H
Max shadow-stepped back into the Hazbin Hotel with a soft crackle of displaced reality, the air briefly warping around him before settling. His boots hit the lobby floor a half-second late, his balance off just enough to remind him that his body still wasn't right.
Both arm were full—paper bags, insulated boxes, foil-wrapped containers, and a couple of suspiciously well-protected bottles—all stacked haphazardly against his chest. The faint smell of spices, sugar, grease, and real human-world seasoning spread instantly through the lobby.
He exhaled slowly.
Long-distance hopping through the human world always took more out of him than he liked to admit. Doing it while missing an arm, running on a glitching body, and carrying enough food to feed a small army made it worse. Somewhere on his lower back, the timer itched beneath his clothes like a phantom burn.
Still ticking.
The hotel lobby was quiet.
Too quiet.
No shouting from Angel.
No clatter of Husk slamming bottles.
No Nifty skittering across the floor muttering about stains.
No Alastor humming ominously in the corner.
Max paused, ears twitching, tail flicking low.
"…Great," he muttered. "Either everyone's asleep… or something horrible just happened."
Nothing exploded.
That was a good sign.
He trudged toward the bar anyway, shoulders sagging as he finally dumped the bags down beside a stool. His shadow peeled up automatically, catching a couple boxes before they hit the floor and stacking them neatly.
Husk glanced up from behind the bar, one ear cocked, a glass in his hand.
"…Damn, kid," he said after a second, eyes narrowing. "You look like someone chewed you up and spit you out. Or like you spent the day with Blitzø, which is basically the same thing."
Max dropped onto the stool with a heavy thunk, resting his forehead briefly against the cool wood of the bar.
"Hey, Husk," he sighed. "Yeah. I could seriously use a drink. Like… a real one."
Husk snorted, setting the glass aside. "Yeah? What's your poison?"
"Anything strong," Max replied, lifting his head. "Unless you can hit Beelzejuice levels, I'm probably not even gonna feel it."
He reached into the shadow pocket at his side and pulled out a handful of Hell currency, setting it neatly on the counter.
Husk froze.
He stared at the money.
Then at Max.
Then back at the money.
"…Hold up," Husk said slowly. "People actually pay for drinks in this hotel?"
Max shrugged weakly. "I'm trying to set a good example."
Husk stared at him for a long moment.
"…That's adorable," he muttered, scooping the money up anyway. "And for the record, no—I don't have Beelzejuice. I've been dying to experiment with that stuff, but the Queen of Gluttony keeps it locked down tighter than Charlie's optimism."
"You can't make it," Max said, stretching his remaining arm with a small grimace. "Bee doesn't brew it from ingredients. She converts indulgence into a physical state. Magic feedback loop only she can pull off. Total monopoly."
Husk's wings drooped slightly. "Figures."
"But," Max added, lifting a finger, "if you make me something good? I can ask her to bring a barrel here. She owes me a few favors."
Husk's eyes lit up like slot machines hitting triple sevens.
"…Say less."
He immediately went into full bartender-mad-scientist mode—bottles flying, liquids igniting briefly in midair, powders sprinkled with surgical precision. The glass hummed faintly as enchantments settled into it.
A minute later, Angel Dust shuffled into the lobby, dragging his feet, shoulders slumped.
"I need something strong," Angel groaned, collapsing onto the stool next to Max. "Val worked my ass off today. Almost literally."
Husk didn't even look up. He started mixing a second drink automatically.
Max took a sip of his own.
"…Holy shit," he said, ears perking. "Husk, this is amazing."
Husk scoffed, but his tail flicked in quiet pride. "Damn right it is."
Angel peeked into Max's glass. "So Maxie… why's Bee so low on your rotation? I barely see you two together. I thought Gluttony gals were supposed to be clingy in a fun, gross way."
Husk's ears twitched with interest.
Max sighed, swirling the drink slightly. "It's not like that. Bee's just… Bee. She throws parties nonstop. Feeds half her Ring personally. I'm lucky if I see her three times a month."
Angel raised a brow. "Doesn't that make her jealous of the others?"
"You'd think so," Max said. "But honestly? The girls hang out with each other more than with me. Weekly video calls they think I don't know about."
Husk snorted. "How'd you find out?"
"Charlie forgot to hang up once," Max replied flatly. "I walked in because her bed collapsed mid-call."
Angel burst out laughing, nearly spilling his drink.
Max took another sip, relaxing slightly. "I'm actually glad they get along. Especially Octavia. She's shy as hell, but she's coming out of her shell."
He glanced at the stacked food boxes. "They've got great ideas for the hotel too. Stuff I still haven't had time to implement. I was kinda hoping Alastor—"
The air rippled.
Static crackled.
The lights flickered.
Alastor appeared beside the bar as if he'd always been there, microphone cane resting lightly in his hand, grin razor-wide. Nifty skittered in behind him, already inspecting the floor for nonexistent stains.
Angel nearly choked on his drink.
"…Speak of the devil," Max said dryly.
"You rang?" Alastor asked cheerfully, radio static humming beneath his voice.
"No," Max replied. "But apparently that doesn't matter."
Nifty waved excitedly. "Hi Max! Hi Angel! Hi Husk! Oh—Max! Why do you look so tired? Did you fight someone? Did you die? Did you kill someone? Did you—"
"Nifty," Alastor interrupted pleasantly. "Hush."
Max chuckled despite himself. "Renovations. Husk, pour him something good."
Husk happily complied.
Max slid more currency across the bar. "For his too."
Alastor sat, crossing his legs gracefully. "You know, Charlie was right about you, Max. You're far too kind for a sinner—especially one with your power."
Max lifted his glass. "Not a bad thing."
They drank.
For a brief, fragile moment, the Hazbin Hotel felt… calm.
Which, in Hell, meant the universe was already lining up something catastrophic just out of sight.