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.

13. Unintended: Fractures and Truths

—Hazbin Hotel

The afternoon slipped by too fast, yet for Eddie, it felt endless.

Between cryptic phone calls, cross-referencing research, and hours spent between the library and his own room, he worked to piece together everything about his target—without anyone, especially Angel, catching on.

He had to know everything before making a move. Who was the Imp in the photo? Where did he work? Where had that damn picture been taken?

The more information he gathered, the clearer the plan became. The more real the mission felt. And he wanted to get it over with as fast as possible.

Not just because Valentino's Gala was right around the corner, but because his mind refused to let go of something else.

Someone else. Angel.

The memory of their last conversation still burned beneath his skin, a wound that wouldn't stop throbbing. The more he tried to focus on the intel, the tighter his fingers clenched around the mouse, the harder his jaw locked.

Angel, looking at him like he didn't recognize him anymore.

Angel, walking away—no quips, no final glance.

Gods, he had never missed something this much in his entire life.

He shook his head, forcing himself to stay on track. The mission, damn it. Focus on the mission.

By the time night fell over the Hazbin Hotel, Eddie had everything he needed.

His target's name was Rascal—an Imp from the Wrath Ring, a former Moretti lackey.

4 feet tall, black-and-white striped horns, white hair, a vaguely punk aesthetic. The kind of guy who hated authority. One of those who kept waging war against the system, even in Hell.

Eddie understood immediately why he'd turned on the Morettis. "Fuck the system" and all that. And, honestly? He wasn't wrong.

But his house had already been cleaned out by the Morettis. Inside, only his mother and younger sisters remained. And now, there were no trace of them.

Eddie didn't need to ask what had happened. He knew the Moretti methods. He knew their policy on the families of traitors. And for the first time since accepting this mission, he felt the urge to drop the whole damn thing. Why the fuck am I working for these bastards again?

The answer came immediately, without even thinking.

For Angel. Always for Angel.

A voice in the back of his mind slithered through, sly, almost amused. "If you go through with this, he'll fucking hate you."

Eddie tensed. Realized he had muttered aloud to himself. He ran a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut as if that would clear his head. "Shut up, Loki."

Once upon a time, he might've found thoughts like these funny. Now? There was nothing funny about them.

He hadn't seen Angel all day.

And it was slowly killing him.

It was torture. The more time passed without him, the emptier he felt. The more it hurt.

Eddie wasn't stupid. He had never been the kind of guy with his head in the clouds, obsessed with love or relationships. But then why the hell had Angel Dust become so damn important?

He didn't have time to figure that out.

It was night. Rascal was about to strike again. If Eddie wanted to catch him, he had to move now.

He armed himself on autopilot, letting the familiar ritual distract him from everything else.
Two pistols. Extra magazines. Angelic blades.

No sniper tactics this time. This had to be face-to-face. A direct confrontation. He'd try to talk the guy down first, make him stop.

His outfit was practical, no-nonsense. Easy to move in. No unnecessary layers. His back exposed, wings free in case he needed them.

He had to be ready for anything.

Eddie took a deep breath. All that was left to do was walk out the door.

His steps echoed through the quiet halls of the Hazbin Hotel. He tried not to think about how empty it felt.

When he reached the main lobby, his gaze drifted—instinctively—toward the spot where Angel had strutted in that morning, dressed to kill in drag.

It was empty.

Something inside him twisted.

It was stupid. Stupid to expect him to be there. Stupid to look for that teasing spark in his eyes. To hope—even for a second—that he'd hear that laugh he missed more than he cared to admit.

He didn't even know what he was hoping to find. A sign? A coincidence? An illusion telling him that Angel would come back to him? But it was just empty space in a hall that suddenly felt too big.

Clenching his jaw, Eddie stepped outside.

His car was still parked in the usual spot—dusty, almost abandoned. He barely used it anymore, and it looked like it belonged to someone else.

"If I survive this mission, I'm selling the damn thing", he thought, sliding the key into the lock with the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows.

He yanked the door open and climbed into the driver's seat.

But before he could close it—

Click.

The passenger door swung open. Eddie tensed, already reaching for a weapon, but familiar scent hit him first. Honey and tobacco.

Then a flash of movement. And before his brain could fully process it, someone slipped into the seat beside him like they belonged there.

He only needed one second to recognize him.

Angel.

Not in drag this time, but still dressed in a way that screamed Angel Dust from head to toe—ripped pink-and-purple striped shirt, a red bow tie, gloves, black shorts, and those absurdly high-heeled boots. A violet fedora, tilted just so, adorned with a pink feather that swayed slightly as he made himself comfortable in the passenger seat.

Eddie felt his heartbeat stutter.

Angel was here. And fuck, he was beautiful.

Eddie's gaze locked onto him, brain momentarily short-circuiting. Then, forcing himself to focus, he gripped the steering wheel tighter, swallowing down the involuntary smile that threatened to surface. «I thought you hated me by now.»

Angel didn't look at him right away. He took his time, adjusting his hat with exaggerated boredom. Then, in a voice flat but pointed, he finally answered: «I don't hate you.»
A pause. A silence that said far more than Eddie was ready to hear. «And that's exactly the problem.»

Eddie felt his throat tighten. Angel turned to him at last. «And if I figured that out, you can thank Husk.» He crossed his arms, voice sharp. «Turns out he's more mentally stable than I am. And considering he's an alcoholic, that's saying something.»

A sliver of warmth cracked through Eddie's chest. The tension in his shoulders loosened—just a fraction. But it didn't last, because then Angel leaned in, eyes narrowing, gaze serious in a way Eddie had never seen before.

«Don't make me regret this, Headshot.» Then came the final gut punch. Angel leaned back, lazily crossing one leg over the other, tossing it out like it was nothing. «I promised Val a double shift tomorrow to get the night off.»

Eddie's breath caught. A double shift. With Valentino.

Which meant twenty-four hours, minimum.

And he'd done it for him. To be here.

Eddie felt torn between relief and fucking terror.

Angel had paid a price that was too damn high.

It was the most unbelievably stupid, reckless, self-sacrificing thing Angel Dust had ever done for him. And Eddie didn't know if he wanted to scream or break down.
In the end, he just gripped the wheel, swallowed the knot in his throat, and turned the key in the ignition.

He'd fix this.

With Angel.

With the mission.

With this damn Hell if he had to.

The car pulled away.

—

Angel couldn't fly, but his jumps were something unnatural.
While Eddie landed soundlessly on the rooftop with a quiet beat of his wings, Angel reached him in three fluid leaps, climbing the walls like he was born to do it.

He landed next to him without making a sound. He didn't look at Eddie, but Eddie felt him there—the faint, steady rhythm of his breath in the night air.

Eddie leaned forward over the edge of the roof.

The target was there. Rascal.

The little traitorous Imp moved like someone who knew he had too many eyes on him. Jumpy. Twitchy. Turning his head every few seconds, scanning his surroundings, checking for threats. He was unloading crates almost as big as he was from the back of a truck, moving with a speed that didn't match his wiry frame.

Eddie narrowed his eyes.

Rascal wasn't working with a crew. No backup. No lookouts. He was alone. Stacking as many crates as he could into a black van, cursing under his breath every time he had to stop to catch it.

But he never looked up.

Eddie stayed perfectly still, eyes locked on every movement, every detail.

He'd protected Moretti's shipments before. Weapons. Drugs. Mostly drugs—Carmilla had the arms market on lockdown.

But something felt off as he stared at those crates. An Imp working alone? What the hell was he gonna do with all that cargo? He wasn't some upstart trying to carve out a piece of the Pride Ring, where the Sinners ran the show. He didn't look like a junkie either.

And then—

Eddie's eyes sharpened.

Air holes. The crates had air holes.

A cold chill crawled down his spine. Since when the fuck did weapons and drugs need to breathe?

His instincts screamed. He tried to push the thought aside, to rationalize it. Maybe it was just a coincidence.Maybe.

«So?» Angel's voice pulled him back. The spider demon was still crouched beside him, arms folded, watching Rascal with an almost bored intensity. «When do we hit him?»

Eddie didn't look away. «We follow first.» His tone was neutral, unreadable. «I need the cargo, or no invitation.»

Angel parted his lips, ready to argue—probably with some smug, sarcastic comment—but then he hesitated. His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the scene again.

In the end, he gave a slow nod. Reluctantly.

They waited.

Rascal kept loading the van.

Seconds scraped by like blades against Eddie's skin, each movement the Imp made adding another piece to a puzzle that wasn't fitting together right.

Too careful. Too precise.

This wasn't some greedy lowlife looking to make a quick score.

Eddie watched the way Rascal checked each crate before placing it, adjusting their positions like they were something… delicate. Like they mattered.

Then he saw him lean into the truck. Muttering. His lips barely moved, the words too quiet to make out.

But Eddie didn't need to hear them. Because—Why the fuck was he talking to the crates?

A knot twisted in Eddie's gut. He did not like this. Any of it.

Rascal climbed into the driver's seat, turning the key with a sharp flick of his wrist. The van's engine rumbled to life.

Eddie readied himself. His wings stretched, muscles tensing beneath his skin. One last glance at Angel. He didn't want to leave him behind.

«You sure you don't want a lift?» He kept his tone light.

Angel didn't look at him. Just rolled his shoulders in a shrug. «I'll manage.»

Eddie felt something crack in his chest.

Angel didn't want to owe him. Didn't want to give him any reason to feel important, to feel needed.

And yet— He was still here. Still fucking here.

Eddie forced himself not to think about it.

Without another word, he pushed off the rooftop, wings slicing through the air.

The chase had begun.

—

The van rolled to a stop in front of a decrepit factory.

From the outside, it didn't look completely abandoned—lights still flickered behind the broken windows, and the front gate stood intact. But Eddie knew a forgotten place when he saw one.

Soot-stained walls cracked from neglect. Wild plants crept over the corners like nature itself was trying to reclaim the space. Everything smelled of rust and burned oil.

And yet, the metal shutter rolled up just in time to let Rascal's van inside.

Eddie and Angel landed a few meters away, slipping through the opening, using the vehicle's blind spots for cover. The air was thick with the scent of corroded metal and old machine oil, a mix that stank of dead industry and buried secrets. The concrete floor was littered with empty crates, snapped chains, and the eerie remnants of something that had been freed in a hurry.

Eddie moved carefully, gun in hand. Angel stayed on his six, silent.

But Eddie couldn't ignore the details. The more he looked, the more his mind filled with the kind of questions he didn't want to ask.

Those crates. Those fucking crates. With air holes.

The knot in his stomach tightened.

No. Focus on the mission. The invitation. The Gala. Valentino. Angel.

Flattening himself against the back of the van, he waited for the right moment. He heard Rascal's footsteps approaching.

He inhaled sharply. Tensed. Stepped out from cover and aimed—

But Rascal wasn't there.

Something thumped behind him. Eddie spun on instinct.

Rascal had jumped down from a stack of crates, landing with feline ease. A cocky smirk played on his lips, the kind only someone who had seen too much could wear and still be standing.

«Well, well… if it ain't Moretti's lapdog.»

The Imp's voice was sharp, fast—the kind of confidence that didn't disappear even at gunpoint.

«Out of all the assholes they could've sent, I never thought they'd go for the Headshot.» A grin, all teeth and venom. Then, with a slow tilt of his head— «And the porn star?»

Angel barely reacted, lifting a brow with mild amusement.

Rascal let out a dry chuckle. «What's the deal, Angel Dust? Playing the prodigal son?» He leaned against a crate with casual arrogance, before pointing a clawed finger at Eddie, eyes gleaming with bitter amusement.

«And you… ain't you supposed to be the Hotel's big, bad Shield?» His smirk widened. «What happened? You got fired?»

He stretched his arms over his head like he was already resigned to a fight but still wanted to enjoy the conversation first.

Eddie didn't move. Didn't blink.

«It doesn't have to end like this, Rascal.» His voice was flat, measured. «Walk away. Give back the cargo. You get to keep breathing.»

Rascal let out a short, mirthless laugh. «Oh, really? I get to keep breathing?» He ran a hand over his striped horns, spinning halfway with a theatrical scoff. «How sweet.»

Then he started pacing, slow and deliberate, like a predator pretending to be prey.

«But y'know…» His voice dipped into something quieter. «Sometimes breathing's kinda pointless when you already know what's coming.»

His gaze sharpened. He stopped just a few feet away, locking eyes with Eddie.

«Tell me, Shield… did Moretti even bother tellin' you what's in those crates?»

Eddie's jaw tightened.

"Not now. Don't think. Mission. Invitation. Angel."

But something inside him was starting to snap.

Maybe it was the way Rascal was looking at him. Maybe it was the way his own words started to taste wrong. Or maybe it was the goddamn smell of rust and burned oil.

Eddie exhaled sharply. «I've got bigger concerns right now.» His grip on the pistols tightened. «I need that invitation. And I'll do whatever it takes to get it.» He lifted his guns. «Sorry, Rascal. This is bigger than you.»

And then he pulled the trigger.

The bullets cut through the air, precise, lethal. But Rascal twisted at the last second, darting sideways with a speed that barely seemed real. He slipped between the crates like a damned sewer rat, dodging the shots with the kind of agility that made it look like he was born to outrun death.

Eddie gritted his teeth. It was worse than trying to hit a rat in a back alley—Rascal moved like he was made of rubber, bending, twisting, vanishing in a blur.

And he wasn't running blind.

Eddie realized it too late. Rascal wasn't just trying to save his own skin—he was leading them somewhere.

A sharp snap cut through the air. A wire pulled tight, a trap springing to life.

Eddie's eyes shot upward just in time to see the beam crashing down.

«Look out!» Angel slammed into him, shoving him out of the way just as metal slammed into the floor. The impact shook the ground beneath them, rattling the factory's bones. In the chaos, Eddie's pistols flew from his grip, scattering in opposite directions.

He rolled up to his feet, ignoring the sharp ache in his ribs. Without wasting a second, he grabbed the nearest gun, reloaded with practiced ease, and started firing again.

But Rascal kept playing his game, darting between rusted machinery like a phantom.

Angel knew better than to use his rifles—if a single tripwire had dropped a steel beam, who knew what other traps were waiting? If they wanted to flush Rascal out, they'd have to think fast.

The Imp shoved a pallet stacked with bricks, sending them crashing down in a wave of debris. Eddie dodged to the side, wings snapping open on instinct to keep him from getting buried, but he folded them back immediately—too cramped, too many hazards. A rustle behind him.

Angel's voice split through the air. «On your right!» Eddie obeyed without hesitation.

Angel was already moving, scaling a rusted machine like a damn acrobat, using the factory's beams like a personal chessboard. He jumped, swung onto a support beam, used his arms to launch himself forward—

And landed right in front of Rascal, cutting off his escape.

The Imp froze. One second. One damned second too long.

Eddie didn't hesitate. He fired.

The bullet slammed into Rascal's leg.

The Imp howled, his knee buckling as he crumpled to the ground. Eddie had hit the back of his knee—he wasn't walking away from this. Labored breathing, fingers gripping his wound, the cocky smirk cracking at the edges.

Eddie approached, slow, methodical, the way only a sniper who already knew the outcome could.

Rascal shifted, but Eddie was already there. A sharp kick to the chest pinned him down, gun aimed right between his eyes.

The factory held its breath.

Rascal panted.

Then—his lips twitched into a faint, taunting smirk. «There he is. The Guild's butcher.» His voice was a whisper, venom more than sound. «What're you waitin' for? Do it. Get your precious invitation.»

Eddie raised the gun. One shot. That was all it would take.

He told himself he wasn't a hitman anymore. He wasn't that person anymore. But his finger didn't waver on the trigger.

Mission. Invitation. Angel.

His brain locked onto a single goal, shutting everything else out.

And then—

Click.

The sound stabbed through him like ice.

Eddie tensed. He didn't lower the gun, but he turned. And saw her.

A few feet away, a young Hellhound stood frozen, her whole body wound tight, hands steady—his own pistol aimed straight at him.

She was skinny. Too skinny. Her tawny fur was messy, her eyes swollen with unshed tears. She was shaking, but not enough to make her any less dangerous.

«Let… him go.»

Her voice cracked between fear and desperation.

Eddie felt his stomach twist.

A kid. Not an enemy. Not a soldier. Not a killer. Just a fucking kid.

His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.

She swallowed hard, trying to look more threatening.

«I said—LET HIM GO!»

Eddie couldn't hear his own breathing anymore.

The gun, heavy as lead in his grip, felt like it had fused with his skin. His foot stayed planted on Rascal's chest, but his mind had already drifted—far from the hunt, the mission, the damn invitation he'd used as an excuse to get here in the first place.

From the shadows, slowly, more Hellhounds began to appear.

The oldest was maybe fifteen, his eyes hollowed by an experience no kid should ever have to know. Behind him, the younger ones huddled together in a fragile illusion of safety—pups trying to make themselves invisible, some too young to grasp the danger, others painfully aware of how thin the thread of their freedom really was.

Eddie swallowed hard. The smallest one couldn't have been older than five.

A chill ran down his spine.

He knew. He'd known the moment he smelled metal in the air. The second he noticed the air holes in those crates. He had ignored the details, buried them under the weight of the mission. He had shut his eyes, hoping—praying—that it wasn't what he feared.

But now it was undeniable. Right in front of him.

Beside him, Angel had gone deathly still.

It took Eddie a few seconds to force himself to look away from the pups. And when he did, he found Angel already staring at him. Not with the usual smirk. Not with that teasing, sharp-edged confidence. Angel was looking at him like he was afraid of him.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then shut it again. His pupils were blown wide. His gloved hands curled into fists, fingers shaking like it was the only thing keeping him together.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked. «It's not cargo.» His gaze flickered to the young Hellhounds, and for an instant, he wasn't here anymore. He was somewhere else. Eddie didn't want to imagine where. «They're kids.»

Rascal laughed. But it wasn't a real laugh. It was a bitter, broken thing—less a sound, more a defense mechanism, cracking through the front he'd been trying so hard to keep up.

«Now you get it, don't you?» he muttered, voice carrying the exhaustion of someone much older than his years. Eddie's chest tightened.

«I wasn't stealing,» Rascal murmured, barely above a whisper, as if the words weren't even worth repeating. «I was saving them.»

The words hit Eddie like a bullet to the gut.

Angel was still staring at him. And now his gaze shook.

«The Morettis are in the Hellhound trafficking business now.» Rascal nodded toward the kids behind him. «Specifically? The young ones.»

Eddie's heart stopped. No. No, Valentino—sure. That was expected. That was a given. That rat was scum. But the Morettis?

He swallowed hard, dreading the answer. «Why?» His own voice felt distant.

Rascal shrugged—too light a gesture for something so heavy. «The younger they are, the easier they are to sell. To train.» His mouth twisted, not in a smile, but in something bitter, like he was forcing himself to say the words.

«Think about it. A Hellhound that's spent its whole life hauling marble, knowing nothing else? A whore who's been sold since childhood, broken in before she ever had a chance? They don't just work. They don't just obey. They fit.»

His voice trailed off, heavy with things he didn't want to say. Some horrors didn't need explaining.

Eddie swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that burned in his throat. He had to breathe—slow, deep—anything to keep himself from throwing up.

He turned toward Angel, dreading what he might see. And it was worse than he had imagined.

Angel was frozen. Not breathing. Not blinking. His body trembled, the movement so small it was almost imperceptible, but Eddie saw it. A tremor just beneath the surface, like his self-control was fraying, like he was holding himself together by the thinnest of threads.

His throat bobbed, lips parting slightly before pressing shut again. When he finally spoke, his voice barely made a sound.

«You… You mean…»

He didn't finish. He didn't have to. His eyes said it all.

Not just shock. Not just anger.

Terror.

The kind of terror Eddie knew too well. The kind he had seen too many times before.

Angel wasn't thinking about those kids anymore. He was thinking about himself.

Eddie's wings tightened instinctively against his back. He had never wanted to see Angel like this. Never.

He couldn't stand it.

But the mission—
The invitation—
Protecting Angel.

Protecting him from Valentino's abuse.

Even if it meant sacrificing dozens of kids?

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

It hit him with devastating clarity—if he chose that damn invitation, even if he was doing it for him, Angel would never forgive him. He wouldn't have to scream it in his face. Wouldn't have to hit him.

He'd just look at him. And then he'd turn away. Walk off. And nothing—nothing—would ever be the same again.

Eddie found himself unable to breathe.

Rascal was still watching him, but for the first time, there was no arrogance in his gaze. No mockery.

Just exhaustion.

Resignation.

The look of a man who had already decided he'd rather die than let those kids be thrown back into a cage.

«Turn me in…» Rascal's voice was lower now, barely a whisper. «And these kids go right back to their cages. Or maybe a circus. A brothel, a factory, a mine. But hey, you'll get your precious invitation, right?» His smirk cracked completely.

Eddie didn't move. He could hear every beat of his heart pounding in his skull.

Angel was still looking at him.

Not with anger. Not with hatred.

Just fear.

A fear that was killing him.

And yet—his finger was still on the trigger.

Rascal shook his head and motioned toward the kids with a small jerk of his chin. «Take a good look, Headshot.» There was no sarcasm in his tone now. No defiance. Just something raw, something unbearable. «Look at them and tell me you have the guts to send them back.» His voice dropped lower, turning bitter. «Because when it was my choice to make… I couldn't do it.»

Eddie looked. Really looked.

He saw their wide, terrified eyes, the dirt smudged across their faces, the way their thin bodies stood rigid with fear. The youngest clung to his brother's arm like a lifeline in a storm, shaking so badly Eddie could almost hear his breath hitching. And in their fear, he saw his own.

Then, for the first time, he saw Rascal—not just a thief, not some punk looking for trouble, but the one bastard who had actually found the courage to do the right thing.

His hands trembled.

And then… he lowered the gun.

His breath hitched. The metal felt cold against his skin, suddenly foreign, like it wasn't his, like it belonged to someone else. His muscles stayed coiled, tense, as if his own body was fighting the weight of the decision pressing down on him.

What the hell was he doing?

A wave of nausea clawed its way up his throat, metallic and bitter. His heartbeat pounded—not with adrenaline, but with something far worse.

Fear.

Horror.

Horror at what he had almost done. Horror at the arrogance of believing—even for a second—that he had the right to choose.

Who deserved to live. Who should die.

A sickening knot twisted in his stomach, disgust sinking its claws deep. And that feeling—he knew it too well. It was the same one that had gutted him the night he betrayed the Guild. The night he looked at his own reflection and saw nothing but a killer. A weapon. A demon beyond redemption.

But this time…

This time it was worse.

Because this time, he had a choice.

And he had almost chosen wrong.

Angel didn't speak. Didn't move. Eddie didn't dare look at him.

He wouldn't survive that gaze. Not now.

«I'm not this…» he whispered, as if saying it out loud could push away the crushing weight in his chest. He stepped back, away from Rascal, his movements unsteady, almost staggering.

Every fiber of his body screamed at him to leave, to find somewhere—anywhere—he could breathe. But the air was thick, suffocating, saturated with the stench of his own mistake.

The realization clawed at him, growing like a storm inside his ribs, swelling until it threatened to break him apart.

«I'm not like this.» His voice wavered. It shouldn't have wavered. «I'm not a goddamn assassin anymore!»

The words burst from his throat, raw and furious, a rage he hadn't even known was festering inside him. His hands shot to his hair, fingers tightening until his scalp burned. The cold press of his gun against his temple jolted him back into reality.

He stopped. His heart was a riot in his chest. His wings tensed, his whole body locked up, bracing against something unseen—something inside him. And then, finally, he broke.

His knees buckled, his breath shattering into ragged, gasping sobs.

«I'm a guardian!» He spat the words out like a lifeline, like they could save him, like they could erase the choice he had almost made. «I protect people! That's what I do! I protect them!»

The scream ricocheted through the empty factory walls, raw, desperate—something inside him cracking wide open. He didn't even notice the tears streaking down his face. Didn't care.

«How the fuck did I get here?!» The weight of it all slammed down on his chest like a crushing blow. «How did I let this happen?!»

A growl tore from his throat, his vision blurred with red-hot rage and something far, far worse. His hand shot out, fingers curling around a rusted iron pipe abandoned on the ground.

He needed to break something. Anything.

The first strike sent a wooden crate flying against the wall, splintering into shards. The next sent a metal tool clattering across the floor. Then another—this time, a steel pipe slammed into a stack of crates, rattling them to their core.

But it wasn't enough.

He swung again. And again. And again.

His knuckles split open, blood smearing across the metal, but he didn't feel it. He didn't want to feel it.

All he could feel was his soul shattering inside him.

When the fury finally drained out of him, leaving him shaking and hollow, he looked down at his hands.

A mess. Skin torn, blood dripping down his fingers, splinters embedded deep in his flesh. He sucked in a ragged breath, chest heaving—then the past slammed into him like a tidal wave.

Flash. The Guild. The blood. The bodies scattered across the floor. The weight of death on his hands.

His legs gave out. He sank down against an old machine, sliding to the ground, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Defeated.

Angel, Rascal, and the Hellhounds had watched his breakdown in heavy, unsettling silence.

But no one—not even the kids—had been more affected than Angel Dust.

He was used to seeing Headshot as a wall. Solid. Unshakable. A pillar of strength that nothing could crack. One of those guys who never let go, who locked everything inside, behind vaults of scars and old regrets.

That was part of the fun of teasing him—because Headshot never gave in. He never let himself get pulled in too easily.

But now… now he saw him. Eddie wasn't some untouchable figure of integrity. He wasn't some unbreakable hero. But he wasn't a soulless monster, either.

He was a man. Flawed. Complicated. Broken.

And as Angel looked at him, something inside his chest twisted. A familiar kind of ache.

Eddie was someone who had done something unforgivable. And because of it, he would never forgive himself.

And Angel… well. He knew something about that.

He knew what it was like to be trapped in your past. He was caught in Valentino's grip. He was stuck in a cage, no matter how much glitter and silk he draped over it.

It was crazy how much they were alike.

Angel sighed. Maybe that was exactly why he liked him so damn much.

The sharp click of his heels against the factory floor shattered the silence as he walked toward him. The sound echoed in the empty space, ringing out like something inevitable.

Then, without a word, he sat down beside him.

He slid down the cold metal wall, settling next to Eddie—not too close, for once, not invading his space. Just there.

He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a flick of his lighter, and took a slow drag.

The smoke curled between his lips as he exhaled. He wasn't looking at Eddie, not directly, but his voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual bravado.

«You know, Headshot… I ask myself a lotta things. Like, how the fuck did I end up worrying about someone like you?» He let out a tired, half-laugh, watching the smoke curl into the stale air. «And yet, here we are.»

He paused, tapping ash onto the floor, watching it scatter like dust.

«I don't know what it means to be a guardian.» His voice dipped lower, quieter. Less sharp edges, more raw truth. «But I do know what it means to be in a cage.»

His fingers tensed around the cigarette, but he kept talking.

«I know what it's like to feel dirty. Rotten. Like everything you do, everything you are, is stained by something you can't wash off. Like no matter how hard you try to do the right thing, there's always somethin' pulling you back down.»

His eyes flicked to Eddie's hands—bloody, bruised, torn.

«And I know what it's like to wanna shut that feeling up. To make it stop.» A humorless chuckle slipped from his throat. «I do it with a drink in one hand and a pill on my tongue.» He exhaled slowly. «But guess what? That don't work either.»

He flicked his cigarette, embers flaring bright for a moment before dying. And then, finally, his eyes found Eddie's.

«You fucked up, dumbass. Big time. But you know what the difference is between you and the real bastards?» Eddie's gaze lifted, slow, hesitant. Angel inhaled deep, held it, then let the smoke slip past his lips, measured and steady. «You care.»

He shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. Like he wasn't saying something huge.

«You're sittin' here, tearing yourself apart 'cause you couldn't go through with it. 'Cause you don't wanna be like them. Don't wanna be like me.» The smile that touched his lips was small. Tired. And it hurt. «The truth is, nobody in Hell is clean, Headshot. Nobody. Not me, not you, not Charlie with her big dream of redemption.» His gaze softened. «But if there's one thing I have learned, it's that we ain't just what we've done. We're what we choose to do next.»

He tilted his head, watching Eddie carefully. «So, what's it gonna be, Shield?» His voice dropped into something quieter, something that wasn't a challenge, but an offering. «You gonna sit here and let the guilt rot you from the inside out? Or you gonna help me clean up the mess you almost made?»

A glimmer of something flickered in his expression—challenge, care, understanding. «Because I care about you.» Angel stood up, dusting himself off, looking down at him. «And you deserve to be better.»

A beat of silence. Then, raising an eyebrow, he smirked. «So? You getting up, or do I gotta drag your sorry ass off the floor?»

Angel held out his hand.

Eddie stared at it, uncertain. Every part of him screamed to stay where he was, to sink further into his own misery and let himself rot.

But beneath the weight of his guilt, something else stirred.

Something small. Something fragile.

Hope.

A balm on his broken soul.

He took a deep breath, eyes fixed on Angel's outstretched hand. It wasn't just an offer of help—it was a choice. A bridge toward something different. Something he didn't believe he deserved.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his own hand, fingers trembling as they brushed against Angel's. The touch was warm. Steady. Solid.

Angel didn't leave room for doubt—he clasped Eddie's hand firmly and pulled him up with the surety of someone who had no intention of letting him fall again.

Eddie rose to his feet, every muscle in his body screaming in protest, every wound reminding him how much it hurt just to be alive. His breath was uneven, his hands still shaking.

But he was standing.

For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't speak. He just looked at Angel, searching for the right words to say thank you.

Angel, of course, didn't give him the chance.

«Well, congrats, you survived your Shakespearean breakdown.» He smirked, cocking his hip with that familiar confidence, the tension between them softening just a little. «Now let's fix this mess, Shield.»

Before Eddie could respond, Rascal's voice cut through the air. The young Imp let out a rough chuckle, pushing himself up with effort, supported by the kids he had fought to save. «Well, shit. Turns out the great Headshot actually has a heart.»

Eddie glanced at Rascal. Then at Angel. A quiet laugh rumbled in his chest. "Oh, yeah. I do."

Running a hand through his hair, he exhaled, feeling the last remnants of adrenaline bleed from his system. His voice, when it finally came, was low and rough—but steady.

«Think I've lost my mind enough for one night.»

With careful, deliberate steps, he approached the Hellhounds. The younger ones shrank back, their wide, wary eyes watching him with hesitation. He didn't blame them. A few minutes ago, they had seen him tear through the factory in a blind fury, smashing anything in reach.

He understood their fear.

The eldest—the girl who had pointed a gun at him, hands still trembling—held firm. She was young, but her eyes were old. Too old. The kind of eyes that had been forced to see too much.

Eddie stopped in front of her. Slowly, with a lopsided smirk that hid an unexpected gentleness, he reached out and carefully pried the gun from her grip. His voice dropped to a quiet murmur. «It's empty, sweetheart.» His hands moved with the effortless ease of a man who had done this a thousand times. In one smooth motion, he ejected the empty magazine, replaced it with a fresh one, then turned the weapon around and placed it back in her hands. «There. Now you can protect the ones you care about.»

The girl went still. She stared down at the gun, then up at him. Something in her gaze shifted. She still trembled—but not from fear.

And when she finally looked up at Eddie, there was something different in her eyes. A flicker of something delicate, something that had no right to exist here.

Hope.

And then… she smiled. It was small. Uncertain. But real.

Tears welled up again, glistening along her lashes, but this time, they weren't from pain.

Eddie turned to Rascal, his resolve set like stone. «Alright. Change of plans.»

The young Imp eyed him warily, still expecting a trick, still struggling to believe that the infamous Headshot—the ruthless assassin—was choosing this path. But when Eddie spoke again, his voice carried no hesitation.

«You go get the remaining Hellhounds from that truck, gather everyone, and get the hell out of here. If you can tell me where this whole operation starts, we can shut it down.»

Rascal hesitated, watching him closely. Then, after a long breath, he dug into the tattered pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it and laid it on the nearest table—a worn-out map of Pentagram City, marked with a blotch of red ink.

«There's a warehouse at this spot,» he said, pointing to the mark.

Eddie leaned over, studying the location. Carmilla's turf. One of the most dangerous areas in all of Pentagram City. A maze of narrow streets and shadowed alleys where gangs fought for power with bullets and betrayals.

A perfect place to traffic lives.

«Trucks come and go at all hours.» Rascal explained. «I usually keep to the outskirts while my… let's say, anonymous informant, does their thing inside. They randomly disable security cameras and shoot me a message. I slip in, jack a truck, and drive off. Everyone just assumes it's another shipment, no one asks questions. But getting in? That's another story. The place is crawling with guards. It's fortified like a damn bunker. There's no way through the front entrance, even if you shoot your way in.»

Eddie raised a brow. «And yet, you get in. How?»

Rascal smirked. «Sewers. One of the toilets has been out of order for years, and no one gives a damn about fixing it. I just pop the seat, drop down, and I'm in.»

Eddie nodded. «Good. That gives us a way inside.»

A movement to his right caught his attention. He glanced up and found Angel watching him with a knowing smirk, a spark of pure mischief in his eyes.

Rascal, curious, tilted his head. «And once you're inside? What's the plan?»

Eddie turned back to him, a half-smile creeping onto his lips, carrying a renewed sense of purpose.

«Let's just say that by the time you and the kids are far, far away… we'll be making sure those bastards never run another shipment again.»

Rascal scoffed, shaking his head. «You do realize this is a suicide mission, right?»

Eddie didn't even flinch. He simply pulled out his phone, his smirk widening.

«Then I guess it's time to call for backup.»

—A Few Hours Later

The Moretti warehouse was a damn fortress. Armed men patrolled every corner, security cameras scanned in all directions, and automatic turrets were stationed at key points, primed to mow down anyone who dared approach without clearance. Explosive charges were rigged at the most obvious entry points, making any frontal assault a guaranteed suicide mission.

Even from a distance, it was clear—storming this place head-on was out of the question.

But every fortress has its weaknesses.

Inside one of the warehouse restrooms, past three identical stalls, one had sported a faded, grimy "OUT OF ORDER" sign for as long as anyone could remember. No one had ever fixed it. No one ever questioned it. The toilet inside sat untouched for years, never used, never moved.

Until now.

A faint vibration rippled through the porcelain, followed by the soft hiss of concealed mechanics. Slowly, the toilet began sliding sideways, revealing a hidden passage leading directly into the sewer system beneath.

From the darkness below, a pair of sharp pink eyes peeked out.

Angel Dust scanned the room, glancing left and right. Clear. Perfect.

With the graceful ease of a seasoned acrobat, he hoisted himself out of the hole, shuddering as he shook off the sheer disgust of having crawled through the sewers.

«Alright, coast's clear.» he whispered.

One by one, Eddie, Tiger, Yaga, Linda, and finally Muto emerged from the hidden passage.

Eddie inhaled deeply as soon as he stepped out, but the air was thick with damp and rust—not much of an improvement over the stench they had left behind. His jaw tightened as a shiver ran down his spine. He had kept his cool the entire way through, but the tight, suffocating crawlspace had been gnawing at his nerves the whole time. A few more minutes down there, and he might have lost it.

Angel, watching him closely, placed a hand on his back in a casual, almost instinctive gesture.

«Hey, Shotty. You good?» His voice was quiet, tinged with concern—but there was an unmistakable hint of amusement there too.

Eddie cleared his throat, forcing himself to steady his breathing. «Yeah.» he muttered, still catching his breath. «Just… me and tight spaces don't mix. And the smell was horrible.»

Angel bit his lower lip, barely suppressing a smirk.

«Shh!» Linda cut in sharply.

The team instantly snapped back into focus. Pressing themselves against the restroom wall, they waited in absolute silence for the signal to move.

Yaga rolled up her sleeve and checked her watch. The seconds ticked down, each one carrying the weight of what was about to come. She counted down in her head.

"…5…4…3…2…1…"

A boom tore through the night.

The lights cut out instantly, plunging the warehouse into sudden darkness. The only illumination came from dim, flickering emergency LEDs, casting eerie crimson streaks along the corridors. From beyond the door, the confusion erupted—shouts, curses in thick Italian and rough New York slang, the hurried pounding of boots scrambling in all directions.

Showtime.

The door cracked open just enough for them to peek through. Amid the chaos, they spotted Sprock darting across the warehouse, bouncing between crates, soldiers, and turrets like he was having the time of his life at some twisted amusement park.

They moved quickly, slipping on their earpieces. Each of them had used these countless times to coordinate during battles at the Hazbin Hotel, but tonight, they had an extra set—one specially prepped for Angel.

Eddie's voice came through, calm and steady, taking charge like always.

«Muto, clear out the guards inside. Linda, Tiger, take out the heavy hitters and make sure no one sounds the alarm. Yaga, find the main controls—when power comes back, I want every single door open. Angel and I are heading straight for the cages.»

No one questioned the plan. They just nodded in silent understanding and moved.

The hunt had begun.

—

Three guards stood watch from above, nestled among the steel beams crisscrossing the warehouse ceiling. They were relaxed, confident that no one could ever breach Moretti's security system.

They were wrong.

The first vanished into the shadows without a sound. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, smothering any chance of a scream, while a cold blade sliced cleanly across his throat. His body disappeared into the darkness, swallowed without a trace.

Seconds later, the second guard turned his head, sensing something—just a flicker of motion at the edge of his vision—before an arm yanked him back and a blade drove into the base of his skull. A strangled breath, a final exhale, and then nothing.

The third heard the noise.

He stiffened, gripping his rifle tighter as his eyes darted upward into the dark.

«The fuck—?»

His words died in his throat when he saw them—his comrades, lifeless, limp like discarded puppets. His pulse hammered against his ribs as he instinctively staggered backward, trying to process what had happened. But time was a luxury he wouldn't get.

A glint of steel flashed under the dim glow of emergency lights.

The strike came in an instant—swift, precise.

The katana sliced clean through his torso, entering at his side and exiting the other. For a moment, his body remained upright, frozen in shock. Then, slowly, his upper half slid off, separating cleanly from his legs.

His eyes widened in one final spasm as blood poured onto the beams. His hands twitched, desperately reaching for his own severed body as if he could somehow hold himself together.

But it was already over.

The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was the figure of a white samurai standing above him.

Still. Silent. Unshaken.

His armor was pale as bone, his katana still dripping crimson. And where his face should have been—only a mask. Blank. Mouthless. Emotionless.

Cold as death.

On the ground floor, another guard had the misfortune of looking up at the exact moment his fellow officer was cut in half.

For a brief, horrifying second, he was frozen—his breath locked in his chest as he watched the torso slip away from the lifeless legs still standing.

A cold dread slithered down his spine.

Every primal instinct screamed at him to run, to turn and pretend he had seen nothing. But he knew better. He knew what happened to cowards in the Moretti family.

The Morettis didn't tolerate weakness. They didn't tolerate failure.

If he hesitated—if he so much as looked the wrong way—he'd be marked. Branded a traitor. And that meant a death far worse than whatever fate awaited him here.

So, he made his choice.

He sucked in a sharp breath, parted his lips to shout the alarm—

CRACK.

Thick, powerful arms locked around him from behind. For a split second, he felt the warmth of a massive body against his back. Then came the brutal snap of vertebrae.

His neck twisted unnaturally, and his corpse collapsed in a heavy, lifeless heap.

Tiger flexed his fingers, shaking them out like he was ridding himself of a minor inconvenience. A wicked grin curled his feline muzzle as he stared down at the crumpled body.

But he didn't even get a second to enjoy his kill.

«That one was mine, you bastard!»

Linda's voice lashed across the comms like a whip.

Tiger turned, still smirking, and found her glaring daggers at him from just a few steps away. Arms crossed. Tail flicking. Eyes blazing with pure fury—like she had just witnessed the single greatest offense in history. Tiger snickered into the mic. «Then next time, be faster.»

With that, he slinked away, still grinning as Linda's fists clenched at her sides, her whole body vibrating with the urge to strangle him where he stood.

The operation had only just begun, and they were already fighting over kills.

—

Yaga had never had an easier mission.

The warehouse might as well have been designed to be sabotaged. Walls plastered with maps and notes, glaringly obvious signs practically pointing toward critical security points. A mistake so amateurish it would have been unforgivable to anyone with even the faintest grasp of warfare.

«Easier than butchering Nazis.» she muttered under her breath, moving silently down the corridor.

She climbed the stairs cautiously, muscles coiled with tension. Even with her light step, the unnatural silence of the building made every creak a potential alarm.

Reaching the command room door, she instinctively crouched low. Through the small window, she spotted a lone technician hunched over the monitors. Not a guard—just some poor office drone. Judging by his slouched posture and the way he sluggishly scrolled through the screens, he'd rather be anywhere but here.

«Blyat!» she hissed through clenched teeth.

She needed to think fast. What would Commander Beršanskaja do?

The answer was simple: no bullshit. No flashy infiltrations, no spy games. Just brutal, efficient results.

Yaga took a slow breath and scanned her surroundings. The hallway was empty, but along the wall, an open metal locker caught her eye. Inside: boxes of tools, cables, and… a rusty wrench. Perfect.

With a swift motion, she grabbed it and crept up to the door. The technician was still there, headphones on, eyes glued to the screen, blissfully unaware.

Yaga tightened her grip on the wrench and kicked the door open.

The man jolted in his chair, whipping around with wide eyes. «Who the h—»

He never finished the sentence.

Yaga swung the wrench in a clean, precise arc, striking him square in the temple. He let out a strangled gasp before crumpling to the floor, unconscious.

She crouched beside him, checking his pulse. Still alive. Good. Less of a mess to clean up later.

Without wasting time, she dragged him under the desk and settled into his chair, fingers already reaching for the controls.

She flicked on her earpiece mic.

«Command room secured.» she whispered, confident and steady. «As soon as the power's back, I'll have every single door unlo—»

The words died in her throat as she took a proper look at the console in front of her.

A maze of screens, buttons, and digital interfaces glared back at her, almost mocking. It wasn't like she was stuck in 1945 when it came to technology—she could handle a smartphone, Wi-Fi, even those goddamn messaging apps. But this?

This looked like the goddamn control panel of a spaceship.

Her eye twitched slightly.

«…fuck me.» was all she managed to say.

—

Eddie was too focused on the mission to worry about Yaga or wonder if something had gone wrong.

The Moretti goons had to be unbelievably stupid—there was no other explanation. The warehouse was littered with signs, as if they were afraid of getting lost in their own damn territory. Following them, Eddie and Angel found themselves in a long corridor, swallowed by darkness, save for the flickering red glow of emergency LEDs.

The scarlet light stretched their shadows long and twisted, but not enough to hide what surrounded them.

Bloodstains smeared across the walls. Deep scratches gouged into the concrete.

And rings. Thick iron rings, bolted to the walls with heavy chains.

Eddie stopped cold.

A chill ran down his spine. His breath hitched, throat locking up as his eyes locked onto the chains, unable to look away. The red light made them glisten like they were still warm from violence, still steeped in suffering.

He wasn't in the corridor anymore.

He was back in that basement.

Cold metal clamped around his wrists, biting into raw skin. Pain lancing through his body. His father's voice echoing off filthy walls, weaving scripture and slurs into the same fanatical breath. The taste of blood thick on his tongue. The stench of sweat, fear, and hatred clinging to the air like a curse.

The rifle in his hands began to shake.

He began to shake.

His breaths came fast, shallow, fragmented. His grip, steady just moments ago, trembled so badly he could barely hold the weapon.

A sudden touch jolted him back. A hand on his shoulder—firm, but not forceful.

Angel.

«Headshot!» His voice was urgent, but steady. «Stay with me.»

Eddie latched onto that voice. That hand.

He blinked rapidly, his breath still uneven, but enough to break the loop in his head. His gaze snapped to Angel, finding those sharp pink eyes staring back at him with an intensity that allowed no hesitation.

Focus. Stay here. Stay in the present.

The chill of the warehouse, the weight of the rifle in his hands, the sound of his own heartbeat slowing, grounding him.

He exhaled sharply, shook his head. Then he nodded.

No one was ever going to suffer what he had suffered. Not if he could help it.

—

They moved quickly through the corridor, navigating between the eerie, jagged shadows cast by the red emergency lights. At the far end, a massive security door blocked their path.

Eddie and Angel exchanged a look. Then, in unison, they pushed the doors open.

The smell hit first.

Iron. Urine. Fear, soaked into the walls.

Then the sight of it froze their blood. Cages.

Dozens of cages, stacked like grotesque shelves in a twisted prison of metal and pain.

Inside, young Hellhounds curled up on the cold floors. Some were too weak to lift their heads, others still strong enough to whimper, to howl, to paw at the bars in desperate defiance.

Many were wounded—cuts, bruises, ribs jutting against taut skin. Some were so small, they couldn't have been taken from their mothers for long.

Angel clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with horror. Above one of the cages, a paper sign loomed, the bold letters burning into his vision: "Deliver to the V Tower. Males for Vox. Females for Valentino."

Angel barely held back the bile rising in his throat. He knew Val was a bastard. But this? This was beyond anything he had imagined.

A movement caught their attention. In the nearest cage, a Hellhound—barely a teenager—shifted, moving with purpose. He stepped in front of the smaller ones, spreading his arms wide to shield them, his body a living barricade. He let out a deep, rumbling growl, eyes burning with raw defiance.

He wouldn't let them be taken. Not this time.

Eddie felt something twist deep in his gut. That pain—sharp, familiar, unrelenting. Those pups—no, those children—had the same eyes as the ones Rascal had saved. The same eyes he'd once had, staring through the dark, waiting for a miracle that never came.

For a second, it crushed the air from his lungs. The weight of memory threatened to pull him under. But he couldn't freeze. Not now.

They were scared. And they had every right to be. The older ones wouldn't trust them easily. He couldn't blame them.

He met Angel's gaze. They needed to get them out. Fast.

«Angel…» Eddie murmured, keeping his voice low. «Do you know anything about these cages?»

Angel shook his head, inspecting the locks. «Just that they need a key.» He gestured toward the heavy padlocks keeping the gates shut. «Maybe one of your guys knocked out a goon with it in his pocket.»

Eddie glanced toward a shelf filled with tools, his mind already jumping to a faster alternative.

«Or…» He tilted his head toward the rack. «We could find some bolt cutters.»

Angel stared for a beat, then shrugged. «Could work.»

«Alright. I'll find the cutters. You keep the kids calm.»

Angel blinked. «What? Why me?»

Eddie shot him a look. «Because you're good with kids.»

Angel let out a sharp laugh, incredulous. «Since when?»

«Don't play dumb. You treat Fat Nuggets like your own child, and Niffty and Charlie are basically your little sisters.» Eddie raised an eyebrow. «Go ahead, try to deny it.»

Angel's grin faltered. Just for a second.

Something softer flickered in his expression—something distant, almost forgotten. He sighed, eyes lowering slightly. Then he let out a short chuckle, quieter this time. Sadder. Like a memory had slipped through the cracks.

«Fine.» he muttered, giving in. «But hurry up.»

Eddie nodded and started rummaging through the shelves.

Meanwhile, Angel stepped up to one of the cages, doing his best to seem not terrifying. «Uh… hey, little guys…» The older Hellhound immediately snarled, ears pinned back, body wound tight like a coiled spring.

Angel pulled back slightly, raising his hands. «Easy, easy! We're here to get you out. You'll go home, if you have one. And if you don't, we'll find you one.» One of the younger pups—no older than twelve—stared at him, his little brow furrowing like he was trying to place him. Then, suddenly, his eyes lit up in recognition. «Hey! You're Angel Dust!»

Angel blinked, giving him a wary look. «And how the hell do you know me?»

The pup smirked, tilting his head just slightly. «Take a guess.»

Angel groaned, dragging a hand down his face. «Yeah. Fair enough.»

—

«Mother Russia, Mother Russia, MOTHER RUSSIA!»Yaga cursed under her breath, slamming her fists against the control panel. «How in the ever-loving hell does this damn thing work?!»

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, desperately trying to make sense of the mess of screens, buttons, and incomprehensible interfaces in front of her. She had piloted bombers in the middle of a world war. Pulled off emergency landings in enemy territory. But this?

This was an entirely different kind of hell.

She let out a frustrated huff. She didn't want to do this. But she had no choice.

Flipping on the comms, she was immediately met with the sound of rapid gunfire—followed by a familiar, manic cackle.

Yaga pinched the bridge of her nose and forced her irritation down. «Sprock, the panel is more complicated than expected. If you're done playing, we need to switch roles.»

«Five more minutes!» the small demon whined on the other end, sounding like a kid begging for just a little more time at the playground.

Yaga gritted her teeth. "Damn psycho."

«We might not have five minutes!» she snapped. Then, inhaling sharply, she forced herself to stay calm. Yelling wouldn't help. Not with him.

«Look...» she said, lowering her voice to something sharp and cutting «I know you're not all there. I know you're having fun. But we need you here. Now. So get your ass over here and do your damn job.»

The moment the words left her mouth, the lights flickered back on.

For half a second, there was silence.

Then—

The alarm.

A sharp, deafening wail erupted through the warehouse. Yaga's head snapped up, and a cold wave of dread slammed into her chest.

«Blyad'!» she cursed in Russian.

It was too late.

—

Eddie and Angel had just found the bolt cutters and were already working on freeing the captives when the room flooded with light.

The alarm blared an instant later—sharp, unmistakable, a warning cry echoing through the entire warehouse.

For a fraction of a second, they froze.

Time stretched thin. They'd been caught. And now they were rats in a cage.

Eddie locked eyes with Angel. No quips. No sarcastic remarks. Just the cold, hard click of a rifle being loaded, Angel's jaw clenched tight.

Eddie understood. No words were needed.

He dropped to one knee in front of the oldest Hellhound and pressed the bolt cutters into his hands.

«Get the others out. Run. If you don't know where to go, head to the Hazbin Hotel. We'll figure the rest out later.»

The Hellhound hesitated for only a second, uncertainty flickering in his expression before he nodded and got to work, cutting through the locks as fast as he could.

No time to waste.

Eddie and Angel gripped their weapons, turned toward the entrance.

They weren't running. They weren't hesitating. They were meeting the fight head-on.

Eddie tapped his comms. His voice was cold, razor-sharp, an order that left no room for argument.

«Change of plans. We're buying the Hellhounds time to escape.» A brief silence on the line. Then, in a voice as cold as death, he added: «Take no prisoners.»

—

The moment the order crackled through their earpieces, a wicked grin spread across every soldier's face.

No more sneaking around. No more patience.

Now it was time to fight.

Linda and Tiger exchanged a glance—one that needed no words. A gleam of pure, violent excitement flickered in their eyes. Tiger stretched his neck with a sickening crack, rolling his shoulders, fingers flexing in anticipation. Linda ran her tongue over her teeth, gearing up in her own way.

Yaga stood up with slow, deliberate calm, grabbing a pistol and checking the magazine with an effortless motion.

Muto, who had been kneeling in eerie meditation in the middle of all this chaos, finally opened his eyes. Silent as a shadow, he rose with an almost inhuman fluidity, his hand tightening around the sheath of his katana.

Even Sprock seemed to snap into focus.

He leaped backward with his monkey-like agility, landing squarely on one of the warehouse's automated turrets. A deranged grin split his face as he yanked off a control panel, shoving both hands into the tangled mess of wires beneath.

A sharp hiss of electricity. The acrid scent of burning plastic. The turret's targeting lights flickered red.

Sprock trailed a slow, affectionate hand down the turret's side—a gesture that was both unnerving and disturbingly intimate.

«You're mine now.» he whispered, like a man who had just found the love of his life.

Then, with manic delight, he threw his head back and screamed:

«TIME TO TEAR THIS PLACE APART!»

The turret roared to life.

A storm of gunfire ripped through the air, cutting down Moretti mercenaries before they could even react. The sharp retort of bullets mixed with their startled screams, blood splattering across crates and concrete.

The ones who survived the first onslaught weren't lucky for long.

Tiger was on them in a flash. His fists crashed into bodies like wrecking balls, each strike enhanced by metal-plated knuckle dusters lined with razor-sharp spikes.

Throat. Eyes. Solar plexus.

The mercenaries collapsed, some dead before they even knew what hit them.

If Tiger didn't finish them, Linda was right there to do the job.
She wasn't about brute force—she didn't need it. Her speed and surgical precision made up for raw strength. She turned the enemies' momentum against them, flipping them, slamming them, snapping joints with a dancer's grace.

A clean punch to the temple. A sharp jab under the ribs. If that didn't do the trick, the glint of a hidden blade would flash just long enough to slice a throat or sever a tendon.

And lurking just beyond their reach—Muto.

A silent phantom, his katana an extension of his will. The mercenaries who strayed too close never even knew what hit them. A single, decisive slash—and they'd freeze, blinking, their bodies still standing… just long enough to realize something was wrong.

Then, slowly, their torsos separated from their legs.

Muto only sheathed his sword when his work was done.

And if four raging demons weren't enough, death rained from above.

Yaga, perched in the control room, took advantage of her high ground, sniping down every idiot who dared to step through the front entrance.

One shot, one kill.

No wasted bullets. No hesitation.

When her ammo finally ran dry, she threw down her pistol, pulled two iron bars, and leaped into the fight with a war cry in Russian.

The Morettis weren't stupid. They adapted.

Realizing their men were getting slaughtered, they changed tactics. Rifles cocked. Machine guns aimed. The air exploded with return fire.

The squad was forced back, pinned against a set of steel doors with nowhere to run.

That's when Eddie and Angel made their entrance.

Angel sprang forward, defying gravity as he flipped over the guards, landing with deadly elegance.

Midair, he grabbed two discarded rifles—and fired both at once.

Pure, precise chaos.

Mercenaries dropped, their weapons slipping from lifeless hands—before they even hit the floor, Angel caught them, tossed them to his allies, and was already moving again, flipping, dodging, unloading bullet after bullet.

The battle raged on, but the tide had turned.

The bastards kept coming, wave after wave, but now they weren't facing desperate rebels or scattered resistance. Now, they were facing him.

The Hotel's Shield.

Eddie pushed forward, unyielding, and something in him changed.

His irises bled away into nothing. His sclera darkened to a deep, menacing red. His veins ignited with an eerie, pulsing glow—blue light crawling beneath his skin like fire in his blood.

But this time, it wasn't just adrenaline fueling him.

It was rage.

A silent roar swelled in his chest, scorching through his limbs, sharpening his every movement into something cold and absolute. Justice. Retribution. Vengeance.

His rifle snapped up. He fired.

Shot after shot, precise and merciless.

A skull cracked beneath the brutal swing of his rifle butt.

A body flew backward, crushed against a wall by the sheer force of his kick.

The next enemy barely had time to blink before a bullet carved through his skull—Eddie didn't even need to look.

Move. Shoot. Protect.

It became a rhythm, a savage, relentless cadence that drove him forward.

He wasn't just killing.

He was erasing them.

A guardian wrapped in fire and fury, wielding death with the precision of a man who knew exactly what was at stake.

The Guild of Assasins had taught him how to kill.

The Hazbin Hotel had taught him what to fight for.

And tonight, Eddie was fighting for them.

For the Hellhound children.

For the end of this twisted, monstrous trade.

For redemption.

And to make damn sure no one—no one—would ever suffer the way he had.

—

Outside the warehouse, chaos reigned supreme. Sprock sat perched atop the auto-turret, cackling like a maniac as he mowed down the Moretti goons trying to storm the entrance. The relentless pounding of gunfire was music to his ears, a symphony of destruction and carnage.

Then—

Click.

The turret kept swiveling, tracking targets, but not a single bullet fired.

Sprock blinked. Once. Twice. He pressed the trigger again.

Click.

Nothing.

«Oh, c'mon, baby, not now!» he muttered, giving the turret a couple of gentle smacks, like a man trying to fix an old, stubborn TV.

Still nothing.

His eyes darted around, frantically searching for an extra ammo pack, a spare magazine—anything—but the cold, undeniable reality set in.

He was out. Completely out.

«SON OF A—!»

With catlike agility, he vaulted off the turret, landing in a low crouch, muscles tense. He had burned through everything keeping those bastards from swarming inside. "Great job, Sprock. And now what?"

For the first time all night, a sliver of worry crept in.

And then—

Something shifted. The Moretti thugs stopped advancing. The gunfire slowed.

A white limousine pulled up in front of the warehouse entrance.

Everything went still. The air changed, thick with an unnatural weight. Sprock swallowed hard. «Oh… oh, shit.»

This was bad. Really, really bad.

He didn't wait to see who had just arrived. When big players showed up like that, it was never good news. Like a rat sensing a predator, Sprock slipped back inside the warehouse at lightning speed—

Because when the real monsters entered the battlefield, smart people knew when to run.

—

With a final, brutal blow, the last of the Moretti goons hit the ground.

And then—Silence.

Outside the warehouse, Moretti's men stood in formation, lined up like soldiers, stiff and unflinching, waiting for orders. At the front of the group, a white limousine pulled up just beyond the gate, its polished surface gleaming under the dim streetlights.

The driver stepped out, moving with practiced precision, and circled to the passenger side.

With a single, deliberate motion, he opened the door.

Two figures emerged. Don Moretti and his son Arackniss.

The air thickened, growing heavier, colder, absolutely still.

Moretti took a slow drag from his cigar, letting the smoke curl around him like a serpent, exhaling with the same measured patience of a man who owned a city and knew it.

Then, gesturing with one hand, he spoke. «Eddsciòtte… the hell you think you're doin' here, huh?!»

Eddie's blood boiled. He forced himself to stay calm, but the adrenaline crash from his powers left him breathless, shaking slightly between words.

«I should be asking you that!» he shot back, gripping his rifle tighter. «I've worked for you before, Don. Took out the rats who crossed you, who sold your intel. Even guarded your shipments.» His breathing was uneven, but his voice never wavered. «And you know what I found inside those crates? Guns. Drugs. Bad shit, sure, but at least I could live with it. The people buying that crap? They were either protecting themselves or destroying themselves. But now? I do one last favor for you in exchange for that damn invitation, and I find out you're trafficking kids?! What the fuck?!» He had to force himself not to lunge at the man, to not put a bullet in his skull right then and there. His hands trembled with the effort. His eyes burned with fury. «I didn't think you were capable of this.»

Moretti sighed, tapping the ash off his cigar with a bored flick of his wrist. «Eddsciotte… it ain't personal. It's just business.»

His voice had the tone of a father trying to explain to his naive, foolish son how the world really worked. «Drugs? They don't sell like they used to. Too many players, too much heat. And weapons…» He gave a careless shrug, as if discussing the weather. «Carmilla's got the market locked down. Ain't just the angelic shit, neither. I gotta expand, capisci?»

Eddie's fists clenched. He refused to lose control, refused to let this become another Guild massacre. But Moretti was pushing his limits.

Angel, keeping his grip tight around two rifles, crossed two of his free arms, fingers drumming nervously against his bicep. The more Moretti spoke, the more the agitation grew inside him. His gaze flickered between Eddie and Arackniss, trying to figure out where the hell this was going.

And for the first time, Angel noticed it. The way his father and Valentino were exactly the same.

The same tone. The same smug, sickening attitude.

Moretti took another long drag from his cigar before letting out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. «And all this drama…» He gestured grandly, like a man mocking a bad stage performance. «We talkin' about dogs here!»

The disgust was instant. Tiger growled, a deep, guttural sound. Yaga and Linda went rigid, their muscles tensing, fingers itching over their triggers. Muto didn't react visibly, but the sharp breath through his nose spoke volumes.

Angel took a single step forward, his face twisted with pure revulsion. «You are such a fucking bastard.» His voice was low, sharp, deadly. «Headshot, tell me we're breaking his fucking face.»

Eddie didn't answer. But his jaw locked, his wings twitched, and his eyes shone with cold fury. His voice, when it came, was poison. «Dogs?»

Moretti waved a hand, rolling his eyes like he couldn't believe he even had to explain. «Yeah, dogs! And you makin' a whole damn tragedy outta it? Listen, kid—they look like people, sure, but they ain't people. They're animals, Eddsciòtte. Animals!»

Silence.
Then Eddie exploded. «THEY'RE CHILDREN!» His voice ripped through the cold night air, shattering the moment like glass. «Maybe they got fur, maybe they got tails, but they got minds! They got souls! They feel, they hurt, they cry—JUST LIKE US! How can you not see it?!» His words turned accusatory, a challenge thrown in Moretti's face. «Or maybe… maybe you just don't wanna see it.»

Moretti's expression darkened. There was no rage, no outrage. Just disappointment. Pity. Like he was watching a man waste his own potential.

He shook his head. «I knew that Hazbin Hotel bullshit was makin' you soft.» A long, dramatic sigh. «Damn shame. I remember when you used to work for me. Always had my boy's back. Always so precise. So loyal.» He let the words sink in.

Then... A smirk. A dagger in his eyes. «Hell, I was this close to makin' you family.» That smirk widened, turning cruel. «And now look at you.» He gestured toward Angel with a mocking chuckle. «Runnin' around with my faggot son, gettin' in my damn way.»

The world stopped. Angel went rigid. A shiver crawled up his spine. He knew his father would say something vile. He always did. But hearing it... It still cut.

Angel's eyes darted to Arackniss, waiting for any reaction. But his brother's face was unreadable. Cold. Distant. As always.

And that? That pissed him off even more.

Moretti let out another long, exaggerated sigh. «Know this pains me, really.»
A snap of his fingers. A single, casual gesture. He pointed toward Eddie and his team. «Boys, take 'em.»

For a moment no one moved. No one breathed.

Then—

BANG.

Moretti's eyes widened.

His cigar slipped from his lips.

And with a silent thud, he collapsed.

Behind him, Arackniss held a still-smoking angel pistol in his hand.

Moretti's men froze.

No one spoke. No one reacted. No one moved.

The only sound was the soft thud of the lifeless body hitting the pavement.

Angel gasped. He hadn't expected Niss to do that. He knew his brother hated their father… but shooting him in cold blood?
He found himself staring at him, expecting to see anything on his face. Anger. Relief. Shock.
But nothing. Arackniss was still the same, closed off and distant.
Angel swallowed, trying to hide the lump in his throat. He didn't want to feel pity. Not for that fucker. But when he looked at Moretti's body lying still on the asphalt, he realized that as much of a monster as he had been, he was still his father.
It wasn't just Angel who was shocked. Everyone else was as surprised as he was.
The only one who could say anything was Linda, who uttered an incredulous, «What the fuck…?» in the face of such a betrayal.

Arackniss wiped down his gun with the casual ease of a man who had just swatted a mosquito.

The blood of his father still stained the asphalt, dark and fresh, yet he moved with calm indifference, as if he had merely wrapped up a tedious bit of business paperwork.

«First of all...» he began, voice cool as a blade «I should thank you for handling my father's most loyal men.» His tone was eerily flat, the kind of quiet before a storm. «I've been meaning to take control of the family for a while now. And when the old man told me about the Hellhounds, well…» A ghost of a smirk flickered across his face. «I figured it was time to send him into early retirement.» With practiced ease, he slid the gun back into its holster, then turned his gaze on Eddie and the others. There was no gratitude in his eyes, just the detached curiosity of a man watching a plan unfold exactly as he expected.

«I was never a fan of the whole buying and selling lives thing.» he continued, voice smooth but devoid of warmth. «At least, not when it comes to beings I can actually hold a conversation with. But I didn't have enough men on my side to do anything about it before.»

His smirk sharpened into something cutting. «Tell Rascal I said hello.» Eddie immediately caught the implication in those words.

Angel, on the other hand, let out a sharp, humorless laugh and stepped forward, arms crossed tight over his chest. Tension radiated off him in waves. «Seriously, Niss?» His voice was laced with disbelief. «You sat back and let us do the dirty work? Christ, I knew you were turning into the old man.»

Arackniss let out a bored exhale, unshaken. «And I knew that blonde girl next to Headshot was you.» His gaze flicked over Angel with something close to amusement, but underneath, there was an undercurrent of disdain. He shook his head, sighing as if genuinely disappointed. «For fuck's sake, Angelcakes…» he muttered, voice flat. «I get the whole sucking dick thing. I get the porn thing. But dressing like a damn girl?»

For a moment, Angel froze. Not because he was offended—hell, he'd heard worse. No. It was because it was coming from Arackniss. From the same brother who used to sneak him their mother's heels when no one was looking. The brother who covered for him when he had secret rendezvous. The one who, long ago, had whispered: "Do what you gotta do, just don't get caught."

Something unspoken settled between them, heavy and unresolved. Angel forced his usual mask back into place—that cocky grin, that devil-may-care attitude that kept the real shit buried deep. «You know how it is…» He tilted his head, flashing a mocking smile. «If I'm gonna be the black sheep of the family, I might as well go all the way.»

Arackniss held his stare for a second longer, expression unreadable. Then he just shrugged. «Suit yourself.»

Without another word, he turned his attention back to Eddie.

«The fact is that at the moment I am the new Don Moretti.» He didn't say it with pride. No fanfare, no gloating. Just a cold, inevitable fact. «When the rest of these morons crawl back out of whatever shithole they ran to, I'll tell 'em my father died in a firefight. No one's gonna come looking for you.»

A pause. A flicker of thought. «I'll give you forty-five minutes. Get the Hellhounds and disappear.» With that, he stepped toward his father's still-warm corpse. From the inside pocket of his coat, he pulled out a small, folded piece of cardstock—red and black. Without ceremony, he extended it to Eddie. «…Guess this belongs to you.»

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he revealed a second invitation. «…Actually, now you got two. Bring a friend.»

Eddie took them, his fingers still dusted with gunpowder residue. He stared at the cards, turning them over, trying to make sense of them. After everything, after the blood, the fire, the rage, the battle they had fought for something good... these stupid fucking invitations felt like the most meaningless things in the world.

Had it really been worth it? The thought crept in like venom, curling in his mind.

But Eddie shoved it down. They had saved innocents. He had ensured Angel's safety at the Gala. And for now that would have to be enough.

«And now, move.» Arackniss ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. «Take a truck if you want.»

He tilted his head toward the corridor behind them. Eddie turned, pulse still hammering in his ears. The chaos of the fight had blinded him to what lay just beyond the battlefield.

From the shadows of the warehouse, they began to emerge. The young Hellhounds.

The same ones who, moments ago, had been locked away in cages.

None of them ran. None of them dared. They stood frozen, waiting, their bodies tense, their eyes darting between Eddie, Arackniss, and the bodies strewn across the floor. They had no way of knowing if it was truly over. If they were truly free.

Eddie clenched his jaw. If Arackniss hadn't pulled that trigger, if he hadn't gunned down his own father... these kids would already be back in chains.

Slowly, Eddie turned back toward him, studying his expression. «Didn't take you for the empathetic type, Niss.»

Arackniss merely smirked. A small, sharp thing that never reached his eyes.

«Don't get it twisted.» he replied, voice infuriatingly light. «This isn't empathy. Call it a favor—for old times' sake.» His smirk widened, just a fraction. «And a thank-you… for clearing my path.»

Eddie held his gaze a moment longer, searching for something, anything, beneath that cold, calculating exterior.

Then he nodded.

He didn't trust him. Not now. Not ever.

But for tonight? They had a deal.

—

The Hellhounds were loaded into the truck, one after the other.

There weren't any seats, so they crouched where they could, huddling together on the cold metal floor. The smaller ones clung to the older ones, wrapping their arms around them as if that alone could keep them tethered to reality. Some of them still trembled from shock. Others whispered quiet reassurances to the younger ones, murmuring promises they weren't even sure they believed themselves.

Eddie stood at the threshold of the truck, watching them, feeling the weight in his chest grow heavier by the second. This wasn't the clean escape they deserved. This wasn't some flawless rescue mission where everyone walked away healed and whole. But it was all they could offer right now.

«I'm sorry we don't have anything better for you» Eddie said at last, voice softer than usual. Sincere. «But we'll drive carefully. We'll get you somewhere safe. That's a promise.»

A few of them looked up at him, still wary, their trust worn too thin to give freely. Others, too exhausted to question it, simply nodded.

And then—

« WE'RE TOTALLY GONNA CRASH— » Sprock's voice blared out of nowhere, perching himself right on Eddie's shoulder like some demonic parrot.

He didn't get to finish. With one swift motion, Eddie grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and chucked him to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Sprock hit the dirt with a surprised grunt, landing flat on his ass. Eddie didn't even blink. He simply turned back toward the Hellhounds, as if nothing had happened, his voice perfectly calm. «It'll be a short trip. I promise.»

Before shutting the door, he caught sight of something. A flicker—just for a moment. A few of the younger Hellhounds smiling, tired and uncertain, but real. A glimmer of relief, fragile but genuine.

Eddie exhaled, then pulled the door shut with a firm thud.

Now they were safe.

—

The team squeezed into the truck's cabin, filling every inch of available space. The vehicle was big enough to fit them all—just barely—but comfort was a luxury none of them could afford.

Tiger sprawled across his seat with a satisfied sigh, stretching out his legs like he owned the place. Far too comfortable for how cramped the space was.

Linda plopped down beside him, arms crossed, resting her head against the window with a look of mild irritation. Yaga took the front passenger seat, stiff as ever.

Muto settled into a corner, taking up as little room as possible. And then there was Sprock.

The little maniac had made himself right at home—perched smugly on Tiger's lap, rocking back and forth like he was lounging on a damn throne.

A low growl rumbled from Tiger's throat. «Can't you sit somewhere else?»

Sprock stretched lazily, folding his arms behind his head. «And miss the chance to be cradled by your muscular thighs? Not a chance.»

Tiger's ears flattened, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He was one second away from yeeting the little gremlin out of the truck.

But before he could even move, Eddie's voice cut in. «Tiger, just deal with it. There's nowhere else to sit.»

Tiger let out another irritated growl, clearly unimpressed with this logic. But after a beat, he gave in, huffing as he let Sprock stay put. Sprock grinned like a madman, even more smug than before.

Eddie just shook his head, exhaling sharply before turning the key in the ignition.

The truck rumbled to life.

Angel slid into the seat beside him, silent.

Eddie didn't say a word. He just gripped the wheel, pulled onto the road, and drove.

—

For a long while, no one spoke.

The cabin was heavy with unspoken thoughts, the only sound the steady hum of the engine beneath them.
Yaga stared straight ahead, hands gripping her knees a little too tightly, the only sign of the tension still thrumming beneath her skin.

Muto, as always, was impossible to read. But the way his fingers idly traced the edge of his katana spoke volumes.

Tiger drummed his fingers against his knee—nervous energy, nowhere to go. Linda, arms still folded, watched the city lights flicker past, lost in her own head.

And Angel…

Angel sat next to Eddie, arms crossed, head tilted slightly toward the window. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were somewhere else.

Then, out of nowhere, Linda broke the silence. «You gotta admit… we kicked some serious ass back there.»

The others turned toward her, surprised by the sudden shift in mood.

Tiger was the first to grin. «Hell yeah.» he said, flashing his sharp teeth. «We worked like a team.»

Yaga scoffed, crossing her arms. «Niet.» she corrected. «We worked like a Guild.»

The words sparked something. The exhaustion, the tension, the heavy silence—all of it cracked, like ice giving way beneath the sun.

Tiger and Linda exchanged glances. Then, they burst into laughter. Yaga, stoic as ever, still tried to keep her composure… but even she allowed herself a small, knowing smirk. And Sprock?

The little bastard practically sprang to life, leaping to his feet—still balanced on Tiger's lap—and throwing a fist in the air. «SO, WHO'S THE GREATEST DAMN SABOTEUR THIS GUILD HAS EVER SEEN?!»

Tiger rolled his eyes. «Sprock, if you don't sit your ass down, I'm throwing you out the window.»

But there was no bite to his words. The tension in the truck finally lifted.

One by one, they all joined in—the stories, the jokes, reliving every second of the chaos like they were telling an epic war tale.

Even Angel, who had been silent all this time, finally cracked a small, amused smile.

But Eddie—

Eddie didn't smile.

As the others laughed and let the adrenaline fade into something light, he stayed focused on the road, his grip far too tight on the wheel.

His knuckles were white. His jaw locked so tight it ached. And his breathing—it wasn't steady.

Angel noticed. His own smile faltered just slightly. His gaze flicked to Eddie, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell just a little too sharply.

He knew. He knew exactly what was going through Eddie's head.

And he didn't like it.

Eddie inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Or at least, trying to. But when he spoke, his voice was cold—razor-sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

A tone he almost never used. And because of that, the entire cabin froze. «This ends here.»

Silence swallowed the truck.

The others turned to him, caught off guard. That tone, that finality—it didn't sound like him at all.

Angel held his breath. Eddie's knuckles whitened on the wheel as he flicked his gaze toward them, just long enough to drive the point home. «We will never be a Guild. Got it?»

The words hit like a hammer. «No Guild of the Damned. No Guild of the Hotel. No damn Guild of the Guardians. Period.»

His eyes locked back on the road, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. «You have no idea what you're asking for.»

A heavy silence settled over the truck. Thick. Tense. Unspoken. Eddie shook his head, his voice dropping lower—quieter—but no less sharp. «Splitting profits. Taking care of the injured. Covering for people who can't work. Bending over backward to make things fair…» He trailed off, his jaw clenching so tight it looked painful. Then, barely above a whisper, laced with something dark and venomous: «…just to hear your own people ask you why.»

No one spoke.

This wasn't just a refusal. It was a warning.

Linda was the first to break the silence. She crossed her arms, her voice firm. «We know exactly why.» Her eyes burned with conviction. «Because in a horizontal system, unlike a vertical one, no one stands above the others. Everyone gets what they need.»

Tiger, arms folded, shifted slightly, his eyes flicking toward Muto. The swordsman was already scribbling something in his ever-present battered notebook. A few seconds later, Tiger read it aloud. «It's already what we do. We'd just be making it official.»

Eddie let out a sharp, bitter scoff.

«Right. Maybe we should print some flyers while we're at it.» Yaga snorted, propping an elbow against the window. «More people means less work for everyone.»

Eddie's expression darkened. «Yeah… until some asshole decides they're better than the rest.»

The words came out low, but the heat in them burned. The others exchanged glances.

Eddie didn't stop. His voice turned heavier, colder, dripping with raw, bitter disillusionment. «Until someone decides they deserve more.» His fingers flexed against the steering wheel. «Until someone starts believing they have the right to lead. To take more. To make the calls for everyone else.» His grip tightened. Knuckles white. «And until that someone decides they want to become an Overlord, even though they started out preaching about "equality".»

The silence that followed was suffocating.

No one spoke. No one knew what to say.

Angel lowered his gaze, just slightly. He understood. And it hurt. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Careful. Gentle. «So that's why you killed your Guildmates.»

It wasn't a question.

The team went still. Their eyes flicked between Angel and Eddie, the weight of the revelation settling hard.

Angel's voice softened even more, barely above a murmur. «The massacre my father mentioned…it was because of that, wasn't it?»

Eddie took a deep breath, fighting against the tight knot in his throat. «I didn't kill them all.» His voice was steady, but laced with exhaustion. «Only the ones who betrayed the Guild. And I… I didn't do it consciously. I was… gone.»

He paused, forcing his breath to steady. His eyes drifted for a moment, locked on the dark streets of Pentagram City.

«The Guild wasn't just a job. It was home. It was where I slept, where I ate, where I spent time with the people who, back then, were my family. When I first arrived in Hell, I was desperate. I didn't think I deserved to be here. I thought I'd end up somewhere else—drinking and feasting with my Norse ancestors. But, like everyone else, I had to learn to live with it.» His lips curled into a bitter half-smile. «I scraped by. Spent years surviving on pickpocketing. Then one day, I reached into the wrong pocket...» A beat of silence. Then, with a ghost of amusement: «Or maybe the right one, depending on how you look at it.»

He shook his head, something like nostalgia flickering in his voice.

«It was Bruce. The bastard picked me up like I was a damn sack of potatoes, stared me down with those bull eyes, and, with the calmest voice in the world, said…» Eddie dropped his tone to mimic Bruce's deep, gruff voice. «"You're wasting your afterlife, kid. Now you're coming with me."»

The others laughed at the impression. Eddie let them. Just for a moment.

Then he continued.

«Back then, I was skinnier than you.» He gestured toward Angel.

Angel's eyes widened in pure offense. «Excuse me?! Are you serious?!»

Eddie smirked, nodding.

«Bruce took me to this old stone fortress, half military, half training ground, where dozens of armed demons were constantly working, constantly training. He introduced me to the Guild, explained how things worked. At first? I wanted nothing to do with it. But the alternative was starving in the streets.» His voice dimmed, like a storm cloud rolling in. «You have no idea how hard I had to work to keep up. And to make things worse? The moment they found out how I died, they started calling me 'Headshot' to mock me.» His lips twisted into a smirk that wasn't happy. «Then I realized I had a damn near-perfect aim. A natural talent. I threw myself into it, honed my skills. Little by little, my name stopped being a joke. It started meaning something. I started taking missions—first alongside the veterans, then solo. And I was good. I was the best.»

His face darkened, shadowed by a weight too heavy to carry. «Then, one day… a contract came in.»

The tension in the truck thickened.

«It was an absurd amount of money. A reward so high that, even after the Guild's cut, you could have stopped working for months. And the target was…» He inhaled slowly. «The Radio Demon.»

A cold chill ran through the truck.

«Wait, you mean Alastor?» Sprock tilted his head.

Tiger shot him a glare. «Do you know any other Radio Demons?»

Eddie nodded.

«Bruce refused immediately. He didn't want to lose people on a suicide mission, no matter how big the reward.» His voice dropped, lower now. Darker. «But I… I wanted to take the job. Bruce forbid me.» A bitter chuckle. «I went anyway.»

Then, quietly: «And, for the first time… I missed.»

No one spoke.

«Holy shit.» Angel exhaled. «So that's why he messes with you. How the hell are you still alive?»

Eddie gave a tired smile. «Now?» He lifted his wrist, pointing at the Deus Ex Machina. «This little artifact keeps him from getting close.» Then his smile vanished. «But back then… I barely survived. He never saw my face, but his shadows tore me to pieces. I got lucky. When I made it back to the Guild… Bruce chewed me out in front of everyone and put me on punishment.»

Angel raised an eyebrow. «What do you mean, punishment?»

Eddie chuckled, but without humor. «He made me do bookkeeping for two weeks.»

Angel stared—then burst into laughter. «Jesus, Headshot, I don't know what's worse—getting your ass kicked or crunching numbers!»

Eddie let out a small huff of amusement. But it faded. Quickly.
«But for the others? It wasn't enough.» His voice grew distant. «There were already some who weren't happy. Some wanted more. They wanted to stop sharing. And when they saw Bruce treating me like a son… that was the final straw.»
He exhaled sharply. «It was a domino effect. Overnight, half the Guild had sided with someone else. Spine, he called himself. They wanted their own Guild. But they weren't happy just leaving. They wanted everything. The building, the weapons, the money… they wanted us out.»

His fingers tightened around the wheel. «Obviously, we refused. And that's when the fight started.»

A heavy pause. His breathing was shallow. «I don't know who threw the first punch. All I know is—I was fighting to protect Bruce and the others… and then Spine came at me.» His grip turned to iron. «And I saw red. Literally. After that? I don't know what happened.» His voice dropped to a whisper. «When I came to my senses… the floor was covered in bodies.» A shiver ran down his spine. «Their blood was on my hands.» His voice grew thinner. «Bruce was looking at me like he didn't recognize me. Some of my own were hurt.» The silence in the truck became unbearable. Eddie closed his eyes for just a second—then forced himself to continue. «In the end… the Guild fell apart. Bruce split what was left of the money between the survivors. And that was it.»

A long inhale. A longer exhale. «In the span of a few weeks, I lost everything.» His voice was quiet. «I was too proud. And too violent.» Another breath. «It's one of the many reasons why I didn't want to stay at the Hotel at first. I don't deserve redemption. Hell, I don't even deserve to be there.» His eyes met Angel's. «And I sure as hell don't deserve to start another Guild.»

His voice hardened. «I'm not a good person, Silly.» His eyes burned. «I never was.»

Silence fell again.

The weight of Eddie's confession settled like a storm cloud inside the truck, thick and heavy.

Angel watched him for a few seconds. Then, he smiled—but it was a sad smile.

«You wanna know the truth, Shotty?» Eddie turned to him, surprised by the softness in his voice. «Nobody deserves redemption.»

Eddie blinked, not expecting that.

Angel shrugged, leaning back slightly. «We're in Hell, Toots. If we're here, there's a reason. Some more than others, but let's face it—we're all a bunch of fuckin' bastards.» He tilted his head, smirking. «Sound familiar?»

Eddie didn't answer, but Angel caught the flicker in his eyes.

«Redemption ain't a reward. Nobody hands it out like a prize.» Angel continued, his voice softer but steady. «You earn it. And you work your ass off for it. That's what makes it worth something.» He stretched out across the seat, one leg lazily crossed over the other. «Are you a good person? Hell no. You've done some real nasty shit. But...» A teasing grin tugged at his lips. «Tonight? You shut down a whole fuckin' trafficking ring. And now, you're making sure those kids get somewhere safe.» His tone turned playful. «You could've handled it the easy way—put a bullet in Rascal's head and walked away. But you didn't.» Angel shook his head, laughing quietly. «Instead, you risked your ass to save a bunch of pups this shithole of a city treats worse than strays on Earth.»
Then he looked at him—really looked at him. And for the first time, Eddie caught something different in Angel's gaze. Something real.

«And that, Shotty? That's the kinda shit good people do.» Angel ran a hand through his hair, his eyes dipping slightly, voice lowering into something softer. «It ain't easy.» His words came out quiet, honest. «And if anyone knows that, it's me.» A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips—but it wasn't happiness. It was the kind of smile worn by someone carrying too many wounds. Then he tilted his head slightly, and something deeper stirred in his expression. Something that wasn't just sympathy. «But I'd bet everything I got that, given enough time… you might just pull it off.»

Eddie stared, unable to speak, unable to even think. His gaze lingered on Angel, on the way he was looking at him—steady, open, like he saw something in Eddie that Eddie himself couldn't. There was no teasing, no bravado, no mask to hide behind. Just Angel. Honest and unguarded.

Something pulled tight in Eddie's chest. That warmth—the one he had spent so long ignoring, avoiding, denying—settled between them like a fire he couldn't smother. It curled around his ribs, thrummed beneath his skin, made his breathing just a little too heavy, his grip on the wheel just a little too tight.

And then Angel moved. Without hesitation, without theatrics, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He leaned in, resting a hand on Eddie's shoulder, fingers curling slightly as he tugged him in—not with the usual mischief in his touch, but something softer, something intimate.

Before Eddie could even process it, he felt it—the faintest press of lips against his cheek.

A kiss.
Gentle. Unrushed. Too quick to stop. Too warm to ignore.

The world didn't just slow. It stopped.

His mind crashed into a wall of static, thoughts blinking out one by one like overloaded circuits. The truck, the road, the distant hum of the engine—all of it faded into nothing. His breath hitched, his fingers twitched against the wheel, and for one terrifying second, he forgot how to function.

Angel pulled away just as easily as he had leaned in, as if he hadn't just detonated a bomb in Eddie's brain. There was no cocky grin, no smug comment to follow—just a quiet kind of fondness lingering in his expression, something disarmingly real, paired with a flicker of amusement at just how thoroughly Eddie had ceased to exist.

Eddie kept his eyes locked on the road, rigid and silent, his pulse slamming against his ribs like he had just fought his way out of a battlefield. Which was ridiculous, considering he had survived gunfire, assassins, and actual demons—and yet, somehow, nothing had ever knocked the breath out of him quite like this.

And then, because the universe clearly had the worst sense of timing, trouble arrived.

«Ooooooooh!»

The chorus of fake scandal rang out from the back, immediately followed by sharp, taunting remarks.

«Damn, Headshot, I didn't know you were so easy to turn on!» Yaga snickered, leaning back in her seat with an amused smirk.

«Aww, please tell me someone got a picture of that!» Linda groaned dramatically. «I have to send it to Kitty!»

Eddie, barely regaining enough control to fake composure, shot them a murderous glare through the rearview mirror. «Not. One. More. Word.» His voice was a low growl, a clear warning.

But his crew knew one thing for sure—if there was ever a perfect moment to push his buttons, this was it.

Linda crossed her arms, her grin practically dripping with smug satisfaction. «Oh, no need to say anything else, boss. Your glow says it all.»

Eddie's brow furrowed. «What?»

Instinctively, he glanced down—and his stomach dropped. Beneath his shirt, a telltale electric blue glow pulsed softly, flickering in sync with the rapid pounding of his heart.

For a brief second, the truck went dead silent.

Then, chaos.

«OHHHHHH! I FUCKIN' KNEW IT!» Sprock screeched, laughing so hard he nearly fell off Tiger's lap.

«Oh hell no, boss, you can't talk your way out of this one!» Tiger cackled. «You're lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree!»

Panic surged through Eddie as he frantically yanked at his shirt, desperately trying to smother the glow radiating from his chest. His face burned hotter than Hell itself. «EH! NO! This is NOT what it looks like! Where the hell is my leather jacket?!»

«You didn't bring it, boss!» Linda replied sweetly, pure evil in her tone. «And now? You're totally fucked.» She spun around and threw a fist in the air. «Alright, guys—ALL TOGETHER NOW!»

Within seconds, the entire truck erupted into raunchy stadium chants, voices overlapping in sheer, merciless glee, while Eddie desperately attempted to shove his body further into his seat, as if he could somehow will his light away. It was useless.

Muto, ever the silent observer, merely lifted his battered notebook, scribbled down a single word, and turned it toward the others. "Pathetic."

Angel chuckled, thoroughly amused—until he noticed Eddie's reaction.
The way his gaze dropped like a brick, the way his hand clamped over his chest as if trying to smother something shameful, the way his fingers tightened around the wheel, knuckles white, his entire body coiled with tension.
And then there was the glow. That telltale, unmistakable blue glow, pulsing beneath his skin, betraying him in the worst possible way.

Embarrassment was written across every inch of his face. His jaw clenched, his breathing turned uneven, and his shoulders stiffened like he was bracing for impact.
Angel saw it all, and something inside him sank. The answer was obvious.
Best case scenario? Eddie wasn't ready.
Worst case? He didn't want him at all.
A lump formed in Angel's throat, but he gritted his teeth and shoved it down, drowning the sting of rejection in something far more familiar: sarcasm.

Tilting his head, he forced out a smirk, voice syrupy sweet. «Shotty~ Did I really make your heart race that much?»
The moment the words left his mouth, Eddie's body betrayed him in a spectacular, glorious fashion.

A surge of blue light burst from beneath his skin, flooding the truck like a goddamn firework show. For a second, the entire cabin was bathed in that ethereal glow, as if a supernova had just gone off in the front seat. Eddie's eyes went wide with pure horror, his breath catching as realization slammed into him.

«ANGEEEEEEEEEEL!»

The truck erupted with laughter.

Angel leaned back against his seat, arms crossed over his chest, trying to play it cool, but his own heartbeat was hammering against his ribs. That reaction didn't lie. It didn't matter how much Eddie tried to deny it—his body told the truth. And yet, for some reason, he was still fighting it.
Angel swallowed hard, forcing his grin to stay in place, masking the quiet ache creeping into his chest. «Don't worry, Shotty.» he murmured, still teasing but softer now, a hint of something more in his tone. «Your secret's safe with me.»

But inside? Inside, something cracked. Because, shit. He was so, so fucked.

Meanwhile, Eddie slammed a hand against the wheel, his entire face burning like he'd just been dragged out of hellfire. «I. HATE. YOU. ALL.»

Then he stomped on the gas. The truck lurched forward, sending everyone jolting in their seats as more laughter rang through the cabin.
Damn that glow.
Damn Angel Dust.
But most of all, damn himself for not being able to stop thinking about that stupid, stupid kiss on the cheek.

—Hazbin Hotel, morning

Vaggie trudged down the stairs with a low grumble, still half-asleep. Her clothes were cold and clung uncomfortably to her skin, and she rubbed her one good eye with a sluggish motion, stifling a yawn. The day had barely begun, and she was already exhausted.

She could only hope that idiot Headshot hadn't pushed Charlie to the brink of collapse with his insane training routines and that that other idiot, Adam, had actually taught her something useful for once—like, maybe, how to revert to her normal form after hulking out into a twenty-meter-tall Nephilim with rage issues.

Shaking her head, she muttered to herself. First things first. Breakfast with Charlie.

But as soon as she reached the ground floor, her brain short-circuited.

The hotel's lobby waspacked.

Hundreds of Hellhound kids, ranging from barely toddlers to scrappy teenagers, filled every inch of space. The older ones lounged on chairs, reading, napping, or desperately trying to wrangle the younger ones, who tore through the room with the boundless energy of children who had never known a moment of peace.

And in the middle of it all… there was Charlie.

Her girlfriend, the literal Princess of Hell, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, entirely swarmed by a pack of tiny Hellhound pups clinging to her like she was a jungle gym. Her crimson eyes shimmered with warmth, her cheeks flushed with happiness. She looked—well, ecstatic.

And right next to her was him.

Headshot.

The Hotel's so-called Shield. The ex-hitman turned redemption project. The man who somehow had an innate talent for making her life more complicated.

He was talking to Charlie, his tone animated, hands moving emphatically as he tried—clearly in vain—to reason with her about something. Vaggie didn't even need to hear the conversation to know exactly what was happening.

But right now? She was too furious to care.

Her fists clenched at her sides, lips pressed into a thin, grim line. Her heart pounded as she stomped through the sea of damn dogs, eyes locked onto her target. If Headshot had screwed something up, he was about to pay for it.

Eddie turned just as she stormed up to him.

«Oh, morning, Vaggie.» His voice was infuriatingly casual.

She didn't answer. Didn't even blink. Instead, she jabbed a finger at his chest, her voice simmering with barely contained fury. «You. Explanations. Now.»

And yet, Eddie didn't flinch. Didn't back down. He didn't even pretend to defend himself. If anything, he tilted his head just slightly, flashing her that smug, insufferable little smirk—the one that made her want to slap it clean off his face.

«Check the news, Vaggie.» His tone was so calm it made her want to strangle him. «Angel, my Guild, and I dismantled a Hellhound trafficking ring last night. A lot of them don't have parents anymore, but Charlie's already working on an adoption program, aren't you?»

Charlie, looking far too comfortable under a pile of wagging tails and tiny, oversized ears, peeked up at them. Her eyes were brimming with emotion, her voice shaking with excitement.

«Yes!» she squeaked, hugging three of the pups even closer. «Right after I finish cuddling them all!»

Vaggie exhaled sharply through her nose.

There it was.

Her breakfast date with Charlie? Officially ruined.

—

Eddie sank into one of the armchairs in the hotel lobby with a heavy sigh, his entire body protesting the movement. Every muscle ached, wounds pulsing beneath his skin like dull embers, and his blood sugar had to be so low that he felt almost lightheaded, caught in that strange daze between exhaustion and depletion. But more than anything, it was his mind that wouldn't stop.

Images from the night before—Hellhounds locked in cages, blood pooling across the warehouse floor, the empty, hollow stare of Don Moretti right before he collapsed—buzzed through his head like a swarm of wasps, relentless, suffocating, impossible to shake.

A shift beside him caught his attention.

Angel slid into the seat next to him without a word, moving as if drawn there by some invisible force. No teasing remark, no dramatic entrance, no over-the-top flourish. Just a quiet, unspoken presence. And then, as naturally as breathing, he leaned ever so slightly against Eddie's arm, like he was seeking something—not warmth, not comfort, but presence.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn't heavy. It wasn't awkward. It was... comfortable.

Without thinking, Eddie lifted his arm, draping it over Angel's shoulders in a slow, instinctive motion, pulling him in like it wasn't even a conscious decision. Like it had always been meant to happen.

Angel stiffened, his breath catching, body tensing just for a fraction of a second. It was barely noticeable—just a flicker of hesitation, a ghost of something Eddie couldn't quite name. But then, slowly, Angel exhaled.

A quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, the kind that came from somewhere deep, and then he let himself sink in a little more, settling into Eddie's warmth, allowing himself to be held.

Maybe there was hope for him.

Maybe… for both of them.