The bridge at the edge of Hell stretched out like a forgotten scar against the crimson sky. At 7:30 in the evening, the air was thick with low-hanging fog that curled around Y/n's ankles and swallowed the distant sounds of the city. She stood perfectly still, her silhouette cutting through the mist, her gaze fixed on the sprawling, neon-drenched skyline of Pentagram City.

Thirty-five years. It had been thirty-five years since she'd last stood anywhere near this place. And yet, she didn't look a day over thirty. Couldn't. Not since she'd died at twenty-five.

The city hummed with a life of its own—screams, laughter, gunfire, and jazzy static all blending together in a chaotic symphony. The fog seemed to part just enough to reveal the distant glow of the Hazbin Hotel's new sign, flickering optimistically against the gloom. So much had changed. And so much... hadn't.

A lone sinner stumbled past the far end of the bridge, too drunk to notice her. A few crows perched on the twisted railings, watching with beady red eyes. The wind stirred, carrying the faint sound of a radio broadcast from somewhere deep in the city.

She was back. And she had no idea what—or who—was waiting for her.