The last wall lamp in the lobby flickered twice and went out.
The red light filtering through the stained-glass windows spilled onto the floor, making the room feel even more secluded and quiet.
Vaggie remained sitting there.
She felt it was all too strange.
This was all far too strange.
Charlie was leaning against her shoulder, fast asleep.
Her mouth was slightly open, and her hand was gripping Vaggie’s sleeve tightly.
Vaggie glanced down at her, then looked over at the sofa.
The porn-star spider who usually couldn’t go three seconds without cracking five dirty jokes was now curled into a ball.
His face, usually caked in thick makeup, looked strangely plain and even somewhat juvenile in his sleep.
Vaggie looked toward the piano.
No one was there.
Moon had gone upstairs a while ago.
She supported Charlie’s weight, not moving for a long time.
Everything that had happened today was unexpected—the encounter at the door, the piano, dinner, the kitchen, and this midnight performance.
She replayed it all from start to finish, and it still didn’t feel right.
From the moment he had stumbled into them at the door, things had gone off the rails.
At the time, Vaggie had dismissed him as just another unlucky soul looking for trouble.
He had no magical aura, and she couldn’t even smell blood on him.
In this place full of monsters, he was as clean as a blank sheet of paper—completely non-threatening.
She had just thought he was weird then.
Looking back now, that judgment seemed absurd.
By virtue of that very “harmlessness,” he had smashed the unspoken rules of the Hazbin Hotel—and perhaps even Pentagram City—to pieces within a few short hours.
She thought of the way he spoke to Alastor with a gentleness that bordered on arrogance.
That Radio Demon, that lunatic who could eat Overlords for breakfast, hadn’t torn him to shreds.
Instead, like a freak who had found a kindred spirit, he had discussed things like “aesthetics” and “obligations” with him.
And then there was Angel.
That bastard wouldn’t even submit to Valentino’s whip, yet because of a meal of potatoes and a song, he had practically handed over his true self?
Even she hadn’t actually kicked him out.
Vaggie frowned, unable to wrap her head around it.
She was used to directness.
If there was a danger, you defended; if there was trouble, you blocked it; if anyone moved against Charlie, she struck first.
It was supposed to be that simple.
She felt like her common sense was being violently dismantled by something called “tenderness.”
This man, who looked like an ordinary human, hadn’t used magic, hadn’t resorted to violence, and hadn’t even spent a single cent.
He just did things.
He played the piano, cooked, said what needed to be said, and pushed things one step forward.
It was more of a headache than a direct confrontation.
Because it was hard to pin down exactly what was wrong with him.
What was he relying on?
Perhaps he relied on that long-extinct quality: “normalcy.”
In a world where everyone was insane, was a completely “normal person” actually the most inconceivable monster of all?
“Mmh…
Vaggie…”
Charlie mumbled in her sleep, nuzzling against Vaggie’s neck.
A warrior’s instinct made Vaggie’s muscles tense, but the moment she felt Charlie’s warm, soft cheek, she relaxed again.
She raised her hand, hesitated for a second, then reached out to tuck a stray hair behind Charlie’s ear.
“Forget it.”
If she couldn’t figure it out, she wouldn’t think about it for now.
No matter where that man came from, at least Charlie was sleeping well.
Angel hadn’t gone out to mess around.
Husk hadn’t drunk himself into a stupor.
It was…
nice.
“Goodnight, Charlie.”
She pressed a light kiss to Charlie’s forehead and then looked toward the second floor.
***
Second floor.
The end of the hallway.
The door lock clicked shut.
After Moon entered his room, he didn’t turn on the lights.
The balcony door wasn’t tightly sealed, and the wind whistled through the gap with a low moan.
He walked to the balcony door and looked out through the glass.
Just as it had been before he went downstairs, the city was still ablaze with light.
Colossal billboards flashed tirelessly.
Valentino’s sexually suggestive slogans and Vox’s hypocritical digital face bombarded the retinas in turns.
Searchlight beams swept across the sky as if hunting for fugitives or perhaps just flaunting the misplaced power of the Overlords.
Through the glass, Moon could almost hear the city breathing.
It was a heavy, labored gasp made of desire, despair, revelry, and wailing.
It was sick.
Grievously so.
But this hotel was like a patch of healthy cells on a massive, diseased body.
Though tiny and squeezed by the surrounding cancerous tissue until it was teetering, it was still beating.
Moon pressed his hand against the glass, covering his own blurred reflection.
It felt ice-cold.
He replayed the entire day in his head.
Many things had gone more smoothly than expected.
Perhaps a little too smoothly.
Alastor’s interest, Charlie’s dependence, Angel’s trust, and Vaggie’s confusion.
These were all chips—the first pieces he had placed on the chessboard.
Even in this place where gods and demons danced, as long as there were hearts, there were openings to exploit.
Moon closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.
At the very least, he had secured a foothold in the hotel.
He turned and sat on the bed, pressing down on the mattress.
It would do.
When he lay down, the pillow didn’t feel particularly soft—it was likely stuffed with stiff bird feathers—but it carried the dry scent of something that had been baked in the sun.
Moon rested his hands behind his head and stared at a mottled water stain on the ceiling.
He hadn’t used violence today, nor had he borrowed any external power.
He had relied on the old methods: insight into the human heart, exploiting the rules, and a bit of well-timed performance.
It seemed the “mortal laws of survival” were applicable even in Hell.
Drowsiness slowly washed over him.
The melody of the *Canon* seemed to have hypnotized more than just Angel.
His eyelids grew heavier.
The red light outside the window seemed to soften, losing its stinging glare.