Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In which a broken woman meets a monster who mistakes affection for obsession.

Chapter Text

The elevator smelled like burnt coffee and someone's bad decision from last night. Sasha Virelli jammed her thumb into the "close door" button like it owed her money, muttering under her breath as the ancient contraption finally creaked shut and started its glacial ascent.

Sure, she thought bitterly, tugging the strap of her laptop bag higher onto her shoulder, let's trust a sixty-year-old metal box with my life. What's the worst that could happen?

The doors slid open to the first floor, revealing the same flickering fluorescent hallway she'd trudged down every miserable workday for the past two years. Beige carpet. Beige walls. Beige dreams. If hell existed, she figured it probably looked suspiciously like an open office floor plan. She passed the receptionist, who barely looked up from her cracked phone screen. The air smelled faintly of microwaved fish and despair.

Outside, the city slapped her in the face with its typical Friday evening chaos. Sasha merged into the tide of commuters, shoes clicking against the pavement as she made her way toward the subway.

The first train screeched into the station, already packed to the gills. People shoved and elbowed like contestants in a dystopian game show. Sasha hung back, scowling. Nope, she thought, eyeing the wall of sweaty bodies. I'd rather be late than become a human pancake.

She waited for the next one, fanning herself with a crumpled takeout menu she found in her bag. Sweat prickled the back of her neck. An announcement blared over the crackling speakers: "Due to a police investigation of a person injured on the tracks, expect delays on all downtown lines."

"Of course," Sasha muttered. "Why not?"

Twenty agonizing minutes later, she finally squeezed onto a train, only to immediately step into a wad of gum with her favorite black flats. She froze, balancing awkwardly as the train lurched forward, feeling the sticky, stubborn pull with every step she tried to take.

Amazing, she thought, staring dead-eyed at her reflection in the dirty subway window. Living the dream. By the time she stumbled up the station steps onto the street, the sky had soured into a bruise-colored mess. Thunder grumbled in the distance, low and ominous.

Perfect horror movie weather, Sasha mused, dodging puddles, tourists, and other commuters with the grace of a lifelong New Yorker. When she finally reached her building, she was damp, exhausted, and one bad comment away from committing a minor felony. Sasha paused outside her door, key hovering an inch from the lock.

Something was wrong.

She couldn't explain it — a heavy, sinking feeling that had been growing all day, threading cold fingers through her gut. It wasn’t just the subway, or the gum, or the stale office air. The city itself felt tilted, breathing wrong.

Probably just a bad day, she tried to tell herself, but the feeling clung to her skin like smoke. She jammed the key into the lock and shoved the door open.

Her one-bedroom apartment greeted her with all the warmth of a hospital waiting room. She kicked off her gum-smeared flats, wincing as her toes unfurled, and tossed her bag onto the couch. The clock on the microwave blinked 7:32 p.m.

The apartment buzzed faintly with silence. No music, no chatter, just the distant hum of faulty wiring and the occasional clank of pipes in the walls.

She was halfway through peeling off her blazer when her phone buzzed on the counter.

Angeleena: Get your ass out tonight!!!

Ellie: Drinks. Boys. Bad decisions. Let’s gooooo.

Sasha stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

I should say no, she thought. Stay in. Hide under a blanket. Watch true crime documentaries until I pass out with an empty wine glass on my chest like a proper adult.

Her phone buzzed again. Incoming call.

"Oh for—" She swiped to answer. "What?"

"You," Angeleena’s voice crowed on the other end, "need a man to surgically remove the stick from your ass."

Ellie’s laughter bubbled in the background.

Sasha rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t eject from her skull. "Tempting. But I was thinking more along the lines of a frozen pizza and some Netflix-induced dissociation."

"You’re coming out. No arguments."

"I’m tired," Sasha protested weakly.

"You’re twenty-six, not eighty. Get dressed."

Sasha hesitated. The dread curled tighter around her, squeezing like a vice. But… what was she supposed to say? Sorry, girls, can't come out — spooky vibes ?

"Fine," she grumbled. "But I’m only having one drink. Two, tops."

"That’s our girl!" Angeleena cheered.

“I’ll be picking you up in 20, make sure you’re ready!” Sasha hung up, sighing. Maybe she was being dramatic. Maybe the world wasn’t actually ending. Maybe, for once, she could just…let go.

She changed into ripped black jeans, a leather jacket, and combat boots — functional, stylish, slightly menacing, just in case.

The night air slapped her awake the second she stepped outside. It was unseasonably warm, the city buzzing like a live wire. Streetlights threw halos onto the cracked sidewalks, and somewhere down the block, a siren wailed.

Sasha swung into her battered black Civic, engine coughing to life like an asthmatic old man. She tossed her bag onto the backseat and pulled out, heading toward Ellie’s place first.

The streets were a mess of honking horns and flashing lights, but Sasha moved through them with the grim efficiency of someone who had long since stopped expecting the universe to make sense.

Ellie and Angeleena were waiting outside, dolled up and swaying slightly in their heels. Ellie’s hair was wild around her shoulders; Angeleena was already clutching a to-go cup that definitely wasn’t filled with coffee.

"My Uber's here!" Angeleena sang, flinging the door open and sliding into the front seat. Ellie tumbled into the back with a giggle.

"You're lucky I love you idiots," Sasha grumbled, throwing the car into drive.

"You love us so much," Ellie cooed from the back. "You're obsessed with us."

"Tragically," Sasha deadpanned. "I'm writing an article about it."

They barreled uptown, the city blurring past. Music blared from the radio, and Sasha found herself loosening up against her will. Angeleena did dramatic car karaoke. Ellie threw crumpled napkins at them both. Sasha laughed until her face hurt.

By the time they screeched to a stop outside their favorite dive bar, Sasha was almost—almost—ready to believe tonight could be salvaged.

Inside, the place was alive with noise and light. The air was thick with sweat, beer, and the faint tang of bad decisions.

They snagged a corner booth, ordering shots before they'd even taken off their jackets.

"To being young, hot, and reckless!" Angeleena toasted.

"To living fast and dying—" Ellie began, but Sasha cut her off with a glare.

"No death toasts," she said. "Bad karma."

They clinked glasses anyway.

The first shot burned. The second went down easier. Somewhere around the fourth drink, Sasha stopped counting.

She danced. She laughed. She let Ellie drag her into a ridiculous game of darts against two frat boys who clearly only wanted to get in their pants. And Sasha honestly wasn’t complaining because Angeleena was right, she needed a good railing. She let Angeleena teach her a truly embarrassing TikTok dance right in the middle of the sticky floor. 

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sasha wasn’t thinking about work, or the weird heaviness in the air, or the nagging voice in the back of her head telling her she should sober up and go home.

Tonight, she was just another messy twenty-something in a messy city, and for a little while—it was enough.

The night had gone hazy in the way all good nights did. Sasha leaned against the sticky bar, sipping water and trying to blink herself back into reality. The pulse of bass still rattled in her chest, but her head was starting to clear — slightly. Enough to realize she was definitely tipsy and maybe a little stupid for offering to drive.

Still, her girls needed her.

Angeleena had lost a heel and didn’t seem to care. Ellie had tried to flirt with the bartender and spilled a drink down the front of her shirt. Sasha found both of them huddled in the bathroom laughing hysterically about something that wasn’t actually funny.

"Alright, lightweight disasters," Sasha said, tugging Ellie’s purse onto her shoulder. "Let’s get you home before one of you ends up TikTok famous for the wrong reasons."

"You’re the besht," Ellie slurred, hugging her like a koala.

"I know," Sasha deadpanned, pulling her toward the exit. "Let’s keep that energy alive when I’m dragging your hungover corpses to brunch tomorrow."

Outside, the air had finally lightened up. A cool shift from the hot and humid bar. Neon signs blurred in the humid haze. Sasha took a deep breath, blinking up at the night sky as if expecting it to give her a sign. It didn’t.

She opened the passenger door for Angeleena, who flopped into the seat with a dramatic sigh. Ellie climbed into the back, still humming the chorus of something off-key.

Sasha slid behind the wheel and took a long swig from her water bottle.

She felt… better. Not great. Not sober. But in control.

"You good to drive?" Angeleena mumbled.

Sasha hesitated, keys hovering in the ignition.

"I’m fine," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "Besides, who else is gonna get you two home in one piece?"

The Civic growled to life. She adjusted the mirror, eyes bloodshot but focused. Her jacket was tossed in the backseat, her phone plugged in, music low but steady.

They pulled onto the avenue, the tires humming over pavement. The world blurred into color and noise. Ellie sang off-key in the back, and Angeleena drummed on the dashboard to the beat.

Sasha felt… happy.

Not the wild, giddy high of earlier, but something gentler. Softer. The kind of peace that came with knowing your friends were okay, that the night had been good, that for a few hours, nothing had hurt. She smiled, glancing at Angeleena beside her.

"Remember that time we snuck into the pool on East 3rd?" Sasha asked.

Angeleena snorted. "You mean when Ellie screamed because she thought a raccoon was in the water?"

"It was a raccoon!" Ellie shouted from the back, indignantly. "It was swimming like a person!"

Laughter filled the car. Pure, unfiltered joy. Sasha couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that and meant it. The radio changed songs. An old throwback — something loud, fast, nostalgic. They all knew the words.

"Turn it up!" Ellie shouted.

Sasha reached for the volume dial, still grinning.

Her hand missed. Just for a second, her eyes left the road. The car swerved. Tires screeched. The wheel jerked hard in her grip. The world tilted. Sasha gasped, trying to correct, but it was too late.

They crossed the yellow line.

Headlights. Close. Blinding.

A horn blasted. Too loud. Too sudden. Then—impact.

The front of the car crumpled like paper. The force snapped Sasha forward as the airbag deployed, slamming her face backward again in a dizzying whip of pain. Her forehead cracked against something — the steering wheel? — before the airbag hit, and she felt blood start to pour.

Angeleena didn’t make a sound. The windshield burst outward as her body was hurled through it like a ragdoll.

Ellie’s head slammed into the seat in front of her with a sickening crack.

The car spun once, then again. A second crash. Glass rained. Something tore. And then silence.

Sasha's head lolled to the side. Her vision doubled, then tripled. Blood ran into her eyes.

She blinked. Once. Twice. She turned slowly to the passenger seat. Gone. Just… gone. The door had been ripped off. The windshield shattered. And outside, in the road, Sasha saw Angeleena's body.

Too far. Too still. Her breath hitched. A hot noise rose in her throat, part scream, part sob, but it never made it out.

She turned, sluggish, toward the backseat. Ellie lay limp, her neck bent in an impossible angle. Eyes wide open but seeing nothing.

Sasha's vision dimmed.

Everything felt cold. Distant. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

She whispered something, but even she couldn’t hear it. Then, the world went black.

Chapter Text

Sasha slowly started to come to; her head was killing her, and her alarm was beeping obnoxiously beside her. She moved to grab her phone and cut the beeping. Why the fuck did I have an alarm for Saturday?  

Realizing she couldn’t move her arm very far, and hearing a very distinct clang of metal on metal, Sashsa slowly started to open her eyes. Around her, she noticed a light blue curtain and horrible fluorescent lights. God, I hate fluorescent lights. Continuing to look around she came to the realization that she was not in her bedroom at her apartment, but she was in a hospital bed, and she was handcuffed to the side. Fuck.  

The pulsing ache in her skull throbbed harder as fragments of memory sliced through the haze—headlights, screaming, shattered glass, Ellie’s laugh just before the impact.

Her stomach twisted.

Sasha turned her head, and immediately regretted it. A wave of nausea punched through her ribs—sharp, angry pain radiating from her side. She whimpered and slumped back against the stiff hospital pillow, her eyes catching the glint of steel again. Yep. Definitely handcuffed.

"Good. You're awake," a voice cut through the fog—firm, but not unkind.

She blinked and squinted through the curtain as a man stepped into view, accompanied by a woman in scrubs holding a tablet. The man was wearing a navy blue jacket with a badge clipped to the lapel. Police. Great.

"Miss Virelli," he said, flipping open a notepad. "I'm Officer Grant. This is Dr. Cho. We need to go over a few things with you now that you're conscious."

Dr. Cho stepped closer, scanning Sasha's chart before offering a clinical but polite nod. "You have a concussion, a broken arm, three fractured ribs, and a broken nose. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for the past several hours."

Sasha licked her lips. Her throat was dry as hell. “Water?” she rasped.

The doctor gave a quick nod and reached for a cup on the tray table, helping her sip. It burned going down, like her entire throat was raw.

"How… long?" she managed.

"You’ve been here since early this morning. The accident happened just after 2:00 a.m."

A deep pit opened in her stomach. She didn’t want to ask—but she had to.

"My friends. Ellie and Angeleena. Were they…?"

The air in the room changed. Even over the steady beeping of the machines, the silence was deafening.

Officer Grant’s mouth flattened into a line. “They were pronounced dead at the scene.”

Sasha’s heart dropped through the floor.

“No…” she croaked, shaking her head, her good hand gripping the thin blanket like it could anchor her to something real. “No, no, that—no, that can’t—”

Dr. Cho reached out instinctively, a hand on her shoulder, but Sasha barely registered it. Her whole body shook, and a raw, animal sound tore from her throat—grief unfiltered, hot and cracking through her ribs.

“You were the only survivor in your vehicle,” Officer Grant continued carefully. “The driver you hit head-on has serious but non-life-threatening injuries. The second driver, who struck you from the side, sustained only minor injuries. EMTs said you were unconscious when they pulled you out.”

Sasha turned her face toward the wall, gasping through sobs, tears already soaking into the pillow beneath her cheek. She couldn’t look at them anymore. Couldn’t hear this.

“You need to be aware,” he added, quieter now, “that due to the nature of the incident, and after a preliminary toxicology report—once you're medically cleared, you’ll be transferred to a holding cell. You're currently being detained under suspicion of vehicular manslaughter and DUI.”

She didn't respond. Couldn't. Her brain wouldn’t accept the words.

Officer Grant stepped forward and unlatched the handcuff from the hospital bed rail with a click. It fell limp against the metal frame.

"You’ll remain here under medical supervision until you're stable. There will be an officer posted outside."

The two of them left without another word, the curtain swaying behind them like a ghost.

Sasha didn’t know how long she lay there—minutes, hours, she had no idea. Time stopped mattering. She finally sat up, her body protesting every movement. Her arm was in a sling, her ribs screaming, but she forced herself to reach for the hospital phone with her good hand. She dialed the only number that came to mind.

It rang once. Twice. Then she heard the clear sign of the line being picked up. 

“…Dad?” she whispered, barely audible.

A pause. Then, coldly, “I don’t have anything to say to you, Sasha.”

Before she could speak—before she could explain, or beg, or even cry—the line went dead.

Sasha stared at the receiver, hand still gripping the cord. Then she hung it up, sank back against the pillows, and let herself break all over again. The hours blurred together after the call.

At some point, the officer by her door disappeared. A nurse muttered something about “non-flight risk” and “still bedridden.” No one expected anything from a girl who couldn’t stand without grimacing.

But they hadn’t accounted for grief—and morphine.

The IV drip numbed everything. Her ribs, her broken arm, the pounding in her skull. The only thing it didn’t touch was the pain in her chest.

She rolled her head to the side and caught sight of her belongings—what was left of them. A sealed plastic bag sat on the chair nearby, her phone lying face down beside it like some casual afterthought.

Sasha forced herself upright, teeth clenched, vision swimming. Every inch of her body screamed in protest, but she moved anyway. She was used to smiling through pain. Faking it. Pretending it didn’t matter.

She reached the chair and grabbed her phone, the cracked screen flickering to life. 9:43 p.m. She booked the ride without thinking—muscle memory guiding her through the Uber app.

Brooklyn Bridge Pedestrian Walkway.

The driver didn’t question her when she limped into the backseat in a hospital gown and a loose hoodie someone had left folded on the side table. She mumbled something about getting some air. He nodded and kept driving.

The city passed by in a blur of headlights and neon. The morphine dulled the sharpest edges of her panic, leaving her floating just enough to move through it.

By the time the Uber dropped her off at the bridge entrance, the night had turned quiet—still, almost reverent. Sasha stepped onto the walkway, every step unsteady. Her hospital socks slid a little with each shuffle, and the hoodie swallowed her small frame, one sleeve hanging empty over her casted arm.

She didn’t get far. A quarter of the way at best.

Her chest was burning, her ribs screaming with each breath. But she didn’t stop until the sounds of the city behind her had softened, replaced by the low hum of the East River below. The wind was stronger here, biting through the fabric of her borrowed clothes.

She stopped at the railing, her knees nearly buckling. The lights of the bridge reflected off the water, fractured and glimmering—like everything in her life. Broken. Beautiful once. Untouchable now.

She rested her forehead against the cold metal, struggling to breathe through the pain and the weight in her chest.

Memories hit her harder than the impact ever did.

Ellie’s snort-laugh at their first college party, when someone spilled jungle juice all over her white jeans.

Angeleena holding her hand as they waited for internship callbacks, promising they’d move in together no matter what. All the nights crammed into one apartment, surviving heartbreaks, finals, job interviews, bad dates, good wine.

She felt their laughter in her bones. Heard their voices behind her eyelids.

And now they were gone.

She was the one who lived.

She turned to the railing again. She pulled herself up slowly and painfully. She sat for a moment, looking out at the world before her, balanced just on the edge. Wind roared past her ears, but she couldn’t tell if it was real or just the blood rushing through her head.

She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, barely audible.

And then she let go. For a second—just one—there was peace. The sound of wind, the city lights behind her, the stars she couldn’t quite make out.

Then everything shattered.

The impact hit like fire—her broken body colliding with water so hard it might as well have been cement. A flash of pain bloomed in every nerve ending, so violent it stole the scream from her throat.

And then—she kept falling.

Down, down, past the depths of the river, past the weight of the world, past the ache of her injuries.

There was no water. No light. Just darkness.

Gravity pulled harder, impossibly fast, like she’d slipped between the cracks of the universe. The world above faded into a memory, and what replaced it was… wrong.

Colors bled together in shades she didn’t have names for. Screams echoed from nowhere and everywhere. The air burned cold, like frost with teeth.

When she finally hit something solid, it wasn’t ground—it was jagged, cracked pavement, still hot from some unseen fire. She slammed into it, bounced once, and rolled to a stop in a crumpled heap.

Sasha gasped, choking on the thick, sulfur-soaked air. Every nerve was screaming again, her broken ribs pressing into her lungs. The pain was unbearable.

But she was breathing.

She was alive.

No —no, that wasn’t right.

What the hell was this?

Her fingers clawed at the cracked street, trying to pull herself up, but her body wouldn't cooperate. Her hospital gown was soaked, the blood drying now, her hoodie torn and covered in ash. One sock had slipped halfway off.

She blinked hard, trying to focus.

Around her were buildings that leaned like they’d been bombed, signs glowing in unreadable script, flickering under a sky that bled red and purple. The skyline was jagged and monstrous, a city twisted into something almost familiar—but deeply, fundamentally wrong.

Her heart raced. Panic clawed at her throat.

She wasn’t dreaming.

"Hello?" she croaked out, voice barely above a whisper. "Is anyone—"

A shadow passed over her.

Sasha looked up.

Towering above her was something massive—at least seven feet tall, hunched and broad like a linebacker dipped in tar. Its leathery wings were folded tight against its back, hooked claws dragging along the ground. Its face was warped, something between a bat and a man, with glowing orange eyes and a grin too wide for its skull.

It tilted its head.

“Well, look what just fell from the fuckin’ sky,” it growled, voice like gravel dragged across metal.

Sasha couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t move.

She could only stare, wide-eyed and trembling, as it took a step closer.

Chapter Text

The creature took a step forward.

Sasha tried to crawl backward, her limbs unresponsive, her muscles locked in that sickening place between terror and pain. The cracked street scraped her palms, gravel embedding into her skin—though she barely registered it past the roar in her ears. Her hospital gown clung to her like wet paper, half-shredded, streaked with drying blood. Her hoodie was more ash than fabric now. One sock had slipped halfway off, exposing her heel to the jagged asphalt.

This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a coma. This wasn’t some cruel, liminal hallucination before death.

She was in Hell.

And some thing wanted her.

“Well, look what just fell from the fuckin’ sky,” the thing sneered, voice gravel and rot. It was hunched but towering, all wiry muscle and lurching menace, black as tar with leathery wings folded tight against its back. Its eyes glowed like twin embers in a blast furnace, fixed directly on her. Its mouth stretched wide—far too wide—filled with long, jagged teeth.

She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t scream. Her breath caught sharp in her throat, a sob swallowed before it could escape.

Move, Sasha. Get up. Run.

But her body didn’t listen. The demon crouched, sniffing the air like a dog catching scent. “Still fresh. Mmm,” he rumbled. “Always like ’em fresh. Warm. Scared.”

A dry, choking sound escaped her lips. He reached for her slowly, deliberately, as if enjoying the pace. Clawed fingers curled around her wrist—skin to skin, the heat of his palm searing against her like an iron brand.

Everything broke.

Her chest clenched. Panic detonated like a bomb in her gut, racing up her spine, clawing at her mind.

No no no no—

The world rippled. It was like reality cracked along the seams. The demon blinked, then jerked back with a growl—not of triumph, but confusion. A second later, he screamed.

“GET THEM OFF!” he bellowed, voice suddenly shrill, flailing violently. His wings snapped open, knocking chunks of brick loose from the building beside them. “THEY’RE IN MY SKIN—GET THEM OFF ME!”

Sasha stared, frozen. There were… dogs. Dozens of them. Or things shaped like dogs—eyes glowing white, bodies convulsing like broken marionettes. They surged from the shadows, snapping their teeth, lunging at him. Foam sprayed from their jaws as they tore at him, unstoppable.

The demon screamed again, eyes rolling back as he stumbled, his claws slashing at invisible attackers. But they weren’t invisible to him or to Sasha.

She could see them—kind of. Their edges shimmered, flickering like an old VHS tape struggling to stay synced. Their snarls echoed, too loud for the empty street. Their forms stuttered and looped, some biting the same spot again and again.

What… what the hell is this? They weren’t real. She knew they weren’t real. But the demon didn’t. And that was enough.

Her body moved before her brain did. Sasha scrambled up, adrenaline dulling the pain, and bolted down the street barefoot. Each step was jagged agony, but she didn’t care. Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed.

Behind her, the creature kept shrieking. She didn’t look back.

The sky above swirled in reds and purples, bleeding into itself like spilled ink. The buildings leaned inward, windows jagged like broken teeth. Signs flickered with unreadable script, casting eerie glows in sickly green and violet. The city itself felt alive—watching her, whispering in languages that didn’t exist.

Sasha ducked into an alley, chest heaving. Her vision blurred at the edges.

What the fuck just happened? What did I do?

She slumped behind a pile of debris—cracked pipes, half a rotted mattress, bones sitting next to a scorched briefcase.

Her hands shook violently. She stared at them like they belonged to someone else. They were the wrong color.

Her skin—once a warm olive tone—was now a pale, bluish teal, like she’d been dunked in ice water and left to glow. Her fingers trembled under the faint light of a flickering neon sign. She turned her palms over, blinked, and tried to rub the color off like it was ash.

Nothing.

“What the fuck,” she whispered, voice cracking as she scrambled to her feet.

She stumbled toward the nearest window—an old shopfront, the glass filthy but still intact enough to catch a reflection. She had to know. She had to see.

One swipe of her sleeve across the grime, and her face stared back at her. Or… something that used to be her.

Her cheekbones were sharper, her eyes more angular, pupils slit just slightly like a cat’s. Her hair was still long, now white instead of blonde, and it shimmered now, falling over her shoulders like moonlight. Curved black horns rose from her head, spiraling back—completely foreign and unmistakably real. Her ears, too, were long and pointed and pierced, twitching slightly like they were responding to the sound of her own breath. And behind her… a tail.

She reached behind her like she could disprove it, but her hand brushed soft white fur at the tip.

“No, no, no, no—what the hell is this?”

Her knees gave out and she collapsed against the brick wall, gasping. Her whole body felt wrong. Foreign . Like she’d been shoved into someone else’s skin.

She dragged her gaze down. The deep gouges in her legs from the fall—ones she knew had been there—were gone. The blood was still crusted, black and thick, but the wounds had sealed without a trace. Even the stabbing throb in her ribs had dulled to a ghost of pain.

She was healing. Rapidly. Inhumanly.

“What the fuck ,” she whispered again, softer this time. Her voice trembled. Her heart still hadn’t slowed.

Her powers—if that’s what the hallucination was—had never existed before. Not in life. Not even hinted at. And this? This body ? This wasn’t her.

Was that her ? Did she do that ?

The dogs. The demon screaming. The hallucination… it had felt like it came from inside her. Like something cracked, and whatever was buried deep exploded outward. She curled in on herself, arms wrapping tightly around her knees. Her skin still felt too tight. Her breathing came in short, shallow bursts.

She wanted her friends. She wanted her brothers. She wanted her mom. She wanted out. But there was no door. No escape. Just blood, ash, and the distant sound of something growling in the dark. A single sob escaped her before she could stop it.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she whispered. But even she didn’t believe that anymore.

The mirror was cracked—splintered down the center like it had taken a punch and never fully recovered.

Sasha leaned over the stained sink of a bar bathroom, dabbing at a smear of dried blood near her temple with a paper towel. The blood wasn’t hers, but lately that didn’t seem to matter. Her reflection flickered under the overhead light, fractured by the fault line slicing across the glass. Teal skin. White hair. Horns that curled back above her head like some kind of grotesque crown.

It had been weeks. She wasn’t sure how many. Time didn’t move right down here—either dragging its feet or racing like a car with cut brakes—but enough days had passed for her to stop thinking she might wake up.

She still didn’t recognize herself in the mirror, not fully. The hair she could deal with. The ears, too, oddly enough. But the horns threw her, and the color of her skin—soft, cold, not even human—made her stomach knot every time she caught it in peripheral vision. She’d scavenged some clothes: black jeans torn at the knee, a crop top, and a bomber jacket that reminded her vaguely of something she’d worn to a rooftop party once. It didn’t make her feel human again, but it helped her feel like herself. A little.

She crumpled the paper towel and tossed it into the overflowing trash. The bathroom stank of sour liquor and disinfectant. Her hand drifted to the inside of her jacket, brushing the hilt of the broken bottle neck she kept tucked there. It wasn’t much, but it was sharp. It made her feel like she had options.

The door creaked open behind her, the hinges groaning under the weight of something massive. Sasha didn’t turn around, but she saw him in the mirror—the kind of demon that looked like he could rip a phone book in half just for fun. Six eyes blinked in uneven rhythm beneath a heavy brow, and his jaw cracked as he stretched it, a bear-like snarl muttering from his throat.

She kept her head down, pretending to adjust her jacket, but every muscle in her body tensed. Her pulse picked up, that old rush of adrenaline sparking just beneath the surface. She didn’t want a fight. Not here. Not now.

Without a sound, she let her power rise. It came more easily these days. The energy uncoiled from her chest and slipped outward like fog, curling into the room around her. Her reflection flickered—just for a second—before vanishing altogether.

She projected the bathroom exactly as it was: cracked mirror, buzzing light, dirty tiles, overflowing trash. Nothing changed—except her absence. In the illusion, she simply wasn’t there.

The effect wrapped around the space like a veil, bending the edges of reality just enough to hide her completely.

The demon stepped inside, pausing for a moment at the door. He sniffed once, like something in the air felt off, but then dismissed it with a grunt. Muttering something about the drinks tasting like bleach again, he trudged toward the urinal, shoulders brushing the stall walls as he passed.

Sasha didn’t move. She pressed herself into the corner between the paper towel dispenser and the far wall, keeping her breathing slow and shallow. Her mind maintained the projection with precision, each detail held carefully in place.

He finished his business quickly—thankfully—and stomped back out without ever looking behind him.

As soon as the door clicked shut, she released the illusion. It fell away like smoke dissipating in still air, and her reflection returned to the mirror, pale and shaken.

Her knees felt weak. Her jaw ached from how hard she’d been clenching it. But the bathroom was quiet again, and she was alone. This time, she hadn’t had to scream or lash out or dig fear into someone else’s mind. She hadn’t needed to hurt anyone. She just needed to disappear—and she did. Sasha adjusted her jacket and stepped outside into the artificial glow of Hell’s version of daylight.

The sky above buzzed with static red and screen-burn purple, casting everything in a strange, flickering hue. Billboards loomed high above her, flashing with faces that sometimes blinked. The skyline was a mess of jagged metal and slanted towers. And in the middle of it all, tall and glassy and sharp as a knife, stood the VoxTech building.

She tried not to look at it. Not because she hated the job—though, yeah, she did —but because it reminded her of how quickly Hell found ways to chew people up.

Even the dead needed to hustle.

Product development, they called it. Fast-paced, high-pressure, soul-grinding work for a company that pushed out new tech faster than it could be tested. She hadn’t been there long, but already she understood the rhythm: stay useful or get replaced.

Still, today wasn’t about that. Not yet.

She turned down a side street, slipping into a half-collapsed warehouse she’d discovered last week. It was quiet there. Abandoned. The perfect place to work on her powers without someone interrupting.

Inside the warehouse, the air was cooler, tinged with the scent of rust and scorched dust. A collapsed shelf leaned against the far wall, and the floor was scattered with broken crates, insulation fluff, and bent nails. Sasha picked her way through the mess and moved toward the dim back corner—a space she’d quietly claimed over the past week. An overturned chair waited beside a stack of cinder blocks that served as a makeshift table, and without ceremony, she dropped her bag and sank into the seat.

Her legs ached, though she couldn’t tell if it was from walking all day or simply from existing in this place.

She didn’t feel like practicing the more aggressive side of her abilities tonight. She’d already proven to herself that she could make people see things they couldn’t fight off. But the more she thought about it, the more it occurred to her that her power didn’t have to be about fear or survival. It could be memory. Comfort. Escape.

And right now, that’s what she needed.

She closed her eyes and steadied her breath, letting the quiet settle over her. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled a memory forward—something safe, something real. A movie night in her old apartment. The couch that sagged in the middle, the bottle of cheap wine Angeleena always brought over, the way Ellie pretended to hate Twilight but knew every line by heart. Sasha pictured the dim glow of string lights around her windows, the vanilla-scented candles flickering on the coffee table, the soft hum of laughter as they debated whether vampires could ever actually be romantic.

When she opened her eyes, the warehouse had disappeared.

She was sitting in her living room again. The walls were the wrong color—she had always meant to repaint them—but everything else was exactly as she remembered. The TV was playing a Twilight scene, Edward glowing dramatically in sunlight while Ellie heckled from the far end of the couch. She wore an oversized hoodie, legs curled under her, and her wine glass was already half-empty. Angeleena sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the edge of the couch, her phone in one hand and a half-eaten cupcake in the other. She was halfway through a rant about how Jacob was the true victim of the story.

Sasha sat in the middle of it all, wrapped in a fleece blanket, watching her friends laugh and talk like nothing had ever gone wrong.

She smiled, though her chest felt heavy.

It was perfect. Too perfect.

She reached for the wine bottle, just to see if it would respond. The illusion held, mimicking the weight in her hand, the warmth of the glass. For a moment, she could pretend it was real—could convince herself she was still alive, still loved, still surrounded by people who knew how to pull her back when the world tilted sideways.

Ellie turned to her and gave that familiar smirk, the one that always came just before she said something that made Sasha groan out loud.

“Hey,” she said, tipping her head slightly. “You good, Virelli?”

The question was simple, but it knocked the air out of her.

Sasha tried to respond, but the lump in her throat tightened. Her breath caught, and tears filled her eyes before she could stop them. The image around her shimmered slightly, colors distorting as her focus wavered.

Angeleena looked up from her cupcake, expression softening. “You okay, Sash?”

She nodded, even as the tears slipped down her cheeks. She tried to hold the image steady, tried to cling to the illusion for just a few more seconds. But her vision was too blurred, and her thoughts were unraveling too quickly. Her heart ached in a way she couldn’t rationalize—deeper than fear, deeper than pain.

The room wavered, the figures of her friends beginning to glitch at the edges like a scratched DVD. Ellie’s voice started to fade. The warmth, the light, the safety—all of it began to pull away from her like smoke slipping through her fingers.

“Please don’t go,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

But it wasn’t them leaving. It was her.

The illusion collapsed as her concentration broke, leaving her alone once more in the cold warehouse, hunched in a plastic chair with her arms wrapped tightly around her body. The silence returned with a weight she wasn’t ready for, and the flickering city light through the broken roof offered no comfort.

She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking as she cried into her palms. There was no one here to tell her it would be okay. No one left to help her carry the grief that still lived so loudly inside her. After a while, the sobs quieted, though the ache remained. She wasn’t practicing her powers anymore. She was mourning.

Chapter Text

It had been three months since Sasha had learned to stop flinching every time someone mentioned the word “Hell” aloud, three months since she stopped searching for a way out and started surviving with the quiet, mechanical precision of someone who no longer expected anything good to happen. Her days had settled into a rhythm—one that could barely be called living, more like enduring—with her mornings beginning in the grime-stained bathroom of her apartment, the kind where the faucet always dripped and the tile grout clung to mildew like a second skin. The walls were thin enough to hear her neighbors breathe, moan, or scream depending on the hour, and the air always smelled like damp plaster and burnt cigarettes. But it was hers. And after so many nights curled into alleyways or abandoned buildings, brushing off the leering hands of demons with nowhere better to be, Sasha had decided that even a shit-covered shoebox could feel like a victory.

The job at VoxTech, by some miracle or curse, was still hers too. She never smiled, never lingered in the hallways with the others, never brought a lunch or made small talk while the breakroom microwave groaned through another cup of instant noodles. Sasha showed up, kept her head down, and did her work with a quiet intensity that made her both forgettable and slightly unnerving. Her hallucinations had grown sharper, more elaborate—refined like a blade she couldn’t stop polishing. On particularly hard days, she’d duck into a storage closet and let the familiar scene bloom before her eyes: the worn-out coun in her apartment, the string lights they’d strung around the ceiling, the clink of cheap wine glasses and Ellie and Angeleena’s laughing ricocheting off the walls as Twilight played for the hundredth time. Sasha would sink into the illusion like a hot bath, letting the warmth wrap around her aching chest until the tears came and her power broke apart the image with a cruel, smoky hiss.

It wasn’t healthy. But then again, neither was Hell.

That particular evening started like any other—her fingers sore from a full day of grinding through interface mockups, her eyes dry from staring at the computer for too long, her brain buzzing with half-formed hallucinations that she kept stuffing back down where they belonged. The office was beginning to empty, demons shuffling out in packs of two or three, murmuring about drinks or trouble or both. Sasha was packing up her things, already counting down the steps to the corner store where she’d grab another bottle of something strong enough to make her forget she existed, when a voice cut through the dull hum of fluorescent lights.

“Yo, Sasha!”

She turned, eyes narrowed in habitual suspicion, to see Jaz leaning against the doorway. The fox demon had a flickering neon aura around her—part charm, part exhaustion—that reminded Sasha of someone she couldn’t quite place. Jaz always wore her hair pulled up high in a messy twist, eyes lined sharp, smile lazy and too knowing. She wasn’t cruel, not exactly, but there was something in her gaze that said she’d been through some shit and lived to roll her eyes about it.

“We’re hitting Happy Hour at Hex & Hound,” Jaz said, voice casual, like it wasn’t weird to invite the office cryptid out for a drink. “You in?”

Sasha blinked. “No.”

“C’mon. First round’s on me.” A flash of teeth. “Call it… a coworker bonding exercise. We’re trying to be more social or whatever.”

She should have said no again. Should have grabbed her bag and ghosted out the back like she always did, disappearing into her own bitter little world. But something about the way Jaz said it—the effortless generosity, the complete lack of pressure—chipped away at Sasha’s defenses in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Maybe it was the offer to pay. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t heard her name said like it mattered in weeks. Maybe she was just tired of drinking alone.

“One round,” Sasha muttered, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I mean it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jaz grinned, tossing her an overly dramatic wink.

The bar was already humming when they arrived, a low-throated pulse of music and laughter and clinking glass. The walls were slick with old glamour spells, and the scent of stale sugar and blood hung in the air like fog. Chief was already there, hulking and slouched over the booth like he’d been poured into it. His scales caught the low light, eyes half-lidded but alert beneath his thick brows. He gave Sasha a once-over, nodded, and took a slow drag off something that smelled illegal.

“This her?” he asked, voice a slow grind of gravel and smoke.

“Yep,” Jaz said, flopping into the booth across from him. “Meet Sasha. She’s the one who codes like she’s got a knife to her throat.”

Sasha snorted despite herself and sat, letting the music and haze swirl around her like water. A drink appeared in front of her—green and glowing—and she took a sip without asking what it was. It burned. Good.

The conversation flowed without needing much from her. Jaz did most of the talking, Chief grunted responses, and Sasha found herself laughing—actually laughing—when Jaz tried to re-enact their boss’s attempt at “hip lingo” during that morning’s meeting. There was something electric in the way the noise wrapped around her. Not comforting, exactly, but distracting. Loud enough to drown out the ghostly echo of Ellie’s laugh in her head. Bright enough to blur Angeleena’s face in her memory for just a little while.

By the third drink, Sasha wasn’t thinking about her apartment or how some nights she forgot she was dead until she saw her reflection and remembered. She was leaning forward with a sloppy grin, arguing about whether or not cereal counted as soup (Jaz said yes, Chief said he didn’t give a fuck), and letting the synthetic euphoria of the moment pull her somewhere unfamiliar, where the lights were too bright, the music too loud, and the past—just for a minute—was nowhere to be found.

Sasha showed up early.

Not early enough to help clean, not that anyone ever did, but early enough to be sure she wouldn’t die in the street. The first wave of exterminators always hit hard—dropping from Heaven like a plague of light, eyes glowing and blades drawn, all cold mercy and nothing human. You didn’t want to be outside when that started. You didn’t want to be anywhere visible. So she knocked three times—quick, then slow, then quick again—and the basement door swung open with a creak loud enough to make her flinch.

Vic’s grin greeted her, sharp and smeared in something red. “Sasha! You’re early. You scared or just thirsty?”

“Why not both?” Sasha stepped inside without waiting for an answer.

The space was already thick with incense and smoke, the kind that curled up your nose and clung to your clothes. It wasn’t much of an apartment—bare concrete walls, a warped ceiling fan that didn’t spin anymore, and a patchwork of mismatched furniture scavenged from whatever curb wasn’t on fire. But the windows were boarded, the door was triple-locked, and the wards etched around the entry glowed faintly. Safety, as far as Hell offered it.

Chief was on the couch already, massive frame draped across it like a thrown blanket, one arm slung over his eyes. Jaz leaned against the kitchenette counter, lighting a cigarette with the steady calm of someone who knew exactly how long until the exterminators arrived and exactly how much time she had to get wasted before they did.

Vic tossed Sasha a beer, already sweating in the heat. “Thirty minutes ‘til showtime.”

Sasha cracked the can open and took a long swig. “How many you think we’ll lose this year?”

“More than last year,” James said from the ceiling, where he’d been crawling silently, notebook in hand. “People got cocky. Dumb idea.”

“No such thing as smart in this city,” Chief rumbled. “Just lucky or dead.”

Jaz lifted her glass. “To being lucky.”

Sasha echoed the toast without hesitation. Her fingers trembled, just slightly, as the alcohol hit her tongue, but she didn’t mention it. The fear was there—it always was—but she’d learned how to drown it before it took root. If she moved fast enough, drank deep enough, laughed loud enough, maybe the cold wouldn’t reach her bones.

The screen in the corner—a grainy, stolen feed from a camera Vic had mounted on the roof—showed a hazy skyline and nothing else yet. But it would. Soon. You always heard the trumpets before you saw the light.

James fluttered down from the ceiling and slapped a piece of paper on the counter. “Betting pool. Get in or get out.”

“Put me down for Bradley again,” Sasha said, eyes already glassy. “Dumb fuck thinks holy steel isn’t that hot.”

Vic snorted. “I give him ten minutes, max.”

They all gathered close then, the ritual beginning in full. Drinks were poured, joints lit, laughter bubbled in fits and spurts. Sasha curled up beside Jaz on the floor, knees tucked to her chest, letting the dull roar in her head take over. Chief was laying odds out loud, James adding snarky commentary, and Vic sharpening a blade for no reason other than muscle memory. The monitor flickered.

A sound like distant horns began to rise. Not music. Not anything natural.

A celestial call—pure, vibrating, wrong in the way it made every demon’s skin itch.

Sasha didn’t look at the screen. She didn’t need to. She’d seen it enough. White wings unfurling. Gleaming eyes. Blades that glowed too brightly for this place. It was the beginning of the bloodbath.

“Cheers,” she muttered, clinking her can against Jaz’s glass.

And then they drank.

They always drank.

The laughter grew louder to cover the fear, the music stayed low but steady, the lights dimmed until they were nothing but shadow and color, and Sasha melted into the comfort of it. This wasn’t survival—it was defiance. A fuck-you to Heaven, to the exterminators, to her own memories that clawed at her every time the buzz started to fade.

Vic passed around something glowing in a cup. Sasha didn’t ask. She swallowed it whole. The monitor showed a sinner being impaled through the chest. They didn’t scream. There was no time. Jaz threw popcorn at the screen.

By the time the feed went to static and the streets above began to fall quiet, the five of them were draped across each other in a tangle of limbs and haze. James was drawing mustaches on their faces with a marker. Vic was recounting her “near-miss” from last year like it was a war story. Sasha had her head in Chief’s lap, his claws carding lazily through her hair, and her mouth ached from smiling too much.

The floor vibrated as another angel landed somewhere above.

None of them moved. Because if they died tonight, they’d die laughing.

——————————————————————————————————————————

The apartment was lit by candlelight this year—not for mood, but necessity. The power had gone out two hours ago, and no one cared enough to fix it. The walls were covered in tally marks from every Extermination survived, crude and half-faded, scratched into paint and concrete with knives or claws. Sasha was the one who kept track. Five years. Five years since she’d fallen screaming from the Brooklyn Bridge. Five years since she stopped hoping for anything but the next drink.

She watched her friends now—her family, if such a word had meaning here—sprawled across the floor and couch, all grins and glassy eyes, laughing at the old footage Vic had dug up from last year’s slaughter. James had drawn crude angel doodles on the walls in marker. Jaz was making halos out of bottle caps. Chief was sharpening a chair leg like it would do anything against divine steel. Vic had painted her face with blood and glitter, eyes wide, manic.

The horn hadn’t sounded yet, but it would soon. Sasha could feel it in her bones. The heavy silence outside. The way the city paused to breathe before it screamed.

And still, they laughed.

“You know what we should do?” Vic slurred, standing on the coffee table, arms spread like wings. “We should go out there. Give those glowing fucks a show.”

“Oh my god,” Sasha groaned, stretched across the couch. “You are so high right now.”

“I’m serious!” Vic crowed. “We’ve survived five years. We’re fuckin’ invincible.”

“No,” Sasha said, sitting up, slow and deliberate. “You’re high. James is drunk. Jaz is already trying to hotbox the bathroom. And Chief’s been sharpening that same stick for twenty minutes. We are not invincible. We’re idiots.”

“Idiots with style,” James chimed in, raising a bottle.

“I am not dying because you all think you’re main characters in a revenge fantasy,” Sasha snapped, but her words were swallowed by laughter. No one listened.

The horn blew. The city howled. The shadows shifted.

And Vic, grinning ear to ear, reached down and pulled Sasha to her feet.

“C’mon, Mom,” she purred. “Let’s show Heaven what regret looks like.”

The streets were black and slick with soot. Fires burned in trash cans and rooftops, casting dancing shadows onto the cracked pavement. The group stumbled through the alley like a punk rock parade—drunken, shouting, waving their makeshift weapons in mock war cries. Sasha’s heart pounded against her ribs. Every step out in the open was a gamble.

“I swear to Lucifer,” she hissed, yanking Jaz back from stepping into full view. “This is so fucking stupid.”

“Relax,” Jaz breathed, eyes shining like she wanted to die. “We’re untouchable.”

They weren’t.

The angel landed without warning.

One moment, the sky was empty. The next, it was split by light. No wings. No choir. Just a figure descending like judgment itself, blade in hand, eyes like twin suns that saw through bone and lie alike.

They froze. The angel didn’t. It moved like lightning—no hesitation, no words, no warning. Its blade tore through Vic first, a single upward slash that split her from pelvis to throat. The blood hit the wall before the sound reached their ears. Vic didn’t scream. She just dropped, mouth open, glitter and gore pouring from her like confetti.

Chief charged, roaring, makeshift stake in hand. The angel spun. One movement. The blade slid clean through Chief’s neck and kept going. His body stood for a second, confused, then crumpled at Sasha’s feet.

“No,” she whispered.

James leapt. Fast. Spider limbs scrabbling for a wall, trying to flank. The angel turned its head—just a tilt—and flung its arm. A flash of light. James fell from the wall in pieces, legs skittering a full ten feet away, his blood painting a wide arc across the brick.

Jaz tried to run. The angel was already behind her. The blade pierced her spine, lifting her from the ground, impaling her mid-sentence. Her eyes met Sasha’s as she was dropped to the street like trash.

And then it was just her.

The angel stepped forward, dragging its sword through the ash, glowing white-hot. It didn’t run. It didn’t need to.

Sasha couldn’t breathe. Her knees buckled. Her friends were gone—not in a metaphorical, grief-y way, but literally, violently obliterated. Nothing left but blood and limbs and heat.

The angel raised its weapon.

Sasha didn’t think—she reacted. Power pulsed through her, that old familiar ache of something unnatural in her blood, and she cast. Her hallucination flooded the air—an illusion of rubble and shadow and silence—wrapping around her like a cloak. She didn’t fight. She ran.

Through alleys, barefoot, sobbing, drunk and bleeding, hallucination flickering as her magic strained under panic. She didn’t stop until she slammed the basement door behind her, bolted it with shaking hands, and collapsed to the floor in a mess of sweat, tears, and vomit.

The silence was deafening.

She crawled to the couch. Still warm from where Vic had been. Her fingernails scraped blood off the cushion. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Her throat burned from screaming, though she couldn’t remember when she’d started.

The grief didn’t hit like a wave. It hit like a furnace.

She didn’t cry for them—not yet. The sadness would come later.

Right now, all she felt was rage. Rage that they left her. Rage that they pulled her into that mess. Rage that Hell gave her something, anything, to care about again only to rip it away. Rage that she survived.

Her fingers dug into the couch cushion, clutching it like it could anchor her, and when she finally screamed, it wasn’t grief.

It was all-consuming hatred.

Chapter Text

There was no blood left to clean. Not hers, at least. She’d scrubbed it from her arms with the last of her water, leaving rust-colored streaks trailing down the sink, but the stains under her nails didn’t come out. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care.

Sasha stood in the center of her apartment, dead-eyed and barefoot, her thoughts a dissonant hum behind her temples. The news played in the background, tinny and distorted, but she wasn’t listening to it. Not really.

The extermination had ended hours ago. The smoke hadn’t even cleared yet, and already the local media was spinning numbers and names, glossing over the chaos like it was just another day in Hell. Which, technically, it was.

But not for her. She’d been there. She hadn’t just found their bodies after the fact—she’d watched it happen.

They were drunk, charging into the street like idiots, whooping and hollering like they were invincible. She remembered yelling at them to stop. She remembered their laughter, slurred and bright and defiant. And then the light came. Cold. Blinding. Final.

The angel descended like judgment itself, sword gleaming, face unreadable. And Sasha—Sasha had panicked. She’d done the only thing she knew how to do. She cast a hallucination—an illusion hiding her from sight. It worked. And she ran. She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t fought. She didn’t even stay to see what happened next.

She ran. Like a coward.

Her breath hitched as the memory played on loop behind her eyes. The sound of Vic’s last shout. The wet crunch that followed. The silence that came after.

Sasha dragged her nails down her face and laughed bitterly. "Some fucking friend I am."

The bottle on the counter had already been opened—she didn’t remember when—and she downed what was left without thinking. The burn didn’t matter. Nothing did. She staggered out of her apartment, driven by something between rage and guilt, and let her power rise up like bile. The moment she stepped into the street, the air around her warped.

She conjured the illusion of an angel—tall, radiant, and merciless—nearly identical to the one who had slaughtered her friends. Its white wings fluttered unnaturally in the hot wind. Its face was blank and gleaming, twisted into that same smug expression that had burned itself into her memory.

“You think you’re divine?” she spat, stalking forward. “You think you’re better than us?”

She lunged, claws extended, and her hallucination played along. She tore through it like it was real, like she could actually hurt something. Its wings snapped. Its halo cracked. She made it scream for her.

And it wasn’t enough.

She conjured another. And another. A dozen hallucinations filled the alleyway, every one of them just like the first—beautiful and untouchable and deserving of pain. She destroyed each one. Slashing, biting, beating them down with her fists until her breath left her.

It didn’t make the guilt go away. When a real demon bumped into her on the sidewalk and muttered something under his breath, she turned and slammed his head into the brick wall without hesitation.

“Say it again,” she hissed. But he was already unconscious.

The next several hours were a blur. Booze. Bruises. More violence. She conjured a hallucination of herself dancing with the dead—her friends’ faces distorted by memory, blurry with drink. She laughed with them until the laughter turned to sobs.

Eventually, she made it home, though she didn’t remember how. She collapsed on her couch, too drunk to care about the blood on her shirt or the taste of bile at the back of her throat.

Sleep didn’t come so much as unconsciousness did, heavy and dreamless.

A week had passed, though it barely felt like a full day had gone by. Time had melted into liquor and silence, and Sasha blinked awake to the sound of distant sirens and garbled news chatter from the TV. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry and sour, and her limbs ached from where she’d collapsed half-on, half-off the couch. She groaned, dragging a stained blanket onto her lap and fumbling for the remote.

Instead, the volume spiked on its own.

“Welcome to the Hazbin Hot—”

Static crackled, cutting off the bubbly voice mid-syllable.

“—Breaking news in Hell today!” the anchor’s voice snapped in, shrill and full of fabricated urgency.

Sasha squinted at the screen as shapes began to form—sirens, streets in chaos, flames licking the smog-choked skyline.

“We’ve just received word from the Heaven Embassy that the next extermination is happening sooner than ever before.”

A second voice chimed in, dripping with mockery. “Do you know what that means, Tom?”

“No. What does that mean, Katie?”

“It means we are all royally fucked.”

The broadcast cut to footage of screaming demons stampeding through the streets. Fires flared across the city like open wounds. Panic echoed through the TV speakers, mixed with a looping emergency alert tone that barely masked the laughter of the anchors.

Sasha sat up, slowly and mechanically. Her fingers twitched. Her breath came faster. It was happening again. They weren’t even cold in the ground. She reached for the nearest glass out of habit, fingers brushing against it, but something on the screen stopped her.

The chaos transitioned to a “special segment.” The headline was branded in dripping red font: "Princess Pitch-Perfect: The Hotel Nobody Asked For."

Then the feed changed.

Charlie.

Not the fires. Not the death. Not the countdown to another slaughter.

Just Charlie—centered in frame, trying to smile, clearly shaken. She stood in front of a microphone in a room full of disinterested reporters. The lighting was too bright, the room too staged, and her voice too sincere to belong anywhere near this city.

Sasha frowned and leaned in, blinking through the headache clouding her vision. The footage had clearly been recorded before—probably days ago, right after the extermination—and now, it was being aired like a comedy reel.

“Hell is my home, and you are my people,” Charlie said, voice shaking just slightly as she blinked at the cameras. “We just went through another extermination. We lost so many souls…” Sasha’s stomach turned. She knew that number. She knew their faces. “…and no one is even given a chance.”

She scrambled for the remote, nearly dropping it, and backtracked through the footage until she found the raw clip on HellTube. It was embedded in the newsfeed, buried in a reaction compilation meant to ridicule it. She clicked anyway.

Charlie stood tall, her posture tense with the effort of holding herself together.

“I can’t stand idly by while the place I live is subjected to such violence,” she said. “So, I’ve been thinking… isn’t there a more humane way to hinder overpopulation here in Hell? Perhaps we can create an alternative way to change souls through… redemption?”

The word landed like a slap. Sasha didn’t blink.

“Well, I think yes!” Charlie said, her voice growing stronger, braver, so full of belief Sasha couldn’t remember ever having. “So that’s what this project aims to achieve. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m opening the first of its kind—a hotel that rehabilitates sinners!”

A hotel. The news clip ended there with a dramatic record-scratch and laughter from the studio. But Sasha wasn’t laughing. She stared at the screen. Then backtracked. Then hit play again.

The next time, she leaned forward, resting one hand against her forehead. The fourth time, she whispered along with Charlie’s words. The fifth time, her hand slipped and knocked over the bottle beside her, spilling the last inch of liquor onto the floor. She didn’t move to clean it.

She just stared, and listened, and let herself feel something for the first time in what felt like months.

Eventually, the screen went black. Her limbs sagged. Her head tipped to the side. She passed out again, curled on the couch like a body in a morgue drawer, the echo of Charlie’s words still humming behind her eyes. After enough times replaying the video, Sasha eventually let the exhaustion consume her, and she properly fell asleep for what seemed like the first time in years. 

When she woke again, it wasn’t to sirens or static, but to silence. Her body ached in that familiar, dull way that meant she’d been asleep too long in one position. Her arm was half-numb, and the floor beneath her cheek was sticky with spilled liquor. The TV had shut off at some point during the night, leaving only the low hum of the apartment’s failing fridge and the soft rattle of the ceiling fan above.

Sasha didn’t move right away. She let the weight of her limbs press her down, her cheek still pressed to the floor, eyes open and blank. She felt hollowed out, like everything inside her had been scraped clean with a rusty spoon.

But something was different. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t drunk. She just was.

She pushed herself up slowly, every movement stiff and reluctant. Her reflection caught in the darkened TV screen as she sat up—a pale, disheveled creature with red-rimmed eyes and a week-old bloodstain on her shirt.

She stared at herself. Then got up.

The bathroom mirror told the same story: cracked glass, sunken cheeks, smeared eyeliner that made her look more corpse than demon. But she looked anyway.

And said, aloud, “This can’t be it.” Her voice came out dry and rasping, like it hadn’t been used in days. “This can’t be it.” She braced both hands on the sink and lowered her head. She didn’t believe in redemption. Not really. She didn’t believe in fair chances or second ones. But she had nothing else. Her friends were gone. Her guilt was louder than her pride. Her drinking had only ever made things worse.

If the Hazbin Hotel was a joke, then fine. She’d go and be the punchline. But if there was even one percent of truth in Charlie’s voice, even the slightest chance that she could claw her way into something less painful than this, she’d take it. Not because she wanted to be good. Not because she thought she could change. But because she had run. And she was still alive. And she didn’t want to waste that anymore.

Sasha turned on the faucet and scrubbed the rest of the dried blood from her skin. She found a pair of jeans that didn’t smell like smoke and slipped them on. She changed her shirt, pulled her white hair into a loose tie at the back of her neck, and threw a jacket over her shoulders without thinking.

Then she packed a bag.

Nothing fancy. A flask she didn’t plan to refill. A lighter. A pocketknife. A few days’ worth of clothes. A photo—creased and torn at the edges—of her and Jaz at some shitty bar, drinks in hand and mouths mid-laugh She zipped the bag and let the silence settle around her one last time. Then she opened the door.

The Hell outside looked the same. Same choking heat. Same blood-colored sky. Same buzz of flies and sirens in the distance. But something in her had shifted. “If I’m gonna die again,” she muttered, adjusting the strap on her shoulder, “I’d rather do it trying.”

And she stepped out into the street. Headed for the Hazbin Hotel.

Chapter Text

The Hazbin Hotel didn’t look like much. Neon lights buzzed like they were trying to give up, paint peeled in the corners, and the red carpet out front was more bloodstain than velvet. Sasha stood at the curb, squinting up at the building. Her hands trembled against the straps of her duffel bag, and she could already feel the headache thumping harder behind her eyes.

Her stomach turned for the third time that morning. She swallowed thickly and whispered to herself, “No drinking. No flaking. Just get inside before you throw up on the welcome mat.”

She pushed open the hotel doors, stepping into a warm-lit lobby filled with mismatched furniture, gothic flair, and the unmistakable sound of bickering. Her arrival went unnoticed—at first.

“…Oh, please,” came a sharp, flamboyant voice. “Ya had less than half a chance when you started all this salvation bullshit.”

Sasha paused, blinking at the strange scene in front of her. A tall, leggy demon covered in pink fluff leaned against the stair rail, speaking with the kind of theatrical flair only years of practiced attitude could hone. Angel Dust, Sasha recognized. He was even more dramatic in person.

“And now,” he went on, “ain’t no silver lining this time, toots.”

A peppy blonde girl standing nearby gave a determined, almost too-bright smile. “Sure there is. We just have to look a little harder for it.”

Sasha took a tentative step further in, watching the scene unfold. Her nausea hadn’t subsided, but the surreal nature of the conversation almost distracted her from the knot twisting in her gut.

Angel gestured wildly and held out his phone. “Well, while you’re lookin’, the rest of Hell is going nuts. People are already freaking out about the news. Look at what’s happening in the Doomsday District.”

The blonde girl—Charlie, Lucifer’s daughter—tilted her head, confused. “Err... what is a ‘donkey show’?”

Sasha raised a brow. Wow. This is going well.

Angel laughed. “Ahh, heh, nothing. My boss, Val, is just freaked out about the news, too. Like I said, everyone’s losing their shit.”

The third demon, a shorter girl with a scowl and an arm protectively placed near Charlie’s waist, chimed in. “Yeah, that’s true. Sinners are desperate.”

Sasha took another step closer, her boots scuffing against the worn carpet. The trio remained locked in conversation, unaware of her presence.

“Maybe desperate enough to try anything to escape the extermination?” the angry-looking one—Vaggie—said, not yet noticing Sasha.

Charlie gasped suddenly. “This is the perfect time to recruit more sinners for the hotel!”

Sasha finally cleared her throat. “Then lucky you,” she said, her voice dry. “Looks like one just walked in.”

Three sets of eyes landed on her at once.

Charlie lit up instantly, the excitement in her eyes borderline manic. She practically skipped toward Sasha, her voice high and breathless with joy. “Oh my gosh, hi! Are you here for the hotel? Like, for real?”

Sasha shifted her weight uncomfortably, her duffel sliding against her hip. “Well, I didn’t come for the ambiance,” she muttered. “Saw the commercial. Figured I’d try my luck not dying.”

Vaggie stepped between Charlie and Sasha in an instant, posture stiff and wary. “And why now? What’s your angle?”

Sasha met her look with a tired shrug. “Honestly? I’m out of options. Barely made it through the last extermination. Figured I’d try something that doesn’t involve waiting to get vaporized.”

Charlie beamed. “Well, that’s amazing! Not the almost dying part, but that you’re here! That you want help! That you—”

“I’m not here for a group hug,” Sasha cut in, her tone flat. “Just trying not to fall apart. So maybe… keep expectations low.”

Charlie clasped her hands in front of her chest like she’d been handed a puppy. “That’s okay! You’re doing great!”

Sasha couldn’t decide whether to be comforted or unnerved. “You always this chipper, or are you trying to blind me with joy?”

Angel snorted from behind them. “You get used to it.” Before anyone could respond, Angel continued, “recruitment is a cute idea and all, but you really going to go out in all of this?”

Charlie looked back at her. “Well, we’ve only had one person show up on our doorstep.”

And right on cue—BOOM.

The wall behind them shook violently as a massive explosion erupted outside. Dust rained from the ceiling. A piece of shot into the hotel at speed and landed two feet from Sasha’s boots, nearly crushing what looked like a bug demon. 

She barely flinched. Just closed her eyes and muttered, “Yep. Definitely should’ve stayed in bed.” Screams echoed as a wave of smoke poured through the cracked doors. Somewhere outside, an engine roared, and the air filled with a sharp, metallic screech.

Then came the voice. “Show yourself, Alastor!”

The group walked towards the new hole and stepped outside to the frot of the hotel, watching as a massive, steampunk-style blimp rolled into view—bristling with weapons, gears grinding angrily as it descended. 

“Let me guess,” she said flatly. “This happens a lot?” Sasha was still processing the talking snake in a dirigible when the air changed.

It was like the room took a breath and held it.

The shadows stretched a little longer. The light dimmed, subtly, unnaturally. The kind of shift that didn’t make sense to the eye but hit you in the gut all the same. Then he appeared.

Sasha had seen a lot of things since ending up in Hell—monsters in suits, overlords on crack, coworkers who thought deodorant was a suggestion—but nothing had ever made her freeze the way this did.

The demon who appeared in the front of the hotel moved like the world already belonged to him. He wore a crimson pinstripe suit that looked tailor-cut for murder and a smile tso wide it nearly split his face open. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was deafening in its stillness—like a radio station buzzing just beneath the skin.

He turned to face the steampunk menace outside and spoke with a lilting, curious tone. “Who are you?”

That voice. It was old-fashioned and syrup-thick, curling around every syllable like it wanted to strangle it. Sasha knew it. Not from experience—but from whispers. From stories traded over drinks. From news broadcasts and burnt-out radios that sometimes clicked on by themselves.

The Radio Demon.

Oh. Shit. 

Outside, the snake puffed up like a child denied his toy. “Who am I? Who am I?! I am the great Sir Pentious!” His mechanical blimp swung with dramatic flair. “Inventor! Architect of destruction! Villain extraordinaire!”

Somewhere above, a voice whooped, “Woo! You tell 'em, boss!”

Sasha pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh great, he’s got a hype man.”

From across the lobby, a new figure darted outside. Tiny, hyperactive, and vibrating with more energy than a toddler on a sugar high, a one-eyed maid demon gasped, “Ooh! He’s a bad boy!”

“That’s Niffty,” Charlie whispered brightly. “She’s harmless.”

Sasha eyed Niffty suspiciously. “She literally looks like an overgrown, bloodthirsty roach.”

Alastor tilted his head with the calm of someone filing away a threat not worth keeping. “Huh,” he said. “Well, if all that’s true, you’d think I’d have heard of you.”

Pentious flailed his arms. “I attacked you literally last week!” He paused, “we’ve done battle, like... twenty times!” he insisted.

Alastor blinked slowly. “Well, you must have been really bad at this.” Sasha snorted. Brutal.

Pentious recoiled, clearly wounded. “Silence! Now cower!” The snake coiled his metallic tail and reared back dramatically. “For when I’ve slain you, the almighty Vees will finally acknowledge me as their equal!”

Niffty tilted her head. “Ooh! Wait, who are the Vees?”

Alastor waved his hand as if brushing aside the thought of them. “Oh, nobody important.”

The Vees, Sasha thought. Vox, Valentino, Velvette. Of course. So this idiot wanted to join them? She almost pitied him. Almost. She looked back toward Alastor, who hadn’t moved. He was still smiling that not-smile. Still watching Pentious like someone sizing up a puzzle piece that didn’t fit. He hadn’t glanced at her even once. That was fine. Better, even.

Because being noticed by Alastor? That was the kind of attention you didn’t walk away from unchanged. Still… Sasha found herself staring longer than she meant to. Something about the shape of him, the lean lines and effortless menace—it made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with withdrawal.

“Goddammit,” she muttered under her breath. “He’s hot.”

“Who’s hot?” Angel asked beside her, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up.” She hissed quickly. Outside, the blimp groaned like a wounded animal, gears screeching as it hovered unsteadily in the sulfur-heavy sky. Sir Pentious raged on as he brandished a gleaming cannon arm, clearly intended to look intimidating. It might’ve worked—if the man standing before him didn’t seem so spectacularly unbothered.

Alastor smiled, serene as ever, hands tucked behind his back like a man admiring a painting. The air around him began to shift. Subtly at first—shadows flickering in ways the light didn’t explain, lines bending just slightly wrong. Sasha’s breath caught in her throat.

She took an involuntary step back, her heel catching on some rocks and debris scattered by the destroyed wall. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure someone would notice. Her fingers twitched, the itch of her own powers rising—but this wasn’t her fight.

And thank God for that.

The earth cracked with a low, unnatural groan as the air pulsed with static. Then—without warning—reality split open. From jagged fissures in the ground, inky black tendrils erupted, writhing and coiling like something had torn a hole into another dimension. They weren’t shadows anymore, but living things—wet, gleaming, and impossibly long—snaking up into the open air, reaching hungrily toward the blimp like they had been waiting beneath the surface all along.

Tentacles. Dozens of them. No, more than dozens. It was impossible to count—impossible to look away.

Sasha had heard the stories. Everyone in Hell had. The Radio Demon. An overlord who didn’t conquer—he rewrote the rules of reality and dared others to call it madness. But stories didn’t prepare you for the smell of burning ozone, or the hum of static that raised goosebumps across your skin, or the sound—dear God, the sound—of the shadows as they dragged through air like silk against a bone saw.

Alastor chuckled.

A cheerful, elegant sound. The kind of laugh someone might have while trimming flowers or pouring tea. Then he twisted. The tentacles obeyed like hounds off a leash.

They surged upward, snaking around the blimp with impossible speed, crushing steel and shattering glass. A scream rang out from one of the Egg Bois as he was flung into the air like confetti. Another tentacle stabbed clean through the engine, dragging machinery down like it weighed nothing. The blimp shuddered, then lurched downward in a spiral of sparks and flame.

Sir Pentious wailed, tangled in the wreckage of his own cockpit. “Arrgh! Oh! Please! Stop!”

Alastor only laughed harder. It was joyous—like a child popping bubble wrap, like this was the most delightful thing he'd done all day.

Sasha couldn’t breathe. Her entire body was frozen, locked in place by fear… and something else. Something hotter. More shameful. Because despite every instinct in her body telling her to run, despite the nausea still coiled in her gut, despite the unmistakable knowledge that she was watching something inhuman, all she could think was—

He’s beautiful.

Terrifying. Insane. Unnatural. But beautiful all the same. Alastor's red eyes glinted as he turned slightly to the side, still watching Pentious scream beneath the rubble of his ruined blimp. Another tentacle lifted the serpent demon by the tail and swung him like a ragdoll.

“Um, Alastor?” Charlie’s voice broke the spell slightly. She took a careful step forward, still smiling, still hoping. “I think he’s had enough.”

“Nah,” Angel said, arms crossed and grinning. “He’s got a few more hits in him.”

Another crash. Another scream. Sasha winced as Pentious slammed into the ground with a sickening crack. Alastor finally stepped forward, shadows reeling back into the ground like snakes satisfied with a meal. He tilted his head, still smiling.

“Thanks,” he said calmly, brushing a speck of dust from his lapel, “for another forgettable experience.”

Pentious wheezed from the crater he now occupied. “Thank… you… for letting your guard down!” He surged forward suddenly, tail whipping through the smoke. His tail grabbed a piece of fabric and ripped it free from Alastor’s coat. “Haha! Yah! Oh sh—!”

A tentacle grabbed Pentious, wrapping around his midsection with the speed of a whip. There was a beat—just long enough for Pentious to send the group a look of terror—before Alastor flicked his wrist with a delighted little hum.

The tendril snapped back like a slingshot. Pentious screamed as his body was launched through the air. He sailed over the hotel gates, past rooftops and screaming imps, vanishing into the distance like a meteor hurled by some unhinged god.

Sasha could only gape as he disappeared from sight, a fading shriek echoing into the smoggy skyline. “…Jesus Christ,” she whispered. Smoke curled where he had once stood, the scent of scorched metal lingering in the air.

“Well,” came Alastor’s voice, sounding entirely unbothered by the entire ordeal, “it looks as though I need a visit to the tailor… Best of luck, chums.” Alastor brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve with theatrical precision.

Charlie, ever the optimist, stepped closer with a hopeful smile. “Wait. You’re leaving?”

Vaggie chimed in to support her girlfriend, her voice laced with the irritation that never seemed to leave her, “Alastor, we need your help. We need you to do your job. We need a wall.”

Alastor turned to them, hands once again clasped neatly behind his back. “Of course,” he said. “Can’t let my new project fall into disrepair already. What would the papers say?” As he said this, he conjured up a group of what seemed to be oversized voodoo dolls, which began to get to work almost immediately. 

From behind them, Angel chuckled, sauntering forward with a smirk that could melt glass. “Hey, sweet cheeks.” He purred to the largest of the voodoo doll creatures, which in turn gave Angel a look of alarm. “What you doin’ later?” Angel asked, all teeth. “I love me a man with a giant… tool.”

Sasha exhaled sharply, the tension in her chest refusing to settle. Her legs felt like water. Her skin still buzzed from the static left in Alastor’s wake. She muttered under her breath, “This place is fucking insane.”

Chapter Text

The air still crackled faintly with the energy left behind from Alastor’s exit, his laughter echoing off the walls as the hotel doors swung closed behind him. Charlie clapped her hands with awkward cheer, attempting to dispel the lingering tension. “Well! That went… better than last time,” she said, a hint of strained optimism in her voice as she turned back toward Sasha and the others. Vaggie pulled Angel away from the voodoo doll-looking crew Alastor had conjured and ushered the crew back inside. 

Sasha followed at the rear of the group. The fight outside had been bizarre, theatrical, and absurd—but it served as a sharp reminder of where she was. Hell wasn’t going to slow down just because she was mourning. As they reentered the hotel, she took a moment to glance up at the ceiling, half-expecting it to fall on her with how surreal everything still felt.

Charlie had decided that now was a good time to show Sasha the hotel and help her familiarize herself with the layout. She led the way down the halls with a renewed spring in her step, pointing out various rooms as they passed. “That’s the kitchen, over there’s the lounge, and down there is the bar—though, we try to discourage drinking most times,” she said with a sheepish look. Sasha offered a dry nod, biting back a craving. God, I would kill for a drink right now. The tour ended in a modest room on the second floor. “This one’s all yours. Take your time settling in—we’re all just downstairs if you need anything.”

Sasha stepped inside, slowly closing the door behind her as the quiet settled in. The room was bare-bones but clean: a small bed with stark red sheets, a chipped dresser, and one mirror that hung slightly crooked on the wall. It wasn’t much, but it was hers—at least for now. She dropped her bag on the bed with a soft thud and sat beside it, the mattress creaking slightly under her weight.

Her eyes drifted to the far wall, and for a moment, she just stared, letting the stillness press in around her. The silence here wasn’t peaceful—it was the kind that scraped against her nerves. Without the distraction of voices or motion, her thoughts rose like smoke in a sealed room. She saw Angeleena’s laugh frozen mid-frame in her mind, Ellie’s red lipstick smudged on a wine glass, Chief’s gravelly voice telling one more awful joke before the blood hit the sidewalk.

It was only a week ago. One week since she stood in the street and saw what was left of them—bodies torn, blood soaked into the pavement, laughter turned into silence. She hadn’t cried. Not properly. She’d screamed and drank and clawed her way through that hellish morning, but the grief was still stuck somewhere deep, lodged like a shard of glass in her chest. She’d told herself this place might help. That Charlie might help. But now that she was here, all she could think about was how wrong it felt to be alive when none of them were.

Her fingers twitched, itching to summon them—just for a moment. A flicker of illusion, a memory draped in skin and light. But she stopped herself, jaw tightening as she dragged her hand back into her lap. It would feel good, she knew. It always did at first. But then the illusion would fade, and she’d be alone again—except worse, because she would’ve tasted the lie. Letting herself live in those hallucinations hadn’t helped her grieve. It had only made the wound deeper, more permanent.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “No more,” she whispered, barely audible. “Not unless I have to. No more ghosts.” The words tasted bitter but solid. Using her powers to relive the past was just another addiction, another escape like the bottle. And if she was going to stay in this hotel—if she really wanted to believe redemption was possible—then she had to start living in reality, no matter how much it hurt.

With slow, deliberate motions, Sasha stood up and pulled her jacket tighter around her. Her reflection in the mirror looked tired, but determined. She wasn’t okay. She might not be okay for a long time. But tonight, she’d try. She’d walk back downstairs, look the others in the eye, and take one step forward. That’s all she could manage—and maybe that was enough.

She slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click, and headed down the stairs to rejoin the others.

The hallway creaked beneath Sasha’s boots as she made her way down the grand staircase, one hand lightly grazing the worn banister. The hotel was quieter than before—less chaotic, less charged. It had been about an hour since she closed herself in that tiny room and let the silence strip her bare. Now, her head was clearer, though the ache in her chest remained—a dull, persistent throb that she suspected might never fully go away. Still, she’d made a promise to herself, and keeping it meant showing up.

The bar was dim but occupied. Angel Dust lounged across two barstools like he owned the place, his long legs crossed at the ankle, one arm propped behind his head. Husk stood behind the counter, cleaning a glass with the same amount of interest one might show a brick wall. The low murmur of Angel’s humming trailed off as he spotted her.

“Hey, look who finally came outta the crypt,” Angel called, grinning as he sat up straighter. “Was starting to think you bailed.”

Sasha gave a wry smirk, sliding onto the nearest stool. “And miss the chance to sit in a musty bar with a spider and a cat? Never.”

Angel clutched his heart like she’d wounded him. “You wound me, doll.”

Husk grunted. “What’ll it be?” he asked, already half-reaching for a bottle of something amber and strong.

“Water,” Sasha said, firm and low, resting her elbows on the bar. “Just water.”

Husk’s brow lifted, but he didn’t press. He grabbed a dusty bottle from the bottom shelf and poured her a glass without comment. The drink landed in front of her with a dull clink, condensation already beginning to form.

Angel gave her a curious side-eye. “Water? Huh. You know this place runs on booze and bad decisions, right?”

Sasha’s fingers curled around the glass. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d switch things up.”

Angel smirked. “Tryna be the healthiest sinner in Hell? Bold.”

She gave a small chuckle, “Don’t get used to it.”

He watched her for a beat, then leaned a little closer, voice more casual. “Ya new down here?”

She glanced at him. “Not exactly. Been stuck in this hellhole since 2019.”

Angel whistled low. “Damn. Most people don’t stay as calm as you after just 6 months, let alone years.”

Sasha took a sip of her water. “I guess I’m just built different.”

“Or ya stubborn,” Angel said, his tone light. “Weird how those go hand in hand.”

She looked over at him again, and for a second, her expression softened. “You’ve been here long?”

“Long enough to regret most of it,” he said with a wink, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that feels more like an exhale than a pause.

Angel drummed his claws lightly on the counter. “So what’s ya deal, anyway? Ya always this quiet, or just around me?”

Sasha raised a brow. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure you out.”

“Oh, sweetheart, good luck. I’ve been trying to figure me out for decades.” That earned a quiet huff of laughter from her. Not much, but enough to make Angel’s grin widen just a touch.

The silence that followed felt companionable. For once, the bar wasn’t just a place to drown things—it was somewhere to breathe, even if just for a minute. Sasha took another sip and let the moment settle, grateful that no one asked for more than she was willing to give.

Charlie’s voice echoed from the hall before her body even appeared, cheerful and bright as ever. “There she is!” she chirped as she and Vaggie entered, practically glowing with excitement. “We were hoping you’d come downstairs. Since we’ve got a new member of the crew, we thought it’d be fun to try a little bonding activity!”

“Oh god,” Husk muttered under his breath.

Vaggie rolled her eyes fondly but didn’t argue. Charlie bounced slightly on her heels. “We usually do this thing—kind of a sharing circle. Everyone opens up, says something honest or vulnerable about themselves. Helps build trust and all that.”

Angel let out a groan. “Ugh, again? This ain’t kindergarten, Char.”

Sasha’s brow lifted slightly, one hand still resting on her water glass. “No offense, but… do you really think that’s what’s going to fix people? Getting them to say something sad out loud in a group?”

Charlie blinked, surprised. “I mean—it’s supposed to help. You know, connection and communication—”

“I get that,” Sasha cut in gently. “But maybe the focus should be on the reasons we’re all messed up in the first place. Most of us didn’t end up in Hell because we missed a therapy session. It’s deeper. People numb themselves for a reason. If this place is really about redemption, maybe helping people face that stuff would do more than a heart-to-heart.”

There was a pause. Vaggie exchanged a look with Charlie, who stood there, blinking, as if the thought had never quite occurred to her in that way.

“That’s… a really good point,” Charlie said after a moment, her voice softer now. “I hadn’t thought about it like that. I mean—we don’t have a licensed therapist here, but maybe there’s more we can do to help people actually heal.”

“Not a bad idea,” Husk muttered, taking a swig from a bottle behind the bar. “Most folks down here are about three breakdowns from imploding.”

Angel let out a quiet laugh, raising his glass. “Cheers to that.”

Sasha didn’t smile, not exactly, but her expression softened. This wasn’t the kind of progress anyone could see, but it felt real. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t poured a drink. She’d spoken up, and they’d listened. For the first time in a very long while, she didn’t feel like she was on the outside looking in. And that, at least, was something.

Chapter Text

Charlie stumbled through the hotel doors, a tired sigh escaping her lips as she collapsed onto the nearest couch.

“Hmmph!”

Sasha sat curled up in the armchair nearby, legs tucked under her and a half-empty bottle of water dangling from her fingers. She raised an eyebrow, lips twitching in amusement.

“So how’d it go?” Angel asked, sprawled across the bar counter, lazily twirling a swizzle stick between his fingers.

Charlie groaned. “Not a single new recruit.”

Sasha grimaced and leaned back. “Shocking. It’s almost like begging demons to face their trauma doesn’t come with a loyalty card.”

Angel snorted, tilting his head back against the couch. “Honestly, fair point.”

But then— bang bang bang . A loud knocking crashed through the hotel, sharp and theatrical like someone trying to make an entrance instead of a request. Everyone turned toward the door. Vaggie glanced at Charlie with a raised brow, then moved to answer it, confusion furrowing her brow more than concern. “Probably another dumbass prank,” she muttered, fingers brushing the doorknob.

The second the door creaked open, a too-familiar voice oozed into the room.

“Why, hello, my dear—!”

WHAM. 

Before the serpent could finish his sentence, Vaggie’s fist launched forward and cracked him clean across the jaw. Sir Pentious went sprawling into the dirt by the entrance. The room went still for a beat.

Then Pentious scrambled upright, limbs flailing like a malfunctioning marionette. “Wait, wait, wait!” he yelped, holding his hands high. “I come in peace!”

Sasha slowly rose from her seat, brows drawing together as she took a careful step forward. Her eyes scanned him from top hat to tail, cold and calculating. She didn’t know what was worse: that he was back, or that he thought a few empty words could wash away the fact that he’d attacked them less than 12 hours ago.

Charlie blinked. “Vaggie, what’s the problem?”

Sasha gave her a look. “Do you want the short list or the scroll?”

But it was too late. Charlie was already out the door and standing face to face with the snake. 

“Oh, hello again!” Pentious said with a forced grin. “I didn’t come looking for a fight. I uhh… I heard that you’re helping people. People who want to be better?”

Charlie’s eyes lit up. “You heard right!”

Sasha turned to Angel, who was mouthing “what the fuck” silently and watching with the same wary skepticism she felt.

“Welcome to our home of healing,” Charlie continued, throwing her arms open. “Our resort of restoration. Our—”

“Are you fucking nuts ?” Angel cut in, pointing at Pentious like he’d just found a cockroach in his martini. “This chump was trying to kill us, like, literally six hours ago. And now you want to bring him in here to live with us?”

“Absolutely!” Charlie chirped.

Sasha exchanged a look with Angel, mouthing “ I hate it here.”

“This place is about second chances,” Charlie continued, unbothered. “And who deserves one more than this… slithery… slippery… special little man.”

Angel rolled his eyes so hard Sasha swore she heard them click. Then he turned on Vaggie, “Aren’t you supposed to protect this place?”

Vaggie let out a resigned sigh as Charlie made pitiful puppy dog noises and rounded her eyes as much as possible. “I… guess he’s not much of a threat without the war machine. Or even with the war machine.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Charlie exclaimed dramatically. “Sir Pentious! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!”

Sasha muttered under her breath, “In what fucking world is this smart?”

“Oh no, darling, thank you, ” Pentious said to Charlie, clutching her hand with exaggerated reverence. “You won’t regret this.”

“Eh,” Angel said with a smirk, leaning back. “I give you a week tops.”

Charlie bounced around like a tour guide on espresso. “So… this is the bar—and the bartender. This is the curtain, and this is the new wall after you broke the last one, heh. And, oh, this, this is—”

“Babe,” Vaggie cut in with a smile. “You don’t have to show him every detail.”

“Sorry,” Charlie giggled. “I’m just so excited to have our first real guest!”

Angel sputtered. “Uh, what the hell am I then?”

Charlie turned sheepish. “Well, you’re an important part of our family here, Angel.”

Sasha raised a finger. “Second new guest, technically.”

Vaggie added bluntly, “But you constantly make us look bad, sexually harass the staff, and have literally never once tried to improve.”

“What she means,” Charlie rushed in, “is it’s just nice to have someone interested for once.”

Sasha gave Angel a playful nudge with her elbow. “Hey, you’re still our lovable problem.”

He gave her a wink. “Damn right I am.”

Charlie led them forward. “Over here we have our maid—Niffty!”

The tiny demon girl practically teleported into the room with a delighted gasp. “The bad boy is back!”

She latched onto Pentious’ leg like a static-charged cat. “Never leave me again,” she whispered, her tone teetering between affectionate and deeply concerning.

“We’re about eighty percent sure she’s harmless,” Charlie said, flashing an awkward smile.

Sasha leaned toward Angel and muttered, “Eighty seems generous.” He gave her a nudge and a laugh at that. 

They approached the lounge, where Alastor stood waiting with his usual sinister smile, cane in hand. Charlie clapped her hands. “And over here we have… Alastor, our gracious Facility Manager! You’ve met our newest guest, Sir Pentious—”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Ah, yes. You’re the one who ruined my coat.” He stepped forward, voice dropping in pitch. “I definitely remember you now.”

Pentious audibly gulped.

“Well,” Charlie said, clasping her hands together, “I guess this is a great time for your first lesson…” She cleared her throat. “How to apologize. The first step to becoming a better person,” she continued, “is to admit when you are wrong. Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Yes, um… Mr, um, Radio Demon, sir,” Pentious stammered. “Please forgive me for attacking you and ruining your very lovely coat… Um, here—” Pentious presented the piece of Alastor’s coat he had ripped free earlier that day. 

Alastor’s eyes glittered with amusement as he gently plucked the offered fabric scrap from Pentious’ trembling hands. “Oh-ho,” he chuckled, “not many people have been able to take even this much off me. “His grin widened into something darker. It must have meant quite a lot to you.”

With a snap of his fingers, flames ignited in his palm, burning the piece of fabric. Sasha’s eyes narrowed, ready to intervene if things went too far. She still didn’t trust Pentious, but she wasn’t entirely sold on watching someone get flambéed in the lounge either. Although, against Alastor she wasn’t sure how much damage she’d even do. If she could even get that far. He’d probably rip her to shreds before she even tried. Alastor held the flame for a second longer than necessary, eyes locked on the trembling serpent with gleeful menace. Then—poof—the fire vanished, leaving behind only a curl of smoke and the scent of scorched fabric.

Charlie clapped her hands a little too quickly, voice bright but tight. “Oookay! Wonderful! That’s… plenty of apologizing for one morning!”

She looped an arm through Pentious’s and began guiding him down the hallway with a speed that bordered on panicked. “Let’s continue your tour, shall we? We’ve got so many charming rooms and features to explore—ones that don’t include casual arson !”

Pentious looked ready to kiss the carpet in gratitude. “Yes, yes! Delightful idea! Lead the way, dearest princess!”

The group slowly dispersed, muttering or rolling their eyes. One by one, they slipped away—until only Sasha and Alastor remained, suspended in a quiet that crackled with something unspoken. She didn’t move. Just stood there, arms loosely at her sides, gaze sliding sideways as Alastor idly twirled his cane between his fingers. He looked perfectly at ease, like a man savoring the silence after a performance. The smile on his face hadn’t budged an inch—like it had been carved there.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” she finally said, voice low and dry, like she couldn’t be bothered by the entire display. A cover for how terrifying just being near the man was.  Alastor’s eyes flicked toward her, not sharply—but with precision. That ever-present grin curled just a fraction higher, amusement flickering behind his gaze.

“Only a bit?” he said, as if genuinely disappointed. “And here I thought I was being flamboyant .”

Sasha turned toward him fully now, taking a casual step closer. Her arms crossed, body language relaxed, but her weight shifted slightly—subtly—ready to move if she needed to. “I don’t know, felt like it was a little too far honestly.”

He gave a little chuckle, tipping his head. “Ah, well. Some gestures simply demand flourish. Wouldn't you agree?”

A short laugh escaped her—barely a breath, sharp-edged and unimpressed. “You’ve got the ‘terrifyingly chipper’ thing down to a science.”

Alastor chuckled, a low sound that never quite reached his eyes. “And you, Miss Sasha Virelli, have the rare talent of speaking to me without trembling or screaming. Refreshing.”

That gave her a moment’s pause—not fear, but calculation. She straightened a little, chin lifted. “Should I be trembling?”

He leaned in—not overly close, but closer than before. Just enough for Sasha to feel a chill down her spine. His silhouette seemed to ripple, shadows crawling under the surface of his form like snakes slithering beneath silk. “Most find it wise.”

Sasha didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. She met his gaze head-on, her voice steady as stone and twice as dry. “Well. Lucky for me, I’m not most.”

His smile didn’t falter, but something in it tilted—curious now, like a scholar noting an anomaly in a specimen. Measuring. “And what exactly are you, then?” he asked, voice dipped in velvet and edged with interest.

She tilted her head, offered a tight, sardonic smile. “Just your average sinner with excellent taste and a questionable survival instinct, and a working theory that you’re either fascinating or completely full of shit.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he threw his head back and laughed—really laughed—rich and echoing, like the room itself was in on the joke. Shadows recoiled and then swirled again, delighted. “Oh, I do like you,” he said at last, eyes glinting with something deeper—more dangerous—than mirth. “Tell me, have you ever danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight?”

Sasha rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Only if he brings tequila and doesn’t talk in riddles.”

Alastor tapped the brim of an invisible hat, his smile returning to its usual unsettling rhythm. “A shame I’m more of a rye man.” A pause settled between them. Sharp, but not uncomfortable. Like two predators studying one another across a clearing. Though Sasha felt a lot more like prey. 

“…You knew my name,” Sasha said after a beat, quieter now.

“I make it a point to know every soul that crosses the threshold of this hotel,” he replied smoothly, like it cost him nothing. “Some out of curiosity. Others out of… investment.”

She raised a brow, “and which am I?”

His grin softened, “we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Chapter Text

"Now! With two new residents, I think it's important we all get to know each other," Charlie announced, her voice bubbling with excitement as she clapped her hands and led them all to the center of the lobby.

Sasha trailed behind the group, arms crossed loosely, the heel of her boot scuffing the tile as she walked. Charlie's energy was relentless, like an over-caffeinated golden retriever. Sasha both admired and resented it—mostly the latter today. Her head still throbbed from the dull remains of a withdrawal migraine, a steady pulse that kept her tethered to reality. Her limbs felt heavy, her skin ached with invisible pressure, and her stomach was in that fragile post-nausea state—hollow, but on edge. She didn’t say a word about it. Wouldn’t dream of it.

The lobby’s overhead lights cast sharp, too-clean beams that made the crimson of the wallpaper seem even more garish. Sasha squinted against the brightness and gave a dry chuckle as Charlie gestured for everyone to form a circle. Great. Forced bonding exercises. This was definitely bringing back the worst memories of VoxTech orientation week. All that fake smiling, the enthusiastic clapping, the expectation to spill something “fun and personal” about yourself to strangers who’d sooner literally kill you than remember your name.

Charlie started first, of course. “My name is Charlie,” she sang, clapping to her own rhythm. “I like to sing. And when we get to know each other, it’s the greatest thing!”

Sasha’s eyebrows inched up. She flicked a glance toward Vaggie, whose strained expression seemed to scream I love this woman, but dear Lucifer, please make it stop.

Sir Pentious launched into his verse next, proudly puffing out his chest. “My name’s Sir Pentious! I like to build! And despite my stupid Egg Bois, I think I’m very skilled!”

Charlie grinned and turned to Sasha expectantly. “Wanna give it a try?”

Sasha sighed through her nose and straightened up, pretending to think. “Fine,” she said, voice dry. She clapped along lazily, her tone flat but oddly rhythmic. “My name is Sasha. I don’t like games. But if I fake a smile enough, I might get through the day.”

There was a long beat of silence. Niffty giggled. Husk let out a raspy wheeze that might’ve been a laugh. Charlie blinked, clearly unsure if she should encourage or correct. Vaggie, meanwhile, shot Sasha a look—disapproving, but her lip was twitching, like she was holding back a laugh. That alone made Sasha smirk a little.

Charlie stepped in gently, clasping her hands. “That was very… honest. But maybe try it again? A little more from the heart?”

Sasha rolled her eyes but relented. She took a breath, forced her aching arms to clap again. “My name is Sasha. I used to run, now I stay. I’m here because I’m tired of pushing everyone away.”

The circle was quiet for a second, just a beat longer than it needed to be. Charlien nodded and clapped, “That was great, thank you for opening up.” The warm smile she gave Sasha made her squirm in her seat, not used to that kind of friendliness. It was off-putting and made her stomach churn over again for entirely different reasons than the lack of liquor. Vaggie looked surprised. Even Angel glanced over.

Then Charlie turned toward him. “You’re up!”

He groaned. “This is stupid.”

Charlie broke into a quick, sing-song rebuttal, undeterred. “This is not stupid, it’s just the game. Sir Pentious did it well, so now please try to do the same.”

Angel groaned, his irritation was felt throughout the room, and honestly, Sasha couldn't blame him. This whole activity was bullshit. She saw no way that this was helping anyone, if anything, it just made her head pound worse. All she wanted was to curl up in a bath hot enough to melt the fur off her and drown out the constant thumping in her brain. 

Angle mumbled under his breath, “I am too sober for this.” Fucking cheers to that.  

Vaggie took over with less enthusiasm than a cashier on their third double shift. “Well, get used to it and learn how to play. This is going to be your whole day.”

Sasha watched it all unfold with the distinct feeling of watching a slow-motion car crash—horrifying, yet weirdly mesmerizing.

No one called on her again, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to do this a second time. Third time? Did the first count? Instead, she stayed at the edge of the circle, silently studying everyone. Her gaze lingered on Angel. He didn’t join in once, even with Charlie’s prodding. All he was doing was checking his phone. He seemed to deflate more each time it buzzed. That was unusual.

Angel wasn’t shy about voicing his disdain, but there was something in the slope of his shoulders, the faint dark circles under his eyes, that told her this wasn’t just boredom. It was something heavier.

She made a mental note.

And then—there it was again.

A flicker. A ripple along the baseboards, where the shadows gathered a little too thickly, a little too intentionally. Her eyes darted to the spot, her heart rate picking up. Nothing there. Just wall and tile. Sasha frowned. But the hairs on the back of her neck didn’t settle. Something was watching. She just didn’t know what.

The lights had dimmed slightly, and the living room had been hastily rearranged into a makeshift stage. Charlie had passed out half-baked scripts and clunky costumes pulled from Satan knows where, and now everyone was gathered to put on what she dubbed “a fun redemption role-play.”

Sasha sat near the back, sunk low into a creaky velvet chair that smelled faintly of mildew and cigars. SHe had opted to sit out, and Charlie allowed it so long as she watched. Her head was still pulsing, the throbbing dull but insistent behind her eyes. Her mouth was dry. She hadn’t eaten all day, but the thought of food made her nauseous.

Pentious had thrown himself fully into the leading role, strutting across the faux stage like he was auditioning for Demon Idol. Angel stood beside him, playing the bad influence with a half-lidded scowl and sarcastic flair.

“Oh, I’m a bad man on the streets who never got enough hugs,” Angel deadpanned, flipping his trench coat. Sasha arched a brow. “Now, where’s an innocent kid I can sell crack to?”

She choked on a laugh. Okay, credit where credit was due. This was horrible, but Angel made it kinda funny. Angel continued, clearly unimpressed with this entire thing. “Hey, you.”

Pentious, playing the ‘kid,’ perked up with cartoonish eagerness. “Who, me?”

“Yeah, you look like a kid who could use some devil’s dandruff.” Angel paused after that, looking more irritated than ever. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Sasha leaned an elbow on the armrest and rubbed her temples. This was either the worst thing she’d ever seen or some kind of post-sobriety fever dream.

“Not me,” Pentious chirped, “I have to go home and study!”

“Come on, kid, it’ll make you cool like me... the crack head!” Sasha winced. She wasn’t sure who wrote this—probably Charlie—but it was like a poorly veiled PSA from a 1980s after-school special. She also recognized how in poor taste this was. It was no secret Angel’s struggles with addiction, shit, he was even named after his drug of choice. The whole thing is kind of shitty on Charlie’s part, though Sasha figured she didn’t mean it maliciously.

Pentious delivered the final moral line with dramatic flair. “The only cool thing here is to say no to drugs. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to not have sexual intercourse before marriage!”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Charlie burst into applause tears in here eyes. “Yes! Oh, bravo, bravo! That was amazing! Wow, Pentious, at this rate, you'll be redeemed in no time.”

Sasha glanced to the side. Angel’s jaw was tight. He mumbled something, stood up, and walked out. Her first instinct was to let him go. It wasn’t her business. It never ended well when she got too close. That was a lesson carved into her ribs and burned behind her eyelids—get close, get hurt. Get them hurt.

But she didn’t look away. She watched his back as he left the room, the way his shoulders hunched like he was carrying weights no one else could see. She could. Sasha stayed seated for a moment longer, wrestling with it.

Then she pushed herself up with a soft grunt. Her head throbbed harder with the movement, but she ignored it. She didn’t want to get attached. She really, really didn’t. But she also knew what it felt like to spiral in silence while the world clapped around you. So she followed.

The hallway was dim, lit only by a flickering wall sconce and the faint red hue that bled in through stained glass windows. Sasha’s boots padded softly over the carpet, her fingers grazing the wall for balance as the last of her headache pressed behind her eyes like a persistent fist.

Angel’s door wasn’t closed all the way.

She stood there for a second, debating.

This was a bad idea. She knew it. People were pain, plain and simple. Caring meant opening yourself up to loss, and Sasha was fresh out of things she could afford to lose. Still, she knocked twice against the frame—light, so he could ignore it if he wanted. He didn’t.

“Door’s open,” came Angel’s voice, ragged and quiet.

She stepped in.

The room was dark. Just the glow of a neon sign buzzing outside the window and the dim light from a lava lamp casting pink and green shadows on the walls. Angel sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, phone discarded beside him, unopened bottle still in hand. He twitched slightly when she walked in, but he didn’t look up.

Then the phone buzzed again.

Sasha froze in the doorway as Angel reached for it, thumb hovering. He didn’t touch the screen—just stared. And then, with a soft, bitter chuckle, he hit play.

The voicemail beeped.

“Angel, baby, come home,” Valentino’s voice crooned through the speaker. “It’s not the same without you here. I miss you. Come back—”

The next message cut in louder, angrier: “Angel, you bitch, if you don’t come home, you’ll be fucking greasy truckers for the next year—”

Sasha’s mouth tensed.

“Hey, amorcito, I didn’t mean to yell,” Valentino’s tone slid back to soft, sweet poison. “You know how crazy you make me f—”

“You fucking slut!”

There was a breath, then another: “Hey, Angie, about earlier—”

“—Kill your whole fucking fam—”

“Work’s really stressful—”

“—Little cocksucking piece of shit—”

And finally, after a beat of silence: “You actually think you can change? Addict trash like you doesn’t change.”

Angel exhaled shakily.

“I’ll see you soon, baby,” Valentino finished. 

A small pig attempted to curl up with the clearly very depressed Angel. “Sorry. Not now, Fat Nuggets.” A soft oink followed. Sasha wasn’t sure why Angel had allowed her to witness all of this. They hadn’t shared many conversations aside from the brief one at the bar.

The phone screen dimmed. Angel dropped it like it burned. Sasha still hadn’t moved. Her stomach was in knots. She felt like someone had taken a hot iron to her spine. Every nerve in her body buzzed, not with fear—but with rage she had nowhere to put.

She hated men like Valentino. Always had. The way they twisted love into chains made their victims feel small, worthless, replaceable. But this wasn’t her place. “I figured you might want company,” she said, gently. “Or at least someone to sit in silence with.”

Angel gave a small, bitter laugh. “You’re not here for a second round of group therapy?”

Sasha stepped forward and sat down a few feet away from him on the bed, careful not to intrude too closely. “Tempting, but I left my dignity back in 2016. Haven’t seen it since.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You didn’t have to follow me.”

“I know.” There was a beat of silence. Then another. The kind that only ever existed between two people who were holding back entire oceans.

Angel stared down at the bottle. His fingers flexed around it. “I wasn’t gonna drink it,” he muttered. “Just… holding it makes it easier sometimes.”

Sasha nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know what that’s like.”

He glanced at her, brow furrowed. “You?”

She hesitated. Her pulse ticked faster—not from nerves, but from memory. “Been sober for about 24 hours,” she said softly. “So yeah. I get it.”

Angel blinked, surprised.

“I didn’t want to tell anyone,” she added, voice steady despite the weight of the words. “But seeing you today? It hit a little too close.”

Angel set the bottle down. Gently. Like it might shatter. “I just… I don’t know how to be anything else,” he said, barely above a whisper. “They all think I’m some joke. Some project. Charlie means well, but she’s never had to live like this.”

“No,” Sasha agreed, her tone cool. “She hasn’t. And that’s not her fault, but it doesn’t mean she gets to decide how fast you heal.” Angel’s lip trembled, and he looked away quickly, wiping at one eye. Sasha scooted closer—not much, just enough for their shoulders to almost touch. “You don’t have to talk. But you don’t have to be alone either.”

He didn’t say anything. But he leaned, just slightly, until his shoulder bumped hers. She let it stay. The room was silent again, except for the soft hum of neon and the low thrum of her own heartbeat.

And that sensation was back. That awareness. A prickling chill at the back of her neck. The feeling that they weren’t alone. Her eyes flicked once toward the darkest corner of the room. Nothing there. Not that she could see. But the shadows stretched long. Too long. Sasha didn’t say anything, she decided to brush it off in an effort to maintain the moment the two were sharing. 

“Ya know, Val, my boss, when he calls me in, he just feeds me more and more drugs and liquor. I don’t even try to fight it, honestly.” Angel’s voice shocked Sasha. She hadn’t been expecting him to talk on it, especially didn't expect vulnerability from him. 

“Sometimes it’s easier to drown the pain out with substances. I’ve been doing that for years. It doesn’t make it hurt less, but at least for a little bit, you can be numb.” She had decided to drop her walls. She and Angel were one and the same. Their poisons were different but had the same effect. 

Angel looked at her as if she were some new kind of animal. He was looking at her, truly seeing her. It made her feel slightly uncomfortable, but she knew he saw himself reflected back. The same dark circles, anxiety, and addiction. And then he sent her reeling. He hugged her close. When was the last time I was hugged?  

Rather than fight it, she let herself enjoy it and hugged him back tightly. That was all the encouragement he needed to start crying. They sat there for who knows how long in silence, just holding each other. A deep bond was forming, and Sasha was terrified. How long would it be before he was ripped away, too?  

After what was probably hours, Sasha decided to step away and try to get some sleep. She let Angel know she was actually going to die of pain if she didn't try to go to sleep. He let her go after he dumped his bottle of liquor down the bathroom sink. 

When she made it to her room, she flopped onto her bed. Thinking over the day until she finally felt the exhaustion take her. The last thing she thought before passing out was that she still felt like she was being watched. 

Chapter Text

Sasha stirred awake to the muffled hum of the hotel below—quiet, but not quite silent. Her head no longer throbbed, and her stomach, once a coiled knot of nausea, now growled with hollow urgency. Yesterday’s stress, paired with her refusal to eat anything besides a glass of water, had caught up with her.

She changed into a fresh set of clothes after grabbing a shower. High-wasted shorts and an oversized hoodie, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen, hoping to find something edible—or at the very least, caffeine.

The kitchen was empty, sunlight leaking through the dust-speckled windowpanes in warm strips across the cracked tiles. It was surprisingly peaceful. A beat of stillness. She blinked a few times before moving to the cabinets, rifling through them with practiced ease.

“Figures,” she muttered under her breath. Most of the shelves held random ingredients—flour, hot sauce, a suspiciously green jar of pickles. Nothing of any real use. In the fridge? A few packs of bacon, a carton of eggs, and a near-empty bottle of milk. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something.

She got to work, hands steady despite her lingering fatigue. Bacon sizzled in the pan, its smell beginning to fill the room, and she started the coffee pot, the rhythmic drip a comforting background beat.

She was cracking the last egg when a familiar voice echoed from the doorway.

“Well, well, well… am I still dreamin’, or is someone actually cookin’ in this dump?” Sasha glanced over her shoulder to see Angel leaning against the doorframe, half-dressed and all attitude, pink and black eyes widening at the scene before him.

“Morning to you too, Dusty,” she drawled. “Try not to look so surprised. I’m capable of more than just sarcasm and being a pain in your ass.”

“I’m impressed, sweetheart,” he said, sauntering over to grab a plate. “Gotta admit, I didn’t have ‘hotel breakfast’ on my bingo card this morning.”

Sasha smirked and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it. This was a ‘my stomach might eat itself’ emergency.”

Angel chuckled, loading his plate with a generous portion of bacon and eggs. “Whatever the reason, I appreciate it.”

A few quiet moments passed before he added more cautiously, “Hey… so, uh. Not to kill the mood, but—you should know. That whole ‘Sir Pentious is tryin’ real hard to be a better demon’ thing? Yeah… turns out he was spyin’ on us. For the Vees.”

Sasha froze, her coffee halfway to her lips. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was.” He shrugged. “We caught him plantin’ a camera. Creepy little snake freak was probably hopin’ to get in good with Vox or Velvet or someone.”

She set her cup down slowly, jaw tightening. “And Charlie still let him stay?”

Angel winced. “Yeah. Look, I get it. I think it’s dumb, too—but he swore he wanted a fresh start. And let’s be honest, if we’re gettin’ technical, none of us are exactly moral gold stars.”

Sasha didn’t respond right away. She stared into her coffee, watching the way the light caught the swirl of steam. “Doesn’t mean I have to trust him.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Angel said, finishing off a strip of bacon. “I sure as shit wouldn’t. But maybe give it time. Who knows? Maybe he really is tired of bein’ a punching bag in the villain circuit.”

With that, he gave her a lazy two-finger salute and sauntered off, leaving behind the weight of complicated thoughts. Sasha made herself a plate next, opting for small bites. Her appetite had returned, but she wasn’t willing to tempt fate by overdoing it. She perched on a stool with her mug and plate, eating slowly, deliberately.

Her eyes drifted toward the empty seat across from her. She thought about Angel. About the way he was trying—really trying—even if no one seemed to see it. He reminded her so much of Ellie. Of Angeleena. Their laughter, their terrible reality TV nights, the way they never let each other spiral alone. The ache that swelled in her chest was sudden and sharp. She couldn’t even remember what Ellie’s voice sounded like anymore. Or what shade of lipstick Angeleena always wore. It had been six years. Six years in this pit, and even memory wasn’t safe anymore.

Then, like fog creeping in from the edges of a dream, they started to appear. A flicker of a laugh that wasn’t hers. A flash of hair curled just the way Ellie used to wear it. The outline of Vic’s hunched frame in the corner, shadows pooling unnaturally around it. She could hear Chief’s irritated grunts as he, too, appeared next to Vic. The ghosts of her past surrounded her and she couldn’t make them go away. 

Her fork clattered against the plate. She stared forward, breath hitched. The hallucinations weren’t fully formed—more like ghosts pulled from memory, their faces smudged like wet ink.

“Shit…not here, I don't want to see you.”

The air grew heavier, the light shifting slightly—unnaturally. And that’s when she heard the click of polished shoes against the tile. Alastor stepped into the kitchen, humming faintly to himself, only to pause mid-step.

“Well, well,” he said lightly, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he took in the half-finished illusions twisting at the edges of the room. “What do we have here? Ghosts and coffee? You, my dear, are more and more interesting with every meeting.”

Sasha froze, but hearing Alastor’s voice was enough to pull her out of it, and the hallucinations dissipated. Son of a bitch. She had been hoping to stop using her powers, not to let anyone know about them. Her powers felt like they only led to her drinking and being unable to fight her own demons. 

She took a long swallow of coffee, bitter and warm, hoping it would force her voice to cooperate. The last thing she needed was to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. He was like a shark, and she was bleeding out.

“Didn’t realize the breakfast shift came with a live audience,” she muttered, managing a tight, dry smile. “What’s next? You gonna rate my eggs?”

Alastor’s grin widened. “Oh, I’d be delighted, though I suspect I’ve already gotten a far more intriguing treat this morning.”

She rolled her eyes. “Careful. Flattery’s a dangerous game for someone with a reputation like yours.”

His chuckle was soft and low. The kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I find it endlessly fascinating how defensive you become whenever things get… personal .”

Her grip tightened around the mug, knuckles whitening just slightly.

“I don’t know what you think you saw,” she said carefully, “but it’s none of your business.”

“And yet you made it so public,” he replied, gliding further into the kitchen with a grace that seemed rehearsed, deliberate. The air shifted. Not colder, exactly—just more charged. A static prickle began at the back of her neck, trailing like needles down her spine.

The soft buzz of his signature interference began to hum louder, like an old radio caught between stations. She winced, barely. Just a flicker in her eyes. Her fur stood on edge in response, tail twitching slightly before curling instinctively around her waist. A protective gesture. One she wasn’t proud of. Her fingers found the tuft at the end, tugging at it without thinking.

“I asked,” Alastor said, his voice growing syrupy, “because I’d love for you to elaborate. It’s not every day one catches a guest conjuring their past.”

“Yeah?” Sasha snapped, eyes narrowing now. “Well, maybe that’s because normal people don’t go around creeping into rooms unannounced like some old-timey jumpscare.”

The static flickered again. Sharper. Her temple throbbed.

“You don’t seem like the kind who favors being ‘normal,’ Miss Virelli.”

“And you don’t seem like the kind who respects boundaries.” She met his gaze head-on now, chin lifting defiantly. “Fine. You really wanna know? I cause hallucinations. Sometimes for other people, sometimes for myself. Real cute party trick, huh?”

Her sarcasm hit like a slap. “So maybe dial down the static, Radioactive, and stop being such a creep.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Alastor laughed . It was genuine and delighted, reverberating through the room with that trademark warped echo behind it. 

“My, my,” he purred. “A mouth like that and the power to twist perception? You really are a fascinating little conundrum.”

Sasha didn’t flinch. Her tail remained wrapped tight around her, but her face didn’t waver.

“Glad I can keep you entertained. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got ghosts to not summon and food to finish eating.” She took another bite of egg, unbothered in appearance—even if her heart still beat a little too fast.

Alastor tilted his head as though pondering something, then gave a courteous, theatrical bow. “As you wish.”

He turned on his heel and strode out, humming a jazz melody under his breath, his voice echoing faintly behind him. But Sasha didn’t relax. Not yet. She watched the doorway for several seconds after he disappeared. Only then did she exhale, the breath shaking on its way out.

Alastor walked with his usual poise down the corridor, humming a slow, tuneless waltz under his breath. His footsteps echoed louder than they should’ve, like the hotel was holding its breath.

But the moment he rounded the corner and vanished from view, the smile cracked, and something darker slipped through. His shadow stretched unnaturally along the wall beside him, twitching like it had a pulse of its own. He didn’t glance at it—just let it follow, slithering behind him like smoke bound to a flame.

He muttered to himself, voice soft but sharp as a scalpel. “Hallucinations…”

The word was nearly reverent.

“She conjures phantoms. No glamour, no illusion… but full sensory corruption . Memory made flesh.” He grinned wide. “That is new.”

His fingers twitched once, involuntarily.

How had he missed it before? Had she hidden it? Or had she simply been too broken to wield it? He stopped in front of a fractured wall sconce, tilting his head at his own warped reflection in the cracked glass.

“She was hiding it,” he murmured. “Deliberately.” He chuckled. “Oh, how delightful.”

There was power in knowing someone’s secret. Power in watching them try to keep it buried. Sasha had practically bled with guilt, scrambling to pull herself together like a child caught with matches. It hadn’t scared her, though—not entirely.

No. She had barked back. Wrapped herself in sass and sarcasm and snapped at him like a wolf too small to win, but too proud to back down. His grin widened. 

Interesting.

He brought a hand to his mouth, tapping his chin with one sharp nail as if in contemplation—though his mind was already racing far ahead.

“What else can she do?” he whispered to the shadow. “How far does it go? Can she twist truth? Can she trap a mind? Can she break someone without ever laying a claw on them?” The shadow pulsed. His voice grew lower. Hungrier. “She doesn’t even realize what she has. What she is .”

And that—more than anything—made him itch. A power that potent, wasted on grief and shame? On a girl trying so desperately not to be dangerous? It was unacceptable.

“She’s mine ,” he hissed, eyes narrowing to slits. “She doesn’t know it yet, but she will.”

The words echoed back to him, like a whisper caught in radio static. He let out a laugh—quiet at first, then bubbling up in warped bursts of static-soaked glee. It rippled through the hall, soft but wrong, warbling just beneath the surface of the soundscape.

Mine.

This was possession. Fascination. An itch in his brain he couldn’t scratch. He wanted to peel her apart and study her. Understand every angle of her mind. And once he did… He’d never let her go. Alastor exhaled and straightened his vest, smile smoothing into something polished again. “I’ll be patient.”

The shadow stilled.

“I’ll play the gentleman. The friend. The guide.” His eyes sparkled—twisted amusement underpinned with something colder. “And when the moment is right…”

He hummed a bright, cheerful jingle and resumed his stroll down the hallway, the static trailing behind him like a scent.

Chapter Text

The lobby was far too chipper for a place designed to rehabilitate demons. Sasha had barely made it out of the kitchen when Charlie clapped her hands together with a level of morning enthusiasm that probably warranted exorcism.

“Good morning, everyone! I hope you’re all feeling rested and rejuvenated, because today—” she spun, arms wide “—we’re doing something fun!”

“Kill me,” Husk grunted from the couch without lifting his head. His tone was flat, but his tail twitched with the type of irritation that usually ended with something thrown at the wall.

Angel groaned, then draped himself dramatically across Sasha’s shoulder like an overbearing mink scarf. “If this is a team-building activity, I swear on all my silk thongs, I’m defecting to Hell’s version of HR.”

Sasha gave a long-suffering sigh, too tired to peel him off but just awake enough to match his energy. “Same,” she muttered, adjusting her balance beneath him. “But we’ll file a complaint after coffee.”

He slid off with theatrical flair as they made their way into the parlor, where the rest of the motley crew had assembled. Sir Pentious vibrated with anticipation, practically hopping in place like a child waiting for recess. Husk was slumped over a cushion like a cat who’d fought gravity and lost. And at the front of it all stood Charlie and Vaggie, the former grinning with blinding optimism, the latter watching everyone like a hawk circling a crash site.

Vaggie crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. “Today’s activity is an artistic redemption exercise. You’ll each choose a creative medium—painting, music, journaling, collage, whatever—and use it to express what you think your greatest sin is.”

Sasha blinked. Wait, what? She’d expected something dumb. A vision board. Maybe some glitter glue and a motivational quote. But this?

Charlie stepped forward, her posture softening, smile dimming just enough to let sincerity peek through. “It’s not about being perfect or even good at art. It’s just…a way to get things out. To reflect. You’ll have twenty-four hours to make something that represents where you went wrong. And maybe…where you want to go next?”

Sasha’s brows lifted slightly, and for a moment, her sarcasm forgot to load. That’s…actually kind of brilliant. It was thoughtful. Intentional. A little raw. And, perhaps most surprising of all, it had come from Charlie. Sasha had assumed Charlie’s brand of optimism came pre-packaged with delusion, but maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe there was steel behind that smile. She caught herself before that thought went too far. No need to be impressed. Not yet.

Sir Pentious immediately launched into a boisterous monologue about sculpting himself from discarded cannon parts—“a glorious tribute to my mechanical genius and perfection!” Husk groaned in protest and buried his face deeper into the couch, middle finger raised in blind objection.

Sasha barely heard any of it. Her thoughts had drifted inward, circling the same truth she hadn’t shared out loud—at least not with the group. Only Angel knew. She wasn’t ready for the others to know. She raised a hand, keeping her face neutral. “Can we… use music?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “As the medium?”

Charlie perked up immediately, beaming like Sasha had just passed some invisible test. “Absolutely! Anything that lets you express yourself. Do you need an instrument?”

There was a long pause. Sasha’s throat went dry. Don’t say it. Don’t make it real. But the words slipped out anyway.

“A violin, if you have one.”

Charlie didn’t hesitate. “Of course!”

The ease of her reply caught Sasha off guard. No questions, no judgment, just yes. That kind of support still made her wary—like it might be a trap she hadn’t figured out yet.

Angel tilted his head, curious. “You play?”

“Used to,” she said, feigning nonchalance. “Before all of…this.”

He didn’t prod. Just gave her a quiet, knowing nod—the kind that said "I get it" without dragging her into the details. That unspoken understanding between them was becoming familiar. Comforting.

He turned back to Charlie. “Yeah, no offense to the whole emotional art party, but I think I’m gonna sit this one out. My greatest sin and I are in a very committed, toxic relationship, and we don’t need a third wheel.”

Sasha nudged him with her elbow, half a smile tugging at her mouth. “Come on, Dusty. If I’m doing it, you’re doing it.”

He gave her a long side-eye, eyes narrowed. “You’re actually gonna go through with this?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. I think I need to. I’ve been carrying this crap for a long time. Might as well try something other than wine and sarcasm for once.”

Angel sighed like he’d just been asked to donate an organ. “Ugh, fine. But only because you’re guilt-tripping me with emotional growth.”

Minutes later, they were holed up in Sasha’s room, door shut against the noise of the hotel. The violin case sat on her bed like a relic from another life. Angel hauled in a suspiciously large box of paints, cradling it like a bomb about to go off.

“Gotta say,” he muttered, lowering it to the floor, “didn’t expect to be bonding over trauma and Crayola today.”

Sasha pulled her comforter into a cozy mess on the rug, gesturing for him to sit. “We’re really evolving. Next thing you know, we’ll be hugging and sharing feelings like a Hallmark special.”

“Ugh. If you make me cry, I’ll ruin your life with glitter.”

“Mutual destruction,” she said, flashing him a grin as she settled the violin under her chin. “I like it.”

Angel sprawled out beside her, legs kicked out like he was settling in for a movie marathon. His brushes were fanned around him in a perfect circle of impending emotional chaos. “So what, we trauma dump in interpretive art form and call it healing?”

“Pretty much,” Sasha said, testing the bow against the strings. The first note scratched like an exposed nerve. “But I was thinking… we work separately. But together. No pressure. Just… exist for a bit.”

Angel looked at her, something softer in his expression now. “Yeah. I can do that.”

They fell into a comfortable silence. The only sounds were the soft swish of brush on canvas and the hesitant, uncertain draw of bow over strings. Sasha’s fingers were rusty, clumsy even—but the melody began to form, shaped more by feeling than memory. It ached as it left her, raw and unfiltered, like pressing on a bruise to remind yourself it’s still there.

Angel was quiet beside her, occasionally muttering under his breath as he painted. He wasn’t joking anymore. He was focused, lips pressed into a thin line, brush trembling ever so slightly in his fingers.

After a while, he glanced over, voice gentler than she’d heard in days. “That’s pretty, y’know. Like… it hurts. But in a good way.”

Sasha didn’t stop playing. “That’s kind of the point.”

He dipped his brush into a harsh, angry red. “Yeah. I get it.”

Later that evening, the sound of Sasha’s violin had long faded, replaced by the low hum of creaky pipes and the occasional shriek of someone losing a card game three floors up.

She padded down the hall barefoot, bow in hand, fingers still twitching from the hours she'd spent trying to coax old muscle memory back into place. Her brain felt like cotton soaked in molasses—too full and too slow all at once.

She didn’t have a destination in mind, but she ended up at the bar anyway.

Of course, Husk was already there, parked behind the bar like some disgruntled gargoyle guarding a sacred shrine of cheap whiskey. His wings were loosely folded, one ear flicking lazily as the glass in his paw caught the glow of the dusty light overhead.

He didn’t look at her when she sat down, just gave a grunt that meant Yeah, I see you.

Sasha slid onto the stool beside him with a groan and dropped her bow onto the counter. “I needed a break. That room was starting to feel like it was choking me.”

Husk snorted. “Can’t believe you’re even takin’ that art crap seriously.”

She shrugged. “Didn’t think I would either. But Charlie somehow managed to come up with something that wasn’t completely juvenile, and—” She hesitated, then let out a slow breath. “It actually felt kinda… right. Honest.”

He grunted again, but this time it came with a flick of his ear. “Yeah. Heard you playin’ earlier.”

Sasha turned toward him, surprised. “You did?”

He finally glanced over, the corner of his mouth lifting into something barely approaching a smile. “Hard not to. You got good hands. Didn’t expect someone like you to play violin.”

She tilted her head, playful. “Someone like me?”

“Y’know,” he muttered, “mildly unhinged, mouth like a sailor, overall rude.”

Sasha paused for a moment and then let out a full, proper laugh. Husk seemed surprised, but joined in with her laughter. 

“I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was certainly not it.” Sasha chimed in, wiping tears from her eyes

Husk gave a soft snort. “Takes guts to pick up an instrument again after lettin’ it sit for a while.”

She glanced sideways at him, sensing more weight behind his words. “Yeah? You play?”

He took a sip from his glass, then finally looked at her. “Used to. Trumpet.”

“Really?”

He nodded, slowly. “A long time ago. Played in joints topside. Lounges, bars. The kinda places where the air was thick with smoke and the piano was always a little outta tune.”

There was something far-off in his voice—not soft, not warm, but distant, like he’d stumbled on a memory he didn’t want but couldn’t look away from.

“Damn,” Sasha said, genuinely impressed. “That’s cool.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “Ain’t picked it up since I got here. Not really interested.”

She tapped the counter with her fingernail. “Too rusty?”

“Too tired,” Husk muttered. “And most music down here’s garbage. Screamin’ synths, screechin’ vocals. No rhythm. No soul.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I noticed that too.”

There was a pause between them, but not an uncomfortable one. Just two people who didn’t need to fill every second with sound.

“I started violin in third grade,” Sasha said after a moment. “Not because I wanted to. It was a requirement. But I kept at it. Guess it stuck.”

Husk glanced at the bow beside her. “You stuck with it all the way through?”

“Pretty much,” she said. “Played through college, after, too. Had a real job, nine-to-five kind of thing, but I’d go to rehearsal in the evenings. Even played gigs sometimes. Nothing fancy. Just... something I did for myself.”

“And then?”

She rested her chin in her hand, gaze fixed on a scuff in the bar’s wood grain. “And then life got loud. Work got demanding. Friends, dating, bills. The kind of busy that makes you feel like you don’t deserve hobbies unless they pay.”

Husk grunted, low and rough. “That’s familiar.”

“I kept telling myself I’d go back to it when things calmed down. But they never did.” Her voice dropped a little. “And then I died. And once I got here, I just... didn’t want to play anymore. It felt pointless. Like my head wasn’t in the right place to touch something that used to make me feel whole.”

That got a small reaction from him. His ear twitched, and his eyes lingered on her face a little longer than usual.

“Still played today,” he said simply.

“Yeah,” Sasha said, exhaling softly. “I think I needed to.”

They lapsed into silence again. But this time, it felt different. Companionable. Quiet without being hollow.

Sasha didn’t reach for a drink. Husk didn’t offer. After a while, she bade Husk farewell and headed back to her now-empty room. Sasha sat cross-legged in the middle of her room, violin tucked away in its case, the bow resting nearby like it was still catching its breath. The light cast faint shadows that danced like thoughts she hadn’t invited.

Her hands were in her lap, still and idle, but her mind was anything but. She was thinking back on that morning. She hadn’t meant to let a hallucination form earlier. It had been small—barely more than a flicker—but still, she’d promised herself not to use her powers. Not like that. Not when she was vulnerable. Not when she wasn’t in control.

She’d done that before—used illusions like a weighted blanket, smothering her own emotions until nothing could get through. That wasn’t healing. That was hiding.

And she was tired of hiding.

Her jaw tightened as she exhaled through her nose, trying to trace the familiar pulse of her abilities beneath the surface. The instinct to summon something—anything—still tugged at her like a loose thread in her chest, but she forced it still. If she was going to keep using her powers, she needed control. Real control. Not just restraint born from fear.

She would use them with intention. Not desperation.

Unseen by her, just beyond the reach of her senses, something darker stirred. Alastor watched from the shadows, silent and still, his grin carved into his face like it had been etched there by God—or someone far less benevolent. His eyes flickered with interest, absorbing her tension, her discipline, her trembling will to not let her power spill out.

He'd felt the taste of it before—an echo of memory, illusion wrapped in sorrow and scent. Her hallucinations were unlike anything he’d encountered. They weren’t parlor tricks or fear projections. They were immersive. Tactile. And maddeningly real.

He wanted to see them again. To feel them. To peel them apart like an old record and see how it was made. And if it meant playing the long game? Well. He was a master of patience.

Sasha’s breath evened out as her thoughts settled. A quiet resolve fell over her—one stitched together with intention instead of shame. I’ll keep using them, she thought, but I’ll stop using them to avoid myself. I need to start using them to understand myself.

She stood, stretched her arms over her head with a quiet groan—and froze when a knock rapped sharply against her door. Her eyes narrowed. No one ever knocked at this hour. She crossed the room cautiously and cracked the door open.

Alastor stood on the other side, spine straight, smile razor-sharp, and eyes far too bright for the dim hallway.

“Ah! Good evening, Miss Sasha,” he chimed, voice warm and unassuming. “I do hope I’m not intruding?”

She blinked at him, suspicious. “You usually just appear. What’s with the polite knock?”

“I thought I’d try civility for once,” he said, then tilted his head. “Besides… I wanted to ask you something. Privately.”

Her guard rose instantly. “About what?”

“Your abilities.” He didn’t flinch. “That flicker earlier today. I’ve been thinking about it.”

Sasha’s shoulders tensed. “That wasn’t— I didn’t mean to let that happen.”

“I believe you,” Alastor said smoothly. “But that doesn’t make it any less fascinating.” He leaned slightly against the doorframe, voice lowering just a hair—still cheerful, but now threaded with something more delicate. “I confess… I’ve often wondered what I’d give to see certain people again. Just once. Just… one more moment.”

Sasha stilled, caught off-guard by the unexpected turn. His tone didn’t match the usual showman’s pitch. There was something quiet about it. Too quiet. And it lodged itself in her chest before she could put up a wall.

He watched her reaction carefully, pretending not to notice the flicker of emotion behind her eyes—something warm and complicated and cracked.

“…Yeah,” she said softly. “I get that.” A beat of silence passed between them, and then she opened the door a little wider. “You wanna come in?”

“Delighted.” He stepped inside with a theatrical sweep of his coat, but Sasha was already settling back onto the edge of her bed, gesturing vaguely for him to sit in the nearby armchair. He did so with his usual poise, legs crossed, gloved hands folded neatly in his lap.

“So,” she said, watching him warily, “what do you want to know?”

“Oh, nothing too intrusive,” he lied smoothly. “Only what you’re comfortable sharing.”

“Uh-huh.” His grin widened slightly, but he waited. She sighed. “Fine. Ask.”

He leaned in, just a touch. “Can others feel your illusions? Or are they purely visual?”

“If I’m touching them—skin to skin—they can feel it,” she said. “Physically. Otherwise, it’s just sensory. Sight, sound, sometimes smell.”

He nodded, gaze sharpening. “Fascinating. And how large can they become?”

Sasha hesitated. “Big. I’ve… changed entire rooms before. Multiple rooms, once. I don’t really know what the limit is. I’ve never hit it.”

“Mm.” He hummed low in his throat, like he’d just heard a chord he hadn’t expected. “And duration?”

“As long as I’m conscious. And at least kind of paying attention. Doesn’t have to be full focus.”

“Ah, like keeping a record spinning in the background,” he mused. “Wonderful.”

Sasha narrowed her eyes. “Most of it’s emotional. If I’m not actively trying to create something, the illusions are… ghostly. Flickering. Like what happened in the kitchen.”

Alastor tilted his head, interested. “So you don’t always mean to conjure them?”

“No.” Her voice dropped. “Sometimes they just show up. When I feel too much.”

He sat back, satisfied. Every answer, every admission was another piece of the puzzle—more fuel for the storm quietly growing behind his smile. Sasha, unaware, watched him more gently now. His earlier words still echoed in her mind. I’d give anything to see some people again.

She saw him—really saw him—for a moment. Not the manic host, not the monster in a bowtie. Just a man with memories and longing and loss.

And that, she thought, was the strangest part of all.

“Who would you want to see again?” she asked, voice cautious. “The people you left behind?”

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but something behind his eyes shifted—sharp and silent. He shrugged lightly. “There are few I remember these days. I’ve found Hell has a way of turning even the sweetest memories sour.”

Sasha looked down at her hands. “Yeah. I know that feeling.” The quiet between them stretched, soft and oddly peaceful. In her mind, she thought they were bonding. In his, he was already planning the next step.

Chapter Text

Sasha leaned back on her palms, watching him with something like sympathy. Pity, maybe. Or trust. Foolish girl. “If you ever get that overwhelming urge,” she said slowly, “to see someone specific… I’ll show you. Just say the word.”

Alastor’s grin twitched slightly.

“But,” she added, her voice suddenly firmer, “you have to remember it’s not real. No matter how much it feels like it is. And it will feel real. That’s the point. That’s why it’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” he echoed with mock surprise. “My dear, you make it sound like a vice.”

She didn’t laugh. “It can be.”

Her eyes lingered on his face a moment longer, searching for something behind the glint of teeth and civility. When she found nothing but a velvet curtain drawn tight, she exhaled softly and stood.

“I’m tired,” she said, not unkindly. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Of course,” he replied, rising to his feet in one graceful motion. “Sleep well, Miss Sasha.”

She didn’t respond. The door clicked shut behind him. The moment it did, his smile collapsed into something hungrier.

He didn’t walk. He glided, coat tails trailing like smoke as he slipped down the corridor and vanished into the nearest pocket of shadow—reforming in a swirl of static within his suite. Alone now, the Radio Demon’s hands twitched with excitement, fingers tightening, loosening, twitching again as if they itched for strings to pull.

She’d offered it. Offered. A window. A weakness. A leash, if he played it right.

“She’ll do it,” he murmured to the empty room, pacing fast now. “Not just show me—no, no—she wants to, wants to connect. Wants to help.” He let out a sharp, barked laugh, throwing his head back as static crackled faintly from the knobs on the wall.

“You poor, sentimental little lamb. Don’t you see what you’ve just given me?” A deal. Not yet—but close. She was already primed, already reaching. All he needed now was need. A reason. A lie. Or better, the truth, wrapped in tragedy, dipped in longing, offered up like a poisoned bonbon.

He could feel it now, thrumming in his veins—the way her illusions wrapped themselves around the soul. So full. So tactile. A drug masquerading as comfort.

And just imagine— imagine —what they could become under contract. Bound to him. Her hallucinations at his fingertips, his voice the trigger. He could feel the shape of her power in his mind already: lucid, immersive, sinuous. A whole damn reality sculpted by him. 

“I must have her,” he hissed, gripping the edge of the mantle on the fireplace until the wood groaned beneath his fingers. “I need her.” His grin returned, too wide, too still. “It won’t be long.”

Sasha’s bedroom looked like the aftermath of a very emotional art school bender. Paint-streaked paper towels littered the floor. Angel’s cigarette burned lazily in a teacup on the windowsill. And leaning against the far wall like it had trauma of its own was a canvas smeared in chaotic streaks of black, red, and white—his masterpiece, allegedly. Angel stood in front of it, shirt half-buttoned and hair a mess, arms crossed as he tilted his head like he was trying to convince himself this wasn't just a visual meltdown on canvas.

“So,” he said, gesturing dramatically, “on a scale from one to daddy issues, how much does this scream ‘I’m not okay’?”

Sasha snorted from the floor, where she was perched with her violin in her lap. “Depends. Are we talking regular daddy issues or Valentino-level?”

He turned to her with a hand on his chest, fake-offended. “Doll. Please. I got layers. Like a slutty, emotional onion.” She laughed quietly and wiped her palms on her jeans. Her hands were clammy. She kept staring at the bow in her lap like it might bite her.

Angel plopped down next to her, legs sprawled out and already reaching for her half-empty coffee cup. “Ya look like you’re about five seconds from passin’ out.”

“I might.” She swallowed. “This is stupid. Why did I say I’d perform in front of people? What the hell was I thinking?”

“You were thinkin’ with your heart,” he said in a fake swoon, then added with a wink, “gross, but adorable.”

Sasha groaned and pressed her forehead to her violin. “I hate this.”

“You don’t hate this,” Angel said, sipping her coffee without asking. “You’re just terrified someone’s gonna look at you while you play your sad little soul song and figure you out.”

“…That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

He shrugged. “Eh. Welcome to the club. You cry, I’ll cry, everyone cries, Charlie writes it down in a notebook labeled ‘progress.’”

Sasha looked up, brow furrowed. “Aren’t you nervous?”

Angel gave her a look. “Toots. I painted a big red metaphor about gettin’ high and bein’ bent over by my abuser. Nervous? No. Mortified? Absolutely.”

She smirked. “Then why are you acting so chill?”

“’Cause if I stop bein’ a cocky bitch for more than ten seconds, I’ll have a full-blown breakdown and end up sobbin’ in Husk’s mini fridge. Again.”

“Again?”

He grinned. “Don’t worry about it.” Sasha chuckled, finally letting her bow rest gently against the strings. She tested a note, soft and sad, and Angel’s expression shifted for just a second—still smiling, but something quieter behind it.

“That song’s gonna kill ‘em,” he said. “In the good way.”

“I keep thinking I’ll choke. Like, I’ll start and just… freeze.”

“If you do, I’ll flash my ass and distract everyone. I got you.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“No promises.”

She nudged him with her knee. “Thanks, Dusty.”

He nudged back. “Don’t get all sappy on me, dollface. You’re gonna kill it.”

A knock echoed faintly from the door. Charlie popped her head in and called to them. “Hey guys! We are getting set up in the living room for our show and tell! You coming?” 

“We’ll be down in a second, gotta grab our stuff,” Sasha said with a mask of confidence falling over her. The last thing she wanted was to let Charlie see just how stressed the whole situation was making her. 

Sasha’s words were enough to satisfy her, and Charlie practically skipped away. 

Angel grabbed his still-drying painting off the wall and gave it a once-over, then turned to Sasha with a dramatic flourish. “Alright. Let’s go bare our broken lil’ souls for an audience of sad idiots. Showbiz, baby.”

Sasha stood, violin in hand, and tried to steady her breath. They descended the stairs, Sasha with her violin in hand, the bow tucked under her arm, and nerves crawling up her spine like static. She was already regretting not taking a shot of something strong beforehand—the urge was a familiar ache. She pushed it down.

Charlie stood in the middle of the living room like she was introducing a game show, hands clasped in front of her and practically bouncing with excitement. “Good morning, everyone!” she chirped. “Thank you all so much for coming to share what you’ve been working on. I know this was short notice, but I really believe in the power of self-expression and healing and—”

Vaggie leaned over and whispered something in her ear. Charlie laughed nervously. “Right! Sorry. Let’s get started.”

The group had formed a semi-circle of sorts. Nifty sat criss-cross on the carpet with glitter on her cheeks. Angel lounged on the arm of the couch, one booted leg dangling lazily in the air. Sir Pentious was pacing with theatrical energy, and Sasha noted—with some apprehension—that Alastor was already seated, legs neatly crossed, hands folded, smile sharp. Watching.

Of course he was.

She swallowed hard and took a seat on the floor next to Angel, fingers white-knuckling the violin case.

“Let’s start with Sir Pentious,” Charlie announced, eyes shining.

Pentious stepped forward, dramatically pulling a cloth off his sculpture. It was jagged and metallic, a twisted figure made of salvaged parts from his destroyed machinery. The egg-shaped sculpture was cracked down the middle, wires spilling out like entrails. It looked unsettling. Honest.

“This,” he said with a dramatic bow, “is my confession! I have built and built without care—my glorious inventions have caused destruction, yes—but worse, my Egg Bois… my faithful minions… have suffered for my sins.”

Charlie clapped, eyes already brimming with tears. “Pentious… that’s beautiful.”

“I KNOW,” he bellowed, wiping at his eyes with a hanky. Sasha blinked. Well. That was more self-aware than she expected.

“Next up,” Charlie beamed, “Nifty!”

Nifty sprang to her feet with the speed of a demon on Red Bull and held up two sock puppets made of cockroach shells and yarn. She launched into a full-blown puppet skit, complete with high-pitched squeals and tiny sound effects. It had… nothing to do with sin. Or redemption. Or feelings. Unless the sin was unchecked energy. No one said anything.

Charlie still clapped. “Thank you, Nifty! That was… so creative!”

Sasha didn’t say it aloud, but the thought flicked through her brain like a matchstrike: That girl is definitely not right in the head.

Next was Charlie herself. She pulled a large, sparkly drawing from behind the couch and held it up proudly. It was done in bright crayon and glitter glue—pictures of everyone in the hotel with little golden halos doodled over their heads.

“I know I wasn’t cast here like the rest of you,” she said, voice softer now, “but I still struggle with guilt. If I fail to help anyone… if I let you down… that’s my biggest sin.”

Sasha blinked. She hadn’t expected that. The drawing was crude—honestly kind of childish—but the emotion behind it was... startlingly pure. She felt her stomach twist a little. Charlie was so earnest. Sasha didn’t know what to do with that.

Vaggie stood up and gently helped Charlie sit back down, whispering something only she could hear. Charlie nodded, wiping a tear. Then all eyes turned to Angel.

He rolled his shoulders and waved a hand at his painting, still propped against the far wall. “Yeah, so, here’s my tragic little art piece.” His tone was flippant, but his eyes flicked toward the canvas for a beat too long. “My sin is being too damn perfect and surrounded by boring sinners here.” he added, propping his hands on his hips. A few chuckles scattered through the room. Sasha smiled, but her chest ached.

Charlie stood to clap, sincere as ever. “Thank you, Angel. I’m so proud of you for sharing something with us.”

Angel shrugged and sat back down, crossing his arms—but his expression softened.

Sasha inhaled. Then exhaled. Then stood. The violin was already tuned. Her fingers knew where to go. She stepped into the center of the room, bow in hand, and didn’t look at anyone. She just raised the instrument to her shoulder.

The first note was shaky. But the second wasn’t. And then the song took over.

It was gentle at first, the melody crawling through the room like smoke under a door. As she played, the world around her faded away. Her breathing slowed. Her hands steadied.

She thought about that night on Earth. The one where her friends had begged her to come out, and how she’d wanted to say no. About waking up alone the next day. About the bodies. About the blood. About the booze.

About the car. The scream of tires. The sound of glass. The way her own scream never quite reached her ears.

She thought about Hell. About the apartment. The illusions. Jaz, Chief, James, Vic. The way they died. Her hands trembled. She didn’t stop.

The melody soared, aching, beautiful in its sorrow. She poured herself into it—every scar, every regret, every ounce of grief that never got words.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she didn’t break. Not this time.

When the last note faded, Sasha slowly lowered the violin. Her throat felt tight, but she managed a breath.

“I picked that song because… it reminds me to stay grounded. To be strong. Even when everything feels like it’s burning down.” She didn’t explain more. Didn’t say what she’d done. She wasn’t ready. Not yet.

But the silence that followed was full, not awkward. Heavy, but not cold.

And then—clapping. Charlie. Vaggie. Angel. Even Pentious, with a squawked “Brava!”

And from the couch… a few slow claps from Alastor. Precise. Measured. Just enough to be noticed. Sasha met his eyes for a fraction of a second. She didn’t know what she saw there.

Charlie stepped forward again, beaming through her tears. “Thank you, everyone. I know this wasn’t easy. But I hope… I hope it helped. Even a little. Even just to open a window and let something out.”

She looked around the room, glowing like she could believe this broken little cast of sinners might actually find redemption someday.

Sasha sat back down beside Angel and exhaled slowly. The weight of her violin still in her hands, her cheeks damp but cooling. She didn’t look at anyone. Not yet.

Charlie was glowing. “Thank you, everyone,” she said, standing once again. “I know this wasn’t easy. But I hope it helped. Even just a little. To let out something you’ve been holding on to. Or to start seeing yourselves the way I see you.”

She gave one last, hopeful smile before Vaggie gently tugged her back down, whispering something into her ear. Charlie nodded and rested her head on Vaggie’s shoulder, spent. The group began to scatter. Angel offered Sasha a little shoulder bump as he stood up, slinging his painting under one arm like a war trophy.

“C’mon, toots,” he said, stretching. “Time for my post-trauma mimosa.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Go without me.”

He raised a brow but didn’t push. Just shot her a wink and strutted out of the room like he hadn’t just peeled himself open in front of everyone. Classic Angel. Sasha stayed where she was.

Her violin rested on her lap, the bow loose in her grip. The performance was over. The nerves had passed. But she felt… still. Like something inside her had cracked just a little, but in the right direction. She hadn’t realized how much she missed this. Playing. Not because she had to. Not to distract from pain. But to speak. Even without words. Especially without words.

It was the first time since her death that she’d felt even remotely like the version of herself that wasn’t constantly in survival mode. The version that had friends. That made music. That laughed without the burn of guilt behind it. And God, it hurt. But the kind of hurt that reminded her she wasn’t completely numb.

“You play beautifully, my dear.”

She didn’t jump, but her shoulders tensed slightly before she turned to see Alastor standing beside the couch, his hands tucked neatly behind his back, that ever-present smile softening just enough to seem genuine—almost.

“I didn’t know you could play so… wonderfully,” he continued. “Such emotion, such clarity. It was quite the surprise.”

Sasha looked down at the instrument in her lap, brushing her fingers over the strings. “It’s been a while.”

“If that’s you rusty,” he said, moving to sit in the empty armchair across from her, “then I simply must hear what you sound like with practice and proper accompaniment.”

She arched a brow. “Accompaniment?”

“Indeed!” His voice was bright, too bright, like a radio dial turned a touch too loud. “Strings, piano, perhaps even a brass section if we’re feeling indulgent. Your playing deserves a stage, not just a dusty parlor.”

Sasha gave a small huff of laughter. “Right. Because Hell’s just crawling with chamber ensembles.”

Alastor waved a gloved hand. “One must make do with what one has. But I do think your style would shine alongside… well, something larger than silence.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, cautious. “You want to duet or something?”

“Not necessarily,” he said, smile ticking wider. “Though I wouldn’t be opposed. I simply find myself… curious what your music would sound like with the right support.”

Sasha didn’t reply right away. The right support. That phrase stuck in her head like a thorn. What did that even mean in a place like this? Support? Everything here felt temporary—fragile. And yet, for a few minutes back there, she had felt like her feet were on solid ground again.

She glanced down at her violin, then back up at him. “Maybe,” she said softly.

Alastor’s eyes gleamed, head tilting slightly like a predator hearing the rustle of leaves. He let out a low hum and said nothing more. The living room had mostly emptied now, the hum of voices drifting down the hallway as the others dispersed. Only the faint buzz of old wiring and the sound of her own heartbeat remained.

And Alastor. Still watching.

Chapter Text

Alastor moved like a whisper through the haze of morning in Hell.

The hotel behind him buzzed with distant activity—Angel’s grating laughter echoing faintly down the hallways, Husk grumbling about something sticky on the bar. Sasha’s music still lingered in his mind like a haunting aftertaste, coiling through his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to shake it. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going, and no one had asked. Good.

A twitch of his fingers sent a sliver of shadow trailing behind him, the magic flickering like static down the curve of the hall before slinking off to resume its watch on Sasha. A precaution, yes. But also a necessity. He needed to know if she did anything... unusual while he was away. A flicker of power, an emotional spiral, a hallucination with teeth—anything he could study.

He licked his lips at the thought.

The streets of Hell curled in familiar ways beneath his stride, the city moaning and twitching in its endless unrest. He didn’t hurry. He never hurried. The act of walking—just walking—was almost decadent in its control. Let the rest of them scream for attention; Alastor was far more interested in what they weren’t saying.

Rosie’s shop came into view like a stage lit in crimson.

The building was impossible to miss: a tall, theatrical storefront crowned by a garish, flickering neon sign that read “Franklin and Rosie’s Emporium”—though the name Franklin had been crudely slashed out in black. Red and cream awnings striped the facade like a twisted candy shop, while glowing teal sconces flanked the entrance like watching eyes. The double doors were wrought in red iron and etched with serpentine patterns, their twin oval windows shaped like slitted pupils, always watching.

Inside at the counter was Rosie herself. Hat feathered, grin wide, and chin resting on the hilt of her parasol like a woman who already knew everything.

“Alastor!” Rosie cooed, rising from behind the counter. “Seven years and not even a letter. I should slap you for that.”

Alastor’s grin split wide. “Wouldn’t dream of denying you the opportunity.”

Rosie laughed, but it was sharp. She glided forward with a predator’s grace and pulled him into a hug. Then she turned and led him through a velvet curtain into the back room—her private space. This was where deals were struck, secrets spilled, and truths simmered under lace doilies and antique crystal.

The door clicked shut behind them.

She poured two glasses of dark whiskey into cut glass tumblers, handing him one as she perched across from him on a fainting couch embroidered with beetle-wing thread. “I heard your voice on the radio again,” she said, swirling her drink. “Tearing into Vox like an old record caught on a skip. I nearly wept with joy.”

He chuckled, sharp and pleased. “He practically begged for it.”

“Well,” she said, raising her glass, “to putting that smug bastard in his place.”

They clinked. The small talk didn’t last. It never did with them.

“You’ve been missed,” Rosie said, her voice light but her eyes hunting. “But the Vees have made excellent use of your absence. Vox’s network has spread like mold—sticky and fast. Valentino’s brothels have expanded deeper into Cannibaltown, and Velvette’s got her claws in production lines now. They’ve been busy.”

Alastor’s gaze darkened slightly. “They always were.”

“You planning to do something about it?”

“Eventually.” He tilted his head. “But for now… my interests are occupied elsewhere. ”

Rosie caught it. That subtle shift in tone. The faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah. The hotel.”

“Mmm.”

“The princess’s pet project,” she mused, her voice syrupy but speculative. “How delightfully optimistic of her.”

Alastor’s grin returned in full. “It’s not the hotel.” Rosie raised a brow but said nothing. “I find myself... intrigued,” he continued, resting his glass on a side table, fingers steepling. “By a guest. ”

“A guest?” Her tone was light, but her attention sharpened. “Well. That’s new.”

“She’s... fascinating.” His voice dropped into something quieter—hungrier. “Her soul is fractured, but not broken. She has a power I’ve never encountered before. Hallucinations. Not illusions—hallucinations. She can infect the senses, trick the mind into tasting pain, hearing things that don’t exist, smelling blood where there is none. It’s artistry.”

Rosie blinked. “And you want to own her.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Of course I do.” There was a pause. Then he added, “She played the violin yesterday. Quite beautifully, I might add. It was... raw. She would have done well as a performer in my time.”

Rosie sipped her drink, hiding her lips behind the glass. This isn’t just business, she thought. Not quite.

Alastor’s voice dipped lower. “I want to know what else is inside her. What secrets she’s hiding. What she fears. What she desires. And I want to pull it all apart. Piece by piece. Until I can taste the marrow of her soul.”

Rosie smiled faintly. “Have you tried talking to her like a person?”

He actually looked amused by that. “I’ve found…progress when I’m softer with her.”

Her lashes fluttered. “Softer? You?”

“I know,” he mused, leaning back. “It’s grotesque.”

Rosie set down her glass, the polished clink louder than it should’ve been. “Alastor,” she said carefully, “if you truly want this girl’s soul, try earning her trust. Her friendship. That sort of power doesn’t just crack open on command. She must be stronger than she seems.”

He considered this. A quiet moment stretched. “I’ve already started,” he said at last. “She doesn’t know it, of course. But I’ve been… careful.”

Now that made Rosie pause. Her lips parted, surprise flickering across her features. “You really have been soft with her.”

“Just a little,” he said, and there was something like delight in the admission. “Enough to keep her curious.”

Rosie watched him in silence for a long beat. He doesn’t see it yet, she thought. But this is more than curiosity. That’s not how he talks about power. 

Alastor’s shadows stirred behind him, twitching along the edges of the room like impatient dogs. One of them surged up his back and whispered in his ear. He tilted his head, listening. 

Rosie leaned forward, smiling like a cat. “You’re watching her.”

“I always watch what I want.”

Rosie’s smile sharpened, but she didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, she refilled both glasses and clinked them once more. She almost pitied this mystery girl who captured Alastor’s attention. He didn’t know it yet, but he was absolutely going to ruin her. Rosie couldn’t wait to see what came of this. 

Alastor left Rosie’s shop with the echo of her clinking glass still humming behind his ears and a bitter twinge stirring beneath his smile. The conversation had given him clarity—or at least the illusion of it—but the pressure inside his chest hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had grown heavier. The moment the door clicked shut behind him and the noise of Cannibaltown resumed its endless hum, that gnawing pull toward Sasha reemerged, sharp and insistent. He told himself he was simply curious. Strategic. But every step away from Rosie and closer to the hotel made the lie harder to swallow.

He walked with purpose, but it lacked his usual theatrical grace. There was tension in the swing of his stride, a tautness in his jaw that refused to unclench. His smile was stretched tight. The city stretched ahead in garish reds and muted grays, familiar as always, but for once it failed to amuse him. Normally, he relished walking through Cannibaltown, treating it like a stage—watching the sins of others play out like poorly written scenes. But not today.

Today, the thoughts wouldn’t stop. Rosie’s voice lingered in his ears, threading itself between each footstep with smug little flourishes. “You’ve already been soft with her.” “Try friendship.”  

And Sasha. Sasha. That damnable woman. He could still hear the final note of her violin echoing in his skull, could still picture the shape of her mouth when she smiled, like she was already onto him. Every flick of her eyes, every flinch of power behind her skin, left an imprint he couldn’t scrape away. She had no idea how dangerously intriguing she was. How her soul practically called to him.

He wanted more than conversation. He wanted more than glimpses. He wanted access. He wanted to know what made her tick, what she feared, what she hid. And above all, he wanted her power. It wasn’t just obsession anymore—it was a ravenous need to consume.

But he couldn’t just burst in and demand answers. No, that would tip his hand too soon. She was clever. She would know.

And so, he walked—wound so tightly he thought his bones might creak from the strain. His hands twitched at his sides. A shadow curled lazily beneath his feet, sensing his unrest, twitching like an overfed snake ready to strike. But still, he didn’t release it. Not yet.

He turned a corner into a narrower street, where the twisted storefronts pressed closer together and the flickering neon signs grew dimmer. A sudden sound cut through the tension of his thoughts—a soft cry, muffled but frantic.

He paused, head tilting ever so slightly.

The alley just ahead was narrow and half-choked by rotting trash and broken crates. Tucked into the shadows near the back, a struggle played out. A hulking demon with pale, blistered skin had a smaller female pinned to the wall, his clawed hand wrapped tight around her throat. She kicked feebly, nails scraping at his arms, her hair smudged with blood from where he’d bashed her against the bricks.

Alastor’s eyes locked onto the scene—and something inside him snapped. His grin turned razor-sharp.

The pressure that had been building in his chest, the obsessive frustration that had consumed every step since leaving Rosie’s shop—it all found a new outlet. A worthy one. One that wouldn’t talk back.

Without a word, he stepped into the alley, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

The attacker didn’t notice him until the first shadow drove itself through his back with a wet, crunching noise. The brute howled in pain, twisting violently as Alastor dragged him away from the wall and threw him to the ground like a gutted animal.

“ Finally ,” Alastor sighed, almost euphoric as more shadows burst forth from behind him, jagged and hungry. “I’ve been holding that in all day.”

The female demon scrambled back into a corner, eyes wide as she stared at the spectacle unfolding in front of her. Alastor didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. The next moment was carnage.

He tore into the larger demon with delighted malice, his shadows slicing deep into muscle and bone. Limbs were twisted until they snapped, joints dislocated with a series of wet pops and crunches. Alastor’s hands moved like a conductor, orchestrating every wave of pain with finesse—ripping flesh from the chest cavity, peeling skin from the face, until the demon was nothing more than twitching meat.

Blood soaked the alley. It splattered his vest, dripped from his chin, and pooled at his feet. But Alastor didn’t flinch. If anything, he glowed—eyes wide with joy, the edge of his smile twitching like a pulse.

He crushed the demon’s skull underfoot, bone and brain matter exploding in a sickening crunch, and finally let out a breath.

“Much better,” he said softly.

The only other sound was the soft, broken sob of the woman cowering behind a broken crate.

Alastor glanced at her, smile still stained in red. “Do be more careful next time,” he said sweetly. And with that, he exhaled through his teeth, slow and measured.

The alley behind him reeked of iron and filth, a puddle of blood cooling at his heels. But the tight coil in his chest had loosened, just enough. He brought his fingers together with a crisp snap, and the blood vanished from his coat, his vest once again pristine beneath the soft glow of the flickering signage overhead. Another flick of the wrist, and the mangled remains of the demon he'd eviscerated were sucked into a churning seam in the air, a portal to his pocket dimension snapping open like a crocodile's jaw and snapping shut just as fast.

Fresh meat was far too valuable to waste.

He straightened his tie and resumed his walk, this time more leisurely. The haze in his mind hadn’t lifted entirely, but it had dulled at the edges—sated, for now. The tension still danced beneath his skin like an itch, but it no longer threatened to boil over.

By the time the Hazbin Hotel came into view, Alastor felt... composed again. Hollow in the right places. Until he stepped inside.

The sound hit him first—laughter, bright and reckless, rising from the lounge like a chorus of drunk ghosts. His boots clicked against the tile as he moved closer, brow twitching. He recognized the voices immediately. Sasha’s was the loudest, warm and vibrant, curling through the air with ease. Angel Dust's came close behind—sharp, teasing, nearly overlapping hers as they bantered back and forth. Husk’s gravel drawl punctuated the rhythm, drier than the gin he nursed. And the fourth voice, shaky and nervous, could only belong to Sir Pentious.

Alastor paused at the edge of the lobby.

They were seated at the bar—Sasha leaning back against the counter, one leg tucked beneath her as she sipped from a glass of something fizzy. Angel was practically draped across her, laughing at something she’d said while he toyed with a maraschino cherry in his teeth. Husk was behind the bar, half-listening, mostly scowling. Pentious perched stiffly on a stool, visibly trying to look comfortable and failing spectacularly, his eyes darting toward Sasha every few seconds as if begging for reassurance that he wasn’t about to be vaporized.

The sight of it—her—with them—struck something unexpected in Alastor’s chest. A low, crawling discomfort, like a splinter beneath the skin that he couldn’t quite locate.

He scowled and dismissed it.

It was beneath him to be concerned with how Sasha spent her time. Angel Dust was inconsequential. Loud, vulgar, barely tethered to his own potential. And yet, the way Sasha laughed at something he whispered to her—the way her shoulder nudged his in a gesture of familiarity—Alastor found himself standing a bit too still.

He lingered a moment too long. Sasha turned and caught sight of him.

Her face lit up. “Hey, Alastor!” she called out, waving him over like he was just another part of the gang.

Angel blinked at her, incredulous. “You’re inviting him?”

Husk rolled his eyes and muttered something unintelligible under his breath, probably a curse.

Sir Pentious went rigid, eyes wide, his drink trembling in his claws.

Alastor’s smile snapped into place like a mask. “My, my,” he said, tone light but cool. “Quite the gathering.”

“Come join us,” Sasha offered, voice smooth with friendliness, almost teasing.

But Alastor didn’t move.

He dipped his head instead, posture poised like a gentleman preparing to bow out of a dreadful conversation. “As tempting as that sounds, I’ll have to decline. I have far too many matters to attend to this evening.” He couldn’t stand to be around her, not while he felt slick oil coating his innards, seeing her leaning there, against Angel of all people. He began stepping away from the motley crew, but paused mid-step as Angel’s voice rang out again—this time, surprisingly earnest.

“By the way, Sash—last night? You playin’ that violin?” Angel shook his head, almost in disbelief. “That was seriously beautiful. Like, almost made me emotional or whatever.” He rolled his eyes playfully, then jabbed a thumb toward her. “You should keep doin’ that. It suits you.”

Sasha blinked at the compliment, caught off guard by its sincerity. “Yeah?” she asked, glancing sideways at him.

Angel nodded. “Hell yeah. Felt like the first peaceful sound I’ve heard in this dump since I got here.”

Even Husk grunted his agreement, though he didn’t look up from cleaning a glass.

Sasha laughed lightly, the sound a bit quieter than before. “I mean, maybe. I didn’t think it’d feel that good again, but… it did. Just helped me breathe for a second, you know?”

She took a sip of her drink, adding more to herself than anyone else, “Maybe I’ll keep playing. Just need to find somewhere a little less chaotic than my room.”

That’s when Alastor turned back toward them.

“There are a few unused rooms on the first floor,” he offered smoothly, voice cutting gently through the air. “Soundproofed, more or less. If you’re seeking a quieter space to practice, they might suit your needs.”

Sasha glanced at him, visibly surprised by the suggestion. “Oh. Huh… Thanks.”

But Alastor didn’t linger to hear any more of her response. He simply tipped his head in acknowledgment, then turned and slipped silently down the hallway, vanishing around the corner before anyone could say another word.

Chapter Text

The lobby smelled faintly of dust and cheap streamers, but Charlie didn’t seem to notice. She clapped her hands together as Razzle and Dazzle adjusted the banner until it hung in a proud arc over the wall: Happy First Week, Sir Pentious & Sasha!

Sasha, leaning against the arm of a sofa with her wiry tail flicking lazily, tilted her head at the display. The sight of her name painted in cheerful bubble letters made something tight coil in her chest. She hadn’t celebrated anything since… well, since she lost everyone. It felt wrong, almost intrusive, to have a banner when all she’d done this week was nurse headaches, snipe sarcastically with Angel, and try not to think about Alastor in a creepy, obsessive manner, which she was failing spectacularly at.

“That looks perfect!” Charlie exclaimed. “Aah! I am so excited that Sir Pentious and Sasha are staying at the hotel!”

Vaggie, arms crossed, gave a skeptical snort. “Um, Pentious was just trying to take over the city with his weird steampunk bullshit a few days ago… and Sasha—” her sharp eyes flicked toward the sofa— “hasn’t told us much of anything about herself aside from a couple surface-level things.”

Sasha froze, caught in the verbal spotlight. “Yeah, well, forgive me for not unloading my life story at a week-long sleepover,” she muttered. Her tone was dry, but her stomach knotted. Being called out in front of the group was exactly what she did not need.

Charlie, ever the optimist, smiled brightly. “That’s okay! You’ll open up when you’re ready. As for Pentious, I haven't seen him try to pull any of that here.”

Sasha raised an eyebrow at that. Charlie said it like it was inevitable, like Sasha couldn’t possibly keep her cards pressed close to her chest forever. Before she could retort, the double doors creaked open. Sir Pentious slithered in, Egg Boiz stacked on top of a gleaming contraption that screeched across the floor.

“What the hell is that?” Vaggie snapped.

Sasha blinked at the spiked machine, already bracing herself for whatever brand of lunacy Pentious was about to announce.

“Oh, hello, purple female,” Pentious said grandly. “It’s my new invention, the Skin Flayer 11,000! I’m really looking forward to shooting the other residents.”

Charlie gasped, flustered as ever. “What? Why?”

Pentious wagged his head. “Everyone is being too nice. Obviously it must be a lie! I can sense they are planning to kill me, but when? How? I must be prepared! Ooh, the new parts of my machine are here!”

The doors swung open again, and two demons entered with perfect timing. Odette Carmine pushed in a cart stacked with boxes, clipboard in hand, while her sister Clara followed behind with more crates balanced on her shoulders.

Sasha let out a low whistle under her breath. “Well, if that isn’t the sketchiest delivery I’ve ever seen.”

“Sign, please,” Odette said curtly, extending the clipboard.

Pentious scrawled his signature with a flourish, practically vibrating with excitement. Clara shoved the crates across the floor toward him, the thud echoing through the lobby.

“Thank you for your business,” Odette said as they turned to leave. “Enjoy your Carmine purchase.”

The name hit Vaggie like a slap. “Carmine?” she repeated sharply, her eyes narrowing. “As in, Carmilla Carmine? You’re buying parts from an overlord?”

Pentious froze for a beat, then puffed out his chest again. “Uh, of course. She’s the top weapons dealer in Hell.”

Vaggie marched forward and seized the crates from his grip, dragging them back before he could protest.

“Hey!” Pentious hissed, tail lashing.

“You absolutely cannot build weapons in this hotel,” Vaggie said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the air. “No one is trying to kill you. People are being nice because they want you to feel welcome.”

Sasha shifted where she stood, arms folded. The look Pentious shot her from across the machine was comically distrustful, like he thought even she might have been plotting to stab him in his sleep. She gave him a wicked looking grin just to unnerve him. 

He quickly slid his gaze around the lobby—Husk at the bar, downing a bottle without a care in the world, flips him off. Angel, barely looking up from his phone, mirrored the gesture without missing a beat. And Niffty, balancing precariously on a chair while dusting the corners, just gave a high-pitched giggle that sounded like it belonged in a slasher film.

Pentious recoiled. “Hmm. I have my doubts.”

“Well, it’s true,” Vaggie said firmly. “You have to trust us.”

“But I don’t,” Pentious snapped back.

Charlie clapped her hands together before the tension could spike further. “Well, why don’t we focus on that for today’s activities?”

“Not before we lay some ground rules,” Vaggie countered. Her eyes flicked to Sasha for a moment, a deliberate glance, before returning to Pentious. “No more building weapons, no more plotting against other guests, and you need to get rid of these things.”

She jabbed a finger at the Egg Boiz, who had clambered onto one of the crates and were tugging a laser back and forth like a toy. There was a sudden zap and a beam shot upward, blasting a hole through the ceiling. Dust rained down onto the carpet as everyone froze.

Vaggie threw her hands up. “Oh! What did I just say? What did I just say?”

Sasha snorted despite herself, brushing plaster off her jacket. “Guess selective hearing’s part of the design.”

Pentious whipped around protectively, scooping the Egg Boiz into his arms. “What? Not my little Egg Boiz! They do my evil bidding for me!”

Vaggie stepped closer, her voice even but stern. “Do you want to stay here and redeem yourself?”

Pentious narrowed his eyes, as if weighing whether redemption was worth this indignity. “Yes.”

“Then no more eggs.”

Pentious’s face crumpled. His lip trembled, and tears welled in his eyes. “All right, eggies. You’ve got to go. I—” he hiccupped—“can’t keep you anymore!”

“Okay, boss,” the Egg Boiz chorused, waddling after Vaggie as she wheeled away the confiscated crates.

“No, don’t resist!” Pentious cried after them, wringing his claws. “This is how it has to be!”

His wails echoed through the lobby, dramatic enough to rival a death scene. Charlie hovered beside him, awkwardly patting his shoulder in comfort.

Sasha exhaled through her nose and crossed her arms tighter. She felt a little bad for Pentious, all things considered. It’s not fun to lose someone that close to you, even if it's temporary. But she’d be damned before she said anything to him about it, especially with Vaggie now hounding her about opening up. 

Alastor carved delicately into the deer carcass before him, slicing through tendon and muscle as though it were the finest roast. The tang of iron filled the air, mingling with the soft crackle of a jazz record spinning nearby. One half of his quarters gleamed with polished wood, velvet drapes, and neatly arranged antiques; the other half shimmered with the ghost of a bayou, cypress trees rising from imagined swamp water — a fragment of home he hadn’t yet tired of.

He chewed thoughtfully, though his mind was not on the meal.

Why, precisely, had he told Sasha about the unused rooms? Offering her a place to practice violin hardly suited his intentions. Comfort would not bring her any closer to desperation, nor to signing a deal with him. It had been an indulgence, unplanned and unnecessary.

And yet the words had left his mouth before he could think to stop them.

His knife tapped against the plate as he frowned. She was clever, sharper than most who wandered into this hotel. That wit of hers kept him on his toes — and her looks, well, he would never admit aloud that he’d noticed, but there it was. Something about her unsettled him, tugging at a place in his chest that had no business stirring.

It was entertainment, nothing more. He clung to the thought like a lifeline. Entertainment, diversion — not care. Certainly not that.

“Alastor!”

There was a jarring record scratch as Vaggie’s voice cut through his musings. He lifted his eyes from the carcass, grin fixed neatly in place. She stood in the doorway, the little Egg Boiz crowding behind her.

“Do you mind?” he asked pleasantly, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin as though she’d interrupted afternoon tea. “I’m in the middle of breakfast.”

“Pentious’ eggs are all over the place,” she said sharply. “And I need you to get rid of them.”

Alastor set down his cutlery with a sigh, then rose smoothly to his feet. His staff materialized in his hand, shadows curling at his heels. Thoughts of crushing the eggs for being the reason his morning was interrupted sprang to life in his mind.  “Oh, well, in that case, I’d be delighted to.”

“Humanely,” Vaggie warned, eyes narrowing.

His grin widened, eyes glowing red as the black X flared on his forehead. Slightly irritated at the input, he replied, “That’s a lot less fun… but I suppose I can take care of that on my outing today.” He strode past her, shadows dissipating with each step.

“Great,” Vaggie muttered under her breath, glancing at the table behind him. Her face twisted at the half-eaten carcass. “That looks disgusting.”

The clatter of footsteps and the low hum of radio static carried faintly through the foyer as Alastor strode past, shadows curling like obedient pets at his heels. Sasha, seated cross-legged on the sofa beside Angel, found her gaze pulled toward him as if by a tether. He hardly spared the room a glance on his way out, but there was something in the set of his shoulders — rigid, yet composed — that made her chest tighten.

Alastor’s shadow slipped out of sight, the foyer doors swinging closed behind him. Still, Sasha found her gaze lingering long after he was gone, as though her eyes hadn’t gotten the message her head kept trying to drill in. He had offered her a space to play, and it hadn’t sounded like a ploy. No strings attached, no grinning bargain. Just… considerate. The thought warmed her chest in a way she didn’t welcome.

She dragged her stare up to the banner on stage instead: Trusting 101. The cheerful letters mocked her, and she folded her arms tighter as Charlie bounded in front of it.

“Hi, guys! Thanks for coming! It’s been brought to our attention that there may be a little, tension in the hotel.”

Her voice bounced around the lobby, determinedly bright. Sasha scanned the room. Husk hunched with his bottle clutched like a lifeline; Angel lounged with his legs sprawled wide, scrolling his phone with practiced disinterest; Pentious was already fidgeting with the nearest gadget as though scheming his next failed conquest.

Charlie’s optimism clashed hard against the restless energy.

Vaggie stepped up beside her, arms crossed. “Tension that can be counterproductive to what we’re trying to do here.”

Her words barely finished before Pentious lashed out, wrapping his tail around Niffty and aiming a ray gun at her head. The weapon was yanked away instantly by Vaggie’s sharp grip.

Sasha muttered, “Yeah, nothing says team bonding like attempted murder.”

Charlie clapped, trying to recover momentum. “We think this group could really benefit from…”

The stage behind them lit up in blinding yellow, the floor fracturing as though the very set itself had turned theatrical. Charlie and Vaggie floated up with it.

“Trust exercises!” Charlie cried.

“Trust exercises,” Vaggie echoed flatly, before crashing back down with a heavy thud. “Ah, shit!” She scrambled up as Charlie hauled her to her feet.

“We’re doing trust exercises!” Charlie insisted, as if sheer cheerfulness could bulldoze their skepticism.

Husk squinted, waving his free hand lazily. “So, uh, what’s with the whole… this?” He gestured to the stage with the neck of his bottle. “I’m not about to put on some show for these fucking chumps.”

“Oh, I will,” Angel crooned, swinging his legs across Husk’s lap and smirking. “But it’s cash up front. And I know that one”—he jabbed a claw toward Pentious—“can’t afford me.”

“Gross!” Pentious screeched, tail recoiling. “I’d never think of it, spider!”

“Right, well, let’s get started,” Vaggie cut in with a sigh. She looked at Charlie.

“Actually,” Charlie said, bouncing on her heels, “I thought maybe you could take the lead on this one. I trust everyone, so maybe you know better on how to build it properly!”

Vaggie looked like she wanted to hurl her spear through her own chest. “What? I… I don’t know if I’m qualified—”

“Oh, come on,” Charlie urged. “It’ll be easy! You can handle this.”

The hesitation in Vaggie’s eyes flickered again, and Sasha caught it. For someone so tough, Vaggie carried that weight like a stone. But she squared her shoulders, soldiering through.

“Yeah. Sure. I can handle this.” She marched to the edge of the stage. “All right! We’re starting with trust falls. Each of you will share something vulnerable with the group and then fall backwards while the rest of us catch you. Got it?”

“Ooh, me, me, me!” Charlie shot her hand up and darted onto the stage.

“I love you guys!” she declared, breathless with sincerity. “Like, really, really love you!” She tipped backward with arms wide.

“Gotcha!” Vaggie lunged and caught her, though her stance wobbled under the weight.

“That… felt… good!” Charlie beamed. “Angel, you’re next!”

Angel sauntered forward with exaggerated sway, tossing his coat collar. “Fine.”

“Everyone catches this time,” Vaggie ordered, pulling her spear from her back with emphasis. “Or else.”

“Somethin’ vulnerable, huh?” Angel tapped his chin. “Okay, I love to suck—”

Husk growled, already stepping forward. “I swear to fuck if you say—”

“—popsicles!” Angel finished gleefully. “Ya sicko! Get your mind outta the gutter.”

Then he tipped back. Husk caught him reluctantly. “But also dicks,” Angel added smugly. Husk let him drop like a stone.

Pentious slid forward next, lights dimming around him as dramatic chords swelled. “I… don’t want to live without my minions! Nobody catch me!” He hurled himself backward. Charlie and Vaggie lunged instinctively, breaking his fall. “Damn it,” Pentious hissed when he realized he’d been spared.

“You’re slimy,” Vaggie muttered, dropping him unceremoniously.

Before she could slip further into the background, Angel’s pink eyes slid toward her. “Hey, what about you, princess?”

Sasha blinked, startled. “What about me?”

“You heard her.” He gestured lazily at Vaggie. “Everyone’s gotta do it. C’mon, don’t be shy.”

All eyes turned her way. Even Husk lifted his head from his bottle long enough to grunt.

Sasha sighed, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Fine. But don’t drop me. I’ve got horns, and if I crack my head open on the floor, I’m haunting every one of you.”

She climbed the stage with a slow, deliberate saunter, dragging out the moment. Standing tall, she crossed her arms, pretending to think. “Something vulnerable… hmm. Okay. I hate mornings. I mean, hate. If I don’t get caffeine, I’ll kill you. That’s not a metaphor.”

Angel snorted. Husk muttered, “Fair.” Even Pentious looked faintly approving.

Then Sasha tipped herself backward, arms spread wide. She felt the air rush past, a thrill curling in her gut at the risk of letting anyone catch her at all.

Hands grabbed her shoulders, steadying her as she fell. The group actually caught her.

Sasha straightened with a mock bow. “Well. Didn’t die. Ten out of ten.”

Niffty came last in the line, skipping gleefully. “Sometimes I kill mother-bugs in front of their children as a warning to others!”

Everyone recoiled. Sasha’s brow shot up. Good to know pest control’s covered.

Niffty flung herself backward. The group parted like a curtain. She smacked face-first into the ground, then sprang up again giggling. “Yay! Pain!”

Sasha pinched the bridge of her nose. For a moment, warmth flickered in her chest again — the same dangerous warmth she’d felt when Alastor had looked at her differently, softer than she expected. She pushed it back down, reminding herself: she could laugh, she could play along, but she couldn’t get attached. Or...not too attached anyway. Maybe. 

Chapter Text

Charlie and Vaggie drifted away from the group, voices lowering but still clear enough to catch. Sasha lingered where she was, not bothering to eavesdrop with much subtlety. Their tension hung in the air like static.

“I don’t know if this is really working the way we’d hoped,” Charlie whispered, worry slipping into her tone. “Maybe we should—”

“Honey, you have to trust me here.” Vaggie’s reply came sharp, though her hand brushed Charlie’s arm in reassurance. “I got this, okay? I’ll figure something out.”

Sasha almost smiled. Vaggie’s definition of trust usually translated to control, and Charlie seemed too sweet—or too stubborn—to notice. Before Sasha could dwell on it, a familiar arm slung itself around her shoulders. Angel’s perfume hit her first, then the warm press of his body as he wrapped his arms over her shoulders.

“If you’re in the market for some ideas,” he purred, grinning like the cat who caught the canary, “I’ve got just the thing for some trust buildin’.”

Sasha tilted her head toward him, her brow arching. Of course he did. “This should be good.”

Vaggie sighed the way people do when they’ve already made peace with their regret. “...What do you have in mind?”

The scene Angel delivered was nothing short of a spectacle.

Sasha blinked against the dim light as they entered the lounge—no, dungeon. Chains hung like decorations, velvet curtains draped from the rafters, and the slap of leather against skin cracked from behind a partition. The air was heavy with candle wax and musk, an atmosphere that might’ve been sultry if it weren’t so on-the-nose.

Angel stood in the center like a proud ringmaster, hands on hips, savoring every reaction. “No activity requires more trust than BDSM, baby. No bond stronger than those formed through bondage!”

Sasha followed the line of his finger to the poster hung proudly on the wall. It read exactly that. A laugh almost escaped her, but she swallowed it. This was already better than she’d expected. Charlie looked scandalized, hands wringing in front of her chest, while Vaggie’s glare could’ve stripped paint.

“Angel! What the actual fuck?!” Vaggie barked.

Sasha leaned her shoulder against the nearest wall, folding her arms. “I mean…he’s not wrong.”

Charlie’s face went scarlet so quickly that Sasha half-expected steam to whistle out her ears. “Angel, love the enthusiasm. But, umm, uh, hmmm—”

Vaggie snapped her head around. “What makes you think anyone would be into this?”

The answer arrived before Sasha could bite her tongue. Husk lounged in a padded chair, eyes half-lidded, while a pair of hands kneaded into his back. The soft rumble of his purr vibrated through the space.

“You know, I-I don’t hate this,” he mumbled, almost sheepish.

Sasha laughed outright this time, the sound sharp and short. “Knew it.”

Then Niffty appeared. If Sasha had thought the tiny cleaner couldn’t get stranger, the dominatrix outfit proved her wrong. Leather gleamed across her petite frame as she twirled a whip with alarming precision.

“I’m ready to punish some bad boys!” she squeaked.

Husk’s eyes went wide. His purr choked into silence as he bolted upright. “...Never mind, I-I’m out!” He all but vanished before Niffty could lunge.

Sasha muttered under her breath, “Honestly, can’t blame him. Terrifying little thing.”

The dungeon erupted into further madness. A snake-haired demon slid behind Charlie, hands already digging into her shoulders. Others crowded close, brushing against her as if compelled by her light.

Charlie squawked, high-pitched and flustered. “Okay, hello there. Hi. Um. Hm. Hm—”

“Hands off.” Vaggie’s voice turned lethal. She yanked Charlie back, eyes flashing. “Ugh! I can’t fucking believe I let you drag us here, Angel. This is disgusting.”

Charlie shook her head, frantic to smooth things over. Always smoothing, always trying. “It’s no big deal, Vaggie. You know, maybe I can just help, uh—”

“No.” Vaggie’s tone cut steel. She pulled Charlie flush against her, gaze hardening with sudden inspiration. “I told you you could trust me, and I’m not going to let you down.”

Sasha caught the sharp curl of a smile then, dangerous and a little unhinged. She didn’t know what Vaggie had in mind, but she could guess it wasn’t going to be gentle.

Leaning closer to Angel, she muttered, “I’m starting to regret being part of your bright idea, Dusty.”

Angel winked, utterly unbothered. “Oh, please. You loved it.” Sasha couldn’t help but laugh. 

The rooftop rattled beneath them as another explosion ripped through the streets below. Smoke and ash curled upward, painting the skyline with fire. Sasha’s pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the raw electricity of the battlefield.

“THIS IS HOW YOU LEARNED TO TRUST PEOPLE?!” Charlie’s voice cracked over the gunfire and screaming demons below.

Sasha’s gut twisted. She wasn’t worried about herself—she could survive this—but about Charlie, who had no business being anywhere near carnage like this.

Below, demons tore into each other with unhinged glee. Gunshots, blades flashing, fists pounding. A demon flailed, burning alive, shrieking as others laughed.

“Yee-haw!” a cactus demon howled.

“I can go all night long, baby!” a punk screeched back.

Sasha grimaced. Hell’s poetry at its finest.

Vaggie straightened like a drill sergeant. “There is nothing stronger than the trust between comrades in arms! Buckle up, buttercups, because today you boys become men!”

Sasha’s stomach dropped. “Oh, no—”

Vaggie’s hand clamped onto her arm.

“Wait—don’t you—” Sasha got no further before Vaggie shoved.

The rooftop vanished. For a breathless second, she was nothing but falling air and a scream in her throat—then she slammed into the dirt and rubble below. Pain shot up her legs, her palms scraped raw on concrete.

A half-dozen demons turned toward her, snarling.

“Great,” she spat, scrambling upright. “Trust exercise, my ass.”

The first brute swung at her with a rusted axe. She rolled aside, snatched the weapon from his grip as it clattered into rubble, and buried it in his chest. His howl gurgled into silence. Blood steamed against the broken pavement.

She ripped the axe free, spinning just in time to meet another attacker. This one carried a jagged blade; she knocked it from his hand and caught it midair, turning his weapon against him. A quick slash opened his throat.

The battlefield was an armory if you weren’t squeamish. Sasha never had been. She grabbed a dropped pistol, firing wildly into the fray. The recoil nearly wrenched her wrist, but the shot tore a hole through a demon’s shoulder. When the clip clicked empty, she tossed it aside and wrenched a spear from the cooling hands of a corpse, driving its tip into another stomach. The air burned her lungs. The ground shook. And still they kept coming.

Nearby, Angel shouted between gunfire, his pistols blazing. “Oh, fantastic, Dusty’s been dropped into a war zone. Love this for me!”

Husk waded through blood with his claws out, tearing into anyone dumb enough to get close. Pentious shrieked from behind a pile of rubble, flailing uselessly. More demons swarmed. Too many. Sasha’s chest heaved, her muscles screaming, and in the corner of her mind, something dark scratched for release. She hated using it. Hated being seen using it. But there was no choice. Her fingers twitched. The air rippled.

“Fine,” she hissed, voice low, dangerous. “Let’s play.”

The world bent. Every demon within reach froze, their eyes glazing. Confusion twisted their faces as the battlefield collapsed into nothing. They flailed at the abyss, blind to everything but black. Panic ripped through them. Then the wolves came. Spectral, jagged things, raven-dark with eyes glowing red. They burst from the shadows in packs, teeth dripping void, claws scraping against nothingness. The wolves lunged, snarling, ripping into flesh that wasn’t really being torn. The demons screamed like it was. 

What Sasha didn't expect was that Husk, Angel, and Pentious could all see the destruction she wrought. Husk cut through one distracted foe with ease. Angel ducked behind cover, his pistols still hot, but his eyes locked on her in shock.

“WHAT—THE—FUCK?!” he bellowed. “Sash, are you kidding me right now?!”

Pentious screeched, collapsing deeper behind his cover. “Sorcery! Black witchery!”

“Shut up and use it!” Sasha barked, forcing another ripple through the pack of wolves. Sweat trickled down her temple, her vision buzzing.

Angel fired again, but his fury burned hotter than his bullets. “You’ve had this the whole damn time? And you didn’t say a word?!”

“It’s not that simple!” she shouted back, the words tearing raw from her throat. She shoved another demon aside with her spear. “Just fight, Dusty—we don’t have time for this!”

Husk’s growl cut low and suspicious. He ripped his claws out of a demon’s chest, blood spattering his fur. “The hell was that, kid?”

Sasha clenched her jaw, refusing to look at him. She couldn’t explain. Not here. Not with her illusions snarling and snapping. She would explain when they were all safe again. She knew they wouldn’t let this go right now and figured she could at least offer up some information to get them through. “They’re hallucinations, they won't harm any of us, but while these fuckers are distracted, we need to get the hell out!” She punctuated the statement by stabbing another demon in the neck. The others slowly backed off from the fight and began trekking back to the building Vaggie had tossed them all from. 

Angel grabbed onto Pentious’ tail and began to drag the serpent away from the battle, where he very much got his ass kicked. Angel’s grip on Pentious’ tail looked more like dragging a bag of trash than rescuing a comrade, but somehow it got the job done. The serpent flailed uselessly, clothes torn and scales bruised.

“Quit ya wrigglin’, ya useless noodle,” Angel snapped, hauling him toward the stairwell. Husk lumbered after them, swearing under his breath as blood dried on his paws.

Sasha dropped her last illusion, the wolves collapsing into smoke that curled into nothing. Relief hit her in a wave so sharp it almost toppled her. Her knees trembled, vision swimming, but she forced herself upright. She couldn’t show weakness. Not now. The hallucinations weren’t what taxed her, but fighting was something she hadn’t done in a while. 

By the time she staggered up the last steps, Angel had already burst through the rooftop door, half-carrying, half-throwing Pentious forward like an offering.

“Made it!” he announced, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Charlie turned from the ledge, relief flooding her features. “Let’s go home, guys.”

Angel groaned dramatically, wiping grime from his fur. “Ugh! I just walked up all those stairs!”

He yanked Pentious back down toward the exit, the serpent whimpering in protest. Husk trailed after them, muttering curses, and Sasha followed last, every step heavy with the unspoken tension that clung to them like smoke. The walk back to the hotel was silent, the four of them limping through the ruined streets. Sasha’s chest rose and fell with every step, her muscles screaming from the fight. 

By the time the cracked doors of the hotel swung shut behind them, Sasha thought she might collapse. The quiet lobby looked almost obscene compared to the battlefield they’d just left, its couches intact, its chandeliers gleaming like nothing had happened.

Charlie finally took a moment to really look at them all, her eyes wide with alarm. “You all look—oh my gosh, are you okay?”

Sasha opened her mouth, but Angel beat her to it.

“Oh, don’t act like nothin’ happened,” he snapped, voice slicing through the air. He spun toward Sasha, his pink fur still streaked with soot and blood, his expression caught between anger and hurt. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell her, huh? Tell all of us what you’ve been hiding.”

Charlie blinked between them, confusion knitting her brows. “Hiding? What do you mean?”

Sasha felt every eye land on her. Husk leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching with narrowed suspicion. Pentious hovered behind Angel, scales rattling, clearly unnerved, his pupils darting toward Sasha like she might turn the whole room into shadows at any second.

Sasha swallowed hard, then straightened. If she’d kept this secret any longer, it would only rot worse.

“I can make people see things,” she said flatly. Her voice carried through the quiet lobby, stark against the crackle of the firelight. “Hallucinations. I can blind them, twist their vision, make them see things that aren’t real. Wolves. Monsters. Memories. Whatever I want, really.”

Charlie’s lips parted. For a heartbeat, silence held the group.

Then, instead of recoiling, Charlie’s face lit up. “Sasha… that’s amazing! And you trusted us enough to tell us.”

Sasha stared at her, disbelief crawling up her spine. “Charlie, I didn’t tell you because I trusted you. I told you because we were about to die if I didn’t use it.”

Charlie only beamed brighter. “That’s still trust in my book.”

Angel let out a bark of laughter, bitter and sharp. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Trust? She’s been sittin’ on this since she walked through the door, Charlie. That’s not trust, that’s lying.”

“It’s not lying,” Sasha shot back, frustration flaring in her chest. “It’s surviving. I’ve learned not to hand out every damn secret to the first people who smile at me.”

Angel’s eyes softened for the briefest moment, then hardened again. He shook his head, disgust curling his lip. “Unbelievable.”

He turned on his heel and stormed toward the door, muttering curses under his breath. The slam rattled the lobby, leaving an ugly silence behind.

Charlie opened her mouth to speak again, but Sasha was already moving, her boots echoing against the polished floor. She had to fix this before it calcified into something worse.

As the door swung shut behind her, a ripple of movement lingered in the far corner of the lobby. A patch of shadow that hadn’t belonged to the room at all stretched thin, then slithered upward and vanished into nothing.

Unseen, it had watched everything. And Alastor would know it all.

Sasha hesitated outside his door, her knuckles hovering over the wood. For a moment, she considered walking away—letting him stew, letting herself hide. But the thought of his face back in the lobby, the way hurt had etched deeper than any bullet wound, pressed her forward. She knocked.

A beat of silence. Then, muffled: “What?”

“Dusty, it’s me.” Her voice was rough from smoke and shouting. “Please.”

There was shuffling, a lock turning. The door cracked open and Angel stood there, his silhouette slouched and tired. He studied her for a long moment before sighing and stepping aside. Sasha slipped in, the air heavy with perfume and smoke. Clothes and bottles littered the space, an organized chaos. He sat down on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I’m not mad you’ve got some freaky demon magic,” he said finally. His voice was quieter now, less venom and more ache. “I’m mad ‘cause I told you everything. I told you about Val, the shit he puts me through. I told you about the pills, the dope, how I don’t think I’ll ever be good enough for this whole redemption thing. I let you in, Sash.” He finally looked up, eyes shining, not with tears but with betrayal. “And you just… kept your mouth shut. A whole week. Like I was talkin’ to a fuckin’ wall.”

The words hit her harder than any blow on the battlefield. Her throat closed, tears already burning. “I know,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You’re right.”

Angel’s brow furrowed, the edge of his anger softening as he watched her unravel.

“I didn’t keep it from you because I didn’t care,” she said, the words tumbling out too fast, too desperate. “I kept it because… every time I let someone in, they die. Every single time.” Her chest heaved, tears spilling over. “I killed my friends in life—my best friends. We’d been drinking, and I—I was driving. I crashed. They died. And I couldn’t live with it, so I killed myself.”

Angel’s eyes widened, his arms slowly uncrossing.

“And then down here…” She broke on a sob, pressing her palms to her eyes. “I tried again. I tried to build something with the people I met, with the only family I had left. And the last extermination—” Her voice cracked into nothing. “They were slaughtered right in front of me. All of them. And I lived.” The sobs shook her body now, ugly and raw. “So yeah, I keep my secrets. Because if I get too close, they get taken from me. And I can’t do it again. I can’t.”

The silence stretched, broken only by her ragged breathing. Then Angel moved.

He slid across the bed, pulling her into his chest with surprising gentleness. His arms wrapped around her, steady, warm. One of his hands rubbed circles along her back, the other cradling the back of her head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough now, too. “I shouldn’t’ve come at you like that. I didn’t know. Christ, Sash, I didn’t know.”

She clung to him like a lifeline, her tears soaking into his fur. “I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Well, too bad,” he said softly, not unkind. “Now I do. And I’m not goin’ anywhere, capisce? You’re stuck with me, secrets and all.”

A weak laugh bubbled through her tears, trembling and messy. Angel squeezed her tighter.

They sat like that in silence, her sobs gradually softening against him. For once, the world wasn’t burning. It was just the two of them, holding onto each other in the dark.

Chapter Text

When she was by herself in her room the next day, Sasha’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. No matter how hard she pressed her palms into her knees, her fingers twitched as if they were caught in some invisible current. Her breaths came in ragged pulls, shallow and uneven, each inhale scraping down her throat, each exhale sputtering out too fast to do her any good. The memory of the fight would not leave her. It clawed at her like broken glass beneath the skin—Pentious screaming orders in his shrill voice, Husk swearing through clenched teeth, Angel bleeding across the ground, all of them outnumbered, all of them seconds from being torn apart.

She had panicked. She knew it. The moment the odds tilted, her chest locked up, her thoughts splintered, and she let the illusions slip free. A dozen fractured visions poured out of her before she even realized it, and by the time she pulled them back, Angel’s glare had already carved itself into her memory. The disappointment, the fury—why didn’t you tell me? The shame of it twisted deeper now, feeding into the panic already strangling her lungs.

Her head dropped into her hands, nails digging into her scalp. She whispered to herself—it’s fine, it’s over, they’re fine, they’re alive—but the words collapsed the second they left her mouth. Because even if they’d survived, the images she was creating around her told a different story.

Sasha's room quickly disappeared. Instead, she was pulled back to life before hell. The door of a car crumpled inward with a scream of metal. Glass shattered in slow motion, tinkling like rain. Angeleena dragged herself through the wreckage first, her face cut into ribbons, her arm bent wrong at the elbow. Blood dripped steadily from her hairline, and yet she smiled through teeth slick with red. Ellie crawled out behind her, dragging a broken leg, leaving a smear of crimson across the ground where Sasha’s rug should have been.

“You killed us, Sash,” Angeleena crooned, her voice sticky-sweet despite the gash splitting her cheek.

Ellie’s head lolled to the side, eyes bright with accusation. “You were supposed to drive us home. You were supposed to keep us safe.”

“You’re a curse,” Angeleena whispered, close enough that Sasha felt the heat of her breath, though she knew there was nothing there at all. “Everything you touch rots.”

Sasha staggered back across the bed, hands swiping blindly in front of her like she could push them away. Her chest tightened until she could barely breathe, each gulp of air shallower than the last. She grabbed at her ears, trying to block them out, but their voices crawled inside her skull anyway.

The scene shifted before she could blink. Jaz’s voice replaced theirs, low and venomous. Chief’s hulking form loomed, scales split and charred from the angel’s strike that had cleaved him open. James’ limbs twisted wrong, his smile torn into something grotesque. Vic bled from her mouth, coughing through laughter that made Sasha’s stomach turn.

“You ran,” Jaz spat, her body hunched and shaking, but her eyes locked sharply on Sasha.

“You left us to die,” Chief added, dragging one ruined leg behind him as he stepped closer.

James bared his fangs. “You could’ve fought with us. We’d still be alive.”

Vic’s laugh rang high and hollow, blood bubbling in her throat. “Some friend you turned out to be.”

They circled her, closing in with every accusation, their broken bodies lurching closer. Sasha’s own heartbeat roared in her ears, frantic and uneven, each thud harder to catch her breath against. She curled in on herself, nails digging crescents into her arms until the skin broke, grounding herself in the sting but not enough to silence them.

Her vision blurred, tears burning hot and useless against her cheeks. The air thickened, heavy as wet cloth, suffocating her. She gasped, wheezed, clawed at her throat as though she could pry it open wider, but the more she fought, the more her lungs shrank. Her whole body shook, knees pulled to her chest, words tumbling out in a broken stammer: “I—I tried—I tried—it wasn’t my fault—”

Still, they crowded closer. Still, they blamed her.

Somewhere in the corner of the room, the shadows stirred. They shifted in a way that didn’t match the lamp’s glow, too fluid, too purposeful. If Sasha hadn’t been so consumed, she might have noticed how the darkness seemed to lean forward, stretching closer as if listening. But the hallucinations pressed in tighter, and she was too far gone to notice anything else.

The shadows stretched long against the walls, restless as the voices circled Sasha in their endless chorus. Her sobs had gone hoarse, breaking into sharp little gasps as she pressed herself into the corner of the bed, shaking and raw. Static cut through the air, sharp as a needle. The hallucinations wavered, their edges blurring, their accusations bending into garbled echoes. And then he was there.

Alastor stepped forward with his usual flourish, cane tapping lightly against the floor, smile pulled across his face like a mask he wasn’t sure he needed. “Well now,” he drawled, his voice curling smooth and steady, a faint crackle humming beneath it, “what a sight this is. Quite the lively crowd you’ve gathered, my dear. Why, you’ve outdone even me in theatrics tonight.”

Sasha’s head jerked up, her eyes wide and bloodshot, her cheeks streaked with tears. She shook her head, sputtering, “G—get out—” The words broke off in sobs, her whole body trembling as she clutched at her horns.

For the briefest moment, Alastor’s grin faltered. The spectacle of her powers was fascinating, yes—how tightly bound they were to her grief, how mercilessly her memories shredded her from the inside—but beneath it was something else. A knot he couldn’t quite name, pulling tight at the sight of her curled in on herself, gasping like she couldn’t draw enough air. He had seen countless demons broken, begging, clawing at their sanity. This wasn’t that. This wasn’t weakness. This was something rawer, something that stirred a disquiet in him he didn’t want to examine.

He straightened his posture, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, and let his smile return, smaller this time, almost cautious. “Come now, sweetheart. You’ll wear yourself clean through if you keep this up.” His tone was lighter than the words, but a thread of sincerity slipped through before he could choke it off. “Surely there’s an easier way than… this.”

Her shoulders shook harder. She pressed her face into her knees, muffling the broken cries that spilled out anyway. “Sh—shut up. Just… shut up…” As she said it, Alastor could feel her power rising against his shadows. Her hallucinations taking more corporeal form as opposed to the ghosts they had become.

You killed us.

You left us.

You ran.

You ruin everything.

Alastor’s fingers tightened on his cane, the wood creaking faintly beneath the strain. She’s unraveling before me. I should be pleased, shouldn’t I? She’s never been more reachable, more pliable. But— He cut the thought short, irritation flickering across his features before smoothing back into that polished mask.

He bent at the knee, lowering himself enough to look her in the eye, though hers darted everywhere but at him. The hallucinations still holding her hostage, whispering their venom, but he kept his voice steady, pitched softer than his usual sing-song. “I could make it stop, you know. Quiet the voices, hush the claws in your head. Just a small arrangement, a trade, of sorts. A fair one.”

Her head snapped up, panic flaring wild in her eyes. She shook it violently, the tears spilling faster, her chest hitching with each breath. “N—no… no deals, not—” Her voice cracked, breaking into a strangled sob. “Get out. Just get out!”

The reaction stabbed sharper than he expected, and his smile dropped altogether. For one stunned heartbeat he simply stared, something dark and unnameable twisting through his chest. You fool, he chided himself, though he couldn’t say which one of them he meant. You’ve only worsened it.

He inhaled slowly, letting the static hum settle low in his throat, and eased back a fraction. Not away, but enough to soften the edges of his presence. His grin returned, smaller, almost weary. “Very well, no bargains tonight. No strings, no tricks. Only…” He hesitated, the words strange on his tongue. “…a shoulder, if you’ll have it. Nothing more.”

For a moment, Sasha simply stared, stunned into silence. A shoulder to cry on? From him? The offer felt impossible, almost insulting, yet the sincerity beneath it rang louder than her disbelief.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. In one sharp, trembling lurch, she pushed herself forward and all but collapsed against him. Her arms wrapped around his middle, fists bunching into his coat like she might fall straight through the floor without him there to anchor her.

Alastor froze. Every nerve in his body went rigid, his first instinct screaming at him to recoil, to shove her back, to reestablish the proper distance between himself and anyone else. Physical touch had always been an intrusion, a nuisance—something sticky and clinging he had no taste for. And yet, with Sasha pressed tight against him, sobbing raggedly into his chest, the disgust never came.

He stood stiff for a long, uncertain breath, hands hovering awkwardly in the air. Then, slowly, almost against his own will, he set one palm against her back. It was tentative at first, like he was testing the shape of the gesture, but when her body shook harder and her grip tightened, he allowed the weight of his hand to settle there, steady and grounding.

Her sobs came in waves, each one weaker than the last as her breathing struggled to even out. The hallucinations around them flickered, warped, and then unraveled, smoke bleeding into shadow until only the two of them remained. The silence left behind was heavy but no longer suffocating.

Sasha sniffed hard, pressing her face against his chest as though to hide the mess of herself. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice wrecked and raw. “For… for being here. I—” Her throat closed off again, the words crumbling into another shaky inhale. “I needed that.”

Alastor’s grin twitched, not quite his usual razor smile, but something softer and more uneven. “Sweetheart,” he said, his voice low, “I’ll admit—while I typically find a good breakdown to be positively delicious—yours was… off-putting. Thoroughly unsettling, in fact.”

A broken laugh rattled out of her, muffled against his coat. “You really know how to comfort a girl.”

His brows pinched together ever so slightly, confusion tugging at the edges of his thoughts. Why hadn’t he pulled away? Why hadn’t he reveled in the spectacle of her misery the way he did with everyone else? Instead, here he was, holding her, steadying her, and finding her pain more intolerable than entertaining. It made no sense, and the lack of sense was maddening.

After a beat too long, he cleared his throat and made to step back. “Well then. Now that you’re… calmer, I’ll take my leave and allow you to—”

“Don’t,” Sasha said quickly, lifting her head just enough to look at him. Her eyes were still rimmed red, lashes damp, but her voice was steadier. “Please. Just… stay a little longer. I don’t—” She swallowed hard. “I don’t trust it won’t come back if I’m alone.”

Alastor hesitated, caught in the net of her gaze. His instincts warred—leave before this tangled further, or indulge her and risk… something. Something he didn’t want to name.

At last, with a flick of his fingers, a chair unfurled from shadow and wood at his side. He lowered himself into it with a showman’s grace, cane balanced across his knees, his smile returning but faint, almost bemused. “Very well, my dear. I can spare a few more minutes of my busy schedule.”

Sasha let out a shaky breath that was nearly a laugh, curling back onto the bed and drawing her knees up. For the first time since the spiral began, the room felt quiet, safe, almost warm.

Alastor leaned back in his conjured chair, his eyes never straying from her. He didn’t understand what had just passed between them, but he knew one thing with unnerving clarity: he didn’t mind it. Not at all.

Chapter Text

Sasha sat propped against the headboard, arms looped around her knees. The storm inside her had dulled, but it hadn’t vanished; her chest still felt too tight, and her hands wouldn’t quite stay still. Alastor remained in the chair across from her, cane resting against his leg, posture immaculate as though he hadn’t considered leaving for a second.

The silence stretched long enough that Sasha finally broke it. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, “I think it would be easier if I could forget their faces. My friends, I mean. The ones I lost down here. The memories keep me awake—every laugh, every stupid little thing we did—and it hurts more because it’s like I can’t remember them saying anything kind to me anymore. Just… echoes twisted up with guilt.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep going. “I guess that’s why what you said stuck with me. About sweet memories turning sour.” Her eyes lifted to him, steady despite the raw edge in her voice. “What did you mean by that, exactly?”

For once, Alastor’s grin didn’t widen in response—it stayed perfectly still, fixed in place. But something flickered behind his eyes, quick and sharp.

“Just what I said, my dear,” he replied smoothly, though his voice carried less lilt than usual. “Hell has a knack for corroding even the brightest recollections. What once offered warmth begins to cut.” He paused for a moment, debating if he wanted to divulge himself to her. Gain her trust, offer yourself in pieces to her. He couldn’t help the shiver that the thought brought to him. Handing over pieces of himself to her. 

“The only cherished memories I have from my life are the ones of my mother. I try not to think of her because those sorts of things have a tendency to be perceived as weakness here. Falsely so in my case, but perception is everything.” He finally let it slip, a bit of himself he’d never be able to take back. Sasha gazed at him softly, as if this new depth to him made her rigid armour melt slightly. Good. 

Sasha froze internally. She hadn’t been expecting him to let something soft out. She had been hoping he would, but expected it would take prying and standing firm against a few threats. For the first time, she made the effort to really look at Alastor. Past the persona he puts out, beyond the never-ending smile. Really take a chance to see the man behind the mask of a monster. Her heart swelled slightly at what she saw. 

“Why do you do what you do? The larger-than-life personality and loudness.” She decided that if he was offering information, she would take as much as she could get before he ran the other direction. Or killed her. Both were possibilities. 

“My dear, that is not a persona. I know who I am, and you should absolutely fear me and gawk. Why wouldn’t you? The power I wield could kill you in a heartbeat, even in life, I was a natural predator. I held the essence of life in my palm, I was playing the part of God. Life depended on my mercy or vindication. So yes, my personality is large as it should be. You should see me when I want you to, and fear me when I want you to. Not doing so would be unwise.” Alastor ranted slightly. 

As he spoke, static began to spread. This was precisely why he didn’t mention his softer notions. It put the wrong ideas in the heads of those in the know. That he was anything other than dangerous at his core. 

“I didn’t mean to imply you weren't, aren’t, dangerous. I guess I just don’t see why you don't show your layers more.” Sasha stood firm, confident he wouldn’t harm her and was just agitated. How could he, after spending so long comforting her. 

Alastor’s eyes glinted faintly in the lamplight, a small ripple of red passing through the black. “Layers,” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like a challenge. “You speak as though they are a virtue. Down here, layers are liabilities. They give others something to peel away.”

He leaned forward just slightly, his voice dipping lower. “And once they find what lies beneath… they always want more.”

Sasha didn’t flinch. “That sounds lonely.”

His grin stayed perfectly in place, though the edges tightened. The silence that followed stretched long enough for the faint hum of static in the air to fade back into quiet.

“Lonely?” he repeated softly, almost amused. “Perhaps. But it’s safer. I’ve learned attachments make creatures—people—unpredictable. They start expecting things of you. Kindness. Comfort. Consistency.” He clicked his tongue. “And I’ve never been particularly good at any of those.”

Sasha smiled faintly. “You’re doing fine tonight.”

Alastor tilted his head, studying her as though she’d just said something in a foreign language. “Am I?”

“You didn’t have to stay,” she said. “You could’ve left when I started falling apart. Most people would’ve.”

“Most people bore me,” he said, his grin curving just a touch wider. The usual smugness was still there, but softer now, quieter at the edges. “And besides… there’s something rather fascinating about watching you unravel and rebuild yourself all in the same breath.”

Sasha huffed a small laugh. “You make that sound like a science experiment.”

“Observation is a habit,” he replied. “One I’ve never quite shaken.”

She looked down at her hands, which had finally stopped shaking. “And what have you observed about me, then?”

He considered that, leaning back in the chair again. “You’re far too sentimental for this place,” he said finally. “Too kindhearted for your own good. It will get you killed, you know.”

“Maybe,” Sasha said. “But I’d rather die trying to stay human than turn into something I can’t recognize.”

That gave him pause. His grin stayed, of course, but the amusement behind it dulled into something unreadable. He found himself looking at her longer than he intended to, the rhythmic flicker of the lamp catching the strands of her white hair and the faint exhaustion in her face. She was still trembling, just slightly, yet somehow looked stronger for it.

He wondered—briefly, irrationally—what she might have been like in life. What she’d looked like smiling without pain lurking behind it. What she’d sound like if she laughed freely.

It was a ridiculous train of thought. Dangerous, even. But it stayed.

“You’re a fool,” he said at last, his grin never wavering but softening in tone.

“Maybe.” She tilted her head. “But you didn’t deny that I’m right.”

He chuckled quietly, and for once, it wasn’t sharp or manic. Just low. Almost warm.

The sound lingered in the air between them, easing something in Sasha’s chest she hadn’t realized was still clenched. For the first time since her panic had started, the tightness began to loosen. The storm inside her quieted, leaving only the ache of exhaustion.

Her eyes drifted to the corner of the room, unfocused, then back to him. “You ever wish you could’ve done things differently? Back then?”

Alastor’s grin held steady, though it faltered in meaning—a still mask that no longer matched the flicker of his eyes. He looked down at his hands, fingers tapping lightly against the cane.

“There are… moments,” he admitted slowly. “But no. I did what I did because it was who I was. Who I am. Regret is a luxury I have no need for.”

“But not having it doesn’t mean you don’t feel it,” she said softly.

He looked up sharply, and for a second, the air seemed to tighten. But Sasha didn’t back down.

Then, to her surprise, his grin shifted again—still fixed in place, but lighter, almost teasing, as if acknowledging a game she didn’t realize she’d won.

“You are far too perceptive, my dear.”

Sasha shrugged, her voice softer now. “I think you underestimate how easy you are to read once someone stops being afraid of you.”

He laughed under his breath—really laughed this time—and shook his head. “You’re either brave or foolish.”

“Maybe both.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was easy, companionable in a way that startled them both. Alastor leaned back again, crossing one leg over the other, pretending not to notice the warmth creeping into his chest. He had no business feeling it—he knew better than to linger this long, to let someone occupy this kind of space in his mind.

And yet, he didn’t stand.

Sasha’s voice, when it came again, was barely a whisper. “Thank you. For staying.”

He inclined his head, his grin widening fractionally. “It was my pleasure, my dear. You’ve proven to be far more… interesting than I anticipated.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile, but her eyelids had begun to droop. The adrenaline had drained from her system, leaving fatigue in its wake.

Alastor noticed. Of course he did. Every detail of her expression was cataloged in that sharp, analytical mind of his. He rose quietly, cane in hand, adjusting his coat with a smooth motion.

“I think it’s time you rest,” he said softly.

Sasha blinked up at him, drowsy but still smiling faintly. “You’re not staying?”

His grin curved into something fond—dangerously close to gentle. “Tempting as it is to continue this little heart-to-heart, I do have a reputation to maintain.”

“Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re nice,” she teased weakly.

He chuckled. “Heaven forbid.”

She watched him as he moved toward the door, the dim light glinting off his glasses. Just before stepping out, he hesitated—only for a second—and turned back.

“Sleep well, Sasha.”

Her reply was barely audible. “You too, Al.”

Something unfamiliar twisted in his chest at the nickname, and his grin remained perfectly in place—but the intent behind it had changed. For once, it wasn’t performance.

He stepped out and closed the door behind him, the faint hum of static fading as he walked down the hall. Yet even as he moved away, his thoughts lingered stubbornly in that quiet room, on the trembling girl who’d dared to see the man beneath the monster.

And for the first time in a very long while, Alastor wasn’t entirely sure which one of them was the more dangerous.

Chapter Text

The hotel’s lounge was unusually alive that afternoon—not with arguments or explosions for once, but with conversation. Laughter, hesitant at first, had started to creep into the space like sunlight through half-drawn curtains, catching on the dust and turning it to gold. It was strange, Sasha thought, how quickly the place had begun to change. A few weeks ago, the air had been thick with suspicion and side-eyes; now it felt almost… human. Or as close as Hell would ever get.

Charlie stood near the center of the room, clutching her clipboard like it was her lifeline, that bright, relentless smile fixed in place. “Okay!” she said, her voice brimming with determination. “Since our last trust exercises went so well, I thought we could build on that—something fun, something that brings us closer without the whole emotional-breakdown part!”

Angel, sprawled dramatically across the couch, lifted his head just long enough to say, “So… torture with extra steps.”

Vaggie smacked his knee. “She said fun, Angel.”

“Same difference,” he muttered.

Sasha hid a grin behind her hand, leaning back in her chair. For once, she wasn’t tense. There was still sarcasm, sure, but it didn’t have teeth anymore. They were comfortable enough to tease each other now—comfortable enough to breathe.

Alastor sat off to the side, his long legs crossed and his hands folded neatly atop his cane, that ever-present smile carved across his face. He hadn’t contributed to the chatter, not really; he seemed content to observe, head tilted slightly, red eyes glinting with quiet amusement. He was the only one who never quite blended into the chaos—too composed, too polished—but Sasha had learned that didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying it. If anything, the faint hum that rose from him whenever the group erupted into bickering said otherwise.

Charlie continued, oblivious to the groans. “I thought instead of me deciding every activity, we could all come up with ideas together! You’ll each write down two things you think might help us bond, and then we’ll put them into this.” She held up a glitter-covered top hat that sparkled like it had survived a small explosion at a craft store.

Angel whistled low. “That thing’s gonna give me hives.”

“It’s festive,” Charlie said, defensive but laughing.

“Festively cursed,” Husk muttered from his corner.

Still, one by one, everyone reached for the scraps of paper Charlie handed out. The sound of pens scratching filled the room, along with a few muttered complaints and the occasional giggle from Nifty. Sasha stared at her blank page for a long moment before finally writing:

Guided Meditation or Grounding Circle.

Then, under it:

Everyone takes turns naming something they see, hear, and feel—helps anchor in the present.

It wasn’t flashy or funny, but it was something real. A sliver of what might actually help her, even if no one else would take it seriously.

She folded the paper and glanced around. Angel was grinning to himself—she didn’t want to know what he’d written. Husk looked like he’d finished his in ten seconds flat. Pentious wore the smug look of someone who thought they’d just reinvented trust itself. And Alastor—he hadn’t written a thing yet. He was simply watching, eyes half-lidded, cane balanced across his knees, like the whole exercise was a play put on for his amusement.

“You’re not participating?” Sasha asked, arching a brow.

He chuckled, a low, rich sound. “Oh, I do so enjoy watching others fumble through teamwork. Why would I rob myself of the entertainment?”

Sasha shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Coward.”

He tilted his head, grin sharp. “Pragmatist, my dear.”

Charlie, finished collecting the folded scraps, shook the hat like a game-show host. “Alright! Let’s see what our first bonding activity will be!”

“Please be shots,” Angel whispered.

Charlie unfolded one of the slips, eyes lighting up. “Blindfolded Partner Walk!”

The collective groan that followed was enough to rattle the windows.

“You’re kidding,” Husk said flatly.

“Not at all!” Charlie chirped. “It’s perfect—trust, communication, teamwork—”

“Public humiliation,” Angel cut in.

“—and a great way to work on support!” she finished brightly.

Sasha couldn’t help it; she started laughing. Not politely, not restrained—laughing. It bubbled out of her before she could stop it, the sound surprising even herself. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since the hotel felt light like this, since laughter didn’t sound like deflection.

Alastor’s gaze flicked toward her, something unreadable glinting behind his smile. Then he turned back to Charlie and said, “Well then. I look forward to seeing how spectacularly this fails.”

“Oh, you’re doing it too,” Charlie said, narrowing her eyes.

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Absolutely not. I’ll simply officiate the chaos.”

That earned another wave of laughter from the group, Sasha’s included. She didn’t know what it was about this ridiculous hotel or these people—or even him—that made her feel, for the first time in years, like she was part of something again. But she did.

By the time Charlie and Vaggie finished setting up, the lounge looked like the aftermath of an overzealous home renovation project. Tables were dragged into uneven clusters, chairs turned sideways to form tight corridors, and an assortment of boxes, crates, and throw pillows stood in for “obstacles.” One of the larger rugs had been bunched up into a fake hill, and Nifty had proudly added streamers to the ceiling fans, which now swayed like ribbons above a battlefield.

The whole room smelled faintly of dust, old varnish, and whatever perfume Angel had been wearing that day—sweet with a hint of cigarette smoke.

Sasha crossed her arms, eyeing the mess. “You sure this isn’t gonna kill us?”

Charlie, clipboard in hand and glowing with pride, didn’t miss a beat. “Nope! It’s totally safe, we threw pillows everywhere!” As she said it, one of the aforementioned pillows, which was taped to a wall, plopped to the ground. “Mostly safe, you’ll be fine.”

“That’s bullshit,” Husk grumbled, wings flicking as he shifted his weight.

Vaggie was crouched near a pile of boxes, tapping one with her pen. “Alright, so these mark the middle line. You’ll need to guide your partner through without tripping them or smashing into anything. Communication is the goal.”

Angel stretched his arms overhead, long legs kicking idly against a chair. “Yeah, sure. Communication. That’s my specialty.”

Husk snorted. “Your specialty is being loud.”

“Details,” Angel said, tossing his hair with mock grace.

At the far wall, Alastor leaned against his cane, grin unflinching. “Ah, nothing like a little danger to build camaraderie. Do proceed, my dear—this promises to be highly entertaining.”

Charlie turned to him, eyes narrowing. “If you’re staying to watch, you’re participating.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. You don’t get to heckle from the sidelines. You’re in.”

He chuckled lightly. “Oh, I do prefer to observe chaos, not create it.”

“You do both,” Sasha said. “Might as well contribute.”

That earned her a sideways glance, something amused flickering behind his eyes. Still, he sighed dramatically and plucked a folded slip from Charlie’s outstretched hand. “Very well. I suppose I can stoop to your ridiculousness—briefly.”

Charlie grinned triumphantly and gave the hat a final shake before pulling names. “Okay! First up—Angel Dust and Nifty!”

Nifty let out an excited squeal that nearly made Husk spill his drink. “Oh, this is going to be so fun! I’m great at giving directions!”

Angel looked unconvinced. “Yeah, and I’m great at ignoring bad ones.”

“Next!” Charlie called. “Husk and… me!”

“Fan-freakin’-tastic,” Husk muttered. 

Charlie only smiled wider. “Don’t be grumpy—we’ll be great together!”

“Pretty sure I’m too old for this shit.”

“Vaggie and Sir Pentious!”

Vaggie groaned audibly. Pentious’s grin widened until it nearly split his face. “Ah, a brilliant pairing! I ssshall lead usss to victory!”

“Yeah,” Vaggie muttered, “or straight into a wall.”

Charlie glanced down at the last pair of names in her hand. “And that leaves Sasha and Alastor!”

Sasha exhaled a laugh through her nose. “Figures.”

Alastor pushed off the wall, straightening to his full height. “A most fortuitous outcome. Try to contain your excitement, my dear.”

“Trust me,” she said dryly, “it’s contained.”

Charlie clapped her hands. “Alright! Everyone ready? Blindfolds on your partners!”

Angel groaned as Nifty tied a knot behind his head. Husk grumbled something incoherent while Charlie worked around his ears. Vaggie looked ready to commit a crime as Pentious adjusted her blindfold and hissed encouragingly in her ear.

Sasha fiddled with the strip of fabric she’d been handed, staring at Alastor. “Okay, hold still.”

“Oh, no,” he said, taking a deliberate step back. “I insist—you first.”

“Why?”

“Because if I must suffer through this nonsense, it shall be under my own conditions. You’ll be blindfolded, or I’ll simply withdraw and let fate reshuffle the pairs.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t bother arguing. “You’re impossible.”

“Frequently.”

She looped the fabric around her horns with mild difficulty, trying not to snag her hair as she tied it off behind her head. The world went dark, her other senses sharpening immediately.

“All right, I’m flying blind,” she said. “You happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he murmured. “Now—take my arm. We wouldn’t want your lovely horns denting the furniture.”

She reached out until her fingers brushed his sleeve, the material smooth beneath her hand. His body radiated faint warmth despite his immaculate composure. He led her to that starting point before letting go of her completely. 

“One step forward,” he said softly from somewhere behind her. “Careful now—there’s a rug corner that’s out for blood.”

She let his voice guide her through the murk. It surprised her, how calm it made her feel. He didn’t rush her, didn’t tease—each word was measured, gentle, deliberate. She wasn’t used to hearing him like that.

Somewhere to her left, chaos bloomed.

“Stop! Stop!” Nifty cried.

“I am stopping!” Angel barked, immediately followed by a loud crash.

“Oh! Sorry! That was the chair I meant to tell you about!”

“You’re trying to kill me, you tiny gremlin!”

“Be nice!” Charlie called cheerfully from across the room.

Husk’s voice came next, low and gravelly. “Charlie, stop talking for five seconds so I can hear the floor creak.”

“Trust your instincts, Husk!”

“My instincts say to go drink somewhere else!”

“Focus!”

On the far end, Vaggie’s patience had reached its limit. “Pentious, if you say ‘turn left’ one more time when you mean right, I’m throwing you through a wall.”

“Direction is relative to the leader, not the follower!” Pentious hissed proudly. “Do keep up!”

Alastor chuckled quietly beside Sasha. “What a delightful orchestra of disaster.”

Sasha smirked, taking another careful step. “You sound awfully proud of yourself for not being part of it.”

“Oh, I’m quite proud of that, yes.”

They moved smoothly for a while—his voice low and rhythmic, her steps steady and trusting. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until he told her to turn left, and she exhaled in relief when she didn’t collide with anything.

“One more step,” he said. “And another… splendid.”

She moved forward again—and brushed against the sharp edge of a wooden crate. Before she could flinch, a sudden gust of cool air wrapped around her like a phantom hand. The contact vanished as quickly as it came. She hadn’t hit anything.

Gasps rippled through the room.

“Did anyone else sssee that?” Pentious hissed, coiling backward.

Charlie blinked from her spot near the middle of the room. “What just—did you use your shadows?”

Alastor’s tone remained effortlessly calm. “I prevented injury. Surely that’s encouraged.”

“Not with magic!” Vaggie called, adjusting her blindfold.

Husk, still navigating blindly, grumbled, “Someone tell me what the hell’s going on before I walk into a wall.”

Angel groaned. “Smiles cheated.”

Sasha frowned under the blindfold. “What happened?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Alastor said smoothly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re doing splendidly, my dear. Continue forward.”

She did, choosing not to push the subject. If he wanted to pretend nothing happened, fine. She was just grateful she hadn’t ended up with a splinter the size of a knife in her leg.

By the time Charlie announced the end of the exercise, the lounge was a wreck—upturned chairs, displaced rugs, and one very crumpled streamer wrapped around Angel’s arm. Vaggie was muttering threats, Pentious was laughing triumphantly, and Husk had already abandoned his post to refill his drink.

Sasha pulled off her blindfold, blinking until the light stopped swimming. Alastor was standing just ahead of her, leaning on his cane elegantly, grin firmly in place. There was something smug in it—but also something softer, almost amused.

“Well,” she said, brushing her hands together, “I didn’t die.”

He gave a small, theatrical bow. “A resounding success, then.”

Angel groaned from somewhere nearby. “Yeah, thanks to Mr. Shadow Hands over there.”

Alastor didn’t bother denying it. “I can’t help it if I’m simply too considerate.”

“Sure,” Husk muttered, “that’s what we all say about you.”

Charlie’s laughter echoed through the room. “Alright, everyone, that’s enough for today! Take a break—and maybe help clean up, we did make a mess.”

Sasha stepped aside, tugging her hair free where it had snagged on her horn. As the others started arguing playfully over who’d made the biggest mess, she found herself smiling—tired, a little dusty, but smiling all the same.

Alastor’s gaze caught hers briefly, red eyes glinting. He didn’t say anything—just tipped his head in her direction before vanishing into shadow with a flick of static.

Sasha shook her head, smirking faintly to herself as she brushed a curl of white hair from her face. Hell was never dull, that was for sure.