The lounge of the Hazbin Hotel was unusually quiet for a morning. The usual upbeat chatter and clinking of glasses had given way to a somber air, as Charlie sat on one of the plush couches with her friends gathered around her. A half-empty teacup rested in her hands, untouched for the past ten minutes.
She had just finished recounting the dream—the twisted vision Violator had shown her, the other version of herself, the bone-and-fire throne, the terrifyingly real sensations. Her voice had wavered a few times, but Vaggie never left her side, her hand resting protectively over Charlie's.
Across from them, Lucifer stood near by, arms folded over his chest. Though his posture was relaxed, his eyes burned with contemplative anger. "I'm glad you're alright, dearest," he said, voice smooth but edged with steel. "But I can't help but wonder just what this Violator hoped to accomplish. Trying to tempt you? Into what? Abandoning your principles? Becoming a tyrant? He clearly doesn't understand the fire he's playing with."
"Pfft, yeah!" Angel Dust chimed in from where he sat cross-legged on a coffee table, swirling a drink in hand. "He must've been desperate if he thought Charlie freakin' Morningstar would go full evil queen just 'cause he offered her a fancy seat and some fireworks. Power ain't ever been her thing."
Charlie gave a weak smile at that, grateful for the support but still unsettled.
Behind the bar, Husk was nursing a drink of his own. He glanced over, his fur bristling just slightly. "It's not the offer that bothers me," he muttered, eyes narrowing, "it's the fact that he thought it was possible. That he knew exactly what buttons to try pushing. Someone like that… doesn't just take a shot in the dark. He's planning something."
The room fell into silence again, the tension settling in like fog.
Charlie finally set her cup down. "He said there's change coming… something that'll shake all the realms. And he said I had a chance to come out on top. Like I was being chosen for something."
Lucifer's expression darkened. "Sounds like an attempt to plant seeds—corrupt you in the same way he tried to mold Spawn. Twist good intentions into something monstrous."
Charlie's voice was quiet but firm. "Then we won't let him."
Vaggie tightened her grip on her hand. "Damn right we won't."
But Husk's gaze lingered on the empty hallway beyond the lounge. "…Still. Without Al around, if this thing really makes a move…"
His voice trailed off, but everyone heard what he didn't say.
Without Spawn…
They might be walking into a storm with no one strong enough to shield them. The members of I.M.P had been standing near the back of the lounge, having shown up early to check in on Charlie before the conversation turned heavy.
Blitzo was the first to speak, rubbing his temples and pacing a few steps before letting out a sarcastic groan. "Great. Fantastic. Possible end of the world, creepy clown monster trying to turn the nicest person in Hell into a lava queen, and Al's still out there playing interdimensional hide-and-seek."
He looked around at the group, exasperated. "Can we go ahead and add 'looming apocalypse' to the ever-growing shit list, or are we still pretending this is all normal?"
Luna, arms folded tightly across her chest, leaned against the wall beside him. Her usual disinterested demeanor was cracked, her expression visibly tense. "If this thing can get into the hotel… if it can reach Charlie like that—" she hesitated, eyes narrowing, "—then we've got more than just a missing friend. We've got something crawling under our skin."
Moxxie nodded solemnly, arms crossed as he stood close to Millie. "That dream—or vision, or whatever it was—felt too specific to just be a scare tactic. This thing knows us. Knows Charlie. Knows Al."
Millie, brows furrowed with concern, clutched Moxxie's arm gently. "We gotta do something more."
Charlie looked at them all, eyes filled with gratitude—and growing determination.
"You're right," she said quietly but resolutely. "We can't sit and wait for it to come to us."
Blitzo groaned, dragging a hand dramatically down his face. "Okay, okay—nope, I'm not processing all this sober."
He turned toward the bar, his voice rising as he waved a hand. "Husk! I need a drink. Correction: we all need a drink."
Without a word, Husk was already moving, slipping into bartender mode with effortless efficiency. Glasses clinked, bottles slid across the bar with practiced ease, and in no time at all, he was lining up a round for the I.M.P. crew.
For Moxxie, a classic whiskey—clean and neat.
For Blitzo, a flaming cocktail that matched his usual chaotic flair.
For Loona, a dark, bitter mix—something that matched her resting scowl but would hit smooth.
And for Millie…
Husk's movements subtly slowed, his eyes flicking toward her as she leaned casually against the bar, trying not to look exhausted. He reached beneath the counter, choosing a particular bottle tucked in the back. A splash of a sweet herbal soda, a touch of citrus, and a twist of mint for flavor. He poured it into a glass identical to the others, complete with the same garnish and ice. If you weren't looking closely, you'd never notice the lack of alcohol.
He set it in front of Millie with a small nod—nothing more, nothing less.
Millie blinked at the drink, glanced up at Husk, then gave him a grateful, almost relieved smile. Just the slightest crinkle of her nose said thank you without a single word.
He was keeping her secret.
"Cheers," Blitzo said, raising his glass like it was a lifeline.
"Cheers," the others echoed, lifting theirs.
As they drank, the moment of stillness was welcomed—a brief pause from the storm.
They didn't have all the answers, and the danger wasn't gone. But at least here, together, they had something solid.
Even if it came in the form of alcohol… or minty soda.
Blitzo sipped his cocktail with a satisfied hum, letting the burn work its way through his nerves. After a long beat, he leaned back in his chair and looked over at Charlie with a raised brow.
"So, uh… Gilly the Kid," he started, smirking into his glass, "any word if your little aquatic gremlin's cooked up anything useful to find Al yet?"
Before Charlie could even respond, a shrill voice snapped from the shadows.
"I do not appreciate that nickname!"
Blitzo yelped, jerking in his seat so hard he nearly flung his cocktail across the lounge. A few drops splashed onto his lap, and he glared toward the hallway.
Out from behind the corner skittered Baxter, clutching a strange, boxy contraption covered in knobs, wires, and a rather concerning blinking orb. His goggles reflected the dim lighting, and he looked every bit the proud, neurotic inventor.
"I will have you know," Baxter continued, holding the device up with exaggerated flair, "that I've been developing a portable energy detection meter tuned specifically to track Mr. Spawn's very unique energy signature."
Charlie blinked, eyes lighting up with interest. "Really? That's amazing, Baxter!"
"Does it work?" Vaggie asked, eyeing the strange contraption with mild skepticism.
Baxter puffed out his chest. "Well—"
BZZZZZT!
The device suddenly let out a loud static pop, sparks crackling from the top like a cartoon science experiment gone sideways. The blinking orb turned purple, then green, then emitted a sad warbling noise like a deflating balloon.
Baxter paused. Adjusted his goggles. Cleared his throat.
"…Not yet."
Blitzo snorted hard into his drink, barely avoiding another spill. "I swear, one day that thing's gonna eat you, Gilly."
Baxter growled under his breath, muttering something about "barbaric buffoons" and "underfunded genius," while Charlie simply laughed—grateful, even in all this chaos, to have these strange, dysfunctional allies by her side.
From the far side of the lounge, slouched across a worn velvet chair with one leg draped lazily over the armrest, Crymini watched the chaos unfold with a barely-contained smirk. She had her headphones pulled halfway down around her neck, bass-heavy music still pulsing from them, but her sharp, punk-painted eyes were very much tuned in.
She twirled a lollipop between her fingers, pretending she didn't care.
Didn't care about Charlie's dream.
Didn't care about the possible end of the world.
Didn't care about Baxter's short-circuiting science fair project.
And she definitely didn't care about Spawn.
At least… that's what she kept telling herself.
"Pfft," she muttered under her breath, watching Baxter retreat back into the depths of the hotel with a trail of sparks behind him. "Nerd…"
But her eyes lingered just a little too long on the cluster of friends still gathered around Charlie. Her ears twitched when the name "Al" came up again. And her tail gave an involuntary flick when Loona mentioned something about how the streets had gotten meaner since he vanished.
Crymini clicked her tongue and sat up slightly straighter, adjusting her spiked choker. Her gaze drifted to the direction that led to Spawn's old room—still locked up like some kind of shrine. She hadn't gone near it yet. Not really. But she'd thought about it.
He was part of the reason she'd come here, even if she'd never admit it out loud. Everyone in Hell knew the stories. Hell's Redeemer. The Hellspawn who took out monsters and demons. Who walked like a shadow but left behind change.
He was the only person she'd ever heard of who didn't just talk big—he did big.
And even someone as brash and jaded as Crymini had to admit…
That kind of power? That kind of will?
It was cool.
Not that she'd ever say it.
So instead, she sank back into her seat, shoved her headphones over her ears again, and muttered with a roll of her eyes:
"Still probably just some overhyped cape freak…"
But her tail curled tighter around her leg. And that stupid little flicker of hope?
It wouldn't go away.
Crymini slouched deeper into the cushions, her tongue pressing against her fang in irritation—not because of the situation, but because she couldn't stop thinking about it. The rumors, the chaos, the fact that everything felt like it was building toward something way bigger than any of them were ready for. She'd seen enough carnage in Hell to know when something real was coming.
She was just trying to drown it out when she heard the familiar click of shoes across the floor.
And then—that voice.
"Oi," came the sharp, teasing tone, laced with a distinct Australian accent. "You sittin' there pretendin' like the world's not going to shit too?"
Crymini glanced up, one eye squinting. "Cherri," she grumbled. "What do you want?"
Cherri Bomb stood nearby, her ever-present grin cocked to the side, one of her trademark explosives spinning between her fingers like it was nothing. She popped her bubblegum and shrugged.
"Just makin' conversation. You've got that 'I'm-thinking-about-the-badass-missing-antihero' look on your face," she said, nodding toward the others still talking about Spawn.
Crymini snorted and turned her head. "Pfft. Please. Like I care. Everyone here's actin' like he's some kind of dark avenger or whatever. Sounds like another edge-lord in a cape to me."
Cherri leaned on the arm of Crymini's chair with a knowing smirk. "Uh-huh. Sure. Keep tellin' yourself that."
Crymini glared at her from the corner of her eye, but Cherri just grinned wider and plowed ahead.
"Y'know, I fought with him. Back when shit really hit the fan—Valentino, the other Vees, all that mess. We were side by side. And let me tell ya, he ain't no poser. That guy moves like a ghost, fights like a demon, and shoots like a freakin' sniper. Saw him drop four goons with one shot—blind."
Crymini's brow twitched, despite herself. "That true? Or just one of your overblown street tales?"
Cherri popped another bubble. "Deadass."
There was a pause. Crymini clicked her tongue and crossed her arms again.
"…Still don't care," she muttered.
But her tail gave her away again—flicking once with interest.
Cherri chuckled. "Whatever you say, punk princess. Just don't act surprised when he shows up and saves your stripey little butt."
Crymini rolled her eyes hard enough to almost flip out of the chair. But her gaze drifted again—just briefly—toward the direction where Spawn's room remained untouched.
She'd never say it aloud…
But maybe it'd be kinda cool to meet the guy.
As Cherri and Crymini lounged near the corner, a soft clink of boots on marble floor signaled the arrival of someone else. Callister.
With his wide-brimmed hat tipped low and his old, dust-worn trench coat swaying behind him like something out of a noir flick, he approached with the same slow, deliberate gait he always had—like he belonged in another time and wasn't in a rush to leave it.
"I wouldn't count him out just yet," Callister said calmly, voice smooth and aged like a good whiskey. "Spawn'll be back. He's not the kind of man to abandon the people he cares about."
Crymini squinted up at him, raising a brow. "Oh, great. Cryptkeeper cosplay's got opinions now."
Cherri laughed and threw an arm lazily over the back of the seat. "Yeah, trench coat and cowboy preacher act aside, what makes you so sure, huh? Got a psychic link to the guy or somethin'?"
Callister didn't miss a beat. He just smirked, thumb hooking the edge of his coat as he stood across from them.
"I've seen the way Spawn moves," he said plainly. "How he fights. More importantly—how he stays. When he chooses to care, he doesn't just vanish. He protects what matters to him. And that includes Charlie, this hotel, and the misfits inside it."
Crymini scoffed and leaned forward. "You talk like you've been shadowing him or something."
Cherri added with a grin, "Or maybe you're just some fanboy with a flair for dramatics."
Callister finally chuckled, the sound warm but laced with mischief.
"Well, if I'm a fanboy, then you two look like you just walked off the set of a punk rock Halloween special," he shot back, eyeing their ripped sleeves, chokers, and attitude-soaked outfits.
Crymini's ears twitched. "Rude."
Cherri gave an exaggerated gasp. "We call this style, sugar. Look it up sometime."
But beneath the jabs and sass, a quiet understanding lingered in the air.
Because Callister's words struck something real.
And though neither Cherri nor Crymini would admit it out loud… They hoped he was right.
The streets of L.A. were their usual cocktail of grime, neon, and desperation as Barbie Wire stormed down the sidewalk, her boots thudding hard against the concrete. Still cloaked in her human disguise, she looked every bit the irritated dealer trying not to look like she was talking to herself.
But she was.
"Goddamn freak show," she muttered, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. "Every time someone new takes over, they throw a party, shoot some rival, tag a wall or two—something to show they're running the block. But this guy?"
She sneered, lips curling as she rounded a corner.
"No name, no heads-up. Just bam—creeps outta the shadows with those freakin' ember eyes like some bad horror movie extra. And suddenly he's my new boss?"
A passing pedestrian gave her a weird look, and she shot them a glare until they hurried along.
"And seriously," she grumbled louder, "Bludd? That's not a name, that's what a twelve-year-old names their edgy OC on a message board. What's next, his second-in-command named Skarr?"
Barbie kicked an empty soda can down the curb with a clatter and stopped just shy of her old corner—the same one she'd bailed on when things started getting messy.
And now here she was, going right back to it. Because Bludd told her to.
She took a breath, trying to shake off the dread crawling up her spine.
"Not human," she muttered again. "Definitely not human."
The worst part? She couldn't tell what he was. And that scared her more than she wanted to admit.
But she forced herself to square her shoulders, adjust her jacket, and take her post.
Weirdo boss or not… Rent didn't pay itself.
Leaning against the cracked brick wall behind her, Barbie slid her vape from her jacket pocket and took a long drag, the plume of cherry-flavored vapor drifting into the humid evening air. Her eyes scanned the street.
What she saw made her brow furrow.
The block was crowded—not with her usual clientele, but with homeless folks. Far more than she remembered. They lingered in clusters, tucked into alleyways, sprawled across stoops, or huddled around smoldering trash fires like moths to light.
Barbie clicked her tongue.
"Well, shit," she muttered, exhaling a fresh cloud of vapor. "Wasn't like this before."
It was a double-edged sword, and she knew it.
More people meant more demand. Desperate people looking for something—anything—to numb the pain of their situation. That meant money, or whatever counted as it in this part of town. Good for business.
But desperate people also meant moochers. Ones who'd ask for samples, swear they'd pay next time, or offer the kind of "trade" Barbie had zero interest in. The kind of crowd that made you lock your jacket pockets.
She rolled her shoulders and stood straighter, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her face as she muttered under her breath:
"Just my luck. Corner's gettin' busy again and now I gotta babysit a block full of burnouts and bad habits."
She took another drag and let her gaze linger.
But even through all her jadedness, she noticed something else…
The homeless here? They weren't just loitering. They were watching. Looking over their shoulders. Whispers among them carried a name.
"The Guardian."
Barbie didn't believe in boogeymen. But she wasn't so sure this one wasn't real.
Barbie leaned against the wall, one boot propped against the brick, vape lazily dangling from her fingers. She was finally settling into the rhythm again, eyes tracking movement up and down the block, when a familiar voice called out.
"Yo, Wire!"
She turned her head, already recognizing the drawl before she saw the guy's face. One of her regulars—a wiry guy with twitchy hands and a permanent hoodie that looked like it hadn't been washed since fuck knows when—came ambling up with that half-suspicious, half-eager look that all her steady buyers seemed to wear.
"Was lookin' for you the other night," he said, eyes darting left and right as he approached. "You disappeared or somethin'. Corner was dead. What gives?"
Barbie gave a half-hearted shrug, taking a drag from her vape before answering with bored disinterest.
"Had a meeting. New supplier. Had to handle some business."
She blew out the vapor slowly, letting it hang in the air before cutting her gaze to him.
"Not something I feel like talkin' about, alright?"
He blinked, taken aback by the sudden edge in her tone, but he got the message. The corner wasn't for catching up.
"Right, right," he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "No problem. You got the usual?"
Barbie's expression flattened into business mode as she shifted her weight and reached into the inside pocket of her jacket.
"Depends. You got the cash this time, or am I supposed to believe you'll 'get me next time' again?"
The guy held up a crumpled wad of bills with a sheepish grin. "Nah, nah, I'm good. Brought the green this time."
Barbie snatched the bills with one hand, already fishing out the product with the other. The smile never reached her eyes.
"Good," she muttered. "Because I'm not in the mood for charity today."
She handed off the baggie, eyes still scanning the block—not just for cops, but for anything else.
Because she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching.