice cut through the silence, quiet but clear. "Where are you going?"
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "I've got some thinking to do," he said, his tone low and gravelly. "I'm heading to the top of the tower. If you need anything… just call."
With that, he vanished into the deeper shadows of the cathedral, his footsteps fading as he ascended the ancient spiral staircase that twisted its way to the highest point of the building.
The wind was sharp up there—biting and cold, even for someone like him. The skyline stretched endlessly beyond the crumbling stone, the city lights flickering below like dying stars. Spawn stood at the edge of the tower, his angelic wings folded tight against his back, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
His thoughts were a whirlwind.
Heaven wanted him dead.
Hell couldn't protect him.
And now Earth, this broken middle-ground, was the only place he had left to breathe freely—if only just barely.
He'd spent years living on the edge, surviving by instinct and rage. But things were different now. Octavia was here. And whether he liked it or not, she was his responsibility now. She was someone he had to keep safe—someone who, like him, had been caught in the crossfire of powerful, uncaring forces.
It was easier when he was alone. No one to worry about. No one to lose.
But he'd be lying to himself if he said her presence wasn't welcome. There was something grounding about having her here. Something that reminded him of the man he used to be… before all the fire and the chains.
He stood there for hours, unmoving, wings slowly unfurling in the wind like the sails of a war-torn ship.
He didn't have a full plan yet. But for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel completely lost.
He had something worth protecting again.
And that meant, one way or another, he'd find the strength to keep going.
Back at the Hazbin Hotel, Angel Dust leaned against the wall just outside the lounge, phone pressed between his shoulder and cheek as he lit a cigarette with a flick of the lighter in his fingers. His usual smirk was absent, replaced with a rare look of focus.
"I'm tellin' ya, Tiff, if you hear anything—even a whisper—I need to know. This guy's not just some random freak show, alright?"
Tiffany's voice crackled on the other end, sharp and edged with attitude. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Look, I haven't seen or heard a damn thing. Guy like that? He's either real good at hiding or real dead."
Angel scoffed, puffing out a cloud of smoke. "Yeah well, he ain't dead. He's too damn stubborn for that."
A pause.
Then Tiffany added, in that passive-aggressive tone Angel had come to know well, "If I do hear something, I'll let you know. Don't go cryin' if I find him before you, though. I know how you boys get when you're not the center of attention."
Angel rolled his eyes, letting out a dry laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Tiff. You're a real peach."
"Bite me."
He smirked at that one. "You couldn't afford me, hun. You know I charge extra for girls."
The call ended with a sarcastic click, and Angel tucked his phone away with a flick of his wrist. He stared off for a moment, the smirk fading again as the weight of it all returned. Everyone was coming up short. Every trail turned cold. And the longer Spawn stayed gone, the more Angel's gut twisted with unease.
Something big was brewing.
And if they didn't find him soon, they might not like what came next.
Letting out a long, tired sigh, Angel pushed himself off the wall and shuffled toward the bar. His shoes made soft thuds on the plush carpeting, and the dim, warm lighting of the hotel lounge cast his silhouette across the floor. Everything felt heavier these days—every step, every breath.
He had a lot of reasons to care, but none of them compared to Al.
Al—Spawn—had done what no one else ever had. He'd freed Angel from Valentino. He'd ripped the strings that had been pulling Angel for decades and given him a shot at something real. And even if Al didn't always show it with words, Angel felt the loyalty that came from that act down to his core.
As he reached the bar, Angel gave Husk a small wave, more tired than his usual flamboyant flair. Husk, cleaning a glass with his clawed fingers, grunted in acknowledgement, not needing to ask. He already knew.
Without a word, Husk slid a heavy glass across the counter to Angel and poured one for himself. The two sat in silence for a while, the only sound being the soft clink of ice and the low hum of the hotel's ambiance.
After a long sip, Angel finally spoke, his voice quieter than usual. "He really held this place together, didn't he?"
Husk nodded slowly, taking a swig of his own drink. "Yeah. Guy had a hell of a presence. Kinda hard not to notice when he's gone."
Angel chuckled weakly. "Never thought someone like him would give a damn about people like us, y'know? But he did. I owe that guy my life."
Husk's eyes softened behind his usual tired stare. "Hotel hasn't been the same without him. Not just 'cause he was strong, but because he cared. In his own grumpy, cape-wearing way."
They both sat in silence again, the weight of Spawn's absence lingering between them like a ghost. The hotel still functioned, still welcomed the damned and the lost—but it felt different. Less secure. Less alive.
Angel glanced at his drink, then at Husk. "We're gonna find him, right?"
Husk didn't answer right away. He just stared into his glass before setting it down with a gentle clink.
"We have to."
As the two sat there with their drinks in hand, another person sat down at the bar. Without even being asked, Husk poured the man his own drink.
As Husk wordlessly poured the drink and slid it down the bar, the newcomer caught it with an easy, practiced hand. The amber liquid barely sloshed in the glass as he brought it to his lips and took a slow sip, like he had all the time in the world.
Angel side-eyed him, not bothering to hide his curiosity. The guy had an air about him—like someone who'd seen too much and talked about none of it. His old trench coat was worn at the edges, dust still clinging to the seams, and the wide-brimmed hat shaded most of his face in a perpetual dusk. But those sharp green eyes, barely visible beneath the brim, held a familiar kind of storm.
He didn't speak right away. Just let the drink sit in his hand like it belonged there. Like he belonged there, despite being new.
Angel finally broke the silence. "You got a habit of showin' up at just the right time, trench coat."
The man—Callister—chuckled softly. It was low and gravelly, like a wind dragging over old bones. "Habit or curse, depends on who you ask."
Husk grunted, already pouring another round for himself. "You never say much, Callister. But when you do, it usually means somethin'."
Callister's lip twitched into the smallest of smirks. "That's 'cause most people talk too much without sayin' anything."
Angel tilted his head, scrutinizing him. "You've been watchin' what's goin' on, huh? With Al. With the search."
Callister finally turned his eyes toward Angel. "Hard not to. Place feels like it's holdin' its breath. Like it's waitin' for something… or someone."
Angel frowned slightly, leaning forward. "You know somethin' we don't?"
Callister didn't answer right away. He took another sip, then set the glass down gently on the counter.
"I know the kind of man Al is," he said slowly. "The kind that disappears not to run, but to protect."
Angel's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
Callister's gaze turned distant, haunted. "Because I've been that man."
The bar went silent for a moment. Even Husk stopped moving. Angel stared at Callister, wondering just who this man really was—and what exactly he knew.
Callister swirled the last of his drink in the glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light before he downed it in one smooth motion. He set the glass down with a soft clink and leaned forward on the bar, his fingers lacing together.
"You know," he said in that steady, gravelly tone, "this whole mess reminds me of when Ragnar Lothbrok found himself neck-deep in trouble. Betrayed, surrounded, every escape cut off. Looked like it was the end for him."
Angel raised a brow, halfway through sipping his drink. "Wait, Ragnar who?"
Husk let out a grunt. "Viking king. From the old world. Had a habit of pissing off everyone with a crown."
Callister gave a small nod. "Right when things looked their darkest, when everyone thought the man was done for… his ex-wife, Lagertha, showed up with her army. Saved his ass in the nick of time."
Angel blinked, glancing sideways at Husk. "Wait… you were there for that?"
Callister chuckled, low and amused. "Nah. But it's a damn good story. And a good example of how sometimes… when all seems lost, help comes from out of nowhere. Someone who knows you, even if you've been apart."
Husk snorted. "So, you think we've got our own Lagertha coming?"
Callister leaned back, tilting his hat slightly with one finger. "I think… we're not as alone as we thinks. Just like Ragnar wasn't. Al's got people he cares about. And when the moment comes… he'll be there."
Angel slowly nodded, his smile returning with a hint of hope. "Then let's just hope he shows up in time."
Callister gave no reply this time—just a small, knowing smirk as he signaled for another drink. The bar stayed quiet, but something had shifted again. There was a sense now that the story wasn't over. Not yet.
Callister tipped his hat to the two before casually walking off, disappearing into the hotel like a shadow swallowed by the dim lighting.
Angel watched him go, his eyes narrowing slightly. Once the coast was clear, he leaned in close to Husk, lowering his voice.
"Hey," he murmured, "you ever get the feelin' there's somethin'… off about that guy?"
Husk didn't look up from his glass, lazily swirling the contents. "Whaddya mean, off?"
Angel flicked his fingers toward the hallway. "Just the other day, I heard him talkin' to someone in the lounge. He was goin' on about some ancient rebellion in Rome. Spoke about it like he was there. Like, firsthand."
Husk gave a tired grunt. "Maybe he just reads a lot. Some people talk like that."
Angel shook his head. "No, like, really like he was there. He even mentioned the smell of burning olive oil and how the sand in the Colosseum stuck to the blood. That's weird, Husk. I've done method acting, but that was too damn vivid."
Husk finally looked over at him, ears twitching slightly. "You thinkin' he's someone else? Like… a soul that's been around longer than he's lettin' on?"
Angel shrugged. "Maybe. I mean, who walks around in a trench coat and hat like some noir detective and drops ancient war stories like bedtime tales?"
Husk scoffed, taking a sip of his drink. "He's probably just a dramatic nerd. We get plenty of 'em here. Unless he sprouts wings or shoots lightning, I'm not gonna lose sleep over it."
Angel leaned back in his stool, still watching the hall where Callister vanished. "Yeah… maybe. But I'm keepin' an eye on him, just in case."
Husk grumbled something about paranoia but didn't argue further. Still, a flicker of thought lingered in the back of his mind as he refilled his glass—just long enough for doubt to take root.
The wind swept through the cracked stone spires of the cathedral as Spawn stood at its highest point. Below, the city sprawled in all its chaos and quiet—an endless tangle of alleyways, forgotten rooftops, and flickering neon. From here, it all looked so small. Manageable. But his mind was anything but calm.
He hadn't been responsible for anyone in a long time—not like this. Octavia wasn't a soldier. She wasn't someone hardened by death and war like he was. She was just a girl. One who had decided, for reasons he didn't yet fully understand, to trust him. To stay with him. In this broken cathedral. In this mess of a situation.
Spawn clenched his fist.
He didn't need to eat, didn't need to drink, didn't even need warmth most days. He could go weeks without rest, pushed forward by pure willpower and rage alone. But Octavia? She was still mostly flesh and blood. She'd need food. Water. A place to sleep that wasn't just cold stone and rotting pews. She'd need safety. Structure. Stability.
All things he hadn't thought about in… years.
This wasn't just about hiding anymore.
He glanced back toward the cathedral's stairwell, where faint light filtered up from the hall below. She was down there, probably trying to make a corner feel like home, surrounded by dust and shadows. He exhaled, not quite a sigh, not quite a growl.
It wasn't going to be a problem. He could provide. He would. But it was new. Different. A shift from survival to something more… deliberate. More human.
And he wasn't sure if that terrified him or gave him purpose.
Spawn narrowed his glowing green eyes as he watched from the shadows of the tower. The low hum of military-grade engines vibrated through the stone beneath his boots, the kind of sound he hadn't heard in quite some time. And when he saw the matte black trucks roll into view, tactical floodlights cutting through the darkened streets, his instincts kicked in. He crouched low, watching every movement with predator-like precision.
The vehicles came to a hard stop, doors flying open in unison. Armed agents in tactical gear poured out in organized formation—sweeping the perimeter, securing exits, checking rooftops with drones and sensors. Everything about them screamed professionalism.
Everything… except the giant white stenciled name on the side of each truck.
D.H.O.R.K.S.
Spawn blinked, the glow in his eyes flickering for a moment in genuine confusion.
That's not real.
That can't be real.
"Department of Hell-Organized Reconnaissance and Kinetics Security," one of the agents barked into a comm, sounding way too serious for a guy repping what looked like an acronym from a Saturday morning cartoon.
Spawn stared, utterly dumbfounded. "You've gotta be kidding me…" he muttered under his breath. Either this was the most elaborate practical joke Hell or Heaven had ever cooked up, or—far more likely—this was a government division with more funding than brain cells.
Still, joke or not, these clowns were armed to the teeth and far too close to his current hideout. And if they were looking for something, odds were decent that "divine anomaly" was somewhere on their list.
His stance shifted. Jokes aside, Spawn wasn't going to let them find him. Or worse—find Octavia.