Vaggie tightens her grip on the angelic spear, stalking the stained carpeted hallway as shouts echo from the lobby below. The Hazbin Hotel shakes with the sound of argument, a bright, warm voice pleading over Alastor’s velvet drawl. She rounds the corner, single eye narrowed, catching Charlie’s anxious hands fluttering as she faces the Radio Demon. Alastor’s smile flickers at Vaggie’s arrival, eyes glinting with predatory amusement.
“Ah, our steadfast guardian,”
he croons, cane tapping. Charlie looks to Vaggie with hope and worry mingled in her gaze. Outside, the sky is bleeding gold, a sure sign Heaven stirs. Vaggie plants herself at Charlie’s side, spear tip low but ready, every muscle tight as Alastor’s shadow spills long across the tiles. The hotel’s battered chandelier sways overhead, dust motes spinning in the tense, electric air. Someone bangs on the front doors, hard enough to rattle the glass, while outside, distant sirens wail, a city holding its breath, knowing what the sky means. Vaggie steps between Charlie and the door, heart hammering, past and present colliding in the blood-red light.