Y/n sat cross-legged on the worn velvet duvet, a dog-eared paperback balanced on their knee. The pages were brittle, the ink faded—a relic someone had salvaged from the living world. A testament to better times.

The only other sound was the distant hum of the hotel’s ancient pipes, and the occasional muffled shout from one of the floors below. Peace, in the Hazbin Hotel, was always a fragile, fleeting thing.

A shadow passed beneath the crack of the door. Then, silence.

A soft knock. Three deliberate taps.