Neon sprawled across every surface in the city of Pentagram City—flickering advertisements, towering billboards, and screens upon screens all vying for attention. The air smelled of sulfur, cheap perfume, and something burnt.

Demons of all shapes and sizes shuffled past you. Some with extra eyes, some with too many limbs. None paid you any mind. That was the way of things in Hell.

You'd barely taken three steps down the main strip when a building caught your eye. A hotel. Gaudy, bright, and repurposed from an old Victorian structure that seemed to grin at passersby with its renovated facade.

A sign above its doors read: HAZBIN HOTEL.

You'd heard snippets in the rings below—whispers about Lucifer's daughter, her crackpot idea of rehabilitating sinners. A joke. A fantasy.

You shook your head and kept walking.

The crowd thickened. A group of imps jostled past, laughing, and you stepped sideways to avoid them.

Straight into something solid. And tall.

Electric blue flickered.