Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It began, as these things often do, with blood and fire.

The room reeked of sweat, blood, and that acrid smoky smell like someone had burned their dinner—but infinitely worse. Flickering candles provided the only light, casting dancing shadows on walls defaced with dripping red paint that hadn't yet dried. Someone had tried to mask the stench with sage, succeeding only in creating a nauseating cocktail of odors.

A group of people in dark robes huddled around a makeshift altar, whispering frantically to each other. Their eyes held that wild, unfocused look from horror movies—the gaze of people who had crossed a line they could never uncross.

The summoning circle was a complete disaster. Not the darkly beautiful, intricate patterns you'd see in films or books, but the sloppy, half-drunk scrawl of people who thought copying chalk runes from sketchy occult websites would grant them power.

Sheets of paper littered the walls—literally Google search results, complete with the little footer text still visible at the bottom of each page.

The candles surrounding the circle stood uneven and crooked. The circle itself looked like it had been drawn by someone having a seizure. The whole place reeked of cheap incense and far too much Axe body spray.

And in the middle of their pathetic circle lay a baby—so still and quiet you might mistake him for a doll.

The cult leader—if you could call him that—threw up his arms, red paint streaked across his face like war paint, though it dripped so badly it looked more like melted lipstick. His voice cracked with nervous energy as he began the chant they'd probably rehearsed dozens of times.

"Let the blood of the innocent open the gates!" he shouted dramatically. "We call upon the powers of darkness! We summon you, Lord of Hell, to grant us your strength!"

Behind him, one of the robed figures broke the illusion with a stage-whisper: "Are you sure this is gonna work?"

"Shut up, Derek," the leader snapped, never lowering his arms. "I followed the instructions exactly."

That's when everything went to hell. Literally.

The chalk lines on the floor suddenly blazed with blinding light. Candles went flying in every direction. The air itself seemed to scream—not a human scream, but something far worse, like reality tearing apart.

Then, in an instant, every single person in those robes simply... exploded.

Like water balloons popped all at once.

Blood and viscera splattered everywhere, leaving grotesque piles of gore scattered across the ground. The walls became a canvas of crimson, with organs slowly sliding down the blood-soaked surfaces. It was the most horrifying thing imaginable—grotesque, wrong, the kind of horror story that should've ended with the camera fading to black.

But instead—

A figure appeared.

Right in the middle of all that chaos, Charlie Morningstar materialized as if she'd been teleported there. She nearly dropped her college textbooks—which seemed reasonable under the circumstances.

"What the hell?!" she gasped, spinning around as her sneakers squeaked on the now-bloody floor. Her voice pitched higher with panic as she took in the carnage. "Oh God, what is this place?"

Her blonde hair bounced wildly as she tried to process the scene. One second she'd been cramming for finals in her dorm with a cup of coffee; now she stood in what looked like a crime scene from her worst nightmare.

"This can't be real," she whispered, backing against the wall and clutching her books like a shield. "This is just a nightmare. It has to be. I'm going to wake up in my dorm any second now."

But then she felt something strange—like someone had attached an invisible rope to her chest, pulling her toward the altar. She recognized that sensation from her father's stories: the binding that tied supernatural beings to their summoners. Except this time, impossibly, it was happening to her.

She turned toward the altar and saw him.

The baby.

Charlie's breath caught.

He was so impossibly small, lying motionless on the altar like a porcelain doll. His chest didn't rise. His tiny fists didn't twitch. Someone had dressed him in soft white clothes, too innocent for such a vile scene. And there, stitched in blue thread across his little shirt, was a name:

Alastor.

The embroidery was careful, delicate—the kind only done by someone who had loved him dearly.

Charlie's heart shattered.

Her books thudded to the floor as she stumbled forward, knees buckling as she fell beside him. The gore soaked through her jeans, but she didn't care.

"No, no, no…" Her hands trembled as she gathered him into her arms. He was feather-light. Too light. Already cooling, his eyes closed forever.

"Please," she begged, tears stinging her eyes as she rocked him instinctively, as if motion alone could coax breath back into his lungs. "Please don't be gone. Please don't let this be real."

She held him close, tears streaming down her face as she rocked back and forth.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You didn't deserve this. You were just a baby."

That invisible rope between them pulsed with dark energy—she could feel it wrapping around both their souls. In the demon world, it meant ownership. Someone summons you, they own you completely. But how could this be ownership when the supposed "summoner" was just a murdered child?

This was all wrong. This was an innocent baby murdered by delusional fanatics.

"They killed you," she said, her voice thick with grief and rage. "They actually sacrificed a baby. What kind of monsters..." She couldn't finish the sentence.

She wanted to be furious—wanted to resurrect those cultist monsters just to tear them apart with her bare hands. But mostly she felt heartbroken and hollow. All she could do was sit there holding him, whispering apologies he would never hear for the baby who never had a chance.

Finally, she managed to stand and carry him outside, away from the blood and horror. She found a peaceful spot under a large oak tree, far from the nightmare scene inside, and did something she'd never done before—she dug a grave with her bare hands. Her fingernails cracked and split, her palms scraped raw, but she kept going until it was perfect.

She laid him down with infinite gentleness, smoothing his clothes and brushing his dark hair.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," she whispered through tears. "You should have grown up happy and loved. You should have had birthdays and Christmas mornings and someone to read you bedtime stories."

She buried him herself, patting down each handful of earth like tucking him into bed. "Sleep peacefully, little one," she murmured. "You're safe now."

When it was done, Charlie gathered wildflowers from the grass and laid them in a neat bundle atop the fresh earth. She knelt there, eyes burning as she lifted her face to the indifferent night sky.

"Please," she prayed, voice breaking. "Please let him find peace. He was innocent."

And for the first time in her life, the Princess of Hell prayed not to her father, nor to Heaven, but to anyone who might be listening.

When the summoning spell finally yanked her consciousness back to Hell, she hit the obsidian floor hard enough to bruise. Her arms felt achingly empty—until that magical rope gave a sharp, powerful tug.

Suddenly her arms weren't empty anymore.

Charlie looked down, unable to believe what she was seeing.

The baby—warm, breathing, gloriously alive. His tiny chest rose and fell steadily. His eyes were closed, and she could hear the softest little snores.

Charlie let out a shocked gasp. "Oh my God! You're—you're alive!"

Her outburst woke the baby, and his eyes fluttered open to look directly at her—curious, bright, somehow familiar. He made a little cooing sound, almost like a greeting, then lifted his tiny arms toward her as if asking to be held closer.

Charlie broke down completely, but this time with overwhelming relief mixed with guilt.

"Hey there, sweetheart," she whispered through tears, pulling him closer. "I'm here. You're okay now."

She cried harder than she'd ever cried in her life, clutching him against her chest and rocking him gently while apologizing over and over.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed into his soft hair. "I'm so, so sorry this happened to you."

The cruel reality hit her—he was a sinner now, bound to Hell forever. And since sinners remained the same age they died, Alastor would always be a baby. He'd never grow up, never have a real life, never experience all that had been so brutally stolen from him.

But as she held him, feeling his warmth and hearing his contented sounds, something fierce and protective awakened in her chest.

"But I've got you now," she said with quiet determination, looking into his innocent eyes. "And I'm going to make sure you're safe. You're going to be so loved, little guy. I promise I'll take care of you."

The baby made a soft sound and seemed to snuggle closer, as if he understood.

"That's right," Charlie whispered, smiling through her tears. "You're stuck with me now."

That binding rope was still there, trying to enforce the traditional rules of ownership and control. But Charlie had different plans.

She closed her eyes and reached deep within herself, calling on the power she'd inherited from her father—abilities she usually tried to ignore because they reminded her too much of Hell's cruelty.

"No," she said firmly to the magical contract trying to claim him. "We're not doing it that way. This isn't about ownership." She looked down at the baby in her arms. "This is about family."

She grasped the connection between them and began reshaping it with pure will and determination. Instead of ownership, she forged adoption. Instead of control and domination, she wove in love—real, unconditional, protective love.

Light filled the room, warm and golden. The baby began to glow softly, and tiny horns appeared on his head—just little nubs, barely visible. His dark hair shifted to deep red, and when he opened his eyes again, they sparkled with crimson flecks.

Most remarkably, he took on subtle demonic features—the beginnings of small deer ears, a little black spot on his nose like a fawn, and the distinctive red cheekmarks that marked him as part of the Morningstar family.

When the light faded, he yawned—the most perfectly normal baby sound—and snuggled contentedly against her warmth.

Charlie held him close, exhausted but filled with wonder. He wasn't a full sinner anymore, but he wasn't exactly a hellborn demon either. He was something entirely new—something that could grow and change and choose his own path, despite the circumstances of his death.

Her son.

It was the most traumatic thing that had ever happened to her, born from unthinkable cruelty and loss. But it was also the most important and meaningful decision she'd ever made.

She looked down at his peaceful little face and smiled through her tears.

"Hi there, Alastor. I'm Charlie, and I'm your mom now. And I love you. More than anything in any realm."

For the first time since this nightmare began, she felt like maybe—just maybe—everything was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

Charlie Morningstar had always carried the weight of expectations like an iron crown—gleaming on the outside, but unbearably heavy beneath the surface.

Professors demanded brilliance at roll call, classmates whispered when she entered a room, and paparazzi waited outside campus cafés like vultures with lenses.

She learned early to smile like it didn’t matter, to color-code her entire life into neat little boxes—lectures, study groups, internships, all precisely aligned in rainbow ink. But nothing in her perfectly balanced world, not even the sharp edges of her planners or the late-night rehearsals of her “everything’s fine” smile, had prepared her for him.

The tiny soul nestled against her chest at three in the morning.

Alastor.

Her baby boy.

The adoption contract still burned fresh in her memory, its clauses and signatures etched into her thoughts. She replayed it over and over, as if checking it one more time would prove this wasn’t some fragile dream. A botched summoning, a contract gone wrong—or maybe right—and suddenly, the most important decision of her life had been written in ink she’d never regret.

Now, Charlie’s nights were a strange kind of circus. One hand clutching an Advanced Demonology textbook, the other cradling a fussy infant, she lived in constant motion. Her backpack was chaos incarnate. Formula packets shoved between lecture notes, highlighters rolling loose beside pacifiers, her thesis draft smudged with spit-up.

Her professors still expected perfection. Her classmates still expected her to lead every cram session.

But Alastor needed none of that.

He needed lullabies sung by a voice raw from endless presentations, bottles warmed in the communal dorm kitchen at ungodly hours, arms always ready to scoop him up before his whimpers turned into wails.

Charlie wanted to give him everything—everything she herself had never truly been given.

Safety. Unconditional love. A life untouched by legacy.

But the truth haunted her in every sleepless hour: love alone wasn’t enough.

He needed care. Real care. A doctor. Vaccinations. Guidance from someone who knew what the hell they were doing.

And she couldn’t risk a clinic. Not with her name splashed across Hell’s gossip rags. The tabloids would tear her apart before she even made it past the waiting room. Hell’s Princess Playing House? Morningstar Family Secret Revealed?

No. She couldn’t let them write his story like that.

So she kept her secrets tight. Concealer over exhaustion. Lies for professors. Excuses for missed classes. A smile rehearsed to perfection, even when she hadn’t slept in three days.

Her parents hadn’t answered a single call.

Her professors gave her freedom only because her last name demanded it.

And her dormmates? They never even noticed the bassinet wedged between Charlie’s bed and her desk, the diapers stacked in her closet, the growing mountain of tiny clothes that dwarfed her own wardrobe.

The world saw a princess. A perfectionist. A Morningstar.

But in the quiet dark of her dorm, with Alastor’s tiny breaths rising and falling against her chest, Charlie knew the truth.

There was only one person she could trust completely.

Belphegor’s voice came through the phone like velvet dragged over gravel—sleepy, rich, and unmistakably irritated.

“Charlie, darling…” she groaned, dragging out the syllables.

“It’s barely noon on a Saturday. Students your age are supposed to be hungover, melodramatically rethinking their life choices—not harassing their poor aunt who was up until four A.M. untangling the nightmares of half this city.”

Charlie pressed the phone so hard to her ear it might crack. Her pacing carved a restless path between the desk and the window, the narrow dorm room suddenly feeling even smaller. Alastor gurgled happily from his bouncy seat, kicking his tiny feet, oblivious to the hurricane building in his mother’s chest.

The words tumbled out before she could control them. “Auntie Bel, I need a favor. A huge—huge—favor. Private. Please-don’t-ask-too-many-questions kind of favor. Pediatric care. Discreet pediatric care. Immediately.”

On the other end came the rustle of silk sheets, the sound sharp and intimate in Charlie’s ear. Belphegor rarely sat up for anyone—that Charlie had shocked her into movement felt like some kind of omen.

“Pediatric?” The drowsy drawl cracked into something sharper, the weight of centuries sliding into her tone.

“My star, you’re still in college. Your biggest responsibility should be remembering to eat something besides energy bars and coffee. Don’t tell me you’ve impulsively adopted some… exotic pet. I still remember the hellhound puppy fiasco when you were twelve.”

Charlie bit her lip until copper spread on her tongue. Her reply cracked, desperate.

“Not a pet. You’ll understand when you see him. Please, Auntie Bel. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t—” her voice broke, “—important.”

Silence. Long, assessing silence—the kind of quiet that meant Belphegor was sifting through everything unsaid, weighing the Morningstar legacy against the trembling in her niece’s voice.

“Him?” she said finally, a single syllable slicing through the air like a blade.

Charlie’s heart stumbled in her chest. “I—please. Just trust me?”

Another pause. This one heavier. Then a soft, resigned sigh—the sound of someone opening the door to inevitable chaos.

“Fine,” Belphegor said at last, voice gone cool but not unkind.

“Bring this mystery to my chambers. No assistants. No files. No one else involved. Just you, me… and whatever has you sounding like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin with anxiety.”

Charlie closed her eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. In the bouncy seat, Alastor kicked again, as if sensing the shift in the air.

For the first time in weeks, she felt the smallest flicker of hope.

Belphegor’s chambers existed in perpetual twilight. The air was thick with lavender incense and the hush of a thousand unfinished dreams. Heavy velvet curtains smothered daylight, leaving only pools of golden lamplight that shimmered across the silks draped carelessly over furniture. The room breathed drowsy luxury—soft, warm, timeless, like a cocoon spun by someone who lived balanced on the edge of sleep.

Charlie stepped inside on trembling legs, clutching the duck-patterned blanket in her arms—a bundle that carried far more than fabric. Alastor rested against her chest, his tiny breaths warming her collarbone, the familiar scent of her childhood blanket clinging to him and keeping her steady as dread coiled tight in her chest.

“You’re here,” Belphegor yawned from her chaise, stretching like a spoiled cat roused too soon from sunlit dreams.

Her silk robe shimmered with each lazy motion, hair tousled in a rare imperfection that might’ve been endearing—if Charlie weren’t terrified.

Belphegor’s lips curved into a languid smirk. “Now, what could possibly be so monumentally important that you’ve dragged me into consciousness before sunset—”

The words died mid-stretch when the bundle in Charlie’s arms shifted… and released the tiniest, unmistakably human yawn.

Silence fell. Heavy. Crushing.

Belphegor’s eyes widened. In a single fluid movement, she sat bolt upright—every trace of drowsy charm gone. For the first time in Charlie’s life, her aunt looked fully awake.

“Charlotte Morningstar,” Belphegor said slowly, each syllable sharp as a blade. She hadn’t used Charlie’s full name since scolding her over broken vases at age twelve, and hearing it now made her stomach twist.

“That is not a kitten. That is not a hellhound puppy. That is definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent… an infant.”

Charlie’s arms tightened instinctively, drawing Alastor closer as though she could shield him from judgment. He cooed softly, the fragile sound cutting through the silence like a bell.

“His name is Alastor,” Charlie whispered. “And he’s mine.”

The words cracked something open inside her. Everything came tumbling out—messy, frantic, unstoppable. She told Belphegor about the summoning gone wrong, about the humans who had tried to drag her father across dimensions, about the horror of finding a baby in the circle instead of a sacrifice.

The contract.

The choice.

The nights pacing her dorm room, singing lullabies half-remembered from childhood. Warming bottles in the communal kitchen. Hiding diapers in her closet. Writing essays one-handed while rocking him in the other arm. Professors who wouldn’t question her. Parents who wouldn’t answer her calls.

“I know it sounds insane,” Charlie said at last, voice trembling and raw.

“I know I’m probably in way over my head. But when I look at him—” she swallowed hard, “—I can’t imagine any other choice. He deserves more than being a pawn. More than being forgotten. He deserves someone who’ll fight for him. Someone who will love him.”

By the time her words faded, Alastor was asleep against her shoulder, his tiny fingers curled around a strand of her hair as though anchoring himself to her.

Belphegor stared. Her gaze lingered on Charlie—this trembling, exhausted young woman who had somehow carried the impossible—and then on the baby, small and warm and utterly trusting.

For one fragile breath, the centuries-old sin’s mask cracked, and something almost holy flickered across her expression. Wonder.

Then, in a rare ripple of urgency, Belphegor rose. She crossed the room in three graceful steps and wrapped her arms around both mother and child, her silk robe enveloping them in warmth and lavender.

“My little star,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to Charlie’s temple as her hand found the baby’s downy head.

“Still in college, still the niece who brings me coffee and listens to my complaints about morning appointments… and somehow, you’ve become a mother. You’ve grown into someone stronger than I ever dreamed you could be.”

She looked down at the bundle nestled in Charlie’s arms—at the tiny, peaceful face framed by duck-print fabric. Her voice softened to something reverent.

“And this little one… my great-nephew. Hello there, sweetheart.”

Charlie’s breath left her in a shudder, relief so powerful her knees nearly gave way. For the first time in weeks, the weight she’d carried eased—replaced by something fragile and radiant.

Not as Hell’s Princess.

Not as a student.

But as Alastor’s mother.

Belphegor held them both for a long, unspoken moment, as if memorizing the shape of this small miracle—the night’s laziest sin cradling the morning’s brightest hope.

Belphegor’s chambers, once the picture of decadent repose, had transformed into something altogether different. Silk cushions were pushed aside, incense trays teetered precariously on the mantel, and a soft towel had been laid across her chaise like an improvised exam table. The room, usually steeped in drowsy twilight, now pulsed with quiet purpose—every pool of golden lamplight sharpened into focus.

From a cabinet Charlie hadn’t even noticed before, Belphegor retrieved a collection of startlingly mundane tools: a stethoscope coiled neatly like a serpent, a sleek digital thermometer, and a baby scale that looked wildly out of place amid the velvet and gold.

Charlie blinked. “You… you keep all this here?”

Belphegor smirked faintly as she looped the stethoscope around her neck with practiced ease.

“Perks of being the Sin of Sloth. You’d be amazed how many parents come to me begging for help when they haven’t slept in weeks. You see enough exhausted families, you start picking up skills.”

Her tone was light, but her movements were deliberate—the lazy sin turned physician. She reached for Charlie’s trembling hand and guided it gently.

“Here. Place your palm right on his chest.”

Charlie obeyed, her fingers trembling as they settled over the small, steady rise and fall of Alastor’s ribcage. His warmth pressed through the towel, grounding her.

“Feel that rhythm?” Belphegor’s voice softened. “That’s what you want. Even, steady. If it ever becomes strained—too fast, too shallow—you call me. Immediately. Understand?”

“Yes,” Charlie breathed, nodding frantically.

She grabbed the small notebook she’d decorated with stars and ducks—Alastor’s book—and scribbled every word in block letters.

Check for fever twice daily.

Breathing must stay steady.

Call Auntie Bel if ANYTHING feels wrong.

Her hand was cramped, but she didn’t stop. This wasn’t just information. This was survival.

Belphegor continued, showing her how to tilt the bottle so the formula flowed without trapping air.

“Tilt it like this. Keep the nipple full. Otherwise…” Her lips curved knowingly. “You’ll spend three hours listening to him cry, and both of you will be miserable.”

Charlie flushed. “I’ve been doing everything wrong, haven’t I?”

“Every new mother thinks that,” Belphegor murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from Charlie’s damp cheek.

The answer came with disarming gentleness.

“I’ve seen demons who command armies crumble at the sound of their child’s first wail. The fact that you’re here, asking, learning—my little star, that’s proof you’re already doing more right than wrong.”

From there, the lesson unfolded with patient precision. Burping, diaper checks, swaddling. Each movement was careful, efficient—tempered by a tenderness Charlie had never expected from her famously languid aunt.

“Babies are sturdier than they look,” Belphegor explained as she folded the duck-print blanket around Alastor until he resembled a tidy little cocoon.

“But they depend on you to understand them. His cries will teach you more than any book. Hunger, exhaustion, discomfort—you’ll learn to hear the difference. It’s a language only the two of you will share.”

Charlie’s throat tightened. The thought of her son speaking a language only she could understand felt sacred—like a promise whispered between heartbeats.

When the lesson ended, Belphegor took Charlie’s notebook, flipped to the front page, and scrawled a number in bold ink. Her handwriting was sharp, uncompromising.

“My emergency cell,” she said, closing the book with a decisive snap before handing it back.

“Speed dial. Day, night, weekend, holiday—I don’t care if I’m mid-session or dead asleep. If Alastor so much as sneezes wrong, you call me.”

Charlie gaped. “But… you hate being woken up. You don’t even allow morning appointments—”

Belphegor’s expression shifted, all velvet smoothness giving way to something raw and fierce. She reached down, brushing her thumb over Alastor’s downy hair.

“Even Sloth runs full speed when family needs her,” she said softly, voice edged with iron.

Then, almost reverently: “Especially when it’s my star.”

Charlie’s breath hitched. Gratitude burned behind her ribs so bright it hurt. For the first time since she’d carried Alastor out of that summoning circle, she didn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

Word spread through Hell’s upper echelons faster than wildfire in a brimstone field. Within forty-eight hours of Charlie’s visit to Belphegor, her phone buzzed non-stop with calls from relatives she hadn’t spoken to in months. Apparently, the news that Lucifer’s daughter was raising a baby traveled at the speed of scandal—and family obligation.

Beelzebub arrived first. Naturally, she didn’t knock.

Charlie was mid-diaper change, tongue poking out in concentration as she wrestled tiny, flailing legs into a clean set of pajamas. The door to her dorm room exploded open with such force that her roommate’s motivational posters went airborne.

“CHARLIE MORNINGSTAR!” Bee’s voice thundered like a bass drop at one of her concerts. “YOU DIDN’T TELL ME I’M AN HONORARY GODMOTHER!”

Charlie yelped, nearly dropping the baby wipes.

“Aunt Bee!” she hissed, frantically shushing. “The RA’s going to think I’m running an illegal rave!”

Bee struck a dramatic pose in the doorway, hands on hips, hair glowing like stage lights. “Which you totally are. A baby rave! The best kind!”

Before Charlie could protest, Bee swooped across the room. And for once in her chaotic life, she slowed down. Her manic energy folded itself into careful movements as she crouched beside the bassinet.

“Oh my Satan,” she whispered reverently, eyes wide. “Look at him. He’s perfect. The fingers! The toes! Who’s the most precious little sugar dumpling in all of Hell? You are! Yes, you are!”

Charlie slapped a hand over her face. “Please don’t call my son a sugar dumpling.”

“Why not?!” Bee gasped. “He’s got edible cheeks! Not literally edible, obviously—well… unless…”

She tilted her head, already scheming. “Has he tried honey yet? I have a vintage lavender blend that would—”

“He’s an infant!” Charlie squawked, horrified. “He can barely hold his head up, let alone eat honey!”

Bee pouted dramatically, as though personally victimized by developmental milestones.

“Fine. But when he can eat solids, I’m introducing him to gourmet snacks. No great-nephew of mine is growing up on bland formulas!”

By morning, Charlie’s dorm room looked like a candy store had detonated. Floor-to-ceiling stacks of pastel boxes and glittery gift bags: artisanal honey jars, fruit snacks shaped like honey bees, teething biscuits that probably cost more than Charlie’s tuition. Even the RA left a warning slip on the door that simply read: This is excessive.

Intervention was necessary.

Charlie lured Bee to the campus coffee shop, choosing neutral ground where witnesses might keep things from escalating.

“Aunt Bee,” she said gently, stirring her latte like she was preparing for war. “I love you. And I love how much you want to spoil Alastor. But he literally can’t eat ninety percent of what you’ve given him.”

Bee gasped, clutching her chest like Charlie had driven a dagger through her. “But I want to be the cool aunt! The one with the good snacks!”

“You can be the cool aunt,” Charlie soothed, “who saves the good snacks for when he has teeth. For now, maybe… toys? Bottles? Things that don’t risk sending us both to the ER?”

There was a long, dramatic pause.

Then, Bee slumped across the café table, defeated. “Fine. But I’m putting a sticky note on my calendar: Operation Snacktime—begin when Alastor grows molars.”

Charlie sighed in relief.

The next delivery was far more manageable: soft plushies in calming pastels, rattles with gentle sounds, baby-safe blankets that smelled faintly of honey, and a pantry so well-stocked with infant formula that Charlie wouldn’t need to make a single store run until graduation.

Bee beamed proudly as she handed it over. “See? Responsible godmother mode. But just wait. The second that boy cuts in a tooth? I’m unleashing a snack revolution.”

Charlie buried her face in her hands. She had a feeling she’d be negotiating with Bee until Alastor’s adulthood.

Asmodeus didn’t arrive so much as he descended—heralded by a noise that sounded like a parade, a stage play, and a drunken afterparty all colliding at once.

Charlie heard them three floors away—the deep boom of Ozzie’s laughter rolling through the dormitory halls, harmonizing perfectly with Fizzarolli’s shrill cackle. The sound grew louder until her door flung open with theatrical flair, as if Hell’s Sin of Lust had decided her dorm was tonight’s main event.

“Doll!” Ozzie declared, voice rich and dramatic, his many arms spreading wide like velvet curtains parting on opening night.

“If I’d known you were launching Hell’s most exclusive daycare, I’d have insisted on handling the interior design myself. This place—” he gave the walls a scandalized glance “—needs a makeover worthy of royalty!”

Fizzarolli pranced in behind him, barely visible behind a gift basket that looked like it belonged in a luxury catalog.

“Kid’s living like a broke college student,” Fizz said with mock horror, balancing the basket with a flourish. “Which—technically—you are. But still. Babies deserve glamour!”

Charlie’s jaw dropped as one glittering treasure after another emerged from the basket.

A state-of-the-art baby monitor that could stream straight to her phone. Ergonomic bottles that practically burped themselves. A changing pad so plush it made Charlie’s mattress look medieval.

And finally—because there had to be a grand finale—a crib that glowed faintly with enchanted lullabies, its mobile turning lazily overhead with celestial music.

Charlie was already overwhelmed when Fizz pulled out his own separate offering.

“This one’s from me,” he said more softly, his tone shedding its usual bite. From behind his back, he revealed a small, hand-carved wooden duck. He crouched and slipped it gently into Alastor’s tiny palm.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t enchanted. But it was beautiful—smooth lines polished by care, feathers etched into the grain, the beak tilted up mid-quack.

Fizz’s grin faltered into something shy, almost vulnerable. “An old friend taught me woodworking before… well, before everything went sideways.”

He shrugged, voice dipping quieter. “Haven’t made anything in years. But something about your little guy made me want to try again.”

Charlie blinked fast, eyes burning. She looked from the duck in her son’s grasp to the two demons before her—Ozzie’s showman smile softened into something paternal, and Fizz’s sharp gaze glowed with quiet pride.

Her voice cracked when she whispered, “Thank you.”

And in that moment, she meant it more than words could ever hold.

Not every family member’s idea of “helpful” matched Charlie’s definition.

Leviathan’s contribution arrived first—via courier, naturally, because Levi never left her palace if she could help it. Seven oversized boxes were stacked in Charlie’s doorway like shipments from Fashion Week.

When she finally cracked them open, Charlie found herself staring at what could only be described as an infant couture collection.

Tiny sailor suits with gold buttons polished to a gleam. Miniature cloaks lined with silk and brocade. Onesies embroidered with the Morningstar crest in thread so fine it sparkled under lamplight.

And on top of the last box—Charlie’s favorite—a tiny college hoodie, complete with stitched logo, in Alastor’s exact size. Perfectly matching her own.

“At least Levi understands practicality,” Charlie muttered, slipping the hoodie over Alastor’s head. “See? Cozy and stylish. Finally… something usable.”

He gurgled in response, swallowed by the oversized hood.

Her relief didn’t last long.

Because then came Satan’s delivery.

The crate sat outside her dorm like a silent threat, stamped with more warning labels than Charlie cared to count: HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE. NOT FOR RECREATIONAL USE. BLESSED BY THE FORGES OF WRATH.

Her stomach dropped. Nothing good ever came in a package that dramatic.

Inside, nestled in custom foam, was… well, there was no polite way to phrase it. A baby arsenal.

Tiny swords—dulled, yes, but still very much swords. A toddler-sized training axe that looked like it could cleave through drywall. And, most concerning of all, a teething ring forged from actual obsidian and steel.

Charlie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, no.”

The accompanying note was unmistakably Satan’s—his handwriting sharp and precise, every word practically vibrating with conviction:

Every warrior starts young. Better to be prepared. – Uncle Satan

Charlie didn’t even hesitate. She called him immediately.

“Uncle Satan,” she said, voice tight, “what exactly do you think I’m raising here?”

“A Morningstar,” came the reply, blunt and utterly unapologetic. “The kid’s going to need to defend himself one day. Might as well start building reflexes early.”

Charlie glanced down at Alastor, who was drooling contentedly on his duck-print blanket, fists waving without purpose. “He’s an infant! He can barely grip a rattle, let alone wield medieval weaponry!”

“Fine, fine,” Satan grumbled. “Save them for when he’s walking. But Charlie—”

His voice dropped, all rumbling seriousness now “—the world isn’t going to be kind to him. Better he learns strength early than suffers vulnerability later.”

Her exasperation softened, just a little. She could hear it under all the bluster: worry, protectiveness, the kind of fierce love that Satan didn’t often say out loud.

“I get it,” Charlie said gently. “And I appreciate that you want him to be strong. But maybe we start with age-appropriate toys and work our way up to the armory?”

There was a long pause. Then a sigh heavy enough to shake mountains.

“Fine… start him on ranged weapons first. But don’t let him over-rely on them. A man has to know how to fight with his own body. I also think—”

“Thank you, Uncle Satan, love you, talk soon, bye!” Charlie cut him off and hung up before he could start listing battle drills for toddlers.

The crate went into storage, carefully sealed and hidden from RA inspections. But the note she kept, tucked safely into Alastor’s growing memory box.

Someday, when he was old enough, she’d show it to him. And she’d tell him about the uncle who had loved him so fiercely, his first instinct was to send him weapons to face the world.

Mammon’s idea of a baby shower gift was, unfortunately, exactly what Charlie should have expected.

The first sign of trouble came during a Tuesday library session, when Jessica—her only classmate who knew the truth—slid her phone across the table.

“Hey, uh… isn’t this your baby?”

Charlie glanced down—and nearly dropped her pen.

Alastor’s face stared back at her. Well, sort of.

It was her baby, unmistakably—those dark eyes, that little furrow of concentration he got when he studied her features. Only now he’d been turned into a cartoon mascot, complete with a top hat far too jaunty for an infant, and a banner that read:

Alastor’s Infernal Infant Products: Raising Hell’s Next Generation!

Charlie’s blood ran cold. Her vision went red around the edges, and for one horrifying second she thought she might actually combust in the middle of the library.

Ten minutes later, she stormed into Mammon’s skyscraper office. No appointment. No knocking. His secretary’s half-panicked protests went ignored as Charlie shoved open the gilded doors and slammed the printed ad onto his gold-plated desk.

“Explain. This. Now.”

Mammon looked up from his laptop with the smug glow of someone convinced they’d just changed the world.

“Charlie, doll! Perfect timing. I was just finalizing the trademark! This kid of yours—he’s got it. Star quality. Do you know how much merch we could—”

Her aura flared like a wildfire. Even the ferns in the corner wilted under the heat. “Mammon.”

Her voice cracked like thunder. “He is. My son. Not. Your. Marketing opportunity.”

Unbothered—or perhaps just suicidally confident—Mammon leaned back in his chair.

“C’mon, kid, think big! Baby formula with his little serious face on the label. Plushies that coo when you squeeze ‘em. Hell, we could do a whole reality show—‘Growing Up Morningstar!’ Ratings gold!”

The temperature in the room spiked. The scorch mark that blossomed across his carpet was perfectly circular, still smoking, and smelled faintly of brimstone.

“Okay, okay!” Mammon yelped, scrambling to yank down posters and hammer at his keyboard.

“Trademark abandoned! Orders canceled! No reality shows! Sheesh, you’re scarier than your old man when you light up like that!”

Charlie folded her arms, glowing eyes still fixed on him.

“If I ever see my son’s face on a single product again, Mammon, I will personally drag you to Dad and make him sit through one of your board meetings. Every quarter. For eternity.”

Mammon visibly paled. “...Noted.”

Charlie marched out, satisfied she’d made her point—though the faint smell of burnt carpet clung stubbornly to her shoes.

Mental note: have Uncle Ozzie check the markets weekly. If there was one thing Charlie knew about Mammon, it was that “no” rarely stuck for long.

Chapter Text

Eventually, Charlie realized that trying to manage six overbearing but well-meaning relatives one by one was a losing battle.

Better to gather them all at once and get it over with.

So, she picked a Saturday, booked Belphegor’s chambers—neutral ground, quiet, and the one place where Alastor was least likely to go feral from overstimulation—and braced herself.

The moment she stepped through the door, baby in arms, she froze.

All six deadly sins in one room.

Under normal circumstances, the sight would’ve sent her running for a purification circle. But today? Watching them squabble and compete for a toddler’s approval like game show contestants fighting for a golden rattle… Charlie mostly just felt grateful.

Bee, in her usual neon glory, had Alastor giggling uncontrollably, pulling faces only the Queen of Gluttony could invent. Ozzie was off to the side with one hand dramatically pressed to the wall, pontificating about the “divine acoustics” of baby laughter in this particular chamber.

Leviathan had seventeen cameras hovering in midair, each one snapping at a different angle like she was filming a Vogue cover shoot for “Hell’s Cutest Overlord.”

Satan stalked along the perimeter, muttering about “unsecured flanks” as though a diaper bag might suddenly explode. Mammon scribbled furiously into his gold-trimmed notepad, grumbling something about “missed branding opportunities—tiny merch potential through the roof.”

And Belphegor—dear, eternal nap queen Belphegor—actually looked awake for once. Lounging on her throne-like couch, she watched Alastor with something sharp and alive flickering in her eyes. If nothing else, the little guy had given her a reason to care about something other than pillow quality.

Charlie took a deep breath, adjusting Alastor against her shoulder. His small warmth, the soft weight of him—steadying, real.

“Alright,” she began, voice trembling just enough to betray how hard this was. “I need to ask you all for something. And I need you to take it seriously.”

The room stilled instantly. Even Mammon froze mid-scribble.

Charlie drew in another breath and clutched Alastor closer. “Please don’t tell my parents yet. About him. About any of this. This is… my story to share. My choice. When I’m ready, I’ll tell them—but not before.”

Silence stretched, thick enough that Charlie’s heart started to thud loud in her ears. The Sins—ancient, terrifying, absolute—stared at her. And for once, none of them looked like demons. They looked like family, weighing her words.

Bee moved first.

She leaned over, her jeweled nails brushing over Alastor’s tiny fingers where they peeked from the blanket.

“We won’t say a word, sugar,” she said softly, all the neon fading into something warm and real. “When you’re ready, we’ll be right there beside you. Every single one of us.”

Charlie’s throat closed up. One by one, the others followed.

Ozzie bowed his head with theatrical solemnity. Leviathan lowered her cameras, lenses clicking off like fireflies winking out. Even Mammon groaned as though it physically hurt him to keep such prime gossip buried, but he nodded anyway.

“Thank you,” Charlie whispered.

Her gaze swept over them—the most dangerous beings in Hell, somehow the gentlest family she could’ve asked for. “Thank you for loving him. For loving us.”

Alastor stirred then, letting out a small, sleepy coo that broke the heavy air like sunlight through smoke.

And for once, impossibly, all six Sins smiled in unison.

The weeks that followed didn’t exactly settle, but they found their own strange rhythm—chaotic, draining, and yet… sustainable.

Charlie learned to live in two worlds at once, wearing her identities like layered costumes.

To her professors, she was still the diligent student with immaculate notes and punctual essays, smiling politely as if nothing in her life had changed.

But behind closed doors?

She was Alastor’s mother—bleary-eyed, fiercely devoted, and learning, day by day, what it truly meant to love someone so small, so fragile, and so completely dependent on her.

Her grades held. Somehow. Though her study habits had evolved into feats of logistical acrobatics. She became a multitasking legend—reading ancient demonology texts one-handed while balancing a bottle in the other, jotting notes in the margins of papers during nap time, folding laundry between lectures, and sneaking into the quiet corners of the library for both research and diaper changes.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t tidy. But it worked.

Of course, no secret in Hell ever stayed buried for long.

Jessica was the first to notice. Sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued Jessica, who sat next to Charlie in class and had a knack for seeing straight through polite smiles.

One day, she cornered Charlie after a lecture, arms folded and expression caught somewhere between suspicion and concern.

“Your ‘pet,’” she began, voice flat, “needs more than kibble and walks, doesn’t it?”

The words hung heavy.

Charlie froze. Her hand instinctively tightened around the strap of her bag—Alastor’s bottle hidden inside. For a terrifying moment, she thought she might actually cry.

But Jessica sighed, shoulders dropping as she leaned against the wall.

“I’m the youngest in my family,” she said finally, her tone brittle but honest. “They don’t care what I want. Just want to marry me off to some rich jackass who thinks his bloodline’s gold-plated. So here’s the deal: I’ll cover for you. No questions. You—”

She pointed at Charlie with her finger “—use that royal pull of yours if my family tries to sell me off. Got it?”

Charlie blinked. Then smiled softly, holding Alastor a little tighter in her arms.

“Got it,” she said. And she meant it.

It wasn’t just a deal. It was an understanding—two girls trapped in the gears of Hell’s expectations, throwing each other a lifeline.

From then on, Jessica became Charlie’s unlikely partner-in-crime. She forged attendance records, whispered excuses to professors, even babysat once during a surprise exam (though she swore never to do that again—Alastor had apparently thrown mashed peas at her).

In return, Charlie used her name and influence like a shield, quietly ensuring Jessica’s family didn’t corner her into anything she couldn’t escape.

And in Hell’s tangled politics, who would dare cross the Princess of the Morningstar line?

Meanwhile, the Sins each developed their own peculiar rhythms of affection, folding themselves into Alastor’s world in ways only they could.

Belphegor—usually the embodiment of apathy—became the hotel’s unofficial physician. Her checkups were methodical, her touch astonishingly gentle. She’d murmur small reassurances while checking Alastor’s breathing, half-lidded eyes hiding an affection she’d never admit to.

Bee arrived whenever Charlie’s exhaustion reached critical levels, bearing boxes of honey-glazed pastries and toys shaped like glowing fruit. Somehow, she always knew when to show up—like a guardian angel dipped in sugar and mischief.

Ozzie and Fizz made their entrances in bursts of confetti and noise. Fizz would juggle baby bottles and plush toys with acrobatic precision while Ozzie dropped off “gifts of practicality” that somehow sparkled—crib enchantments, soothing charms, and music boxes that played lullabies jazzy enough to make Alastor giggle.

Even Satan, who began as the designated grump of the group, ended up becoming the most protective. He enchanted every corner of Charlie’s dorm with layered safety wards, muttering about “minimizing vulnerabilities” as if baby-proofing were a tactical maneuver. He even forged a stroller designed for Pentagram City’s twisted streets—complete with anti-hex plating and self-stabilizing wheels.

“When he can walk,” Satan said, crossing his arms gruffly, “I’ll teach him self-defense.” He paused, then added, “When he can make informed decisions about violence.”

Leviathan became the fashion department. Every week, Charlie would find new clothes in a box—tiny overalls, soft robes, onesies with intricate sigils stitched along the seams. Each piece fit perfectly, always just a size ahead of his next growth spurt.

And Mammon… well, under six pairs of suspicious eyes, he finally used his money-making brain for something good. He scoured the markets for deals, using a web of anonymous accounts to buy baby supplies at record speed.

He didn’t even skim a profit—Bee checked. Twice.

Charlie couldn’t quite call it peace, but it was close.

Everywhere she turned, she found a hand ready to steady her, a voice to reassure her, a laugh to lift her spirits. The Sins, terrifying as they were, had become a family of sorts—a strange, chaotic, fiercely loving constellation revolving around one tiny, red-eyed baby.

And for the first time since this wild journey began, Charlie let herself believe it:

Maybe, just maybe, she could make this work.

But not every day was manageable.

There were nights when Alastor’s cries never seemed to stop—tiny, trembling wails that filled the walls of Charlie’s dorm room and carved straight into her heart. The sound echoed and echoed until her nerves were strung like live wires.

She would pace the room in slow, desperate circles, Alastor pressed to her chest, whispering lullabies that trembled with her own exhaustion. Sometimes she’d hum old circus tunes her father used to play—soft and off-key through her tears—just praying for an hour, even a minute, of quiet.

And then there were mornings. Those cruel, pale mornings when the mirror told her everything she didn’t want to see—eyes bruised with sleeplessness, hair limp, skin dull with fatigue. She’d look at herself and wonder if she was enough. If she was being selfish for trying to balance royal duty, university deadlines, and motherhood all at once.

If Alastor deserved someone stronger than her.

One week nearly broke her.

Midterms collided with what Belphegor, with rare gentleness, identified as a “growth spurt”—a phrase that sounded harmless until it tore apart Alastor’s sleep schedule and left both of them running on fumes.

At four in the morning, Charlie sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, cradling her screaming baby. The dorm was dark except for the faint glow of her nightlight, flickering against the walls. Her body rocked on instinct, her voice raw and cracked from whispering comfort that never seemed to stick.

And then—

A knock.

Soft, but firm.

Before she could respond, the door creaked open.

Bee slipped inside, barefoot and bleary-eyed, her neon-pink pajamas clashing beautifully with the grim stillness of the room. She carried a tote bag bulging with supplies—bottles, blankets, pacifiers, snacks—and wore an expression that could have parted oceans.

“I heard you two from the hallway,” she said quietly. “Jessica called me. Said you might need backup.”

Charlie tried to answer, but all that came out was a choked sob. She just nodded, clutching Alastor tighter as her tears spilled freely.

Bee didn’t say a word. She didn’t tease, didn’t make a joke, didn’t offer some glib reassurance.

She just knelt.

She gently gathered Alastor from Charlie’s shaking arms with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times before. And in that moment—when Bee held her son, and Charlie’s hands were suddenly free—something inside her cracked open.

She collapsed back against the bed, trembling, and let herself breathe.

For the next six hours, Bee was her anchor.

She rocked Alastor with practiced patience while Charlie took her first real shower in days, letting the water wash away exhaustion and guilt. She reheated food—not vending machine junk, but something warm, something real—and made sure Charlie ate it all.

At one point, when Alastor’s cries rose again into the dark, Bee stepped out onto the balcony, her golden wings unfurling into the cool night air. The faint light shimmered over them like honey as she cradled the baby close and let the wind soothe him where nothing else could.

By the time dawn began to bloom through the curtains, painting the room in pale pink light, Alastor had finally surrendered to sleep—his tiny hand curled around one of Bee’s fingers.

Charlie sat beside them, her eyes swollen but calmer now. She watched the rise and fall of her son’s chest, listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing, and felt something fragile inside her settle.

“You’re doing everything right,” Bee murmured, her voice low and steady. “This is just hard sometimes. That doesn’t mean you’re failing.”

Charlie broke—not from exhaustion this time, but from gratitude so deep it hurt. She leaned her head against Bee’s shoulder and let the warmth of that moment hold her together.

It wasn’t always Bee. Sometimes it was Ozzie, who would show up with dinner for two and a bad pun for every bite, folding laundry between punchlines until Charlie’s laughter replaced her tears. Sometimes it was Belphegor, appearing at her door with her medical kit and that rare, soft look in her eyes, tending to both baby and mother without complaint.

Sometimes, it was Satan—still awkward, still gruff—introducing her to Yogirt, his anger-management life coach. “He’s good at listening,” Satan muttered. “You could use that.” And somehow, he was right.

Each act, each visit, each small kindness built something that Charlie hadn’t dared to believe in before: proof that she wasn’t alone in this. That even in Hell—especially in Hell—love could take the shape of community, of care, of shared exhaustion and laughter in the dark.

She wasn’t just surviving anymore.

She was mothering.

And, for the first time, she was being mothered in return.

As Alastor grew from a sleepy newborn into a bright, curious infant, Charlie began to catch glimpses of the person he might someday become.

There was something uncanny about him—something old in the way his eyes followed movement. Those deep, dark eyes weren’t just looking; they were studying. Faces, gestures, the rhythm of a voice—he absorbed them all as though he were memorizing the world, piece by piece. Sometimes Charlie caught him staring and felt her breath catch, because for an instant, he looked like he understood far more than a baby should.

But then he’d laugh.

A full, bubbling giggle that spilled from him without restraint whenever Bee made one of her ridiculous faces or blew raspberries against his tummy. He’d kick and flail, eyes scrunching with joy, as if Bee had just invented comedy itself.

Other times, he’d fall completely still, entranced by the enchanted mobile Ozzie had installed above his crib. The little stars spun lazily in the air, glowing softly, their tiny lights dancing across the walls. Alastor would reach out as if he could catch the stars themselves, cooing in tones that almost sounded like conversation.

And there were quieter moments too—the ones Charlie treasured most. The soft hum of her lullabies at dusk, the way his breathing slowed as he sank against her chest, the way the whole world seemed to hush around them until all that existed was warmth and love and the faint heartbeat beneath her ribs.

Charlie changed too.

The girl who once lived for grades and prestige was gone, replaced by someone forged in sleepless nights and small victories. Her life became a dance of opposites—lecture halls and lullabies, textbooks and teething rings.

She learned how to cradle a baby in one arm and take notes with the other. How to plan feeding schedules between essay deadlines. How to smile politely through a professor’s questions even when her body begged for rest. And still, she endured.

More than that—she flourished.

There was a strength in her now that hadn’t existed before—a quiet, deliberate power born of necessity and love. She’d learned how to make choices with certainty, how to speak with authority when it came to her son, how to stand unshaken even when the world demanded too much.

Her professors noticed the change, though they could never name its cause. They saw her confidence, her steady focus during presentations, the calm poise in her voice.

“You’ve really come into your own,” they’d say. If only they knew that the reason sat just beyond their notice, babbling softly from a stroller parked by the door.

“Parenthood suits you,” Belphegor remarked one afternoon during a routine checkup. She adjusted her spectacles, tone mild but eyes warm.

Charlie sat nearby with her notebook propped on her knee, jotting down study notes between observations. Alastor lay on the padded table, kicking and cooing, his fingers grasping at the air as if conducting a symphony only he could hear.

“You’ve found your center,” Belphegor added, her voice softening. There was a kind of pride there—something maternal and bittersweet.

Charlie smiled faintly, brushing a thumb over Alastor’s tiny hand as he reached for her. His fingers curled around hers with surprising strength, tugging as if to pull her closer. He gurgled a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh, eyes bright as morning.

Her heart melted. “I think he found it for me,” she murmured.

And in that moment, she knew it was true.

Her son hadn’t just changed her life—he’d anchored it. In a realm built on chaos and sin, he had become her quiet, radiant proof that even in Hell… love could be holy.

That night, after Alastor had been fed, changed, and tucked safely into his crib, Charlie sat at her desk, the faint glow of her laptop painting soft halos across the quiet room. A half-empty mug of tea cooled beside her, long forgotten, steam fading like the remnants of a lullaby. Her fingers moved across the keys, typing out an essay on the meaning of family in classical literature.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. There she was—writing about mythic bonds and noble bloodlines—while her own understanding of family had been torn down and rebuilt from the ground up by a baby with wild curls and the softest laugh she’d ever heard.

Behind her, the room breathed with life. The gentle rhythm of Alastor’s tiny breaths filled the silence, a sound so delicate and grounding that Charlie swore she could feel her heart syncing to it. The air smelled faintly of milk and lavender soap. Textbooks leaned precariously beside packages of diapers; lecture notes were crammed between folded burp cloths. On the wall, baby clothes hung from a string like soft little flags—tiny monuments to how completely her world had changed.

This wasn’t the college life she had once imagined. No crowded dorm parties, no late-night debates about philosophy over pizza. Her nights were scored by cries and lullabies instead, her caffeine-fueled essays written in the quiet moments between feedings and diaper changes. It was chaotic. It was exhausting. And yet—it was real.

As she saved her document, Charlie realized it was the most meaningful work she’d ever done.

She rose quietly and padded to the crib, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath her. Alastor slept soundly, cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering in dreams only babies and angels could have. His hair had started to curl—just a little—catching the faint glow of her desk lamp like spun copper.

Charlie leaned on the crib’s edge, voice barely above a whisper. “You know what, little one?”

Alastor stirred, his tiny hand clutching the edge of his blanket as if he could feel her words.

“I used to think family was about legacies,” she said softly. “About names, or bloodlines, or trying to make people proud of you.”

Her fingertips brushed over his cheek, marveling at how warm, how alive he was beneath her touch.

“But I think it’s simpler than that,” she murmured. “Maybe it’s just showing up. Choosing someone—again and again. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

The lump in her throat made her voice tremble, but the smile that curved her lips was steady. “You’re not alone anymore, baby boy. Not in this life, not in any life. We’re family now. The kind that stays. The kind that chooses.”

A faint coo escaped him, half-dream, half-response—and Charlie’s heart broke and healed all at once.

When she finally sat back down, her essay cursor blinked on the screen, a lonely heartbeat of light in the dark. She wrote another line about chosen family, smiling faintly at the irony that she didn’t need to define it anymore. She was living it.

And when exhaustion finally claimed her, head resting against her folded arms, Charlie fell asleep with a smile—one not born from survival, but from the quiet, radiant certainty that her life, messy and miraculous as it was, had become home.

Chapter Text

By the time little Alastor reached his equivalent of a second year—wobbling through the palace halls on chubby legs, laughter ringing like bells—Charlie felt something shift deep within her.

It was subtle at first, a quiet flutter beneath her ribs. Then stronger. Louder. Like the rhythm of a dream that refused to die.

The dream that had lived in her heart since she was a child—told in bedtime stories and painted in hopeful doodles—was calling again.

A hotel for sinners. A sanctuary for the damned. A place where redemption wasn’t a cruel illusion, but a real, tangible miracle.

The Happy Hotel.

She’d imagined it her whole life. Sketched it into existence a thousand times—in the corners of her homework, on napkins during awkward family dinners, in soft candlelight while Alastor slept against her arm. She could see it when she closed her eyes: warm lamplight spilling from the windows, laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of something sweet baking in the kitchen.

A place that whispers, you still have a chance.

So when she found it—her old family hotel on the outskirts of Pentagram City, half-swallowed by ivy and time—her heart skipped a beat.

“This is it,” she breathed, clutching Alastor close. His little hands reached toward the cracked facade as if he could already see what she saw—a home.

Until she stepped inside.

The building was a disaster.

Not the cute, “needs a little love” kind of disaster—no, this was full-blown, apocalyptic.

Mold crept up the walls in abstract art patterns that would’ve made a modern painter proud. Dust coated everything in sight, thick enough to leave footprints. Every step Charlie took stirred up clouds that made her cough, the sound echoing through the hollow halls like the building was laughing at her.

The floorboards groaned beneath her feet—some out of protest, others in what she swore was genuine pain—and somewhere in the dark, something small scuttled away. She chose not to think about it.

Denial, she decided, was part of the renovation process.

Cracked pipes dripped steadily from above, forming shallow puddles that shimmered under the faint, flickering glow of the only lights still working—ancient emergency bulbs that buzzed like dying insects.

The windows were worse. Some were broken through, others were boarded up with half-rotten planks that did little to keep out the acrid wind of Hell’s air.

The smell inside was… unforgettable. A cocktail of sulfur, smoke, and something distinctly emotional—like regret left out in the sun too long.

The wiring was an infernal fire hazard, the heating system wheezed and groaned throughout the hotel, and when Charlie dared to test the faucet in what might once have been a kitchen, the water came out black. And then brown. And then she decided that was progress.

Still—she looked around with a determined little smile tugging at her lips.

It was hers.

A little (okay, a lot) run down, yes, but it had heart. Good bones. History. A story that hadn’t ended yet.

Standing in the crumbling lobby, hands on her hips and curls half-filled with dust, Charlie inhaled the heavy air and tried to see the dream beneath the ruin.

“We can fix this,” she whispered, half to herself, half to the building that had seen better centuries.

From her chest, Alastor—bundled snug in his little baby carrier—sneezed three times in a row.

Charlie froze.

“...Bless you?” she said weakly, watching dust motes dance in front of them.

Her confidence wavered.

Maybe—just maybe—step one was finding a very strong air purifier.

For the first two weeks, Charlie tackled the hotel on her own.

No contractors. No magic shortcuts. No divine intervention.

She couldn’t afford a crew—not with royal funds tied up in endless bureaucracy and her own pride refusing to let her ask for help. She wouldn’t call her father. Not after twenty years of silence, guilt, and disappointed smiles that never reached his eyes.

He hadn’t even looked at her when she’d come home from college.

She hadn’t seen him since.

He never even met his grandson.

Her mother… well, Lilith’s absence had become its own kind of answer.

This was her dream. Her hotel. Her chance to prove that redemption wasn’t a fantasy—it was real, tangible, possible. And if that meant bleeding for it, then so be it.

So she did.

Every evening, after tucking Alastor into his crib at the palace, she slipped into the family limo with a thermos of coffee and drove through the neon-lit outskirts of Pentagram City. There, beneath the handmade sign that barely read “Happy Hotel” in faded paint, she worked until dawn.

She scrubbed walls until her hands blistered. Swept floors until the broom handle cracked. Wrestled with pipes that screamed and hissed like angry demons, learning plumbing from secondhand library manuals that smelled like smoke and regret.

And when Alastor began waking at night—whimpering for her with that sweet, trembly voice that could break her heart—she started bringing him along.

She’d strap him to her chest or back, his tiny fingers clutching her shirt as she moved through the dusty halls. She hummed lullabies to keep him calm, the gentle rhythm of her voice echoing against cracked tile and empty rooms. Sometimes she’d dance with him between scrubbing sessions, spinning slowly under the dim light until his laughter filled the silence.

“We’re building something good, sweetheart,” she’d whispered, kissing the crown of his golden curls. “Something that’s going to help people. You’ll see.”

He’d babble back, reaching for the drifting dust motes like they were fireflies, his giggles a spark of life in the dead hotel.

But the weeks dragged on, and exhaustion began to take its toll. Her hands trembled from overwork. Her back throbbed from carrying both her son and her dream. The circles under her eyes deepened, her meals became an afterthought, and sleep was a luxury she could no longer afford.

She told herself she was fine. That she could handle it. That everything was worth it.

Until one evening—covered in paint, running on fumes, Alastor asleep against her heart—everything changed.

She was halfway down the second-floor hallway—hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, baby Alastor strapped snug against her chest—when it happened.

The wallpaper practically crumbled under her fingers, revealing a patch of thick, gray-green mold that seemed to pulse like something alive. She grimaced, tugging at it with a gloved hand—

—and the wall exhaled.

A choking cloud of spores burst into the air.

Alastor coughed first. Small, wet little sounds that cut straight through her heart. Then came the wheeze. A fragile, trembling gasp that made every drop of blood in Charlie’s body turn to ice.

“Alastor?” Her voice broke. “Oh no—no, no, no—”

She didn’t think—she ran.

Down the hall, through the dilapidated lobby, kicking the front doors open with her leg. The moment they hit the open air, she collapsed to her knees on the cracked stone steps, clutching him close, rocking gently as she whispered frantic reassurances.

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart. Breathe, just breathe for Mama, please—”

Hell’s wind wasn’t exactly fresh, but it was better—and after a few agonizing minutes, his wheezing quieted. He blinked up at her, watery-eyed and flushed, but breathing steady again.

Charlie’s vision blurred. Her own eyes were stinging—and not just from the spores.

What was she doing?

She’d been so wrapped up in this dream, so desperate to prove she could make it real, that she’d ignored the simplest truth: the hotel wasn’t just broken. It was toxic. Dangerous. And she’d brought her baby—her whole world—right into it.

All because she was too proud to ask for help.

That night, after Alastor was safely tucked into his nursery, the rhythmic sound of his tiny snores barely audible over the hum of the palace lights, Charlie sat alone in the gardens.

The air was cool, heavy with brimstone and the faint shimmer of Hell’s false stars. She stared down at her hands—raw, blistered, bleeding—and for the first time, she didn’t see strength in them. Only failure.

Her dream felt so far away now, hazy and unreachable.

“I can’t do this alone,” she whispered, voice trembling. Saying it out loud hurt worse than any blister, any bruise.

But it was true.

She couldn’t fix the hotel. She couldn’t save the lost. Not if she lost herself—or worse, him—in the process.

So with shaking hands, she pulled out her phone. Stared at the contacts she’d sworn she’d never touch.

And one by one, she started making calls.

The hardest ones of her life.

The first call was to Aunt Bee.

Her fingers hovered over the screen for a full minute before she finally pressed call. Even then, her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Each ring felt heavier than the last, echoing through her chest like the countdown to failure. She almost hung up—once, twice, three times—before a burst of bright, musical energy came through the line.

“Charlie! Baby girl, what’s—”

Bee’s voice cut off. Even through the static, her tone shifted; the sugar-sweet warmth faltered, replaced by quiet concern.

“Honey,” she said softly, “what’s going on?”

The words jammed in Charlie’s throat. Admitting it felt like peeling back a layer of armor she’d worn for years. Like standing naked in front of every doubt, every expectation she’d ever carried.

“I…” Her voice cracked. “I started working on the hotel. The redemption project I told you about.”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s wonderful!”

“It’s not.” The laugh that escaped her was thin and broken.

“It’s a disaster, Bee. The whole building’s falling apart. I’ve been trying to fix it myself, but it’s—” she sucked in a shaky breath, “—it’s too much. And I brought Alastor there and he started coughing from the mold, and I just—”

The rest crumbled out of her in sobs she couldn’t stop. “I need help. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Just the faint hum of Hell’s static between them.

Then Bee’s voice came back, steady and sure, all honey and fire.

“Give me the address.”

“Bee, I can’t just—”

“Address. Now.”

“But—”

“Charlie Morningstar,” Bee interrupted, with the kind of authority only an aunt and a queen of gluttony could pull off, “you’re not doing this by yourself anymore, understand? You call Ozzie too. He’ll want to help. We’ve got you.”

Charlie swallowed hard, tears spilling down her cheeks as she finally gave the address.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice small. “I should be able to—”

“Stop.” Bee’s tone softened, like a warm blanket wrapping around her. “Asking for help isn’t a weakness, sugar. It’s wisdom. You’re a mother trying to build something beautiful in a world that’s forgotten what beauty even means. Let your family help you. That’s what we’re here for.”

The call ended with a promise—a soft “I’ll be there by morning”—and then silence.

Charlie sat there for a long time in the garden, phone still clutched in her shaking hands. The air smelled faintly of brimstone and roses, the only flowers stubborn enough to grow in Hell.

And for the first time in weeks, she let herself cry.

Not out of despair this time, but out of relief. Out of the sheer, aching gratitude of not being alone anymore.

Within forty-eight hours, Charlie’s dream had turned into a full-blown construction zone.

When she pulled up that morning—half expecting to find the same decrepit husk she’d left behind—she nearly dropped her coffee. The once-empty street outside the Happy Hotel was now packed.

A whole convoy of vehicles lined the curb: dump trucks, tool vans, even a cherry picker emblazoned with BeeWorks Restoration Co. in gleaming gold cursive. Demons in matching uniforms moved with clockwork precision, unloading lumber, scaffolding, and boxes of nails that looked suspiciously enchanted to hammer themselves. The air was thick with the smell of sawdust, paint, and industrial-grade determination.

Charlie stood frozen at the edge of the lot, Alastor balanced on her hip, watching the chaos unfold like a fever dream.

Through the front doors—now propped open to let in light and noise—she could hear the hum of activity. The once-dark lobby glowed under proper work lights, their brightness bouncing off clouds of dust.

In the middle of it all, Beelzebub and Asmodeus stood over a makeshift drafting table, blueprints spread wide like a battle plan.

“Alright,” Ozzie said, claws tapping a line on the page with practiced flair. “Structurally? Not bad. The bones are good. But aesthetically?”

He gave the crumbling chandelier a pointed look. “Charlie, honey, this place needs more than elbow grease—it needs a miracle with taste.”

Bee rolled her eyes but smiled. “We’ll start with the foundation, then we’ll talk miracles.”

Then she spotted movement near the door—and her whole face lit up.

“There she is!” Bee called, waving her over like a proud aunt at a school play. “Come on, mama, let’s see what we’re working with!”

Charlie stepped inside, feeling the warm light hit her like sunrise after a long night. Alastor buried his face in her shoulder, shy around the noise, but peeked out when Bee opened her arms.

“You guys didn’t have to—” she began, voice trembling between gratitude and embarrassment.

“Hush,” Bee interrupted gently, pressing a kiss to her cheek before scooping Alastor up in her arms. “You called, we came. That’s how family works.”

Ozzie smirked, flipping his blueprint dramatically. “And besides, if Bee’s doing the labor, someone has to make sure the color palette doesn’t scream ‘post-apocalyptic daycare.’”

Charlie laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks. The sound echoed through the newly lit hall, bright and alive.

Bee cooed at Alastor, who giggled and grabbed a strand of her hair. “There’s my little man! You gonna help Auntie Bee rebuild this place, huh?”

Charlie pressed a hand to her heart, the weight of exhaustion melting under something warmer, lighter.

The hotel was still a mess. There was still mold, decay, and years of work ahead.

But for the first time, standing amid the noise and sawdust and laughter, she could see it again—the dream underneath the ruin.

Bee looked up, eyes glinting. “Alright, sugar. Let’s make this dream of yours real.”

Chapter Text

Bee arrived first—and she arrived in style.

Her finest cleanup crew rolled in from Gluttony’s luxury resorts, demons so spotless they made sanitation look fashionable. Armed with purification spells, holy-grade bleach substitutes, and clipboards enchanted to scold anyone who missed a spot, they attacked the building like an organized swarm of glittery locusts.

Every surface was scrubbed until it gleamed. Mold screamed as it was eradicated by golden honey-scented cleansing wards. The walls were treated with protective sealants that shimmered faintly under light, like they’d been kissed by summer. The floors—once warped and filthy—were stripped, sanded, and polished to a mirror shine.

Bee insisted that she personally oversaw the kitchen renovation herself.

“If you’re gonna feed redemption to sinners,” she declared, hands on her hips, “you better make it taste divine.”

The result? A culinary paradise: gleaming countertops, professional-grade stoves that purred when you turned them on, and a pantry so full that even Gluttony’s chefs would weep with envy.

Bee personally stocked it herself, filling the shelves with imported delicacies and the occasional jar of something labeled ‘Bee’s Secret Ingredient—Do Not Question’.

“Can’t redeem anyone on an empty stomach,” she said with a wink, handing Charlie a spatula like a blessing.

Ozzie arrived next, in a limo that glittered brighter than most sinners’ hopes.

He took one look at Charlie’s original sketches—childlike, bright, and full of optimism—and set them aside with the gentlest smile imaginable.

“Sweetheart, I adore your vision,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “But redemption shouldn’t look like a daycare for wayward clowns. It needs… allure. Warmth. Soul.”

He snapped his fingers, and within hours, designers from Lust’s most exclusive studios were measuring every inch of the hotel.

Under Ozzie’s direction, the rooms transformed. Each guest suite became a sanctuary—plush beds, silky linens, lighting that could soothe even the most tortured soul. Windows actually closed, the air smelled faintly of lavender and candle wax, and every room featured a handwritten welcome note penned in Ozzie’s elegant cursive: “You matter. Rest easy.”

The lobby bloomed into something magical. Plush seating. Soft, ambient lighting. Artwork that whispered stories of redemption and rebirth—paintings Ozzie personally selected because, as he put it, “People need to see beauty to remember they’re capable of it.”

“Every detail matters,” he told Charlie, adjusting a vase of colorful Hell flowers. “You’re not just giving them shelter, darling. You’re giving them dignity.”

Then came Mammon. Uninvited. Of course.

He showed up in a gold suit so reflective Charlie could see her own horrified face in it.

“Charlie, babe! I got the perfect solution to your money problems!”

“Uncle Mammon…” she started, already wary.

“Just hear me out!” he interrupted, waving a thick stack of papers. “I’ll fund everything. Renovations, staff, advertising—you name it! All you gotta do is let me slap a lil’ branding on it. The Happy Hotel—presented by Mammon Industries™! C’mon, imagine the signage! The merch! The bobbleheads—”

“No.”

“—the themed drinks—”

“No.”

It took three hours, two screaming matches, and Bee physically confiscating his briefcase before they reached a compromise.

Mammon would fund the hotel. Fully. Generously. No branding, no billboards, no bobbleheads. In exchange, Charlie had to let him feel like he’d won.

She made him sign three magically binding contracts reviewed by Hell’s best infernal lawyers. By the end, Mammon was pouting like a child denied dessert.

“You’re no fun,” he muttered, scribbling his signature. But when he handed over the check, it was large enough to make Charlie’s eyes sting.

She never asked how he planned to get that money back. She had a feeling she didn’t want to know.

From the Envy Ring came a team so efficient it was unsettling. Leviathan sent her best: water elementals and plumbing engineers who treated every pipe like a divine relic.

They tore out the old rusted plumbing, replaced it with enchanted systems that gleamed silver, and even installed a sprinkler system that doubled as a fire suppressant and mood enhancer—it sprayed scented mist in emergencies.

By the end of the week, the sinks ran clear, the showers steamed properly, and the toilets—according to one plumber—were “works of art.”

Levi sent a note along with the final inspection report:

“I’ve seen the blueprints for your father’s palaces. Yours is better. Don’t tell him I said that.”

Charlie framed it and hung it proudly in her office.

Wrath’s contribution came with a lot more shouting—but the results spoke for themselves.

Satan sent her best builders: stone-skinned demons who could level mountains or rebuild them. They reinforced every wall, bolted the foundation with enchanted runes, and tested its strength by literally punching it.

“Can’t redeem sinners if the building collapses on ‘em,” Satan said with a grunt when he came to inspect the work.

By the end, the Happy Hotel was one of the most indestructible buildings in all of Pentagram City. It could survive a Hellquake, a meteor shower, maybe even the apocalypse itself.

“Probably already did,” one foreman muttered, checking the original construction date.

And finally, quiet, dependable Belphegor.

She didn’t show up in person—she rarely did—but her care came in waves. Specialists from Sloth’s medical sector arrived, installing air purification charms, warding off toxins, and checking every inch of the hotel for hazards.

She even sent a care package addressed “For the little prince.”

Inside was a small first-aid kit enchanted to glow softly when opened, child-safe ointments, and a stuffed sloth with sleepy embroidered eyes. Alastor hugged it once and refused to let go.

Tucked inside the box was a short note:

“Keep the little one safe. Hell needs more laughter like his.”

Charlie cried when she read it.

Though she hadn’t yet told her father about the project—too afraid of his disappointment, too unsure if he’d understand—his magic still found its way in.

It pulsed faintly through her blood, glowing in every ward she placed, humming beneath every protection spell she wove into the walls.

When the final neon sign flickered to life above the doors—

“The Happy Hotel” shining in soft, golden light—it glowed brighter than any ordinary sign should. Visible for miles.

Bee stood beside her, hands on her hips, eyes reflecting the warm gleam. “Your dad’s magic is in there, you know,” she said softly. “Whether he’s here or not.”

Charlie reached up, brushing her fingers against the sign. “I know,” she whispered, smiling through the tears that finally came.

And for the first time since she’d picked up that broken broom and whispered we can fix this, she believed it with all her heart.

Maybe someday she’d show him. Maybe someday he’d see what she built. Maybe someday, even Lucifer Morningstar would believe in redemption again.

The Playroom.

It started as a side room—an empty, crumbling space tucked beside what would become Charlie’s office—but soon became something far more sacred.

Now, sunlight (or Hell’s approximation of it) streamed through newly repaired windows, catching the soft shimmer of pink and gold paint that brightened every corner. Clouds floated lazily across the ceiling mural, and a rainbow curved playfully across one wall. The floor was carpeted in thick, plush fabric that muffled tiny footsteps and caught Alastor whenever gravity decided to win.

The shelves overflowed with toys: colorful blocks, enchanted plushies, and picture books that hummed faint lullabies when opened. A cushioned chair sat in the corner—Charlie’s favorite spot—where she could sort paperwork or draft plans while keeping her baby in sight. A baby gate across the doorway kept him safe but never isolated; he could see the lobby beyond, the life and laughter that filled it.

It wasn’t just Alastor’s playroom. It was the heart of the hotel.

Construction demons passing by always slowed near the door, unable to resist a peek inside. They’d wave, coo, or make funny faces until Alastor rewarded them with a giggle. Some brought gifts—hand-carved wooden toys, miniature tools, or stuffed hellhounds that squeaked when hugged. Even the gruffest of them softened at the sound of his laughter.

One afternoon, Mammon stood there longer than usual, arms crossed, pretending to critique the architecture while watching Alastor stack a tower of blocks with serious concentration.

“Kid’s got good fundamentals,” he muttered. “Look at that tower—solid base, even distribution. That’s structural integrity right there.”

Bee hip-checked him with a laugh. “You’re a softie.”

“Am not,” he shot back, offended. “I’m assessing his future entrepreneurial potential.”

“Sure you are,” Bee teased, watching as he subtly handed the kid another block.

Three months. That’s how long it took for ruin to turn into hope.

Three months of long days, bruised hands, and the symphony of hammers, drills, and laughter echoing through the halls. Every nail, every coat of paint, every repaired wall carried a piece of someone’s love.

Charlie learned to breathe again. To ask for help without guilt. To rest without shame.

She worked alongside the crews when she could—still scrubbing, painting, and hauling supplies—but now she had backup. She wasn’t carrying the dream alone anymore. She could stop to play with Alastor, to watch him toddle across the playroom floor, or to simply hold him while the sun dipped behind the city skyline.

Bee often showed up with trays of food for the workers, shouting, “Nobody redeems on an empty stomach!” Ozzie came by to fuss over furniture arrangements (“Sweetheart, no one feels spiritually renewed under fluorescent lighting”). Mammon continued to “check his investment,” always pretending indifference as he delivered another absurdly expensive gift—a chandelier, a marble statue, once even a full grand piano that he insisted “added class.”

Satan’s workers became her unlikely teachers, showing her how to read blueprints and swing a hammer properly (“Use your hips, not your arms, princess”). Levi’s teams sent the best materials from the Envy Ring, precision-perfect. And when Belphegor arrived for the final safety inspection, she hummed approvingly before handing Charlie a clipboard.

“Air’s clean. Rooms are stable. And that kid of yours?” A faint smile. “Healthiest sound I’ve ever heard in Hell.”

When the dust finally settled, Charlie stood in the center of the lobby, Alastor perched on her hip.

The transformation was breathtaking. Warm golden light filled the space, casting a glow over the polished floors and plush seating. The once-collapsing walls now stood proud, lined with art that whispered of hope and new beginnings. Every corner hummed with quiet magic, the kind that came from care rather than power.

It wasn’t perfect—Ozzie called the flickering lights “vintage charm,” the heating hummed a little too loudly (“character,” Satan’s foreman claimed), and one wall in the east wing kept spontaneously repainting itself in avant-garde patterns—but it was alive.

It felt alive.

Alastor pointed toward the chandelier, eyes wide. “Ight!” he squealed. “Ight, Mama!”

She smiled, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. “Yes, baby. Light.”

She kissed his temple softly. “We’re bringing light to the darkness.”

She walked slowly through the space, taking it all in—the soft hum of the neon sign outside, the lingering scent of honey and paint, the echoes of laughter from workers still finishing final touches.

This hotel wasn’t just a building. It was proof that redemption could be real, that love could build something beautiful even in Hell.

She imagined future guests stepping through those doors—tired, broken, lost—and being met not with judgment, but with warmth. With a chance.

“This is where it begins,” she whispered.

Alastor reached up, tiny hand patting her cheek, and giggled.

And for the first time since she’d started this impossible dream, Charlie truly believed it.

A week before the grand opening, the hotel buzzed with quiet anticipation—paint still drying in the east wing, new carpets soft underfoot, and a faint smell of hope mingling with fresh varnish.

But Charlie had a new problem.

She was sitting in her new office, surrounded by applications that ranged from “suspiciously qualified” to “clearly planning to rob us.”

Paperwork covered her desk in untidy heaps—many applications scrawled in chaotic handwriting, résumés written on napkins, one letter sealed with suspicious red wax that smelled like blood.

She’d been so focused on restoring the building, she hadn’t realized how unprepared she was to run it.

Running a hotel took more than belief in redemption—it needed organization, skill, experience. And she wasn’t sure the desperate population of Pentagram City could supply that.

Charlie leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. “I can’t hire someone whose only reference is ‘formerly part-time murderer, now trying my best,’” she muttered.

That was when the air shimmered—and with a familiar buzzing pop, a portal opened right in the middle of her office.

“Morning, sunshine!” Beelzebub’s voice rang out, full of the kind of confidence that came from caffeine and chaos.

She stepped through the portal, wings flaring, sunglasses perched on her head. “Got a present for you!”

Charlie blinked. “Aunt Bee? What—”

Before she could finish, dozens of demons began filing through the portal, all dressed in sleek uniforms and holding clipboards and credentials.

Bee beamed. “Staff!”

Charlie’s jaw dropped. “Staff?”

“Can’t open a hotel without them, baby. And between you and me, you don’t exactly have time to train anyone from scratch.” Bee winked. “So I called in a few favors.”

The next hour felt like an otherworldly job fair orchestrated by royalty.

First came Cordial, a tall hellhound with a chef’s hat perched between his horns and a smile that could melt iron.

“Head chef,” Bee said proudly. “He ran one of my restaurants in Gluttony. Knows how to make food that feeds the soul, not just the stomach.”

Then came Seraphine, a graceful succubus in a red tailored suit, her clipboard glowing faintly with magic. She led a trio of concierge demons, each immaculate and polite.

“Courtesy of Ozzie,” Bee said. “They’re professionals in hospitality. Five-star treatment for every sinner, no matter how bloody their past.”

Two additional tiny imp bellhops saluted smartly beside her, nearly toppling under the weight of their own luggage.

From Envy arrived Taffy, a lean demon in a crisp green vest, glasses gleaming. “Office manager,” he introduced himself briskly. “Scheduling, accounting, and paperwork. I’m here to make sure this place doesn’t collapse under bureaucratic chaos.”

Behind him trailed two housekeeping demons already dusting things that didn’t need dusting.

Wrath’s contribution arrived next—Forge, a broad-shouldered imp with metal-plated arms, and Cinder, a calm, soot-smudged builder.

“Security and maintenance,” came Satan’s note, pinned neatly to Forge’s armor. “Protective, not aggressive. Don’t start fights—end them.”

Mammon, of course, couldn’t resist his moment of flair. He sent Ledger, a sharp demon with a gold pen and sharper smile, alongside Copper, a gentle soul who looked far too kind to be from Greed.

“Bookkeeping and upkeep,” Ledger said smoothly. “The boss signed three contracts ensuring no one skims from the top.”

Finally, two from Sloth stepped through last—Remedy, a sleepy Baphomet in scrubs carrying a first-aid kit half her size, and Morpheus, a calm night manager with the serene expression of someone who could sleep through an apocalypse.

“Medical and night coverage,” Belphegor’s note read. “For when redemption gets... messy.”

When the introductions ended, Charlie stood frozen. A full staff—fourteen demons in total—all waiting expectantly.

“I… I can’t possibly afford to pay all of you what you’re worth,” she admitted softly.

Taffy pushed his glasses up his nose. “The Seven Sins are covering our first-year salaries. After that, we renegotiate.”

“And honestly?” Cordial’s tail wagged once, betraying his excitement. “A hotel dedicated to redemption? That’s way more interesting than another Gluttony resort.”

Seraphine gave a graceful nod. “A new venture led by the Princess herself? Some of us have been waiting for a chance like this.”

Charlie’s vision blurred—tears welling faster than she could stop them. Through the office doorway, Alastor peeked out from his playroom, sensing the change in her tone. He toddled over, wobbling slightly, and wrapped his arms around her leg.

“Mama sad?”

Her breath caught. “No, baby,” she whispered, scooping him up.

“Mama’s… grateful.” She looked at the gathered demons, her voice trembling with emotion. “Say hi to our new friends?”

Alastor blinked at the group, then lifted one tiny hand in a shy wave. “Hi!”

The reaction was instantaneous—smiles, laughter, even a soft chuckle from Forge, who had looked carved from stone seconds ago. Remedy sniffled, muttering something about “baby serotonin.”

Taffy cleared his throat, snapping back into efficiency mode. “Well then,” he said, pulling out a gleaming tablet. “If we’re all done crying, shall we begin staff orientation?”

Bee laughed and slung an arm around Charlie’s shoulders. “Told you, honey. You’re not doing this alone anymore.”

Charlie smiled through her tears, hugging Alastor a little tighter as the sounds of friendly chatter filled the room.

For the first time, the hotel didn’t just look ready.

It felt alive.

Opening Day.

The sign gleamed above the entrance, polished to perfection. The Happy Hotel — glowing like a heartbeat in the eternal twilight of Hell.

Everywhere inside, there was motion and life. The staff buzzed through the halls—Seraphine running last-minute hospitality checks, Cordial taste-testing tomorrow’s breakfast, and Forge double-checking the security wards with quiet determination.

Laughter drifted from the playroom, where Alastor was happily stacking blocks, babbling little spells that occasionally made the toys dance on their own.

Outside, Charlie stood on the front steps, the red-purple sky washing her hair in a golden glow.

Alastor now was drowsy on her shoulder, thumb in his mouth, his little horns warm against her skin. She swayed gently, watching as the soft light of the hotel illuminated the street, a beacon amid the chaos of Pentagram City.

Bee and Ozzie joined her, both unusually quiet. For once, no teasing, no innuendos—just the shared silence of something sacred.

“You did it, honey,” Bee murmured, her voice gentle for once. “Your dream is real.”

Charlie shook her head, smiling faintly. “We did it. I couldn’t have done this without all of you.”

Ozzie chuckled softly, looping an arm around Bee. “That’s the point, darling. No one builds hope alone. Even in Hell, it takes a village.”

A breeze—strange and sweet—swept through the courtyard. Somewhere deep inside the building, a chime rang out, like laughter caught in crystal. The hotel almost seemed to hum, as if alive and proud.

Charlie’s gaze drifted up to the sign again. Her heart swelled with something too large to name. This wasn’t just a hotel.

It was a promise.

A promise to the lost and the damned. A promise to her son, who would grow up surrounded by love instead of fear. A promise to herself—that she could make a difference, even here, even now.

Bee sniffled dramatically and pretended to fan her face. “Ugh, don’t make me cry before the opening, I just did my makeup.”

Charlie laughed softly through her tears and pressed a kiss to Alastor’s hair. “We’re going to change everything, sweetheart. You’ll see.”

Alastor stirred and mumbled something sleepy and incomprehensible—but the lights of the hotel flickered brighter for a moment, warm and golden.

Almost as if Hell itself was listening.

And for the first time in a long time, the night didn’t feel so hopeless.

The Happy Hotel was ready.

Now all it needed were guests brave enough to believe in second chances.

Chapter Text

The alley lay silent except for the distant crackle of fires still consuming the remnants of the extermination. Ash drifted down like gray snow, coating the broken streets of Pentagram City in a funeral shroud. Charlie walked carefully through the devastation, her two-year-old son’s hand clasped firmly in hers as they made their way home from gathering supplies.

It wasn’t safe to be out during cleanup—straggler victims from Heaven’s army sometimes lashed out in fits of rage and panic—but she couldn’t just ignore what she’d heard earlier.

A groan. Soft, but unmistakably pained, echoing from somewhere in the wreckage.

Following the sound through smoke-choked streets, she found a woman collapsed beside a dumpster. Her once-white clothes were plastered with filth and dirt, feathers scattered around her like fallen snow. One eye socket was hollow and raw, like someone had just—Charlie’s stomach turned—recently gouged it out.

Her back bore two deep gashes, the wounds suggesting someone had plunged a blade in and wrenched it out with brutal efficiency.

Charlie’s breath caught. “Oh my goodness—”

She squeezed her son’s hand, his small warmth grounding her. “Miss, can you hear me? You’re hurt—”

The woman stirred, her voice barely more than a rasp. “Go... away.”

Yeah, like that was happening. Charlie knelt beside her instead, gently guiding Alastor to stay close as she assessed the injuries. The wounds were brutal—methodical. This hadn’t been the random violence of extermination day. Someone had deliberately carved her apart and left her to die.

Determination hardened Charlie’s voice. “You’re not dying here. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

She pulled bandages from her pocket and quickly wrapped the woman’s hollow eye socket to stave off infection. The woman’s remaining eye widened in surprise at the kindness, but before she could speak, pain lanced through her back. Her eye rolled back, and she slumped unconscious against the dumpster.

Charlie gasped, then set her jaw with resolve. Okay. She had to help.

It took everything she had—dragging the woman’s limp form through soot-stained streets, supporting her weight while making sure her son followed safely behind her. By the time she reached the hotel, Charlie’s arms trembled with exhaustion, her clothes smeared with blood and ash.

Her staff—newly hired and still settling into their roles—stood frozen at the sight of their princess hauling someone through the door with a toddler trailing behind. They rushed forward, but Charlie waved them off.

“I’m fine. Just... call Remedy. Please.”

She laid the stranger on the lobby couch and quickly gathered towels, warm water, and her limited first-aid supplies. Alastor toddled beside her, watching with wide, curious eyes as his mother cleaned wounds and applied pressure to bleeding gashes.

As Charlie worked, she noticed something strange beneath the torn flesh of the woman’s back—a faint shimmer, like trapped light trying to escape. She paused, frowning, but pushed the observation aside. There would be time for questions later.

Right now, this woman needed help. She was probably just another sinner who’d survived an exterminator’s attack—one of the rare, unlucky few who lived through the annual slaughter only to bear the scars.

“Who could do something like this?” Charlie murmured, pressing a damp cloth to the deepest wound.

The woman flinched but didn’t pull away. When she spoke, her voice carried bitter weight. “Heaven...”

Charlie’s hand froze midair, questions forming on her lips, but she swallowed them down. Instead, she finished bandaging the wounds as best she could and offered a gentle smile.

“You’re safe now. You can rest here as long as you need. My name’s Charlie.”

Silence stretched between them, long enough that Charlie thought the woman might have lost consciousness.

Then, barely audible: “...Vaggie.”

Charlie’s smile brightened despite her exhaustion. “Nice to meet you, Vaggie. Welcome to the Happy Hotel.”

Later that night, after settling Vaggie in a freshly cleaned room, Charlie checked on her one last time. The woman slept fitfully, her breathing shallow but steady. In the nursery next door, Alastor was already asleep in his crib, clutching his stuffed duck to his chest.

The hotel was quiet—warm, for once, despite the eternal chill of Hell seeping through the walls.

But outside Vaggie’s room, trouble was brewing.

Remedy had pulled Charlie aside after the examination, her expression grave.

“Princess... she’s an angel. An angel in Hell.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

The only angels who came to Hell did so once a year, and they came to kill. Which meant Vaggie was—or had been—an exorcist.

The staff’s reaction was immediate and unanimous.

“You need to get rid of her,” said Forge, the gruff imp in charge of security, his hand resting on the weapon at his belt. “Throw her out. Or better yet, finish what someone else started.”

“She’s a threat,” another staff member added, wringing her hands. “To you, to your son, to all of us. Angels don’t belong here.”

“There’s no place for beings like her,” someone else muttered. “Not after what they do to us every year.”

Charlie listened to every concern, every fear, every bitter memory of loved ones lost to Heaven’s blades. She understood their anger—understood the logic of their arguments. Anyone else would do the same. Anyone else would choose safety over mercy.

But Charlie was not just anyone.

She was Charlie Morningstar, Princess of Hell and believer in second chances.

“No.” Her voice cut through the murmurs, firm and clear. “I’m not throwing her out just because she’s an angel.”

“But Princess—”

“We don’t know her whole story yet,” Charlie said, her voice gentling even as her spine stayed straight.

“Maybe she got left behind. Maybe something else happened. But look at her—really look. Someone hurt an angel badly enough to nearly kill her. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

She gestured toward Vaggie’s door. “The whole point of this place is to give people a chance. To have faith that things can be better. How can I turn someone away when they need help the most?”

Her voice softened, but her conviction remained steel-strong. “I can’t. It goes against everything I’m trying to do. Everything I believe in.”

She placed a hand over her heart. “I’m asking you to trust me. I know it’s hard. I know it’s scary. But I can take care of myself—and I won’t let anyone here come to harm. Please.”

The staff exchanged glances, uncertainty written across their faces. Finally, Forge sighed, running a hand over his horns.

“Fine. But I’m keeping watch. Round the clock if I have to. That angel makes one wrong move—”

“Thank you.” Charlie said, relief flooding her voice. “That’s all I’m asking. Just... give her a chance.”

Before heading to bed, Charlie opened Vaggie’s door one last time, quiet as a whisper. She leaned against the doorframe, watching the rise and fall of the woman’s chest, the bandages stark white against gray skin.

“Maybe this is it,” she murmured to herself, a small, hopeful smile touching her lips. “The first guest who really needs saving.”

Outside, the fires of extermination still burned their way to embers, painting the sky in shades of orange and red.

But inside the Happy Hotel, something fragile and bright flickered to life—a new beginning neither of them could have anticipated.

In her room, Vaggie’s remaining eye cracked open just slightly, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know why someone had shown her kindness when she deserved none.

But for the first time since falling, she felt something other than pain.

She felt... safe.

And that terrified her more than anything.

The Next Morning

Sunlight filtered through cracked windows the next morning, scattering across the dusty floor like tiny halos. The smell of something sweet drifted through the hotel—pancakes, warm and buttery, with a hint of cinnamon.

Vaggie stirred in the unfamiliar bed. Her body protested with every breath, bandages pulling tight around her ribs and shoulders. For one disoriented moment, she thought she was still in Heaven—then the acrid scent of sulfur and the subtle hum of infernal magic reminded her of the truth.

Hell. She was in Hell.

She sat up slowly, grimacing as healing wounds pulled taut. The last clear memory she had was of the alleyway—the searing pain, the crushing betrayal, Adam’s cold dismissal, Lute’s merciless hand. And then… a voice. Soft and warm. The girl with golden hair.

Vaggie swung her legs off the bed, half-expecting chains or guards or the mocking laughter of demons. Instead, there was only silence—and the faint sound of giggling from down the hall.

She followed it.

In the lobby, a small child sat on a blanket surrounded by toys—a stuffed duck, a wooden rattle, and a teething ring shaped like a star. A woman sat beside him, folding baby clothes while humming a quiet lullaby. Her eyes caught the morning light, glowing faintly pink against her golden hair.

Charlie turned at the sound of footsteps. “Oh! You’re awake!”

Her entire face lit up like someone had just told her Christmas came early. “How are you feeling? I made breakfast, if you think you can manage solid food.”

Vaggie froze. She’d seen this face before—in murals, in sermons, in holy briefings before extermination day. Princess Charlotte Morningstar. Daughter of Lucifer Morningstar himself. The one Heaven called temptation incarnate, the unholy spawn of two betrayers.

“You’re the Princess of Hell,” Vaggie said flatly.

Charlie blinked, caught off guard by the edge in her voice. “Oh—uh, yeah. Guilty as charged, I guess.”

She gave a sheepish smile. “But you can just call me Charlie. I’m not really into the royal thing.”

Every instinct Vaggie possessed screamed at her to run. Everything she’d been taught in Heaven said this woman was dangerous—a liar wrapped in kindness, a serpent disguised in silk.

Yet as she watched Charlie kneel beside the baby, her movements gentle and patient, something didn’t add up.

The Princess of Hell was supposed to be terrifying. Manipulative. A master deceiver preaching impossible dreams to trap the desperate.

But the woman before her was making funny faces at an infant while—wait, was that smoke coming from the kitchen?

Charlie lifted Alastor into her arms. He squealed with delight and immediately grabbed a fistful of her hair.

“Aw—someone’s excited this morning,” she laughed, prying tiny fingers loose before kissing his forehead.

Charlie turned back to Vaggie. “This is my son, Alastor. Don’t worry—he’s harmless. Just drools on everything and tries to eat his own feet.”

Vaggie stared.

The Princess of Hell had a child.

A baby who laughed and played with toys and clearly adored his mother.

For the first time since her fall, she didn’t know what to think.

Charlie noticed the conflict on her face and softened. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. But you’re safe here, I promise. I just… I couldn’t leave you out there alone.”

Vaggie’s throat tightened. No demon should have shown her mercy. No royal should have risked themselves for someone broken and bleeding in the street. Heaven had taught her that Hell knew only cruelty, that its denizens were incapable of genuine compassion.

Yet this woman had saved her life anyway.

“Why?” Vaggie finally managed, voice trembling despite her best efforts. “Why would you help me?”

Charlie smiled faintly, rocking her son with practiced ease. “Because everyone deserves a chance to be cared for. Even here. Especially here.”

The words shouldn’t have meant anything to a fallen angel who had spent centuries dispensing Heaven’s judgment. But they landed with unexpected weight, settling somewhere deep in her chest where doubt had already begun to take root.

Vaggie looked away, swallowing hard. “You’re not what I expected.”

Charlie laughed softly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

At first, Vaggie told herself she would only stay a few days—just long enough for her wounds to heal and her strength to return. She didn’t owe the Princess of Hell anything. Gratitude didn’t erase what Charlie represented, or what Vaggie herself had once been.

The hotel staff reacted exactly as she expected. Suspicious. Guarded. They treated her like a threat, their smiles brittle, their eyes always watching. An imp named Forge shadowed her constantly, his heavy boots echoing down every hallway. He never left her alone with anyone for long.

Vaggie figured they’d discovered who she was and were waiting for the right moment to strike. She told herself she’d be gone before that moment came.

But days turned into weeks, and she found herself still there.

Charlie didn’t ask for loyalty or demand explanations. She didn’t pry into Vaggie’s past or question the nature of her injuries. She simply went about her life—balancing the chaos of hotel renovations, the needs of her small staff, and the relentless care of her infant son with the same gentle persistence that had saved Vaggie’s life.

Every morning, Vaggie woke to the sound of laughter echoing through the halls—Charlie’s bright giggles and Alastor’s delighted squeals as she played peek-a-boo while feeding him breakfast.

The Princess of Hell didn’t wear a crown or command legions.

She wore a food-stained apron and spent her days wiping mashed bananas off her baby’s cheeks, singing off-key lullabies, and talking to him about shapes and colors as if he could understand every word.

Sometimes Vaggie would watch from the doorway, trying to reconcile this woman with everything Heaven had taught her to believe.

When Vaggie could finally walk again without pain, Charlie asked—hesitantly, almost shyly—if she’d like to help with small things. Folding laundry. Reading to Alastor. Keeping him company while she handled paperwork.

Vaggie agreed hesitantly at first, telling herself it was simple repayment for the hospitality. Nothing more.

But each passing day made the lie harder to believe.

Because every time she saw Charlie smile at her son with that gentle, unwavering love—the kind of love that expected nothing in return—something inside her cracked a little more.

One evening, while they both sat in the lounge after putting Alastor to bed, Charlie shared her dream. A dream so impossible that Vaggie wasn’t sure even Heaven would believe it.

Charlie cupped her tea, steam curling around her face as she spoke softly.

“I know it sounds crazy,” she began, stirring the cup with a distant smile. “But I really believe everyone deserves a chance at redemption. Even sinners. Even… me, probably.”

She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I want this hotel to be a place where souls can heal. Where maybe, just maybe, we can prove to Heaven that people can change. That they’re worth saving.”

Vaggie had heard the stories before—the sermons warning of the princess of Hell, the tempter of souls, the child of humanity’s two greatest betrayers. A false light meant to lure Heaven’s faithful astray.

But watching her now, Vaggie didn’t see a fool or a threat.

She saw someone carrying the weight of an impossible dream while raising a baby in the middle of Hell—and still finding reasons to smile.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” Vaggie asked quietly.

Charlie nodded, eyes soft but resolute. “I have to. Otherwise… what’s the point of any of this? What’s the point of being who I am if I can’t at least try?”

For the first time in her existence, Vaggie had no answer.

It happened quietly—without grand declarations or sudden epiphanies.

Charlie had been running herself into the ground—managing hotel logistics, organizing outreach attempts to potential guests, and caring for Alastor without pause. She refused to rest, even as exhaustion began to show in her trembling hands and the perpetual dark circles under her eyes.

Vaggie noticed.

She noticed how Charlie’s voice grew hoarse after hours of singing lullabies. How her hair became more disheveled as the days passed, how her eyebags could probably carry groceries at this point.

How Alastor, perceptive even as a toddler, would cling closer to his mother when she coughed into her sleeve or stumbled from fatigue.

Then one morning, Charlie didn’t come down for breakfast.

The small staff murmured in worry, unsure what to do, when Vaggie decided to check on her.

She found Charlie slumped in bed, flushed with fever, still trying to write hotel proposals between violent coughs. Alastor sat beside her on the bed, his small fingers tugging at the sheets, eyes wide with a fear he was too young to fully understand.

“Hey,” Vaggie said softly, taking the pen from Charlie’s trembling hand. “You’re sick.”

“I can’t stop now—” Charlie protested weakly, trying to sit up. “There’s still so much to do, and the proposal deadline—”

“No,” Vaggie interrupted, gentle but absolutely firm. “You’re resting. That’s not a request.”

Charlie blinked up at her in surprise. No one had spoken to her like that before—not without fear, not without reverence or manipulation.

Vaggie set the papers aside with finality, adjusted the blankets around Charlie’s shoulders, and carefully lifted Alastor into her arms.

“We’ve got it covered,” she said. “You need to sleep. I’ll take care of him.”

It was the first time Vaggie had ever held a baby.

Alastor’s tiny fingers curled around hers immediately, trusting and warm. He studied her face with grave curiosity before breaking into a gummy smile when she awkwardly tried to make a funny face.

For a moment—just a moment—she forgot she was supposed to hate demons.

That thought vanished the instant she came downstairs with Alastor in her arms.

Every head turned. The staff froze mid-step, eyes narrowing. Hands reached instinctively for makeshift weapons, gathering behind Forge in a defensive line. They couldn’t attack directly—not with Alastor in her arms—but they blocked every exit from the hotel, ensuring she couldn’t escape.

Oh. Great.

It was a tense standoff, and Vaggie’s mind raced for a way to defuse the situation.

“What do you want, angel?” Forge spat, venom dripping from every word. “What did you do to the Princess?”

“Planning to take the young prince with you?!” someone shouted.

“I’m not doing anything,” Vaggie said steadily, lowering her voice.

She set Alastor gently on his feet. “Charlie’s safe upstairs. She’s running a fever. I brought him down so he wouldn’t catch it.”

“How do we know you’re not lying?” Forge growled, suspicion thick in his voice.

“Remedy can go check on her. She should anyway—Charlie needs her now.” Vaggie raised her hands slowly, palms out. “I mean no harm.”

No one moved. The distrust was palpable.

The tension grew so thick you could cut it with a knife.

But before anything could escalate further, Vaggie felt something small grab her leg.

She looked down. Alastor was hugging her, babbling happily.

“Aggie! Aggie!” he chirped, holding up his little arms.

Vaggie froze.

This child—pure, unguarded—was asking her to hold him. No fear. No hesitation. Only trust.

She had no idea what to do and simply stood there, paralyzed.

Remedy stepped forward, her tone softer than before. “He wants you to hold him. He doesn’t ask just anyone to do that.”

She paused, studying Vaggie with new eyes. “He must really trust you.”

The staff slowly lowered their weapons. Distrust still lingered in their eyes, but the hostility had lessened.

Remedy walked past Vaggie and headed upstairs to Charlie’s room.

“I still don’t trust you, angel,” Forge said in a rough voice. “But the princess insisted on giving you a second chance. And it seems the prince did too.”

He spat his next words with finality. “Don’t waste it, or we’ll waste you.”

He turned and left to patrol the hotel grounds. The rest of the staff followed, returning to their duties.

Silence fell.

Vaggie was left alone with Alastor.

Alastor was still clinging to her leg. Carefully, Vaggie bent down, lifted him into her arms, and held him close.

She said nothing—but her thoughts screamed loud enough to echo through her grace.

The Princess of Hell knew I was an angel all along…

The day passed in a quiet domestic rhythm.

Vaggie brought soup to Charlie, checking on her every hour. She changed Alastor’s clothes when he managed to spill juice all over himself—seriously, how did he get it in his hair?—and even hummed a lullaby she barely remembered from Heaven, something about starlight and eternal grace, while rocking him to sleep for his nap.

By the time Charlie woke that evening, her fever had broken. She found Vaggie asleep in the chair beside the bed, Alastor curled against her chest, one tiny hand fisted in her shirt.

Charlie’s eyes misted as she watched them. Something in her heart settled and expanded all at once.

When Vaggie woke later, embarrassed to be caught sleeping on the job, Charlie only smiled. “Thank you. For taking care of us.”

“Someone had to,” Vaggie murmured, looking away to hide the emotion in her voice. “You do too much alone.”

A warm, fragile silence followed—one filled not with tension, but quiet understanding. Alastor shifted in his sleep, and both women instinctively adjusted to keep him comfortable, their movements synchronized without thought.

After a moment, Vaggie spoke softly. “Why did you let me stay? You knew who I was… what I was.”

Charlie was quiet for a beat before answering. “Because you needed help. Because you were hurt. And because everyone deserves a second chance.”

Vaggie froze.

Charlie’s smile was small, but sure. “I don’t know what brought you down here, but I can tell you’re a good person.”

Vaggie’s composure cracked. “No, I’m not.” Her voice trembled. “I’ve done horrible things—things that can’t be forgiven!”

She bit her lip until it hurt. “I destroyed so many lives without thinking twice! And when I finally stopped—to show mercy just once—I got this!”

She gestured to herself, anger and grief spilling out.

“One eye gone. My wings ripped out. And everyone I thought was family threw me away like I was nothing!”

Her voice broke entirely. “And seeing you—seeing how you’re kinder than people I once called angels—it makes me wonder if I was on the wrong side all along…”

The dam burst. The words poured out between ragged breaths and shaking hands. Everything she’d buried since falling from grace came spilling into the open.

Charlie said nothing. She simply reached out and took Vaggie’s hands in her own, warm and steady.

“That’s the thing about redemption,” she said softly. “It starts the moment you admit you were wrong… that you want to be better.”

She squeezed Vaggie’s hands. “You didn’t have to take care of me. Or Alastor. But you did—because you care. That alone shows me you already are changing.”

Her voice softened further. “You may have been an angel, Vaggie… but you’re also someone who’s hurting. And that’s what this hotel is for—to help people heal. To give them another chance.”

Her smile deepened, gentle and sure. “Even someone who made a huge mistake.”

Something passed between them then—not love, not yet—but trust.

Warmth.

The first fragile thread of connection between two broken souls who’d both thought they were beyond saving.

In the days that followed, Vaggie found herself smiling more often.

Not because she’d forgotten what she’d lost—those scars would always remain—but because she’d discovered something she hadn’t realized she was missing.

Hope.

Maybe Hell wasn’t just punishment.

Maybe, in this strange, half-renovated hotel with its creaky walls and unexpected laughter, there could be something good.

And maybe, just maybe, she could be part of building it.

The next few weeks passed with surprising ease.

Vaggie healed—her wounds, both physical and unseen, closing under the steady rhythm of life at the hotel.

She cleaned rooms and helped organize supplies. She assisted Remedy with medical inventory and even chased Alastor down the hall one chaotic morning when he discovered that running meant he could cause delightful mayhem. For the first time since she’d fallen, her days weren’t defined by orders or violence or the weight of divine judgment.

The staff’s wariness gradually softened. Forge still watched her with narrowed eyes, but he no longer reached for his weapon when she entered a room. Others began to nod in greeting, offering tentative smiles when she lent a hand.

One afternoon, while patching a broken stair railing, Vaggie caught herself humming. She froze, startled by the sound of her own voice—it had been years, maybe decades, since she’d done that.

Charlie appeared then, carrying Alastor in her arms. The toddler’s face lit up at the sight of Vaggie, and he immediately reached out toward her with grabbing hands and an insistent squeal.

“He really likes you,” Charlie said, her smile warm. “You’re the only one besides me who can get him down for a nap without a full meltdown.”

Vaggie set her tools aside and took the reaching baby. “That’s because I glare at him until he surrenders to sleep.”

Charlie laughed—bright, unguarded—and the sound made something flutter in Vaggie’s chest.

Almost without thinking, the words slipped out. “I want to stay.”

Charlie blinked. “Stay?”

“Here. At the hotel.” Vaggie’s voice softened, but her tone held steady. “I’ve been thinking about it. I don’t have anywhere else to go. And you… you shouldn’t be doing this alone. Not with Alastor. Not with everything you’re trying to build.”

Charlie’s golden eyes widened, shimmering with emotion. “Vaggie, you don’t have to feel obligated—”

“I want to,” Vaggie interrupted, stepping closer with Alastor still in her arms. The baby had already fallen asleep against her shoulder, completely trusting.

“You’re trying to do something good here. Something no one else in Hell or Heaven believes is possible. And if you’re really serious about redeeming sinners and changing things… you’re going to need someone to watch your back. Someone to help carry the weight.”

For a long moment, Charlie said nothing. Then her smile bloomed—radiant and certain, filled with that impossible, unbreakable hope that made even Hell’s fire feel warm.

“Welcome home, Vaggie.”

The words struck harder than Vaggie expected.

“Home?” she echoed softly.

Charlie nodded, squeezing her arm. “That’s what this place is meant to be—a home for those who need it most. For those who thought they’d never have one again.”

For the first time in centuries—perhaps for the first time ever—Vaggie let herself believe that could be true.

That night, after the staff had retired to their quarters and Alastor had drifted to sleep in his duck-print pajamas—his little arms wrapped around a stuffed duck—the hotel grew still.

Only the hum of old pipes and the distant heartbeat of the city filled the silence.

Charlie sat in the common room, sketching renovation plans on a notepad. Her hair was slightly messy, a mug of cocoa cooling beside her. Every few minutes, she paused to add stars in the margins, hearts above the i’s—small bursts of hope written in ink.

Vaggie leaned against the couch beside her, arms folded but her expression softer than it had been in years.

“You know,” she said, “you could take a night off once in a while. The hotel won’t collapse if you sleep.”

Charlie smiled tiredly. “Maybe when everything’s finished. When everyone’s safe. When sinners stop dying every extermination day.”

“You can’t fix all of Hell in one night,” Vaggie murmured.

“I know.” Charlie set her pen down, her voice barely above a whisper. “But someone has to try. If I don’t, who will?”

Vaggie watched her for a long moment—this radiant, fragile princess who carried the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. Then she said softly, “You’re stronger than you know, Charlie. More than you give yourself credit for.”

Charlie blinked in surprise. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Vaggie said, her tone certain. “Most people in Hell take whatever they want. They destroy and consume and never give anything back. But you… you give. Every day, you give. And that’s so much harder. You’re raising a child on top of it all.”

Charlie laughed, a sound that trembled between joy and exhaustion. “I didn’t plan for any of this. The hotel was supposed to be my purpose. Then Alastor came along, and I just—”

She smiled faintly. “I couldn’t imagine leaving him. I couldn’t let him grow up without knowing he was loved.”

Vaggie’s chest ached. She looked at Charlie—the lamplight catching the worry lines beneath her eyes, the quiet determination masked behind her smile—and felt something she hadn’t in a very long time.

Admiration.

“Then he’s lucky to have you,” she said softly.

Charlie shook her head. “I think I’m the lucky one. He reminds me that even here, even in Hell, life can start over. That there’s always hope for something better.”

Silence settled again—comfortable this time, warm like a shared blanket.

Outside, the neon lights of Pentagram City flickered like distant stars, garish yet strangely beautiful. Inside, two souls sat side by side—a fallen angel and a dreaming princess—with a sleeping child upstairs and an impossible dream quietly taking root between them.

Vaggie didn’t say it aloud—it was too new, too tender—but for the first time since her fall, she didn’t feel lost.

She’d finally found something worth fighting for again.

Someone worth believing in.

And maybe, in helping Charlie build this place, she’d begun to rebuild herself.

The Happy Hotel would face countless challenges in the years to come—setbacks, heartbreaks, and moments of despair. But on that quiet night, with ash still drifting past the windows and hope blooming in the darkness, two broken souls began to build something neither Heaven nor Hell had ever seen before.

A home.

A family.

A future.

And it all began with an act of mercy in the ashes.

Chapter Text

The diner was one of those old Hell establishments that had somehow survived centuries of exterminations and turf wars—flickering neon signs, cracked red vinyl booths, and a jukebox that only played songs about eternal suffering. The air smelled like grease and faint sulfur, but the pancakes were legendary, and Charlie had been craving them all week.

“Breakfast for dinner is self-care,” she’d declared when Vaggie questioned her choice. And, as usual, Vaggie had caved—mostly because those wide, pleading eyes made resistance impossible.

Now the two sat tucked in a corner booth. Charlie’s plate was stacked dangerously high with infernal pancakes, each one golden and dripping with something the menu optimistically called hellberry syrup. Across from her, Vaggie sipped black coffee, pretending not to notice the sticky floor or the ominous stains on the ceiling tiles.

Between them, strapped into a slightly wobbly high chair the waitress had dragged out of storage, baby Alastor was in his element. His red curls bounced as he giggled, swinging chubby legs to a rhythm only he could hear. In his hands, he clutched a toy shaped like a tiny radio microphone—a gift from one of the hotel staff who’d thought it “fitting.”

“He’s being so good today,” Charlie said brightly, cutting her pancakes into neat triangles. “Maybe we’ll actually finish a meal in public this time.”

Vaggie arched a brow. “You just jinxed it.”

“I did not—”

The toy slipped from Alastor’s grasp and clattered to the floor.

For a moment, silence. Then his eyes went wide, lower lip trembling—a storm brewing behind those round red eyes.

“Oh no—” Charlie started to unbuckle him.

Before the inevitable wail, a high, chipper voice popped up from under the table. “Oh! You dropped something, sweetie!”

A blur zipped into view: a tiny woman with one enormous eye and a relentless grin.

Niffty had been polishing the floors at supernatural speed, darting between booths like a caffeinated tornado. The diner’s owner had long since stopped questioning her—she wasn’t on payroll, but she left the place spotless, so who cared?

“There you go, cutie—” Niffty chirped, handing the toy back to Alastor.

Their fingers brushed.

FLASH.

A crimson chain burst into existence between them, glowing with ancient sigils. It pulsed once, twice, thrice—each beat making the lights flicker and coffee cups rattle—before vanishing in a shimmer of red mist.

Niffty blinked, her massive eye widening even further.

“Ooh, sparkly!” She tilted her head, then grinned as Alastor cooed and patted her hand. “I think we’re best friends now!”

Charlie’s fork hit her plate. “What. The. Fuck?!”

Vaggie set down her cup, voice flat. “What the hell just happened?”

Alastor giggled, utterly delighted. He reached for Niffty again, and that faint crimson shimmer flickered once more in the air.

“This is fine,” Charlie said quickly. “This is totally fine. Completely normal. Nothing to worry about.”

“Charlie—”

“He just made a soul contract with the cleaning lady!”

Several diners turned. One glare from Vaggie sent them right back to their meals.

Meanwhile, Niffty was ecstatic. She zipped around the booth, tidying napkins, rearranging sugar packets, and scrubbing a suspicious stain that had probably been there since forever.

“Your little one is so cute! Look at those cheeks! Can I babysit? I’m excellent with kids! Also, I can sterilize anything!”

“That’s—very sweet—but—” Charlie tried to collect Alastor, who was now clapping and laughing. Every time he clapped, Niffty glowed like a blinking firefly.

Vaggie frowned. “Charlie… is she reacting to him?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t even know he could do this!”

Alastor babbled something that almost sounded like “clean!”

Instantly, Niffty popped into existence beside their table, scrubbing the booth with manic enthusiasm. “Yes! Cleaning! I love cleaning! This is the best contract I’ve ever accidentally entered!”

The diner fell silent as she blinked in and out of existence—polishing windows one second, stacking plates the next.

Vaggie threw cash on the table. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Charlie nodded frantically, scooping up Alastor. “Niffty, I am so sorry—”

“Sorry? This is AMAZING!” Niffty practically vibrated. “I have a new best friend and a purpose! Do you know how rare that is in Hell?”

“Yes, but he’s a baby! He doesn’t even know what he—”

Alastor reached toward her again. The crimson chain flickered, stronger this time.

“Oh no,” Charlie whispered. “He’s reinforcing it.”

Vaggie dragged her toward the door. “We’re calling your aunt. Now.”

As they rushed outside, Niffty waved from the window, already scrubbing the glass to a mirror shine. “Bye, best friend! See you soon! I’ll know when you need me!”

Charlie looked down at her son, who yawned sleepily in her arms, fist tucked between his lips.

He was already drifting off—blissfully unaware that, before he could even spell his name, he’d just bound a soul to his will.

The hotel lobby had been hastily converted into a crisis management center.

Belphegor, Ruler of Sloth and Charlie’s ever-languid aunt, lay sprawled across the largest couch, buried in a mountain of pillows and blankets. Glowing sigils drifted lazily in the air around her like drowsy fireflies.

Despite the urgency of the situation, she looked utterly relaxed—head still nestled in her pillow fortress—while Charlie paced anxiously in front of her.

“So let me get this straight,” Belphegor drawled, not even bothering to sit up. “Alastor—who, by all accounts, is the equivalent of a two-year-old—made a soul contract?”

Charlie nodded, mortified.

“With the housekeeper,” Belphegor continued, “because he wanted his toy back.”

“...Yes.”

There was a long pause. Then Belphegor started laughing—quiet, wheezing giggles that soon had her curling up on the couch.

“Oh, that’s so nostalgic,” she said between laughs, wiping a tear from her eye. “You did something similar when you were his age. Accidentally contracted a dozen imps into eternal servitude because you didn’t want to take a nap. Your parents were mortified.”

“Aunt Bel, this isn’t funny!” Charlie huffed, cheeks flushing.

“It’s a little funny,” Belphegor murmured.

From her post near the door, Vaggie crossed her arms, keeping one wary eye on the napping toddler in his duck-print pajamas. “Can you fix it or not?”

Belphegor finally sat up, stretching like a cat. With a lazy flick of her wrist, the sigils floating in the air rearranged themselves into intricate, pulsing patterns. She studied them with half-lidded eyes, occasionally humming thoughtfully.

“Well, good news and bad news,” she said at last. “Good news: this is completely normal. Royal hellborn kids do this all the time when their magic first manifests. It means little Alastor’s hitting his milestones right on schedule.”

Charlie blinked. “And the bad news?”

“You can’t really undo it without potentially hurting both parties. And, ah, you should expect this to happen again. Probably several times.”

Charlie groaned and sank into a chair, burying her face in her hands. “How is any of this normal?”

Belphegor conjured a small pamphlet with a flourish and handed it to her niece before explaining.

“‘Hellborn Royal Children and Early Magical Surges,’” she read aloud from the cover. “Between six months and three years of age, royal offspring experience uncontrolled magical outbursts. Excessive power plus an underdeveloped vessel equals emotional magic overflow. It responds to deep desires—resulting in involuntary contracts, summonings, or reality alterations.”

She looked up, smiling wryly.

“In simpler terms: his magic is leaking. Every strong feeling can accidentally reshape reality. A scraped knee could create a vengeance pact. A lost toy might summon a servant. A tantrum could, theoretically, set a park on fire.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “So my son is a walking magical hazard.”

“Pretty much,” Belphegor said cheerfully. “But hey—at least he bound someone useful. Niffty’s thrilled, from what I can tell. Some royal babies accidentally enslave demons to eternal torment. Yours just wanted a friend who likes cleaning.”

Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose. “So what do we do? We can’t let him go around making contracts with everyone he meets.”

“No, you definitely can’t.” Belphegor reached into her pile of scrolls and rummaged around until she produced a small wooden box, carved with intricate sigils. “Which is why you’ll need this.”

She opened it to reveal a delicate bracelet woven from strands of crystallized moonlight and shadow, softly pulsing with life.

“Magic suppression bracelet,” Belphegor explained. “Standard issue for royal toddlers with power control issues. It won’t block his magic entirely—that’d be dangerous—but it’ll contain the overflow. Think of it like... putting a lid on a boiling pot.”

Charlie took the bracelet carefully, holding it up to the light. It hummed gently, warm against her palm. “Will it hurt him?”

“Not at all. He’ll barely notice it. When his magic surges, it’ll glow and hum like a little alarm. You’ll eventually want him to take it off for supervised training sessions—but for now, this’ll keep him from accidentally enslaving half of Hell.”

“That’s... actually really helpful.” Charlie smiled faintly at her aunt. “Thank you, Aunt Bel.”

“Anything for my great-nephew,” Belphegor said fondly, reaching over to stroke Charlie’s hair. “He’s growing up happy and healthy, and that’s all thanks to you.”

Charlie’s smile softened.

Belphegor reclined again, stretching lazily. “Just slip it on him when he wakes up. He might get cranky for a few days—babies hate it when their magic stops obeying every whim.”

Vaggie stepped closer to inspect the bracelet. “What about Niffty? Is she... stuck in this contract forever?”

Belphegor shrugged. “It’ll weaken naturally as he matures and gains control. By the time he’s old enough to understand what he did, it’ll be more like a strong suggestion than an absolute compulsion. She can renegotiate or break it later if she wants. Child-made contracts are rarely permanent.”

As if summoned by fate, there was a knock at the door.

Vaggie opened it to find Niffty standing there, beaming, with a basket of cleaning supplies in her arms.

“Hi! I’m here to help with the baby! And also to clean everything! This place has so much potential—but the baseboards need work, and there’s dust on at least seventy-three surfaces, and—”

“How did you even know where we live?” Vaggie interrupted.

Niffty tapped her temple. “The contract! I can feel when my best friend needs me. It’s like a little tug in my chest that says, ‘I’m here!’”

Charlie and Vaggie exchanged a long look.

“Well,” Charlie said weakly, “I guess we have a new... friend? Employee? Magically bound companion?”

“All of the above!” Niffty chirped, already darting off to inspect the supply closet. “Don’t worry, Charlie! I’m very good at this. Your little one made an excellent choice binding my soul to his service!”

“He’s a toddler, he didn’t—” Charlie began, but Niffty was already gone, humming cheerfully.

Belphegor chuckled into her pillow. “See? Everything worked out fine.” She yawned, settling back into her nest. “Welcome to royal parenting, niece. It only gets weirder from here.”

That evening, after Niffty had cleaned every surface in the hotel twice and finally left (with promises to return first thing in the morning), Charlie sat in the nursery with Alastor in her lap.

The bracelet rested in her palm, glowing softly in the dim light.

“Okay, sweetheart,” she whispered, stroking his curls. “Mommy needs to put this on you. It’s not scary, I promise. It’s just... it’s like a blanket for your magic. To keep you safe. To keep everyone safe.”

Alastor blinked up at her with those bright, curious eyes, reaching for the shiny object. Charlie carefully slipped it around his tiny wrist. It adjusted automatically, sizing itself perfectly—snug but comfortable, impossible for him to remove accidentally.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Alastor’s eyes widened. He looked at his hand, then at Charlie, then back at his hand. His face scrunched up in confusion and frustration.

“I know, baby. I know it feels different.” Charlie pulled him close, rocking gently. “But it’s okay. You’re okay.”

The bracelet pulsed once—a warm, golden glow—and Alastor gradually relaxed against her chest. Within minutes, he was drowsing, his breathing evening out into the soft rhythm of sleep.

Charlie held him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head where his little horns would eventually grow in.

“It’s not a cage,” she whispered, tears pricking at her eyes. “It’s just temporary. Just until you’re big enough to hold all that power. Until you can understand what you’re doing.”

Vaggie appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s okay. Confused, but okay.” Charlie looked up, smiling sadly. “Is it wrong that I feel guilty? Like I’m suppressing part of who he is?”

Vaggie crossed the room and sat on the arm of the rocking chair, placing a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “You’re protecting him. And everyone around him. That’s not suppression, that’s parenting.”

“But what if—”

“Charlie.” Vaggie’s voice was firm but gentle. “You’re doing the right thing. He’s going to grow up, and when he does, he’ll understand. And he’ll have his magic then, stronger than ever, with you to teach him how to use it responsibly.”

Charlie leaned into her touch, grateful for the reassurance. “When did you become the voice of reason?”

“Someone has to be, with all the chaos you attract.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching Alastor sleep. The bracelet glowed faintly with each breath he took, a steady pulse like a heartbeat.

“Do you think he’ll remember?” Charlie asked softly. “When he’s older? Will he remember making that contract?”

“Probably not the details. But knowing our luck?” Vaggie smirked. “Niffty will definitely remind him. Probably at every birthday party for the rest of his life.”

Charlie laughed quietly, the sound mixing with the soft hum of the bracelet. Outside the window, Hell’s eternal night pressed against the glass, but here in the nursery, surrounded by warmth and love, it didn’t seem quite so dark.

Every night after that, Charlie would check the bracelet before putting Alastor to bed. She’d run her fingers over the sigils, feeling them pulse with contained power, and whisper the same words:

“It’s not a cage, sweetheart. It’s just a blanket. Just until you’re ready.”

And every night, the bracelet would glow a little brighter, as if in agreement.

The next morning, Niffty arrived at exactly 6 AM with three different cleaning trolleys, a file folder of organization strategies, and enough enthusiasm to power a small city.

“Good morning, best friend!” she called up to Alastor’s nursery window before letting herself in with a key she’d somehow acquired. “And good morning to everyone else too! I made a schedule! We’re going to be SO organized!”

Charlie stumbled downstairs in her bathrobe, hair in disarray, to find Niffty had already cleaned the entire first floor and prepared breakfast.

“Niffty, you didn’t have to—”

“Oh, but I did! What kind of a best friend would I be if I left him in a dirty place like this??”

A couple of the staff in the back looked offended by her statement.

Vaggie appeared, also in sleepwear, staring at the spotless lobby. “Is she going to do this every day?”

“Probably!” Niffty confirmed cheerfully. “Isn’t it great?”

From upstairs, Alastor woke with a cheerful babble. The bracelet on his wrist pulsed once, and downstairs, Niffty’s eye widened.

“Oh! He’s awake! I’ll get him! I know exactly where everything is because I organized the nursery last night while you were sleeping! Don’t worry, I was very quiet!”

She zoomed upstairs before either of them could respond.

Charlie and Vaggie looked at each other.

“We accidentally acquired the world’s most enthusiastic housekeeper,” Charlie said.

“Your son accidentally acquired the world’s most enthusiastic housekeeper,” Vaggie corrected.

“Same thing at this point.”

Upstairs, they could hear Niffty cooing at Alastor, her voice carrying down the stairs: “Good morning, best friend! Let’s get you changed and fed and then I’ll teach you all about proper dusting techniques! You’re never too young to learn about maintaining a clean environment!”

Charlie sighed, but she was smiling. “You know what? There are worse things than having someone who loves cleaning and adores my son magically bound to help us.”

“There are certainly weirder things,” Vaggie agreed. “But at this point, I’m not sure what.”

They headed upstairs together to rescue—or possibly assist—Niffty with the morning routine, knowing that this was just the beginning of a very long, very strange, and very clean future.

The bracelet on Alastor’s wrist glowed contentedly, containing power that would one day reshape Hell itself.

But for now, it just helped keep accidental soul contracts to a minimum.

Which, in the Morningstar household, counted as a win.

Chapter Text

After the Niffty Incident, Charlie had convinced herself that things would settle down. The suppression bracelet was working—mostly. Sure, it glowed ominously whenever Alastor got excited, and yes, it hummed like a warning siren during temper tantrums, but at least he hadn’t accidentally enslaved anyone else.

For two whole weeks, life at the Happy Hotel approached something resembling normal.

Charlie should have known better than to hope.

The problem, as Belphegor had warned, was that the bracelet could only contain so much. Baby Alastor’s power was like a river—you could dam it, redirect it, slow its flow, but you couldn’t stop it entirely. Whenever his emotions spiked—joy, frustration, excitement, even boredom—magic would find the cracks and leak through.

And in Hell, where every interaction carried the potential for deals and contracts, those leaks were dangerous.

Within three weeks of the diner disaster, two more unfortunate souls found themselves magically tethered to the Morningstar household.

This time, Charlie started keeping records.

Husk had seen better days.

Much better days.

Once, he’d been the Overlord of Chance and Vice—a demon who controlled the flow of luck itself, who could turn fortunes with a snap of his fingers and owned half the gambling halls in the Pride Ring. High rollers had trembled at his name. Lesser demons had begged for his favor.

Then he’d made one mistake.

One. Single. Mistake.

A high-stakes poker game against another Overlord. The kind of game where souls were the ante and pride was the pot. Husk had been so sure of his hand, so confident in his luck, that he’d bet everything—his territory, his power, his very soul.

He’d lost.

The other Overlord had smiled as he raked in Husk’s chips, his contracts, his empire. For a moment, Husk had thought that was it—eternity as someone else’s property, bound to serve a master he despised.

But somehow, through a combination of desperate cleverness and one final scrap of luck, he’d managed to weasel out of the soul contract. A technicality, a loophole so narrow he’d barely squeezed through. The other Overlord had been furious but unable to claim what the contract didn’t properly bind.

Husk had walked away with his soul intact.

And nothing else.

Stripped of his power, his territory, his wealth, he’d been kicked to the curb like garbage. Now he scrounged for scraps in back alleys, slept under bridges when the weather was particularly foul, and ran small-time cons just to afford a bottle of cheap whiskey.

He still had his enchanted deck of cards—the one thing they couldn’t take—and just enough charisma to pull off basic street magic.

So when he spotted Princess Charlotte Morningstar walking through a small park one sunny afternoon, a toddler in tow and her girlfriend scanning the area like a paranoid bodyguard, Husk saw an opportunity.

The Princess was famous for her bleeding heart. Everyone in Hell knew about her ridiculous naive belief that sinners could change. She was exactly the type to throw money at a down-on-his-luck former Overlord out of pity.

He just needed to make the right impression.

Charlie had brought Alastor to the park for some fresh air—or what passed for fresh air in Hell. The sky was its usual ominous red, and the playground equipment looked vaguely threatening, but there were other children around, and she desperately wanted Alastor to have some semblance of normal childhood experiences.

Vaggie stood nearby, arms crossed, watching every demon that passed with suspicion. “I still think this is a bad idea.”

“He needs socialization,” Charlie insisted, watching as Alastor toddled toward a sandbox with determined focus. “He can’t spend his whole childhood locked in the hotel.”

“He accidentally destroyed a part of the foyer during one of his tantrums.” Vaggie reminded her.

“Which is why we’re being careful.” Charlie adjusted the suppression bracelet on Alastor’s wrist, making sure it was secure. “Besides, we’re right here. What could possibly go wrong?”

Vaggie opened her mouth to list approximately seventeen things, but before she could, a scruffy cat demon sidled up with the kind of smile that immediately set off alarm bells.

“Afternoon, ladies,” Husk said, tipping an imaginary hat. His voice was rough, gravelly from too many years of smoking and drinking. “Couldn’t help but notice the little prince over there. Cute kid.”

Charlie’s polite smile was automatic. “Thank you. We’re just—”

“Say, how about a little entertainment?” Husk pulled out his deck of cards, shuffling them with practiced flourish. “No charge, just a fellow demon trying to bring a little magic into the world. For the kid, you know?”

Vaggie stepped forward, hand moving toward the concealed blade she always carried. “We’re not interested—”

But Alastor had noticed the cards. His eyes went wide, tracking the movement of Husk’s hands as he fanned the deck with theatrical precision. “Ooh!”

Charlie hesitated. It was just card tricks. Harmless, right? And Alastor looked so delighted...

“I suppose a quick show wouldn’t hurt,” she said, ignoring Vaggie’s sharp look.

Husk’s grin widened. “Excellent choice, Your Highness.”

He knelt down to Alastor’s level while Charlie and Vaggie momentarily turned to deal with another child who’d gotten too close. It was only a few seconds—barely enough time to blink—but it was all Husk needed.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he said, shuffling the deck with a flourish that made the cards blur and dance. “Wanna see some real magic?”

Alastor clapped his tiny hands, bouncing on his feet. “Magic!”

“Alright, watch closely now.” Husk fanned the cards, selected one—the Ace of Spades—and showed it to Alastor. “See this card? Now watch...”

He made a complex gesture, whispered a small spell under his breath, and the card vanished in a puff of crimson smoke. For a moment, the smoke formed the shape of a cat before dissipating into the air.

Alastor gasped, his entire face lighting up with wonder. Before Charlie could turn around, before Vaggie could intervene, the toddler rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Husk’s leg in an enthusiastic hug.

“Kitty magic!” he squealed. “Like kitty!”

Husk chuckled, pleased with himself. “That’s right, kid. I’m pretty good at—”

FLASH.

Crimson light exploded around them, so bright that Charlie spun around with a gasp. Chains materialized in the air—ornate, glowing, absolutely unmistakable—wrapping around Husk’s neck like a collar before sinking into his skin and disappearing from sight.

The air filled with the echo of a child’s laughter, layered and reverberating as if dozens of voices were laughing at once.

When the light faded, Husk found himself staring down at the giggling toddler, a faint red-golden thread connecting them that only he could see.

His blood ran cold.

“What the—” He tried to step back, but his body wouldn’t obey. “What did you—”

Charlie rushed over, scooping Alastor into her arms, her face pale. “Oh no. No, no, no.”

Vaggie grabbed Husk by the collar, her eye blazing with fury. “What did you do to him?”

“What did I do?” Husk’s voice cracked with panic. “Your kid just—that’s a soul contract! I can feel it! He—”

“He made a deal with you,” Charlie said weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because he liked your ‘kitty magic.’”

The three of them stood frozen in horrible understanding.

Husk, the former Overlord who’d fought tooth and claw to keep his soul, who’d sacrificed everything to remain free—had just been bound by a toddler who thought card tricks were neat.

“Alright, okay, this is fine,” Husk said, his voice rising with barely controlled hysteria. “This is—I’ll just go. I’ll leave. Whatever deal this is, it’ll break when I’m far enough away, right? That’s how these things work. Distance weakens the bond—”

He turned and started walking.

He made it exactly five steps before reality twisted, and he found himself standing right back where he started, facing three stunned faces.

“What—” He turned again, walking faster this time, breaking into a run. The park blurred around him, and then—

SNAP.

He was back. Same spot. Same horrified princess clutching her baby.

“No, no, no!” Husk tried again, sprinting this time, knocking over a trash can in his desperation. He ran, even flew with his wings, until his lungs burned, until he was six blocks away, seven, eight—

SNAP.

Back in the park. Alastor waved at him cheerfully.

After the seventh attempt, Husk collapsed on a bench, wheezing. “This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.”

Charlie approached cautiously, Alastor on her hip. “I am SO sorry. I swear we didn’t mean for this to happen. The bracelet was supposed to—”

“Lady, I don’t care what was supposed to happen!” Husk’s voice was raw. “I barely got away with my soul six months ago! SIX MONTHS! Do you have any idea what I went through to stay free? And now I’m—what, property of a BABY?”

“He’s not—you’re not—” Charlie took a breath, trying to find words. “Look, come back to the hotel. Please. We’ll figure this out. My aunt knows about this stuff, she can—”

“Your aunt?”

“Belphegor. Ruler of Sloth. She’s helping us manage his... condition.”

Husk laughed bitterly. “His condition. That’s what we’re calling accidentally enslaving people? A condition?”

Vaggie crossed her arms. “You were trying to con us. Don’t act like you’re an innocent victim here.”

“I was doing CARD TRICKS!”

“You were angling for money—”

“So what? That’s not—that doesn’t give anyone the right to—” Husk’s voice broke. He put his head in his hands. “I can’t do this. I can’t be owned. It’s the only thing I have left.”

The raw pain in his voice made Charlie’s heart twist. She sat down beside him, careful to keep Alastor from reaching out and potentially reinforcing the contract.

“Listen,” she said gently. “I understand this is very bad. I really do. And I promise we’re going to fix this. But right now, you can’t leave—the contract won’t let you. So please, come back to the hotel. You’ll have a room, food, whatever you need while we work on breaking this.”

Husk looked up at her with exhausted, haunted eyes. “And if you can’t break it?”

Charlie hesitated. “Then... then we’ll figure something out. But I promise you won’t be a prisoner. You’ll be—”

“Employed?” Husk laughed bitterly. “Is that what you call it?”

“I call it giving you a choice in how this goes.” Charlie’s voice was firm but kind. “You can stay and be miserable, or you can stay and at least have a roof over your head and regular meals. Either way, you’re staying—the contract makes sure of that. So you might as well be comfortable.”

It was a long moment before Husk responded. Finally, he stood, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Fine. But I’m not calling him ‘master’ or any of that bullshit.”

“Deal,” Charlie said quickly.

“And I get my own room. With a lock.”

“Absolutely.”

“And alcohol. Lots of alcohol.”

“Within reason.”

Husk sighed, looking down at the toddler who’d just upended his life. Alastor smiled at him, reaching out to pat his paw.

“Kitty!” he said happily.

“Yeah, kid,” Husk muttered. “Kitty. That’s me. The mighty Husk, former Overlord, reduced to a toddler’s pet.”

And just like that, the Happy Hotel gained a bartender, babysitter, and the world’s most reluctant uncle.

A week later, Charlie made another critical error in judgment.

She decided to go shopping.

“We need new clothes,” she announced at breakfast, spooning mashed banana into Alastor’s mouth while he made airplane noises. “All of his pants are getting too small, and I’ve been wearing the same three outfits for weeks.”

Husk, who’d been sulking behind the bar with his morning whiskey, grunted. “So go shopping.”

“I am. We are.” Charlie beamed. “All of us! It’ll be fun!”

“I’ll pass,” Husk said immediately.

“The contract won’t let you,” Vaggie pointed out, not looking up from her newspaper.

Husk tested it, trying to walk toward his room. His feet immediately redirected toward the door. “Goddammit.”

“Language,” Charlie chided, covering Alastor’s ears a second too late.

“Dammit!” Alastor repeated cheerfully.

“Great. Fantastic.” Husk grabbed his coat. “Where are we going?”

“Velvette’s Couture,” Charlie said, lifting Alastor from his high chair. “It’s supposed to be the best boutique in Pentagram City.”

Husk stopped mid-step. “You’re taking a baby who accidentally enslaves people to meet VELVETTE?”

“Who’s Velvette?” Vaggie asked.

“Only the most ruthlessly ambitious doll demon in Hell. She’s clawed her way up from nothing in the last year, stepped on everyone necessary, and she’s one bad deal away from becoming an Overlord herself.” Husk shook his head. “This is a terrible idea.”

“It’ll be fine,” Charlie said with the confidence of someone who’d said that before. “We’ll be in and out in thirty minutes.”

“That’s what you said about the park,” Husk muttered.

“And the diner,” Vaggie added.

“Both of you, hush. This will be FINE.”

The boutique was everything Charlie had hoped for—elegant, stylish, with just enough infernal flair to remind you that you were shopping in Hell. Mannequins posed in the windows wearing the latest fashions, and the interior gleamed with polished surfaces and strategic lighting.

A bell chimed as they entered.

“Welcome to Velvette’s Couture!” came a voice that was equal parts sugar and knives. “Oh my stars, is that Princess Charlie?”

Velvette materialized from the back room in a swirl of silk and ambition. She was striking—a doll demon with perfect porcelain skin, glassy eyes that sparkled with calculated charm, and an outfit that probably cost more than most demons earned in a year. Pink and white dominated her color scheme, with just enough edge to avoid being cutesy.

“Your Highness!” She practically glided over, her smile camera-ready and absolutely perfect. “What an absolute delight to have you here! And this must be your precious little prince!”

She leaned down to look at Alastor, and Charlie saw the exact moment something shifted in her expression. Not malice, exactly, but interest. The kind of interest a businessperson has when they spot an opportunity.

“Aren’t you just the most adorable thing?” Velvette cooed, her voice dripping with practiced sweetness.

Alastor stared up at her with wide eyes, taking in the towering figure before him—the pretty skin, the glassy eyes, the ribbons woven through her hair, the articulated joints visible at her wrists.

His little brain made a connection.

To him, Velvette wasn’t a person. She was the biggest, prettiest doll he’d ever seen in his life.

“Dolly,” he whispered, awestruck.

“Aww, he’s calling me dolly! How precious!” Velvette bent down further, extending her hand. “Hello, cutie pie. Would you like to—”

“I want da doll,” Alastor announced, reaching his chubby hand toward her with absolute certainty.

Four things happened simultaneously:

Charlie lunged forward with a shouted "NO—"

Husk grabbed for Alastor's arm.

Vaggie tried to pull Velvette back.

Velvette, flattered and charmed, took the toddler's hand.

FLASH.

This time, the chains were pink and crimson—glittering like stage lights before sinking into Velvette’s perfectly smooth skin. The boutique’s lights flickered, and for a moment, every mannequin in the store turned to look at them.

When the magic faded, Velvette stood frozen, her hand still clasped in Alastor’s tiny grip.

“Did...” Her voice was very quiet. Very measured. “Did your baby just make a soul contract with me?”

“Yes,” Charlie said with the exhausted tone of someone who’d had this conversation twice before. “Yes, he did.”

To everyone’s surprise, Velvette didn’t panic.

She didn’t run, didn’t try to break free, didn’t even raise her voice. Instead, she stood very still for approximately ten seconds, her expression cycling through shock, disbelief, calculation, and finally—most alarmingly—a slow, considering smile.

“Huh,” she said.

“Huh?” Vaggie repeated incredulously. “That’s all you’ve got? HUH?”

“I mean...” Velvette released Alastor’s hand carefully, as if testing whether the contract would tighten. It didn’t. “This is unexpected. But not entirely without... possibilities.”

Charlie blinked. “I’m sorry, possibilities?”

“Think about it.” Velvette was already pacing, her business mind clearly working through the angles.

“The Princess of Hell and her adorable heir shop at my boutique. Regularly, I’m assuming, since I’m magically bound to him now. Word will spread—it always does. Every aristocrat, every social climber, every demon with any sense of fashion will want to shop where royalty shops.”

“That’s—that’s not the point,” Charlie stammered. “You’re bound to him! Against your will!”

“Well, yes, but I was planning to sell my soul eventually anyway. That’s how you get ahead in Hell.” Velvette waved a dismissive hand.

“At least this way I keep some autonomy, and I got it sold to someone who can’t even string together a full sentence yet. By the time he’s old enough to give me orders I don’t like, the contract will probably have weakened or can be modified anyway, right?”

Husk, leaning against a display case, huffed. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“Plus,” Velvette continued, warming to her theme, “I can market this. ‘Personal couturier to the Royal Family.’ That’s a title with weight. I could book commissions for months, no, YEARS on that alone.”

“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” Vaggie observed suspiciously.

“Darling, I’ve clawed my way up from nothing but talent and ambition. I know how to turn a setback into an opportunity.” Velvette turned to Charlie.

“So here’s what I propose: I become your official clothier. You shop here, bring your son by regularly, maybe commission a few pieces for hotel events. In return, I accept this contract gracefully and we all pretend this was a legitimate business arrangement.”

Charlie opened her mouth, closed it, then looked at Vaggie helplessly.

“That’s...” Vaggie struggled for words. “Actually kind of reasonable?”

“I’m a businesswoman first, victim second.” Velvette smoothed her skirt. “Now, shall we talk about what you actually came here to buy?”

An hour later, they left the boutique with three bags of clothes, a confused sense that something had gone wrong but somehow worked out, and one more soul bound to baby Alastor’s collection.

Velvette waved from the window, already planning her marketing campaign.

“I might not own my soul anymore,” she said to her reflection, grinning, “but I’m about to own this entire market.”

That evening, Charlie sat at her desk with a fresh notebook, its cover decorated with cheerful stickers that felt absurdly inappropriate given its contents.

“Alastor’s Accidental Contract Log” she wrote carefully at the top of the first page.

Underneath, she began documenting:

Entry #1: Niffty

Date: [Three weeks ago]

Location: IHELL Diner

Trigger: Dropped toy, emotional distress

Contracted Party: Niffty (cleaning demon)

Current Status: Enthusiastically employed as hotel housekeeper

Notes: First incident. Bracelet not yet acquired. Subject seems genuinely happy with arrangement???

Entry #2: Husk

Date: [One week ago]

Location: Pentagram Park

Trigger: Excitement over magic trick, physical contact

Contracted Party: Husk (former Overlord of Chance)

Current Status: Reluctantly employed as bartender/babysitter

Notes: Subject attempted escape 7 times before accepting the situation. Requires regular alcohol access to maintain cooperation. Shows surprising patience with Alastor despite vocal complaints.

Entry #3: Velvette

Date: [Today]

Location: Velvette's Couture

Trigger: Perceived as toy, wanted to "have" the doll

Contracted Party: Velvette (boutique owner, aspiring Overlord)

Current Status: Willingly accepted arrangement, converted to business opportunity

Notes: Most unusual response to date. Subject actively embracing contract for professional advancement. Concerning or convenient? Both?

Charlie set down her pen and rubbed her temples. Across the room, Alastor played contentedly with building blocks, the suppression bracelet glowing softly on his wrist. He had no idea that he’d accidentally built a small empire of bound souls before he’d even learned to use the toilet.

Vaggie entered with two cups of tea, setting one beside the logbook. “How’s the documentation going?”

“Depressingly thorough.” Charlie accepted the tea gratefully. “Aunt Bel is going to have a field day with this.”

“Speaking of whom—” Vaggie nodded toward the window.

A swirl of purple smoke materialized into Belphegor, who yawned expansively before draping herself across the nearest chair.

“Heard you had another incident,” she said lazily. “Two more, actually. Very productive month for the little guy.”

“It’s not funny, Aunt Bel.”

“It’s a little funny.” Belphegor conjured the logbook to her hand, flipping through it with growing amusement. “Oh, this is excellent. You’re keeping records! Very scientific. Have you started categorizing by trigger type yet?”

“I was getting there,” Charlie said defensively.

“You should add a section for emotional state analysis. And maybe risk assessment for common locations.” Belphegor snapped her fingers, and the logbook expanded, new sections forming automatically. “There. Much better. Now you can track patterns.”

Vaggie leaned over Charlie’s shoulder to read. “This is actually... helpful?”

“Of course it is. Royal baby magic follows patterns—you just have to document them properly.” Belphegor stretched, showing no signs of actually sitting up. “Most kids collect toys. Your nephew collects employees. Could be worse.”

“How?” Charlie demanded. “How could this be worse?”

“He could be collecting enemies. Or vengeance contracts. Or actual toys that come to life and try to kill people.” Belphegor counted on her fingers.

“One of the Goetia Royals once accidentally contracted a small army of imps because he was bored. They destroyed half a district before anyone figured out how to send them back.”

“That’s not reassuring!” Charlie groaned out loud.

“It’s not meant to be. It’s perspective.” Belphegor finally sat up, her expression uncharacteristically serious.

“Charlie, this is going to keep happening. The bracelet helps, but it’s not perfect. Until Alastor is old enough to understand what he’s doing and control it consciously, you’re going to have incidents.”

Charlie let out a defeated sigh and looked tiredly at her Aunt.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“What you’re already doing. Document everything. Keep him supervised. Make sure the people he contracts are at least... tolerable.” Belphegor glanced at the logbook. “And honestly? You got pretty lucky. A housekeeper, a bartender, and a clothier? That’s not a bad staff lineup for a hotel.”

Vaggie made a strangled noise. “That’s not the point—”

“Isn’t it, though?” Belphegor looked genuinely curious. “You’re running a rehabilitation hotel in Hell. You need staff. The baby is providing staff. Admittedly, through morally questionable magical coercion, but the end result is the same.”

“We can’t just accept accidentally enslaving people as a valid hiring practice!” Charlie protested.

“Why not? It’s Hell. I’ve heard worse recruitment strategies.”

“Aunt Bel!”

“I’m just saying, work with what you’ve got.” Belphegor stood, preparing to leave. “Keep that logbook updated. Watch for patterns. And maybe... avoid pet stores for a while.”

“Why pet stores?” Vaggie asked.

“Use your imagination.” Belphegor vanished in another swirl of smoke, her laughter lingering.

Charlie and Vaggie looked at each other, then at Alastor, who’d successfully stacked three blocks and was applauding himself.

“We’re going to need a bigger logbook,” Vaggie said finally.

“And maybe a therapist,” Charlie added.

“Several therapists.”

“Do therapists exist in Hell?”

“I don’t know, but if they do, we’re going to make them very wealthy.”

Three days later, the Happy Hotel had settled into a new, strange rhythm.

Niffty moved in and became one of the official housekeepers.

She cleaned everything with manic enthusiasm, appearing whenever Alastor giggled and occasionally reorganizing entire rooms while people slept.

Husk tended the bar with surly efficiency, grumbling constantly but always keeping one eye on the toddler who’d accidentally become his master. He’d discovered that making mocktails with fancy garnishes made Alastor clap with delight, and though he’d never admit it, he’d started collecting recipes.

Velvette popped in twice a week to drop off new outfits and take measurements, somehow always managing to arrive when the hotel looked its most photogenic. Her social media empire was growing exponentially, and she’d started referring to Alastor as “my littlest client” with genuine affection.

Charlie maintained her logbook religiously, documenting every near-miss and actual incident. The patterns were becoming clearer: strong emotions, physical contact, and anything Alastor perceived as a toy or friend were high-risk situations.

Vaggie had taken to screening everyone who came within ten feet of Alastor, maintaining a list of “approved interactions” and “absolutely not” scenarios.

And Alastor, blissfully unaware of the chaos he caused, continued being a relatively normal toddler—if you ignored the glowing bracelet, the accidentally enslaved staff, and the occasional flash of reality-bending power.

One evening, as they all gathered for dinner—because somehow they’d become a weird, dysfunctional family—Husk raised his glass.

“To Hell’s smallest Overlord,” he said dryly. “May he never learn what he’s actually capable of.”

“To Alastor,” Velvette agreed, checking her phone. “And to profitable accidents.”

“To my nephew,” Belphegor added, having appeared uninvited for free food. “Who’s doing more for Hotel staffing than any job posting ever could.”

Niffty just hugged Alastor’s leg. “To my best friend!”

Charlie looked around the table—at the souls her son had accidentally collected, at the strange family they’d somehow become—and felt tears prick her eyes.

“To second chances,” she said softly. “For all of us.”

They drank to that, even Alastor with his sippy cup of juice, and for a moment, the Happy Hotel lived up to its name.

Addendum to the Incident Logbook:

Official Classification: Hellborn Royal Manifestation Disorder (HRMD)

Symptoms: Early manifestation of soul-binding or elemental magic before cognitive maturity, triggered by emotional spikes and subconscious desires.

Cause: Overloaded demonic inheritance combined with unstable emotional conduits and insufficient physical vessel to contain full power.

Treatment:

Magic suppression devices (partial effectiveness)

Constant supervision and environmental control

Emotional regulation techniques (age-appropriate)

Regular "safe bonding experiences" to satisfy social needs without risk

Detailed documentation for pattern analysis

Prognosis: Powers typically stabilize once the child reaches cognitive maturity—usually between ages 4-6 of mentality for hellborn royalty. Contracted souls may weaken naturally as a child gains conscious control, allowing for potential release or renegotiation of terms.

Current Status: Patient continues to collect souls, naps, and snacks in approximately equal measure. Shows no signs of conscious awareness of abilities. Considered Hell’s most dangerous toddler, but also possibly its most well-meaning.

Recommendation: Continue monitoring. Keep detailed records. Avoid toy stores, pet shops, and anywhere with “cute” staff until further notice.

Additional Note (added by Belphegor): Also maybe avoid circuses, doll shops, and anywhere with mascots. Trust me on this one.

Additional Note (added by Charlie): We are NOT going to any of those places! This is stressful enough!

Additional Note (added by Vaggie): Charlie, they can’t read your notes in the logbook.

Additional Note (added by Charlie): I know! I’m just... processing!

Additional Note (added by Husk): Can someone explain why I have writing access to the official medical log?

Additional Note (added by Niffty): Because we’re FAMILY now! :D

Additional Note (added by Velvette): And also because the contract gives us limited access to household documents. I checked. It’s in the fine print.

Additional Note (added by Charlie): THERE’S FINE PRINT?!

[No further notes. Logbook locked. Access restricted. Belphegor is laughing somewhere.]

Chapter Text

In a world without Valentino, Anthony had no stage name that mattered. No celebrity persona to hide behind. No spotlight to soften—all or distract from—what he really was.

Just Anthony.

A fucked-up sinner like everyone else.

At least he wasn’t at the end of a chain. That counted for something. But freedom without resources was just another kind of prison, and Hell had no mercy for those who brought nothing to the table. He owned nothing. Had nothing. Was nothing—just another soul trying to survive in a city that devoured the weak and spit out their bones.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He’d died trying to escape his family. Trying to be something other than what his father had shaped him into.

And what had Hell given him in return?

The same goddamn choice.

Starve and disappear for good, or crawl back to the family business.

The Famiglia was still here. Of course they were. Evil never really died—it just changed addresses.

His father ran things exactly as he always had, operating throughout Pride with the same iron grip: protection rackets, smuggling routes, contract enforcement. The kind of work that kept sinners obedient and streets slick with blood.

Anthony had tried. God, he had tried.

For years after his death, he’d scraped by on stubborn pride and sheer refusal—sleeping in alleys, taking humiliating stage gigs for pocket change, selling himself in dark corners when hunger clawed too hard to ignore. Years of telling himself he was better than what he’d been in life.

Then reality caught up with him.

One bad Extermination wiped out his last hiding place, his last scrap of safety. With nowhere left to go and no illusions remaining, he showed up at his brother Arackniss’s door with his pride in tatters and survival as his only goal.

Arackniss took one look at him.

“You look like shit,” he said flatly—then grabbed him by the arm and dragged him inside before anyone else could see. “Pop’s been asking about you.”

His brother wasn’t cruel. Never had been. Just practical. Cold in the way you had to be to survive their father’s world.

That night, Arackniss fed him. Gave him a couch. Then, once Anthony’s hands had stopped shaking, sat him down for the conversation neither of them wanted.

“You can’t make it out there alone,” Arackniss said, voice level with hard-earned experience. “Not in Hell. Not without power or connections. You keep trying, you’ll end up erased—or worse. At least here, you eat. You have a roof. You survive.”

Anthony wanted to argue. Wanted to scream that he’d rather die than go back.

But desperation had a way of turning principles into luxuries.

“Pop’s getting senile,” Arackniss went on. “He won’t be around forever. One day, he’ll make a bad call. End up on the wrong end of a deal. Maybe the sharp end of an exorcist’s blade.”

He paused, finally meeting Anthony’s eyes.

“Just stick it out. Learn the business. Maybe things change. But right now?” His voice softened—not with kindness, but certainty. “This is how you stay alive.”

It wasn’t mercy.

It was survival.

And in Arackniss’s world, that was the closest thing to love he knew how to offer.

Now Anthony did what he’d always done.

The dirty work.

Collections, mostly. Shaking down demons who thought debts were optional. Roughing up the ones who needed reminding. Cleaning up crime scenes, wiping blood and shell casings and fingerprints until nothing pointed back to the family. Making witnesses disappear—one way or another.

Sometimes worse, when the Famiglia needed to send a message. When they needed a honeypot, a pretty face and a soft voice to lure someone into a mistake they wouldn’t survive.

Anthony was good at it.

He’d always been good at it, even when it made his stomach twist and his hands shake afterward.

The worst part wasn’t the violence.

It was how easy it still was.

How his body remembered the motions without hesitation. How his mind slipped back into cold, efficient calculations like it had never left—angles, leverage, pressure points, how far he could push before something broke for good.

He told himself he was just doing what he had to do. Everyone in Hell was. Survival demanded compromises. Blood was just another currency.

But late at night, alone in his shitty apartment, the lies wore thin.

He felt the weight of every punch thrown. Every threat whispered too close to someone’s ear. Every body he’d cleaned up before it had time to regenerate. Every line crossed that could never be uncrossed.

This was survival.

This was Hell.

And some nights, when the silence pressed in too tight, Anthony couldn’t help but think—

This was all he deserved.

Charlie hummed softly as she pushed Alastor’s stroller through the crowded street, grocery bags hooked over the handles and swaying with each step. It was a rare solo outing—Vaggie was back at the hotel dealing with a plumbing crisis (the pipes were literally fighting back), and Charlie had insisted she could handle a quick supply run on her own.

“We just need a few things, sweetie,” she murmured, glancing down at Alastor. He was happily gnawing on his rice crispies, utterly unconcerned with the world. “Then we’ll go home and make cookies. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

Alastor babbled in response—something bubbly and indistinct that Charlie chose to interpret as enthusiastic agreement.

The shopping district was busy, but not dangerous. Midday was safest: fewer desperate sinners, more legitimate businesses open and operating. Charlie had done this dozens of times without incident.

She should have known better than to relax.

The store was small but well-stocked, run by an older imp who recognized Charlie on sight and always slipped Alastor a free candy when she wasn’t looking. Charlie stood at the counter, fishing through her purse for payment, chatting absently as she counted bills.

She’d parked the stroller only a few steps away. Close. Well within her peripheral vision.

She looked away for maybe ten seconds.

When she turned back, the stroller was moving.

Her heart stopped.

A demon she didn’t recognize—gaunt and twitchy, with too many teeth and wild, starving eyes—had his hands on the stroller’s handle, already wheeling it toward the door.

“HEY!” Charlie’s voice cracked as she dropped everything. Bills fluttered uselessly across the counter. “STOP!”

The demon bolted.

He shoved past startled customers, knocking shoulders aside as he ran. Charlie lunged after him, panic detonating in her chest, drowning out thought and reason alike.

Her son.

Someone was taking her son—

The demon made it three steps outside the door before a single gunshot split the air.

Sharp. Deafening. Final.

Anthony was already having a shit day.

He’d spent the morning collecting on a debt for his brother—some lowlife who’d borrowed from the family and then had the audacity to skip town. Anthony had tracked him down, delivered the message, and collected what was owed.

A few broken fingers had helped jog the debtor’s memory.

Business as usual. Routine violence. Nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times before.

It still left him feeling like garbage.

He was cutting through the shopping district on his way back to report in when movement caught his eye—too fast, too wrong. A demon lunged for a stroller and took off at a dead run.

Anthony didn’t think.

He reacted.

Years of muscle memory snapped into place. His hand was already on his gun as he turned, the shot cracking through the air before his brain could fully catch up. One clean pull of the trigger. Precision born of repetition.

The bullet hit. The would-be kidnapper crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.

The stroller lurched, wheels skidding toward the street.

Anthony lunged forward and caught the handle before it could roll into traffic, steadying it with the same practiced ease he used for everything else these days.

He stepped over the fallen demon and spat down at the body, disgust curling his lip.

“You don’t touch kids,” he snarled. “I don’t give a fuck what Hell you’re in.”

The sinner didn’t move—dead for now. In Hell, that never lasted. They’d regenerate in a few hours, hopefully with the lesson burned deep enough to stick.

Anthony exhaled, breath coming fast, one hand still clenched around the stroller.

Inside sat a toddler. Couldn’t have been more than two.

Big eyes. Bright. Curious.

Not crying. Not screaming. Just blinking up at him like this was mildly interesting—like gunshots and collapsing demons were an everyday inconvenience.

Anthony froze.

“…Hey,” he said, voice suddenly unsure, painfully gentle by comparison. “Uh. You okay, kid?”

The toddler beamed at him.

Then giggled.

And something in Anthony’s chest twisted in a way violence never managed to touch.

“ALASTOR!”

Anthony looked up just in time to see a blonde woman sprinting toward him, her face stricken with pure, unfiltered terror. She was dressed simply, hair coming loose from its pins, but something about her presence made his spine straighten on instinct.

Power clung to her. Heavy. Restrained. Like a storm held behind glass.

Then he noticed the horns. The faint red glow in her irises. The way the air around her seemed to warp, reality bending just slightly at her edges.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Princess Charlotte Morningstar reached the stroller and all but collapsed against it, her hands moving with frantic precision as she checked her child for injuries that weren’t there.

“Baby—baby, are you okay? You’re okay. Mama’s here. You’re safe—” Her voice cracked halfway through the words, fingers trembling as she fumbled with the straps and pulled him into her arms.

Anthony stepped back at once, palms lifting slightly as he gave her space. He’d just saved the Princess of Hell’s kid.

That was either the best or the worst thing he’d done all month.

He genuinely couldn’t tell which.

For a long moment, Charlie didn’t seem to remember anyone else existed. She held Alastor tight, rocking him, burying her face in his hair as her breathing slowly steadied.

When she finally looked up, tears were still tracking down her cheeks.

Anthony braced himself.

Orders. Accusations. Guards swarming in out of nowhere. Maybe a polite-but-deadly interrogation about why a known mob enforcer was holding her kidnapped kid’s stroller.

Instead, she said, “Thank you.”

Just that.

Two words, quiet and raw and devastatingly sincere.

It hit harder than any punch he’d thrown that day.

“Don’t mention it,” Anthony said quickly, already edging backward. “Seriously. Don’t. I just—uh—you should be more careful, Your Highness. This district ain’t as safe as it pretends to be.”

“I know, I just—” Charlie swallowed, tightening her hold on Alastor as she took a shaky breath. “I only looked away for a second.” She looked back at Anthony, eyes shining. “Thank you so much for stopping them. Is there—can I repay you somehow? Anything you need—”

“Nah. I’m good.” He waved it off, unease crawling up his spine. Gratitude made him itch. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

He didn’t do good things. This was just instinct. Reflex. A fluke.

And asking anything of a mother who’d just watched someone try to steal her child—Princess or not—felt wrong in a way he couldn’t rationalize away. The fear on her face had been real. Stripped bare. Human, in a way that erased the distance between Hell’s royalty and its lowest sinners.

Anthony turned to leave, melting back toward the crowd where people like him belonged.

Then he felt it.

A small, warm hand curled around his finger.

Anthony froze.

He then slowly looked down.

Alastor had reached out from his mother’s arms and wrapped his tiny hand around one of Anthony’s fingers. It was so small—soft, barely big enough to curl properly—but his grip was firm, stubborn in the way toddlers were about everything they decided belonged to them.

And he was smiling.

Not crying. Not frightened. Just… happy. Like Anthony was someone worth smiling at.

The toddler giggled and shook Anthony’s finger up and down, an uncoordinated little motion, like they were sharing a secret handshake. Like they were friends.

Anthony couldn’t move.

He stared at the small hand clasping his own. His hand—scrubbed clean an hour ago, yet still stained in ways no water could touch. The same hand that had broken bones that morning. The same hand that had pulled a trigger minutes ago. The same hand that had done terrible things for terrible people, in life and in death.

And this child—this innocent, fragile little thing—held it like it was something precious.

“He likes you,” Charlie said softly. Her voice was still rough with tears, but there was wonder there too, fragile and sincere. “He doesn’t usually reach for strangers.”

Anthony tried to answer.

Nothing came out.

His throat closed around words he didn’t have.

His whole existence had been defined for him—by his father, by the Famiglia, by Hell itself. A weapon. A tool. A fuck-up. Something meant to be used, then discarded when it dulled. He’d believed it for so long he couldn’t remember what it felt like to be anything else.

But this child didn’t know any of that.

Alastor just saw… what? Someone who helped. Someone safe.

Or maybe toddlers were simply too trusting to recognize a monster when they grabbed one.

Anthony swallowed hard, afraid to breathe—afraid that if he moved, the moment would break.

And some quiet, terrifying part of him wondered what it meant that, for the first time in his existence, someone looked at him like he was good.

“I should go,” Anthony managed, carefully trying to ease his finger free. “I got places to be—”

Alastor did not let go.

If anything, his grip tightened, and he made a small, indignant sound of protest.

“Fuff!” the toddler declared, pointing at Anthony with his free hand.

Anthony blinked. “What?”

“He’s saying fluff,” Charlie translated, a faint smile breaking through her tear-streaked face. “I think he likes your… um. Your fur.”

Anthony glanced down at himself—at the pink-and-white fluff covering most of his body.

Right.

Spider demon.

He forgot sometimes that to a toddler, he probably looked like a giant stuffed animal rather than a killer.

He snorted quietly. “Kid’s got weird taste.”

“He’s got good instincts.” Charlie’s voice was gentle, but there was steel beneath it. She studied Anthony with eyes that felt uncomfortably perceptive, like she was seeing straight through every wall he’d spent a lifetime building. “I can tell you’re a good person. Maybe you don’t believe that—but my son does. And he’s usually right about people.”

“Lady—Your Highness—you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Anthony finally managed to slip his finger free and took a step back. “I ain’t a good person. Trust me.”

“Then why did you save my son?”

“Because—” He faltered, frustration creeping into his voice. “Because grabbing kids is a line you don’t cross. That’s just basic decency. That don’t make me good.”

“It makes you better than a lot of demons I’ve met.”

Charlie shifted Alastor on her hip, and the toddler immediately reached for Anthony again, little hands opening and closing, a soft whine of protest escaping him.

“Look,” Charlie continued, quieter now, “I know this is sudden. And you don’t owe me anything—you already saved Alastor. But I want you to know something.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card, holding it out between them.

“I run a hotel,” she said. “The Happy Hotel. It’s for sinners who want to change. Who want a second chance at being better. But it’s also just… a place to stay. A safe place. Somewhere nobody judges you for your past or asks questions you don’t want to answer.”

Anthony stared at the card like it might bite him.

“I’m not asking you to commit to anything,” Charlie added quickly. “I’m just saying—if you ever need somewhere to sleep. To heal. Or just to feel safe for a while—you’d be welcome. No strings. No payment. Just… a place to breathe.”

Before he could refuse, she pressed the card into his hand.

Anthony looked down at it.

Simple design. Cheerful colors bordering on aggressively optimistic. An address in a district most of Hell treated like a punchline.

The Happy Hotel.

Redemption for sinners.

It was the most naive, doomed, stupid idea he’d ever heard.

“I’ll… think about it,” he heard himself say.

Charlie’s smile could’ve lit up the entire Pride Ring. “That’s all I ask. And—thank you. For everything.”

She turned to leave, Alastor waving enthusiastically over her shoulder, utterly unconcerned with the weight of what had just happened. The toddler kept waving until they disappeared around the corner, clearly delighted by his new fluffy friend.

Anthony stood there long after they were gone, the card clenched tight in his hand, his thoughts spiraling.

A place to stay.

A place to heal.

A place to feel safe.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any of those things.

Three days later, Anthony was still thinking about it.

He told himself it was stupid. He had a job—shit as it was, it kept him fed and under a roof. He had his family’s “protection,” thin and conditional though it might be. He didn’t need some redemption hotel run by a naive princess who probably had no real understanding of how Hell worked.

And yet.

He kept the card.

Tucked into his wallet, slid behind his ID where he’d see it every time he paid for something. He never took it out. Never looked at it for long. Just enough to remind himself it existed.

“You been distracted lately,” Arackniss noted during their weekly family dinner—which was less a dinner and more a business meeting with pasta. “Something on your mind?”

“Nah.” Anthony pushed noodles around his plate. “Just tired.”

His brother watched him for a second longer than necessary.

“Pop’s got a job for you next week,” Arackniss said finally. “Important client. Needs someone with a gentle touch.”

Anthony didn’t miss the emphasis.

“Gentle meaning,” Arackniss continued, calm as ever, “you break enough bones to make the point without killing anyone. You handle that?”

Anthony swallowed, bile burning his throat. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Good.” Arackniss’s hand landed on his shoulder—brief, awkward, the closest thing to affection he knew how to offer. “You’re getting better at this. More controlled than you used to be.”

It should’ve felt like praise.

Instead, it landed like a death sentence.

That night, Anthony sat alone in his apartment, the card laid flat on the table in front of him.

A place to feel safe.

When was the last time he’d felt that?

When was the last time he’d woken up without dread coiled in his chest? Gone to sleep without nightmares gnawing at him? Looked in the mirror and seen anything other than his father’s weapon staring back?

He thought about the toddler’s hand wrapped around his finger. The unthinking trust. The smile.

Like Anthony was someone worth smiling at.

He thought about the Princess’s eyes—sad, but stubbornly hopeful. Like she genuinely believed people could be more than the worst things they’d done.

“This is stupid,” he muttered to the empty room. “It’s a fantasy. Redemption ain’t real. People like me don’t get second chances.”

The card stayed where it was.

Untouched.

Unthrown away.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Anthony wondered—just for a moment—what it would mean to be wrong.

Two weeks later, Anthony stood in an alley with blood on his hands again.

This time, it wasn’t just metaphorical.

The demon at his feet was gasping, clutching their ribs where something had cracked wrong. They’d owed money. They’d begged. They’d promised—next week, next month, just give them time—

Anthony’s brother had said no.

Make it hurt. Make it memorable.

So Anthony had.

He’d done his job. Like always. Like a good little soldier.

The demon was crying now, curled in on themselves, shaking. “Please,” they sobbed. “Please—no more—”

Anthony stood over them, fist still raised, ready to deliver another blow.

And suddenly, he couldn’t.

Couldn’t swing again. Couldn’t follow the order. Couldn’t be this anymore.

His arm trembled as he lowered it.

“You got three days,” Anthony said quietly. “Three days to get the money. After that, I can’t help you.” He swallowed. “Disappear if you got any sense.”

He turned and walked away while the demon was still staring at him, torn between terror and disbelief.

Anthony made it two blocks before his body betrayed him.

The shaking hit hard and fast. He ducked into an abandoned doorway and slid down the wall, breath hitching into sharp, uneven gasps—too fast, too shallow, the edge of a panic attack scraping at him.

What the hell was he doing?

That demon would talk. Word would get back to Arackniss, who could only do so much. To their father. There would be consequences. There were always consequences.

His hand found his wallet without him thinking about it.

Found the card.

The Happy Hotel.

A place to heal. A place to feel safe.

Anthony pressed his forehead to the cool brick and laughed weakly.

“Fuck it,” he whispered to the empty air. “What’ve I got to lose?”

Everything.

He had everything to lose.

But when he looked honestly at what his life was—at what he’d let himself become—Anthony realized that whatever “everything” was supposed to be, it wasn’t worth keeping.

And for the first time, walking away didn’t feel like running.

It felt like choosing.

Charlie was knee-deep in the hotel’s accounts—depressing as always—when Vaggie called her down to the lobby.

“We’ve got someone at the door,” Vaggie said carefully. “He says… he says you invited him.”

Charlie was on her feet instantly.

She hurried downstairs to find a tall spider demon standing just inside the entrance, posture tense, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact. He looked one wrong word away from bolting. In his hand, he clutched a familiar card—her card—creased and worn like it had been handled too often.

It took her a second to place him.

Then it clicked.

“You’re the one who saved Alastor!”

Anthony visibly flinched at her volume. “Yeah—yeah, that’s… that’s me.” He swallowed, words tangling as he gestured awkwardly with the card. “You said—the card said—look, if this is a bad time, I can just—”

“No.” Charlie crossed the lobby in three quick steps. “No, absolutely not. You’re welcome here. I’m really, really glad you came.”

She reached for his hands without thinking.

Anthony jerked back on instinct.

That was when she noticed the bandages—hastily wrapped, already spotted with red. Recent. The knuckles looked swollen, bruised badly beneath the gauze.

Charlie’s expression softened immediately.

“Why don’t we get you settled in?” she said gently. “I can give you a room on the second floor—it’s quieter up there. And if you’d like, we can have Remedy take a look at your hands.”

“I—I don’t…” Anthony hesitated, shoulders curling inward. “I can’t pay.”

“I told you.” Charlie smiled, warm and unguarded. “No payment required. You saved my son’s life. And even if you hadn’t, you’d still be welcome. That’s what this place is for.”

Anthony hesitated, then slowly let his gaze wander around the lobby.

The mismatched furniture, clearly salvaged from half a dozen places. The overly earnest décor. At least one Hang in there, you matter! poster on every wall. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t intimidating. It looked like someone had tried very hard to make Hell feel like a home—and only sort of succeeded.

But it felt… warm.

Real.

And for the first time since he could remember, Anthony didn’t feel like he was standing somewhere he had to earn the right to exist.

He just stood there, card still clenched in his hand, and breathed.

“I gotta tell you something,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “I ain’t a good person. I’ve done bad things. Real bad things. For bad people. I’m probably gonna be a terrible guest, and I don’t know if I can—if I can actually change, or whatever it is you’re trying to do here.”

“That’s okay,” Charlie said simply. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. You just have to want to try.”

“I don’t even know if I want to try,” Anthony admitted, the words tasting bitter. “I just… I couldn’t do it anymore. What I was doing. I couldn’t—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard.

Charlie didn’t push. She just waited—patient, steady, kind in a way that made his chest ache with the realization that not everyone in Hell wanted to use him.

“I just need somewhere to breathe,” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “Just for a bit. Figure out what happens next.”

“Then that’s what you’ll have. Somewhere to breathe.” Charlie gestured toward the stairs. “Come on. Let me show you to your room. Fair warning—we have a toddler in residence, so it gets loud sometimes. And a few staff members who are… unique. But it’s home.”

As they climbed the stairs, a small head peeked around the corner. Alastor was toddling around with the confident, wobbly gait of a child who had just mastered walking. The moment he spotted Anthony, his face lit up.

“Fuff!” he exclaimed, pointing eagerly at him.

Despite everything—the fear, the uncertainty, the crushing weight of a lifetime of bad choices—Anthony felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Maybe a smile. Maybe the closest he’d come in years.

“Hey, kid. Remember me?” he said softly.

Alastor waddled over without hesitation, fearless, unshaken by the dangers the world might hold. He reached up and grabbed Anthony’s hand with both of his tiny ones.

This time, Anthony didn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” he said quietly to Charlie, voice almost reverent. “For this. Whatever this is.”

“It’s a chance,” she replied. “Everyone deserves at least one.”

As they continued up the stairs, Alastor chattering in his rapid toddler-speak and holding tight to Anthony’s hand, Anthony let himself hope—just a little—that maybe she was right.

Maybe even someone like him could have a place to breathe.

Maybe that’s what redemption really was: finding somewhere safe enough to stop running long enough to heal.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what he’d found.

Anthony’s room was small but clean, a rare slice of order in a life that had long since forgotten it. A window framed the city’s neon-soaked skyline, flickering in blues, pinks, and greens. Someone—probably that manic cleaning demon he’d glimpsed zooming through the halls—had left fresh towels and a welcome basket with basic supplies.

He sat on the bed, testing its firmness, half-convinced this was some elaborate trap or joke.

Hours passed. No one demanded payment. No one asked invasive questions. Charlie checked in once to make sure he had everything he needed, then left him alone when he said he was tired.

Vaggie stopped by later, dropping off a first-aid kit and a small dinner. She gave him a wary glance.

“Charlie sees the good in everyone,” she said bluntly. “I’m more skeptical. But you saved our kid, so you get the benefit of the doubt. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Fair enough,” Anthony muttered, and she left, the door clicking softly behind her.

The hotel settled into quiet. The hum of distant chatter, the shuffle of other residents getting ready for bed, the faint clatter of dishes—all soft, domestic, alien. Anthony lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, bracing for the other shoe to drop.

It didn’t.

Instead, a gentle knock at the door.

He opened it to find Alastor, pajamas dotted with little radio symbols, clutching a stuffed duck threadbare from love.

“Lost?” Anthony asked, scanning for a guardian.

“Story?” Alastor requested, the two-year-old clarity in his voice impossible to resist, holding up a picture book.

“Kid, I don’t—where’s your mom?”

“Pwease?” The toddler unleashed the most devastating puppy-dog eyes Anthony had ever seen, complete with a pout that probably got him anything he wanted.

Anthony sighed, smirking despite himself. “Alright, alright. One story. But then you gotta go back to bed, capisce?”

Alastor climbed into his lap without hesitation, settling with the casual confidence of a toddler claiming his favorite spot. Anthony fumbled with the book, stumbling over words he hadn’t read aloud in decades, let alone at kindergarten level.

Halfway through, Charlie appeared in the doorway. “There you are! Alastor, you can’t just wander off—” She stopped, taking in the scene. Her smile softened, warm and gentle as always. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” Anthony said quickly. “He just showed up. I was gonna bring him back after the story—”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.” Charlie’s gaze lingered on them. “He likes you. He doesn’t usually sit still for anyone except me and Vaggie. Toddlers have very strong opinions about people.”

Alastor yawned, snuggling deeper into Anthony’s fluff.

“I think you’ve been adopted,” Charlie said softly, laughing. “That’s how it works here. We don’t do formal anything. We just… become family, one story at a time.”

Family. The word should have terrified him. Should have made him run.

Instead, it felt… possible.

“One story at a time,” Anthony echoed quietly, letting the words sink in.

Maybe that’s how redemption worked too—not some grand, impossible transformation, but small moments. Small choices. Small chances to be something other than what he’d always been.

One story at a time. One day at a time. One breath at a time.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Anthony fell asleep without nightmares, a tiny two-year-old curled against his chest like a warm, trusting anchor, the faint hum of hope threading through the walls.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough.

And maybe… just maybe… it was the beginning.