Angel Dust twirls a cocktail straw between two fingers, flashing a practiced grin at Husk as he slides onto the cracked red barstool. The old cat demon wipes down a chipped glass, eyeing Angel with the usual mix of irritation and quiet worry. Behind them, Charlie hums nervously, rearranging a crooked centerpiece for the third time, her optimism almost stubborn enough to fill the drafty room. Alastor looms at the end of the bar, grinning like a shark at midnight. Angel lets out a laugh just loud enough to echo, flicking one of his pink-furred arms in a theatrical wave.
"You guys wanna hear the worst joke in Hell?"
he says, voice sweet and cracked with exhaustion. The bar smells like cheap gin and something faintly floral, the kind of place where secrets stick to the wallpaper. Husk grumbles, pouring Angel a drink without being asked. Charlie looks up with that same gentle hope that makes Angel’s chest ache. The neon outside flickers. Time to decide: play the clown, trust the wrong ones, or let himself hope the punchline might finally change.