Angel stormed through the front doors of the hotel with the kind of fire in his stride that told everyone to move. Guests and staff alike stepped aside instinctively, sensing the volcanic frustration radiating off him. No flashy greeting, no sultry wave, no sarcastic quip—just a direct march toward the bar.

He reached it in record time, plopped down on the nearest stool, and slapped a crisp hundred-dollar bill onto the counter like he was throwing down a gauntlet.

Husk glanced at the bill, then up at Angel, blinking once in that slow, unamused way only Husk could pull off. "You know I can't take tips, right?"

Angel snorted, tossing his arms up. "Yeah, yeah, don't flatter yourself. I could definitely say something dirty there, but I actually got something more important for once."

Husk raised a brow, ears twitching slightly. That alone was enough to show interest. Angel leaned in, the fire in his expression still smoldering, even as his voice dropped to something more serious.

"I want you to take that hundred and stick it in a jar. Start a pool."

"A pool?" Husk asked flatly, already reaching beneath the bar to grab a near-empty pickle jar.

Angel nodded. "Yep. For my asshole of a brother. He is comin' to the hotel, and I'm putting money on him not lasting more than a week before someone decks him, he pisses off the wrong person, or he finally gets a damn clue and bails."

Husk scoffed under his breath as he wiped the bar down. "So, what, you want everyone else to buy in on how long he survives?"

"Exactly!" Angel grinned wickedly, tapping the jar once. "Call it the 'Niss Tolerance Timer.' Might as well make some money off the emotional trauma, right?"

Husk just shook his head. "You're insane."

"And yet here you are," Angel said, throwing back a shot Husk didn't remember pouring for him. "Now c'mon, you in or not?"

Husk stared at the jar for a long second… then pulled a five out of the register and added it. "Three days. Tops."

Angel grinned wide, the sting of his earlier encounter still smoldering in his chest—but now, at least, he had a plan to blow off some steam.

Charlie made her way toward the bar with that ever-present mix of curiosity and concern lighting her face. The low murmur of voices, the unmistakable clink of coins and bills being tossed into a glass jar, and Angel's unmistakable snark had drawn her attention immediately.

She arrived just in time to see Husk drop in another few bucks, shaking his head with an amused grunt.

"What's going on over here?" she asked, brows knitting with concern as her eyes landed on the makeshift betting pool labeled in Sharpie: Niss Tolerance Timer.

Angel, seated with one arm slung over the back of his chair and the other lazily twirling a shot glass, perked up at the question. "Oh, hey, Charlie. Just settin' up a lil' friendly wager about whether or not my brother can survive this place without imploding into a black hole of judgmental angst."

Charlie blinked, visibly stunned. "Wait… brother? You have a brother?"

Angel's grin flattened a little. "Yeah. Name's Arackniss. Real charmer, that one. Thinks he's the pope of moral high ground or somethin'. There's a reason I never talk about him, y'know?"

Charlie, now full of both concern and curiosity, stepped closer. "And… he's coming here?"

"That's the word," Angel muttered, throwing back another shot. "Said he wants to 'check things out.' And I'm bettin' hard that he won't make it a week here. Not 'cause of the demons or the weirdos—hell, he's one of us. But because he doesn't have the stomach for this. For what we do."

Charlie's expression softened, her hands clasped together in front of her. "Angel… I understand that you and your brother have a complicated history. But remember, this hotel is for everyone. Even those we don't like. Redemption isn't about who's already on your side. It's about offering that chance to those who need it most."

Angel groaned. "Charlie, sweetie, I love your sparkly Disney princess optimism, I really do. But Arackniss? He's more judgmental than a Cajun watchin' somebody put tomatoes in their gumbo."

High above, as if summoned by pure auditory agony, Alastor's voice bellowed down from his radio tower with dramatic horror.

"MY EARS ARE BLEEDING, YOU SIN AGAINST FLAVOR!"

Everyone in the bar burst into laughter—even Charlie, despite herself. Angel smirked and pointed toward the ceiling.

"See? Even Alastor agrees with me."

Charlie rolled her eyes fondly. "Just… try to give him a chance, okay?"

"I'll give him a chance," Angel said with a shrug, "but I'm still keepin' the jar. Odds are it's gonna fund my next spa day."

Charlie gave Angel a gently stern look, her arms folding as she tilted her head. "Angel, please don't antagonize your brother when he gets here."

Angel raised both hands in mock surrender, the smirk on his face not budging an inch. "Hey, hey—I don't gotta do nothin', Char. Trust me, Arackniss will implode all on his own. I'm just here to watch the fireworks with a drink in one hand and popcorn in the other."

Charlie sighed but didn't push further. She knew well enough by now that when Angel got that look in his eye, he was going to do something, whether she approved or not.

Turning toward the rest of the bar, Angel stood up and clapped his hands together. "Alright, everybody! You've heard it! The Niss Tolerance Timer is live, baby! Place your bets! One day, two days, hell—maybe he makes it a whole week before someone dumps him in the dumpster behind this place. I want the biggest damn pool in hotel history!"

From behind the bar, Husk didn't even glance up as he casually poured another drink. "Angel always has big things on his mind," he said flatly, earning a ripple of chuckles from the regulars nearby.

Angel pointed a finger at him without skipping a beat. "You're damn right I do, old man."

Charlie groaned and covered her face with both hands. "I regret walking over here."

"I don't!" Angel sang, hopping back on his stool. "This is the most fun I've had in weeks."

While the bar buzzed with energy, laughter, and clinking glasses over Angel's impromptu betting pool, the I.M.P room had sunk into a calm, pensive quiet.

Blitzo lay slumped on a couch, one leg hanging off the edge, his mouth slightly open as soft snores escaped him. An empty glass sat on the table beside him, the remnants of whatever concoction Husk had poured him clinging to the inside like a lazy swirl. It had been a long night of planning, arguing, and shooting down theories, and it seemed even Blitzo's manic energy had finally run out.

Loona was curled up in one of the armchairs, her fingers rapidly scrolled through her phone. Her eyes were focused, but the boredom and growing frustration were written all over her face. Every new post she checked—every blurry photo of bright lights in the sky or shadowy figures—ended the same. Nothing. No sign of Spawn. Just more noise.

At the table, surrounded by a scatter of pins and tacks, Moxxie was poring over their sprawling map of Earth. Dozens of red Xs marked the places they'd checked and come up empty. He mumbled to himself occasionally, connecting dots no one else saw, measuring distances, tracing patterns like he was solving a murder mystery. His brow was furrowed in quiet determination.

Just beside him, Millie lounged on a beanbag chair with a can of soda and a half-eaten granola bar. She kept one hand near Moxxie, brushing her fingers along his leg every now and then—a quiet, reassuring gesture. She watched him, not wanting to interrupt his focus, but also not wanting him to feel alone in the silence.

It was a room fueled by care more than chaos. Even exhausted, each of them remained locked into the same thought: Find Spawn. Bring him home.

As Moxxie leaned over to reach for another push pin, his elbow nudged Millie's can of soda, sending it toppling over with a soft clatter. The fizzy liquid spilled across the floor, soaking into a stack of napkins and a few crumpled notes.

"Ah! Millie, I'm so sorry!" Moxxie blurted out. "I wasn't paying attention—I'll get you another one!"

Millie stared at the mess for a moment, her jaw tight. Then, without warning, she snapped, "Dammit, Moxxie! That was the last cold one!"

Her voice cracked just slightly, but enough to pierce the quiet of the room. Loona paused her scrolling. Even Blitzo shifted slightly in his sleep, grumbling.

Moxxie froze, eyes wide. "I—I didn't mean to, hon. I'll grab you a fresh—"

But Millie's outburst cut off as fast as it came. Her face crumpled, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. "Oh god, sugar, I'm sorry," she whispered, tears already falling as she slumped forward. "I didn't mean to snap like that. I don't know what's wrong with me—I just—I'm so tired... and stressed... and everything's just... too much..."

Moxxie was beside her in an instant, arms wrapping around her trembling frame. He pulled her close against his chest, rubbing her back in slow circles. "Hey, hey... shhh. It's okay. I'm not upset. I know this has all been a lot lately."

Millie clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder. She wanted to tell him the truth right then—that the real reason for her outburst wasn't just the stress. That her mood swings had been coming more frequently. That it wasn't just the search or the hotel or the late nights...

But for now, she stayed quiet. Wrapped in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

And Moxxie, as always, held her with nothing but patience and love.

Loona leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her phone resting forgotten in her lap as her eyes stayed locked on Millie and Moxxie.

She wasn't trying to be nosy—not really. But something about that outburst just didn't sit right with her. Millie was usually the rock of the group, the first to crack a joke when tension got thick, or to give a pep talk when the energy started to dip. She was fiery, sure, but never like that. Never so quick to snap and crumble in the same breath.

Loona tilted her head, brows furrowed slightly.

She watched the way Millie clung to Moxxie, the way her shoulders trembled, the way Moxxie held her with all the gentle understanding in the world. The scene tugged at something in her, something that made her uncomfortable—like there was a deeper reason just under the surface.

"…Huh," Loona muttered to herself, eyes narrowing just a bit more.

Loona leaned further, her gaze still steady on Millie as she sniffled into Moxxie's shoulder. Her mind replayed the recent little moments that had caught her attention—how Millie had polished off nearly a whole tray of pastries without blinking, or how she'd gone green the second they passed that guy cooking fish.

And now this? The sudden snap, followed by immediate tears?

Loona wasn't stupid.

She wasn't exactly the nurturing type either, but she'd been around enough people to recognize a pattern when she saw one. Her ears twitched slightly as she mulled it over.

"…No way," she muttered under her breath.

It was none of her business. Not really. If Millie wanted to say something, she would. Until then, Loona wasn't about to blurt out any theories. She wasn't one to meddle—at least, not unless it became a real problem.

Still… she'd be lying if she said she didn't care.

So, for now, she stayed quiet. But her eyes didn't leave Millie.

Barbie scrambled back slightly on her elbows, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a growl as her eyes locked onto the massive figure standing in front of her. The only light came from the cracks in the boarded-up cathedral windows, casting long shadows that seemed to dance around the man's silhouette. His frame was monstrous—shoulders wide and cloaked in black, but what really drew her in were the glowing green eyes that pierced the darkness like twin spotlights.

Barbie blinked a few times, still trying to process the surreal situation.

"What the hell…?" she muttered, her voice more hushed than she expected.

The figure didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, letting her get a good look. Barbie's gaze traveled over his body—angelic wings now folded close, power rolling off him in quiet waves. There was no doubt in her mind anymore. The stories, the whispers in the streets, the frantic talk about some holy avenger showing up and wrecking entire gangs?

This was him.

The Guardian.

"You're the one they're all scared of…" she said, her voice quiet but steady now.

Still no answer.

Barbie narrowed her eyes, regaining a sliver of her usual sass. "You didn't have to yank me off the street, y'know. I'm not one of the bad guys—well, not that bad anyway."

Spawn's voice echoed low and unmistakable through the cathedral, sharp and direct like the edge of a blade.

"You're an imp."

Barbie froze, eyes widening as the words hit her. She blinked twice, then quickly recovered, putting on her best poker face.

"Wh—what? Me? Nah, you've got the wrong gal," she said, backing away slightly, trying to keep her tone light, casual. "I'm just a hardworking human tryin' to get by."

But Spawn's eyes narrowed.

Without another word, he flicked his hand in a smooth motion. The air shimmered for a second, followed by a sharp crack of raw, radiant energy. A thin arc of divine fire surged forward and, with a flash of light, Barbie's disguise disintegrated in a burst of smoldering particles.

Her illusion shattered in an instant. The human visage melted away like paper in a flame, revealing her true form in its full, impish glory: red skin, curled horns, a long pointed tail twitching in startled agitation, and wide, shocked eyes that gleamed with disbelief.

Barbie stood there stunned, speechless for a moment, her mouth half-open as her brain scrambled to process what had just happened. She slowly glanced down at herself, now exposed, the clothes she had on still present—but the mask gone. Her true self now visible in the dim cathedral light.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath.

Spawn stepped forward, the faint golden glow from his gauntlet fading, though his gaze remained as piercing as ever.

"What's an imp doing," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "selling poison to humans?"

Barbie looked up at him, eyes narrowing, the initial shock fading and her sass slowly returning to its rightful place.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she snapped, brushing dust from her sleeves like it was nothing. "Making a damn living."

Spawn didn't move, but the silence in his presence was suffocating.

Barbie shrugged and gave him a crooked grin, though her tone was still edged with bitterness. "Hey, I didn't make the rules. This world's a cesspool and humans line up to shovel the filth into their own mouths. I'm just giving 'em what they're already looking for."

She pointed a clawed thumb toward the door. "If suckers wanna pay top dollar for something that'll melt their brains, I'm not gonna cry about it. Beats starving."

Spawn's expression didn't shift. No reaction. No judgment visible—just a heavy, silent pressure that settled over the room like a storm cloud rolling in.

Barbie held her ground, but the tension in her posture said she was ready to bolt if she had to.

"Don't judge me," she added with a little more venom. "At least I'm honest about what I am."

"I'd watch your fucking mouth," Spawn growled, his voice low and cold. "Humans can surprise you. We're capable of more than you think."

Barbie scoffed, crossing her arms and raising a brow with practiced defiance. "Oh, please," she said with a sneer. "You expect me to believe you're human? You look like something that fell off the back of a doomsday cult's apocalypse truck."

Her eyes flicked over his massive frame, the smoldering green glow in his eyes, and the faint glint of energy still flickering across his gauntlets.

"Humans are weak," she said with a dismissive wave. "They cry when they scrape their knees and die when you look at 'em too hard. You're telling me that you," she gestured to him, "are just some guy?"

Spawn didn't flinch.

"I was just some guy," he said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. "I fought wars, made mistakes, trusted the wrong people… and died for it. Then I came back."

Barbie's smirk faltered just a little, something flickering in her eyes—maybe doubt, maybe something else—but she didn't let it stay long.

"Okay, sure," she said, trying to laugh it off. "You used to be human. But now you're not. Not really. So don't go getting all noble on me about what humans can do. Most of them are cowards, junkies, or just plain scum. If they weren't, people like me wouldn't be in business."

Spawn's eyes narrowed, his voice like gravel grinding beneath steel boots. "If you're so sure they're all scum, why keep coming back here to sell to them?"

Barbie hesitated. Her grin didn't quite come back as quick that time.

Spawn took another step forward, and the dim light of the cathedral seemed to dim with him. His eyes burned brighter, a flicker of emerald fire dancing within them as he stared Barbie down.

"There's a reason the dealers around here have been disappearing," he said, his tone calm but coiled with barely-contained fury. "I don't tolerate leeches—people who prey on the vulnerable. The ones who poison the desperate to feed their own greed."

Barbie leaned back slightly, rolling her eyes with a scoff, trying to act unimpressed despite the sweat beginning to bead at her temple. "Spare me the noble bullshit," she snapped. "You really think what you're doing is any better than what I do? You're just killing people. That somehow makes you the good guy?"

Again, Spawn didn't flinch. His voice dropped lower, colder, more pointed.

"I don't kill anyone that doesn't deserve it," he said. "And right now, the more you talk, the more you're convincing me you do."

Barbie's expression faltered for a moment. The weight of his words hung in the air like a blade waiting to drop.

He took another slow, deliberate step forward. "Selling poison to people who've got nothing left, watching them rot while you line your pockets… Tell me—how is that better?"

Barbie didn't have an answer this time. Just the hum of the city outside, and the cold fire in Spawn's gaze burning into her.

"A-Alright, look," she muttered, trying to ease the tension with a shaky chuckle. "I'll just… go, yeah? We cool?"

Spawn didn't move.

"We're not," he growled, voice deep and gravelly, echoing through the cavernous hall like thunder in a tomb. "You've got ten seconds to give me a reason not to end you right here."

Barbie's eyes went wide. "Wha—what?"

"Ten," Spawn said, beginning his slow, deliberate countdown. He took a step forward.

Barbie stumbled back, almost tripping over her own feet. "Okay, okay! L-Look, I didn't mean anything by it. I didn't even know this was your turf, alright?! I'll disappear!"

"Nine."

"I'll leave! I swear! You'll never see me again—hell, I'll go to Vegas, just get outta your way!"

"Eight."

"C'mon, man! I'm just tryna survive out here!" Her voice cracked now, desperate and frayed. "You think I like selling to those human assholes?! It's the only thing I'm good at!"

"Seven."

She put her hands up. "I can get you info! You want dirt on the new boss running things down here? I can give you names! I can help you! Just don't kill me!"

"Six."

Spawn's footsteps echoed with heavy finality as he closed in on her. His towering form cast a long shadow across the floor, swallowing hers whole.

"Five."

Barbie was visibly trembling now, sweat beading on her brow. She opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing came out. Just air and panic.

"Four—"

"Wait—what the hell is going on?"

The count halted, hanging in the air like a loaded gun.

Spawn turned his head slowly toward the entrance of the cathedral, his glowing gaze locking with the startled figure of Octavia.

She stood in the doorway, her posture tense and confused, her voice hesitant. "Al?"

Barbie, barely able to catch her breath, looked over in relief and confusion. Octavia's sudden appearance hadn't just stopped the countdown—it had saved her life.

Spawn didn't answer right away. The fury in his eyes dimmed slightly, but the tension in his body remained taut, coiled like a predator interrupted mid-pounce.

Octavia took a step forward, glancing between the two of them. "What's going on here?"

Spawn finally responded, his voice low and rough. "Nothing you need to worry about."

But Octavia could see it wasn't nothing.

And Barbie knew she had just danced on the edge of death.

Octavia's eyes narrowed as she took in Barbie's now-revealed imp features. The disguise was gone, burned away by whatever power Al had unleashed, and there was no mistaking it now. She was clearly from Hell. Octavia crossed her arms and gave a dry, knowing glance toward Spawn.

"Huh," she muttered. "You are an imp."

Barbie's jaw dropped a little as she looked from Octavia to Spawn and back. "Wait… wait, you know this guy?" she asked, incredulously pointing at him. "What, did he grab you too? Is this some kinda kidnapping thing? Ransom? Possession? Demon cult?"

Octavia blinked. "What? No. I'm here because I want to be."

Barbie's brows scrunched up. "You want to be here? With him?"

"Yeah," Octavia said plainly. "Believe it or not, he's actually been helping me."

Barbie scoffed, pacing a step back like she didn't quite believe what she was hearing. "Helping? This guy nearly choked me out with a chain and just gave me a ten-second death countdown!"

Octavia turned her eyes back toward Spawn, who remained silent and imposing in the background. "Then you must've done something to piss him off," she said bluntly, shrugging. "Al doesn't exactly fly off the handle for no reason."

Barbie gave Octavia a look that was equal parts baffled and offended. "Al? You call him Al?"

Octavia smirked a little. "What, you expect me to shout 'Oh mighty Guardian, smiter of evil'? He's got a name. And you're lucky I came in when I did."

Barbie crossed her arms with a huff. "Yeah, well… maybe I'm starting to see why they call him that."

From the shadows, Spawn finally spoke again—quiet, but firm. "If you're done playing victim, imp, we're not finished."

Barbie swallowed hard, realizing that the conversation was far from over.

Barbie rambled in a panic, her words spilling out faster than she could think them through. "Okay, okay—look, it's not even my fault, alright?! I didn't wanna come back here! I had to! The new boss, this guy calling himself Bludd—he's the one pulling the strings now!"

Octavia arched a brow, folding her arms again with a skeptical expression. "Bludd? What, like... spelled with two D's?" She scoffed. "That sounds like some 13-year-old naming their edgy internet RPG character."

Barbie let out a sharp exhale through her nose. "Thank you! I said the same damn thing!"

But Spawn didn't laugh. He didn't even react right away. He was still. Quiet. His massive form, always so intimidating, now stood like a statue shrouded in shadow. His glowing green eyes dimmed ever so slightly, focused on something far away—on something internal.

"Say that name again," he said slowly, voice low, with an edge of caution.

Barbie blinked, confused but compliant. "Bludd."

That was when Spawn turned away, just slightly—his shoulders tense, the edges of his wings flexing with restrained energy. Octavia noticed the shift in his demeanor immediately.

"Al?" she asked carefully, stepping forward. "Do you know that name?"

Spawn's mind raced. It couldn't be. The name echoed in his mind like a curse. Bludd. He knew that name. Had known it long ago, in a different world, in a different time. And if it was the same being—if he had somehow made it here…

Spawn clenched his fist, the divine energy rippling slightly under his skin.

First Violator… now possibly Bludd?

"Something's wrong," Spawn muttered at last, his voice like a distant rumble. "Very wrong."

Spawn slowly turned, his wings shifting like storm clouds at his back as his piercing green eyes locked onto Barbie's. "Tell me what he looked like," he demanded, his voice carrying a weight that made the air feel heavier.

Barbie, sensing that this might be her ticket out of being incinerated, latched onto the question like a lifeline. "I-I didn't really see his face, okay? He stayed in the shadows the whole time." She paused, hesitating as the memory came rushing back. "But… I saw his eyes."

Spawn tilted his head slightly. "What about them?"

"They lit up," Barbie said, voice lowering in tone. "Like fire. Not like a reflection—lit up. Bright and red and burning like a damn furnace. And I swear they glowed even with the lights on. Whatever he is, he ain't human."

That was all Spawn needed to hear.

He stiffened, his mouth tightening into a grim line. The shadows around his form pulsed with restrained fury, and his eyes flared even brighter. "It's him," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "It's really him…"

Octavia leaned forward, worried now. "Al? Who is he?"

Spawn turned toward both of them, his voice calm but cold. "If it's who I think it is, then the imp's right—Bludd isn't human. He's a vampire. Not the flashy, romantic type the movies love, either. He's something ancient. Brutal. Cruel."

Barbie's face paled, and she let out a breathless, "You've gotta be kidding me…"

Spawn shook his head. "He doesn't play games. And if he's in this world now… things just got a hell of a lot more complicated."

Spawn crossed his arms, the heavy shadows of the cathedral wrapping tighter around his frame like a living cloak. "Congratulations," he said flatly, voice deep and grim. "You just bought yourself a stay of execution. Barely."

Barbie let out a loud, theatrical sigh of relief, nearly collapsing back onto the stone floor. "Oh, thank Satan's ass… Thought I was about to be turned into red mist."

She stood up and dusted herself off. "Alright, alright, I get it. Message received. I'll leave your haunted little hobo mansion and you'll never see me again. Deal?"

She turned toward the doorway, but Spawn's voice stopped her cold.

"You're not going anywhere."

Barbie slowly turned back, one brow raised high. "I just gave you the hottest piece of intel you've heard all night, and you still wanna keep me here?"

Spawn's eyes narrowed. "You gave me a name. That doesn't mean I trust you. And I don't like unknown elements running around out there when someone like Bludd is involved."

Barbie scowled, folding her arms. "So what—now I'm your prisoner?"

"You're a liability," he said plainly. "And until I know exactly what your connection to this Bludd is and how deep you're in, I'm not letting you walk out of here."

Octavia, still by the side, gave Barbie a pitying look. "Maybe just… don't argue with him. He really doesn't like arguing."

Barbie groaned, dragging her hand down her face. "Ugh, this is such bullshit. I'm stuck in a run-down church with the poster boy for anger issues and his moody bird sidekick."

Octavia raised a brow. "I'm not moody. You're just annoying."

Spawn didn't so much as flinch. "Get comfortable. You're staying until I say otherwise."

Barbie flopped down onto a dusty pew, muttering curses under her breath. "Should've just stayed in Hell…"

Octavia shifted uneasily, glancing between Spawn and Barbie. With a hesitant breath, she stepped closer to him. "Al… can I talk to you for a sec?"

Spawn turned, the faint glow in his eyes dimming slightly as he gave her his attention. "What is it?"

Octavia glanced toward Barbie—who was now sitting cross-legged and aggressively chewing a piece of gum she definitely didn't have before—then back to Spawn. "Are you sure it's a good idea to keep her here? I mean, she's loud, obnoxious, and definitely not subtle. She could attract attention we don't want."

From the pew, Barbie threw her hands up. "Hello? I can hear you, you know. And I have a name. It's Barbie."

Without skipping a beat, Octavia looked back over her shoulder. "Didn't ask."

Barbie grumbled something unrepeatable under her breath.

Spawn's eyes lingered on Octavia for a long moment. He understood her concern—hell, he shared it. But his voice was calm when he finally replied, "I get it. Believe me. But we don't have much of a choice right now. She knows more than she realizes… and with Bludd in the picture, any scrap of intel could make the difference between us staying hidden and getting hunted."

He glanced over at Barbie, who was now glaring at a broken stained-glass window like it personally insulted her. "And whether I like it or not… she's now involved."

Octavia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Great. Our secret cathedral hideout is now a sleepover for drug-dealing imps."

"I prefer freelance entrepreneur," Barbie muttered.

Spawn ignored the remark. "We'll keep her under watch. But for now… she stays."

Barbie glanced around the dim, crumbling cathedral with an exaggerated scowl. "Okay, so where exactly am I supposed to sleep in this haunted house special?"

Without a word, a worn blanket hit her square in the face. She yelped, pulling it off just in time to see Spawn walking back toward the shadows.

"Pick a corner," he said flatly, not even looking at her.

Barbie huffed and turned the blanket over in her hands, inspecting its questionable stitching and slightly itchy texture. "Oh yeah, real five-star treatment here…"

Just then, something metallic rolled across the stone floor and tapped her foot. She looked down and saw a dented can come to a stop beside her. Picking it up, she squinted at the faded label. "Potted meat? Seriously?"

From her makeshift cot, Octavia didn't even look up as she pulled the sleeping bag over herself. "Don't worry," she said with thick sarcasm, "the wine and caviar should be here any minute now."

Barbie flopped dramatically onto the floor, setting the can beside her. "Pfft. Wine and caviar's for snobs. I'm more of a beer and pizza kind of girl." She looked around again, then added under her breath, "At least then I could die full and tipsy…"

Spawn, watching silently from above in the rafters, gave the faintest shake of his head. This was going to be a long night.

He remained still in the rafters, his eyes fixed on the dim light below. Octavia was settling in on her cot, flipping through a dog-eared book she'd found in the abandoned rectory. Barbie, true to form, was still muttering complaints to herself while poking at the can of potted meat with a bent spoon.

But Spawn's mind wasn't on either of them. It was on the name that kept echoing in his head: Bludd.

If it was really him—the same Bludd from his world—then Los Angeles was in more trouble than it realized. Bludd wasn't just a monster. He was calculated, powerful, and completely devoid of remorse. A vampire with an empire-building mind and a thirst for power. He didn't just want blood—he wanted dominion.

But at the same time… that much sin radiating from one being? It was like a supernova of darkness. If Spawn could harvest enough of that corrupted essence, he could suppress the divine light still burning in his soul. He could finally tamp it down, lock it away again—long enough to make his way back to Hell.

Back to the Hazbin Hotel.

Back to Charlie.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of it all pulling at him. Taking Bludd down would be a necessary evil. But maybe—just maybe—it was the solution he'd been searching for.

Even if it meant getting his hands dirty again.

In the dim glow of the apartment's kitchen, Stolas paced like a man losing what little composure he had left. His talons clutched his phone tightly, feathers ruffling with every turn he made. The desperation in his voice was unmistakable, as if each word was fighting to climb past the knot in his throat.

"I know you've already stuck your neck out for me, Vassago," he said, his voice strained, "but I—I don't know what else to do. I just need to know she's safe. I need to know where she is."

On the other end of the line, Vassago was quiet for a breath, the weight of Stolas' plea heavy in the silence. Then came his reply, calm but carrying a trace of warmth. "Está bien, Stolas. You're not asking too much. She's your daughter."

Stolas paused mid-step, eyes fixed on the window, the city lights reflecting in his tired gaze.

"I can't make promises, mi amigo," Vassago continued, the gentle rhythm of his Spanish slipping in. "But I'm going to try. Even if I have to pull threads where I shouldn't. That niña deserves someone looking out for her."

"Thank you," Stolas whispered. "Thank you, truly."

"De nada. And don't let Andrealphus know you're this rattled. You know that idiota feeds off weakness."

There was a soft, half-hearted chuckle from Stolas, but it quickly faded. "Just… let me know the moment you hear anything."

"I will," Vassago assured him. "Hang in there, Stolas. You're not alone in this."

As the call ended, Stolas lowered the phone slowly, his claws trembling. His eyes were full of longing and guilt—both for what he had done and for what he hadn't done.

And above all, for Octavia.

Vassago stared at his phone for a long moment after the call ended, his expression grim beneath the light in his private chamber. With a slow exhale, he slipped the device into his pocket and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.

"This is not good," he muttered, his voice low, almost lost to the ambient hum of infernal energy that always hung in the air around his estate. "Ni por asomo."

He remembered the trial vividly—how his voice, rational and principled, had been drowned out by the braying arrogance of Hell's elite. He had tried to advocate for Stolas, to argue for things to be done fairly. But in the end, logic meant little when Satan was present. That overblown tyrant was always more interested in dominance than justice.

But when Spawn—that hellspawn—had cut one of Satan's horns right off his smug face? Vassago grinned again at the memory, chuckling despite the tension in his chest. "Buen trabajo, amigo…" he whispered to the absent warrior.

Still, a grin wasn't enough. He had failed Stolas, and that failure haunted him more than he'd admit out loud. Octavia had been one of the few lights left in Stolas' life, and now she was gone, somewhere in the chaos of the realms.

Vassago stood, his eyes sharp now with resolve. "Alright, niña… let's find where you've wandered off to."