Charlie Morningstar bounced on the balls of her feet, a nervous energy buzzing through her like static electricity. Backstage at 666 News felt colder than she expected, smelling faintly of stale sulfur and cheap hairspray. Her pristine white tailcoat felt stiff, and she smoothed it down for the tenth time, checking her reflection in the chipped corner of a dusty monitor. Her smile, practiced a hundred times in the hotel’s bathroom mirror, wobbled.
“Nerves, my dear?” Alastor’s voice, a low radio crackle, drifted from behind her. He stood perfectly still, adjusting the knot of his bow tie with a slender finger, his perpetual grin never faltering. He looked impossibly composed, a stark contrast to her own internal whirlwind.
Charlie spun around, nearly tripping on a tangle of forgotten cables. “Just a little! This is it, Alastor! Our chance to show Hell that redemption isn’t just some… some fluffy daydream. It’s real. It’s possible.” She clasped her hands together, her eyes wide with unshakeable optimism. “They just need to see the good in it.”
Alastor’s crimson eyes glinted. “Indeed. A most curious experiment. Do try not to disembowel the interviewer, won’t you? It tends to detract from one’s message.” He chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
“Alastor!” Charlie admonished, but a small smile touched her lips. His dark humor always managed to ground her, if only a little. She took a deep breath, picturing the hotel, its cheerful lobby, the hesitant smiles of the few residents they had managed to attract. This interview was for them. For everyone.
A gruff voice boomed through the intercom. “Five minutes, Princess. Try not to break anything.”
Charlie’s stomach did a frantic flip. “Okay, okay, five minutes. I can do this.” She straightened her bow tie, a small, hopeful moth fluttering in her chest. She had prepared, she had rehearsed. She just needed to be herself, to let her passion shine through. This was her moment.
Alastor offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Go forth, my dear. Entertain them.” His smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes that she chose to interpret as encouragement.
She walked towards the bright rectangle of the studio entrance, her heart thrumming a frantic beat against her ribs. The hum of the equipment grew louder, the artificial light harsher. This was it. The world was watching, or at least, Hell was. And she would not let them down.
---
The studio lights were blinding, a harsh, unwavering glare that made her squint. Charlie sat across from a VNN reporter, a stout, grey-skinned demon with a perpetually bored expression and a microphone clutched in a clawed hand. The camera, a Cyclopean eye, stared unblinkingly at her.
“Welcome back to Hell’s Hour,” the reporter droned, his voice flat. “Tonight, we have Princess Charlie Morningstar, here to discuss… her ‘Happy Hotel’ initiative. Princess, for those who haven’t heard the whispers, what exactly is this… project?”
Charlie leaned forward, pushing aside her lingering stage fright. “Thank you for having me! The Happy Hotel, or Hazbin Hotel as we sometimes call it, is a place for demons to seek redemption. A safe haven where they can learn to be better, to cleanse their souls and, one day, earn a place in Heaven!” Her voice, though a little fast, was bright with conviction.
The reporter raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Redemption. In Hell. Princess, with all due respect, that’s… quite the ambition. Especially considering Hell’s current population statistics. And the recent Extermination.”
“I know it sounds crazy,” Charlie admitted, her smile tightening, “but every soul deserves a chance! We’ve seen small successes already. Demons who are genuinely trying to change. It’s about cultivating good habits, understanding empathy, and finding positive outlets for their, uh, demonic energies.” She gestured vaguely, trying to convey the potential.
The reporter sniffed. “Positive outlets? Our intel suggests your ‘positive outlets’ include weekly brawls in the lobby, an arson incident involving your head chef, and a regrettable public incident with a demonic pest control specialist. Care to comment on the hotel’s rather… unconventional methods?”
Charlie’s cheeks flushed. “Those were… isolated incidents! Growing pains! We’re still learning. But the core idea is sound. We offer support, guidance, a family environment. We believe in every demon, no matter their past deeds.” She gripped the arms of her chair, trying to project calm she didn’t feel.
“A family environment,” the reporter repeated, a sneer twisting his lips. “So, your staff includes a notorious radio demon, an assassin, a pornographic actor, and a one-eyed maniac. Quite the ensemble cast for a rehabilitation center, wouldn’t you say? More like a reality show waiting to happen, perhaps?”
Charlie’s breath hitched. She had anticipated skepticism, but not such pointed accusations. She tried to counter, “They’re all… working on themselves! And they contribute! They’re proof that even the most… unique individuals can strive for betterment.” Her voice was still resolute, but the bright edge had begun to fray, a tremor running through her words.
---
Before Charlie could elaborate, a sudden, jarring static ripped through the studio. The reporter’s face on the small monitor beside her flickered, then dissolved into a mosaic of blue and red pixels. A low, distorted laugh echoed, seeming to come from everywhere at once.
Then, the giant screens that lined the studio walls, previously displaying generic VNN logos, burst into life. Vox’s angular, television-screen head filled them all, a sneering, digital visage glowing with malevolent glee. His voice, modulated and buzzing, vibrated through the floorboards. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Hell’s resident optimist, Princess Morningstar, still peddling her pathetic little fairy tale.”
Charlie recoiled, her heart plummeting. “Vox! What are you doing? This is my interview!”
Vox ignored her, his digital eyes scanning the imaginary audience. “Don’t believe the hype, folks. This ‘Happy Hotel’ is a joke! A glorified flop house where demons go to fail even harder than they did in life! Don’t take my word for it, though.”
The screens behind him began to flash, displaying a rapid-fire montage of embarrassing clips. There was Husk, passed out on the lobby floor amidst empty bottles of cheap liquor, snoring loudly. Then Niffty, chasing a gigantic cockroach with a blood-stained knife, shrieking with unholy delight. Another clip showed a demon guest, mid-exorcism, projectile vomiting ectoplasm across the pristine hotel wallpaper, only for Vaggie to slip in it, her disgusted yell echoing. The studio audience, previously bored, erupted into raucous laughter, their jeers like daggers.
Charlie’s face burned. She could feel the heat radiating from her skin. Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms. “That’s not fair! Those clips are taken out of context! Those were… challenges!”
“Challenges, Princess?” Vox’s voice was laced with derision, glitching ominously. “Or just further proof that your little project is a waste of everyone’s time, including yours. Hell is built on suffering, on vice, on the delicious agony of shattered dreams. You think a few sing-alongs and group therapy sessions are going to change that?”
Another clip flashed up: Angel Dust, draped provocatively over a terrified demon guest, winking at the camera. The audience howled. Charlie’s vision blurred. This was worse than anything she had imagined. Her hotel, her hope, reduced to a cheap highlight reel for Hell’s amusement. She felt utterly exposed, every raw nerve ending vibrating with humiliation.
---
Charlie pushed herself up, her chair scraping loudly on the studio floor. “No! You’re wrong! It’s not about suffering, it’s about choice! It’s about giving demons a chance to choose something better, to find light in all this darkness!” Her voice cracked, a desperate plea hanging in the air.
Vox’s face on the screen distorted, a ripple of pure malice. “Light? There is no light, Princess. Only shadows, and the glow of my screens. You want to talk about choice? Let’s talk about the choice you’re making, broadcasting this pathetic display to the entirety of Hell. The choice to be publicly humiliated.”
He pulled up a live feed, showing Charlie’s own distraught face, magnified on the screen behind him. Her eyes were wide, brimming with unshed tears, her lower lip trembling. The audience’s laughter intensified, a cruel symphony of mockery. She looked away, a fresh wave of shame washing over her.
“You see this, folks?” Vox crowed, his voice dripping with false concern. “This is the face of ‘redemption.’ The face of failure. A princess who thinks she can rewrite the fundamental laws of existence with a song and a smile. How quaint.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words, and the audience’s contempt, to settle.
Charlie gripped the edge of the reporter’s table, her knuckles white. “It’s not a failure! It’s… it’s a work in progress! And every demon who has even considered changing, every single one, proves you wrong! They want more than just… this!” She swept a trembling hand across the studio, encompassing the jeering faces, the cold cameras, the omnipresent digital sneer of Vox.
“They want more?” Vox’s laugh was brittle, echoing. “Or do they simply want to see you squirm? To watch the naive princess break? Because that, my dear, is far more entertaining than any of your ‘redemption’ charades.” More clips flashed, this time faster, showing Charlie herself, clumsily trying to fix a leaky pipe, tripping over a laundry basket, her face smeared with soot after a kitchen fire. Each one elicited fresh guffaws from the unseen audience. Tears finally spilled down Charlie’s cheeks, hot and undeniable. Her voice withered to a whisper. “Please… stop. You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, Princess.” Vox’s image leaned closer, filling the screen entirely, his digital eyes burning into hers. “I understand the value of a good show. And right now, you’re delivering a masterpiece.”
---
Suddenly, the screens went black. The loud, buzzing hum of Vox’s presence vanished, replaced by an abrupt, ringing silence. The harsh studio lights, which had been glaring moments before, dimmed to a dull, institutional glow. The audience’s laughter cut off mid-chuckle, leaving an unsettling void.
Charlie stood alone in the desolate studio, the weight of the silence pressing down on her. Her chest heaved, a raw ache spreading through her ribs. Tears still tracked paths through the makeup on her face, cool against her hot skin. The reporter was gone, vanished from his seat, leaving only an empty chair and a forgotten microphone. The cameras were still, their red recording lights dark, like dead eyes.
She was utterly, horribly alone. The crushing weight of her public failure settled over her, thick and suffocating. Her dream, her beautiful, fragile dream of redemption, lay shattered on the broadcast floor, reduced to a punchline. Every word Vox had uttered, every clip he had shown, echoed in the sudden quiet, amplifying her shame.
Her knees felt weak, threatening to give out. She stumbled back, blindly searching for something to lean on, her hand brushing against the cold, metallic surface of the camera lens. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sob threatening to escape.
As the camera cut to black, a chilling, static-laced whisper echoed in Charlie’s ear: “The show’s not over, Princess.”