We Need Money, Adam! (Hazbin Hotel)

"You have got to be kidding me." The High Seraphim was no stranger to the cost of warfare, but this—this was absurd.

Adam, First of Man, stood proudly beside a golden parchment that he had handed to her and it unfurled like an overly dramatic invoice.

"And of course we'll need matching outfits for my girls." He said, tapping the list with a quill. "Machine guns, grenades, side arms and post-extermination dry cleaning."

As Sera looked through the extensive list, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"'Custom-forged titanium armor for wings with optional chrome finish'?" she read aloud, voice rising. "You and the Exorcists are invulnerable to Sinner attacks and Lucifer attack you because of the treaty. Why would you need armor!?"

"Trust me Sera, you'll love the design. It makes us look fucking badass!" Adam beamed like a dad showing off his kids' macaroni art, except this particular art featured flamethrowers and angelic rocket launchers.

Sera rubbed the bridge of her nose, a faint halo-flicker sparking behind her as her temper began to smolder. "You know this is an Extermination, not a fashion show, right?"

Adam nodded solemnly. "Exactly. First impressions matter. Can't have those fuckers down there think Heaven is full of peasants like them."

Her eyes scanned further down the list. "'Sunglasses with UV filtering' ... Adam, Hell doesn't even have a sun."

"Doesn't matter!" Adam replied. "They're for attitude. I've trained the girls to put them on in slow motion as things explode behind us."

"You're not filming a movie!" she snapped.

"Yet." Adam muttered under his breath.

Sera let out a long-suffering sigh that could've quelled a minor riot. "And this!? What exactly is this 'Exorcists Marching theme'!?"

"Oh! That's the best part! You know that scene in Star Wars when the fucking Imperial March kicks in? Yeah. That. But with more trumpets. And Lute screaming 'LET'S FUCKING GOOOOO!' in the background."

Sera's eye twitched so violently it practically caused a small tremor. "Adam. Do you even know what 'fiscal restraint' means?"

Adam didn't blink. "Yes. It's what fucking losers have when they don't want to win hard enough."

Sera's grip on the scroll tightened, her knuckles glowing faintly with years of stress. And then—ripppp—she tore the scroll clean in half, golden flakes of parchment fluttering like confetti from Heaven's most unwanted birthday party.

Adam gasped as if she'd just murdered his dog. "Sera! That scroll took me hours to write! Do you know how long I spent sourcing all this stuff from!? Do you!?"

Before Adam could continue complaining, Sera's hand quickly cupped his cheeks and brought him close. Her towering form leaned in, wings stiff with restrained fury.

"Listen very carefully Adam." She hissed. "The Exterminations are supposed to be covert. Secret. Low profile. Something I'm starting to think you are literally biologically incapable of doing."

Adam's grin faltered under her gaze. "H-hey Sera, I can be subtle."

There was a beat of silence.

A long beat.

Then Sera exhales out slowly through her nose, like a tea kettle just shy of screaming. "I can't believe I'm actually using your suggestion of all people."

"Soooo ... my request?" Adam grinned again, unkillably chipper. "Like, c'mon Sera, I'm trying to cull their asses so they won't uprise. All for the good of Heaven so you gotta give me something here!"

Sera closes her eyes for a moment before gently pushing Adam back a few inches and settling back down in her chair. With a huff and a snap of her fingers, another golden scroll appears out of nowhere and places itself in front of Adam.

"This is your budget for the Exorcists." Sera declared.

Adam looked down at the new scroll, hopeful.

Then he looked back up.

Then back down.

Then back up.

"... Is this a joke?" Adam looked at the scroll. Then back at Sera. Then back at the scroll.

He turned it upside down.

Still the same number.

Adam stared harder at the scroll, as if sheer willpower might reveal a secret clause granting him rocket launchers.

Nothing.

He pressed the parchment against his ear. "Maybe if I shake it, more funds will fall out?"

Sera folded her arms. "That's it. That's the number."

Adam's mouth fell open. "What!? With fucking this? At best I can get—what? Pointy sticks! My girls deserve machine guns, Sera!"

Sera only rolls her eyes in response, clearly wishing this conversation would end already.

"With this shitty budget, the best I can get is a stick—two sticks and a rock for a whole platoon! And they'll have to fucking share the rock!" Adam exaggerated, his face going through the five stages of grief in rapid succession: denial, bargaining, bargaining again, loudly bargaining, then full-on theatrical collapse onto a cushion that made a very undignified pfft noise. "You know how many are in the Exorcists. This is nowhere near enough!"

"Again, remembering that the Exterminations is meant to be a SECRET, even with my position as High Seraphim, I can't simply grant you a blank cheque." Sera eyes flashed with irritation. "If you want a bigger budget, feel free to raise it from your own pocket."

Adam blinked. "Raise it? The hell Sera? I'm just one guy!"

Sera leaned back in her chair, completely unbothered. "You've always been creative Adam so figure it out."

Adam threw his arms up and stormed out of the office, knowing it was futile to argue further. After leaving, he looks back down at the golden scroll and mulls over how to increase the Exorcist budget. The last thing he want is for him and his girls to go into Hell with this absolutely criminal level of underfunding.

And then—his eyes lit up.

He had a foolproof plan.

---

There was only a couple of months left before their first actual Extermination is meant to take place and Adam was missing out on important training. Or at least, important in Lute's eyes. Still she saw it necessary that Adam attended it so she sent Vaggie to retrieve him.

"Sir?" Vaggie knocked again, her tone somewhere between military precision and exhausted babysitter.

No answer.

She tried the handle. Unlocked.

Slowly opening the door, she was greeted by the strangest sight she'd ever seen.

Ring lights. Green screens. Microphones hanging from the ceiling like nooses. And at the center of it all—

"What's up you fuckers! Its your favorite First Man, the fucking Dickmaster, Adam! Back with another episode of Eden Vibes, sponsored by Raid Shadow Legends." Adam's voice dropped a full octave into Serious Mode. "Now listen up, my heavenly hotties. Raid Shadow Legends has over six hundred champions, each one sexier and deadlier than the last. I like to see you bitches play this game and tell me it sucks! I've only heard Abel complain and Cain didn't take that too well."

"Sir!"

"Do you like angels? Do you like dragons? Then you'll love this game where—oh hey Vagasaurus!"

Vaggie froze mid-step, jaw slightly agape. The once possibly modest apartment was now a swirling mess of LEDs, branded swag, and boxes upon boxes of—

"GamerSupps?"

Adam, still mid-recording, threw a packet of GamerSupps into the air like confetti.

"GamerSupps—because what's more divine than powdered energy made by nerds for nerds? And I know what you nerds want!" He winked directly into the camera. "Waifu cups. Hydration. And if you act now, I'll throw in everyone's favorite resident Joy-Bringer sweat flavored supplements."

Vaggie's eye twitched. "Sir, what the actual hell are you doing?"

"Making that sweet, sweet heavenly dough, babe. You think your spear pays for itself? Pfft. No! But with today's sponsor—NordVPN—you can safely hide your wholesome browsing habits from Hell's degenerate prying eyes. Use code 'CHADFIRSTMAN' for 69% off—nice—plus one free month!"

"Stop with the fucking sponsors, Sir!" Vaggie barked, storming through a minefield of branded shipping boxes.

Adam spun his chair toward her, still perfectly framed by the glowing ring light.

"I will, Vagasaurus … after you get YouTube Premium for an ad-free—"

Vaggie yanked the plug from the nearest power strip, plunging half the apartment into darkness. Adam shrieked like she'd just amputated a limb.

"WHAT THE HELL, VAGGIE!? That was my Elgato key light! How will the fans see the pure radiance of my face!?"

"Screw your fans! You're supposed to be TRAINING!" Vaggie snapped, some days, it was hard to believe that this man was supposedly the First Man. "Lute's ready to skin you alive if you keep ditching."

Adam audibly groaned before ultimately relented to her demand. It was clear that by hook or by crook, Vaggie was going to keep bitching at him till he went with her back to training. Quickly rummaging through a branded crate, Adam pulls out a masterfully crafted golden axe, a gift sent by one of his sponsors.

"Geez, the things I do for you gals."

---

"Ladies, we've done this a thousand times before and—" Lute's voice roared, hyping the crowd before her. Her grin was all brass knuckles and good intentions. "—we will do it a thousand and one times again. Those filthy Sinners in Hell made their choices and deserve nothing less than—"

Adam interrupted loudly, barreling in like a caffeine-fueled idea with legs, lugging a cardboard crate the size of a cherub. He skidded to a stop on one knee, palms ceremoniously up, eyes wide.

"Ladies! Ladies!" he sang, as if entrance fees had just been paid. "Presenting—our newest partner."

He tipped the crate forward. Hundreds—no, thousands—of stickers spilled out like colorful confetti. Glossy circles. Die-cut logos. Holographic foil. The I.M.P logo winked up at everyone, buried in a suspiciously tasteful sans-serif.

Vaggie looked down at the stickers, then back up at Adam, who was now wearing a branded trucker cap over his mask that read "I.M.P: Death Done Right."

Lute pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sir, we literally do not know what this company does."

"Does it matter?" Adam shrugged, grabbing a handful of stickers and slapping one onto his cassock. "They paid up front and in gold. Real gold, not that crypto-bullshit Gabriel tried to push on me last week."

From the back of the room, one of the younger Exorcists timidly raised a hand. "Um, I.M.P … I think they're a—"

"Don't fucking say it!" Adam shouted, pointing with the dramatic flair of someone who had once been given a drama elective and ran with it. "Let mystery fuel your vibe, not fear. The less we know, the cooler we are."

Adam reaches down and grab a handful of stickers before passing it around to the crowd. "Remember, after every kill, you stick one of these bad boys right on their chest. Eyeball? Face? Whatever's left—stick it on."

"Ugh, I'm starting to hate my job." Vaggie muttered under her breath as she pocketed her share of stickers.

---

Blitzo was now practically vibrating with anticipation. The entire I.M.P office was covered—no, smothered—in I.M.P stickers, banners, coasters, and oddly enough, promotional condoms with his face winking on the wrapper.

"I'm telling ya, Loona." Blitzo chirped, leaning precariously on a wobbly chair while trying to staple a decal to the ceiling, "This is genius! We brand ourselves using Heaven's kill squad, and business goes booming!"

Loona, unimpressed and scrolling through her phone, barely looked up. "You blew what, like, six figures on all this crap?"

"Seven, actually." Blitzo grinned. "But hey! You gotta spend money to make money. While those angel fucks help advertise for us in Pride, we stick our stuff to the rest of the Rings and watch clients roll in."

Moxxie suddenly popped in, clearly pale and carrying a printed bank statement that was sweating more than he was. "Sir, I—I really hate to bring this up, but ... these expenses are catastrophic! These line items are just—just words with numbers, Sir! 'Brand aura infusion'? 'Sticker feng shui tax'?!"

"Where is your vision, Mox?" Blitzo spread his arms wide, almost falling off the chair. "I'm not spending money—I'm investing in inevitability. Picture it: One of those winged fuck shivs a sinner, boom, sticker on the forehead, and some terrified schmuck goes, 'I don't want to perma-die till I get my revenge on my mother-in-law who is alive on Earth' and then—BAM!—our number's right there on the corpse!"

Moxxie's look of indignation sharpened until his eyebrows could slice paper. "BAM what, sir? BAM we declare bankruptcy? BAM the IRS—Infernal Revenue Service—seizes our staplers because you expensed seventeen hundred dollars on nonsense!?"

"I would like to see you have the same attitude when we're swimming in clients and gold like Scrooge McDuck!" Blitzo finished, spreading his arms.

---

Canon Time



"Hello?" Charlie called out as she entered the hauntingly empty Heaven embassy. "... Creepy."

After ringing a bell on a desk and signing off on a sheet of paper, a door slides open, beckoning her to enter.

"Uh ... hello? Is anyone here?" Charlie calls out as she enters the dark room.

...

"Sup!"

The lights immediately switches on, catching Charlie completely off-guard as she stumbles back and falls down.

"Holy shit!" She quickly regains her composure. Practically standing at attention in front of the two angels before her. "Hi, I'm Charlie. My dad asked me if I could meet you."

"Yeah, I know." Adam spun his chair around while holding his phone up. "Princess of Hell. Daughter of fucking Lucy."

Charlie blinked. "Um. Thanks? Wait, were you just livestreaming?"

Adam leaned back, arms wide like he was offering her the kingdom of nonsense. "No, no. Am livestreaming. Say hi to the stream! We got like 2.3 billion viewers—shoutout to ZappyBoiKenobi, you're killing it in the chat today, my bro!"

Charlie slowly turned to the camera. "Hi …?"

"Boom! Chat's losing it." Adam chuckled, throwing up finger guns. "They're calling you 'Princess Pretty' and 'Hellflake Hottie'. They love you. Ever thought of a collab?"

"... Right. So, I'm happy we've got this opportunity to meet. There's a project that I've been working on that I really want to talk to you about—" Charlie cleared her throat and brushed nonexistent dust off her blazer.

"Wait, hold on. Need a fucking minute." Adam turns back to the stream a dazzling smile. "Catch you later, sinners and winners! Remember to smash that like button like Cain smashed Abel—brutally and without hesitation." He winked. "Dickmaster Adam, out!"

"Wait, your name is Adam? Like the first man Adam, that means you … Oh …." Charlie visibly winces. "That explains so much."

When her mother described Adam—her ex—it wasn't in the best light, and right now Charlie could see why. Though she never expected this.

Adam kicked his chair around to face her fully, leaning forward like a late-night talk show host who'd just sniffed a ratings bump. "Soooo, Princess Pretty, what's up? You want a collab? Sponsorship deal? Guest appearance on Eden Vibes? I've got a slot open between my NordVPN read and my 'Beyond Paradise' merch drop."

Charlie blinked. "… No. I wanted to discuss redemption." She clasped her hands earnestly. "I've been working on a rehabilitation program for sinners. My hope is to—"

"Redemption? No, no, no. Sorry babe but I'm not loving it. Unlike at McDonald's where I am loving it!" Adam's grin widened like he was auditioning for Hell's Got Talent. "Because nothing says redemption for the soul like a McDouble for only $2.99, babe."

"I don't think we're on the same boat here." Charlie's eyes lit with determination. "I'm trying to give Sinners hope, a chance to—"

"Hope?" Adam cut her off, wagging a finger like she'd just mispronounced his name. "Babe, hope doesn't pay for the green screens, the weapons, or the fucking waifu cups. You can't slap 'hope' on a t-shirt and sell it for $39.99 plus shipping."

Charlie inhaled sharply through her nose. "I'm not trying to sell it, I'm trying to build it. I want to work with Heaven on my hotel, somewhere where sinners can—"

"Hotel?" Adam perked up instantly. "Oh shit, say less. Hotels are prime fucking sponsorship territory. I got three companies lined up already: HellBnb, Mattress Firmament, and—get this—Raid: Shadow Lodgings." He winked, proud of himself. "Same game, but with towels."

Charlie's smile strained at the edges. "Adam. Mr. Adam Sir! I don't need sponsors. I need help. I want to show Heaven that redemption is possible, that sinners can—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow your hooves, Hellflake Hottie." Adam leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head like he was auditioning for 'Most Punchable Man Alive.' "You're talking redemption like it's free. You gotta think brand deals, synergy, cross-promotion. Like—picture this: every time one of your Hell-losers completes a step on your little redemption ladder, boom! Free trial of Audible."

Charlie blinked. "What does Audible have to do with redemption!?"

Adam leaned in, dead serious. "Because redemption is about listening, babe. And no one listens harder than someone who just downloaded my new podcast!"

It hasn't even been ten minutes and Charlie is already regretting every life choice that led her to this moment. She had prepared for some resistance. She had not prepared for ... this. Whatever THIS was.

Maybe working with Heaven isn't the way to go after all.

"Ad—"

"Thank you all so much for joining me on today's stream. Tomorrow, find me in the promenade where I hit on different chicks using chat's pick up lines! So don't fuck this up for me."

"Ada—"

"And a shout out to Michael_Afton_The_Menace for the Five hundred gifted subs—"

"Adam."

"Don't forget about today's sponsor, HeavenNews. Tired of seeing shitty fake news from those degenerate networks in Hell? Well fret no more, because at HeavenNews we bring you one-hundred percent verified divine truth—"

A loud crash echoed through the room. The screen behind him flickered, and his toppled sideways as Sera slammed her palms on his desk hard enough to send GamerSupps packets into orbit.

"ADAM!"

The microphones cut out. The lights dimmed. Even the chat feed froze—bandwidth throttled by Sera's raw fury.

"For fucks sake Sera. Just cause you're the High Seraphim, doesn't mean you can fucking cut in on my show like this. If you want a slot, go find Lute and ask her for form H-13 for media requests and—"

Sera wings flared, illuminating the once dark room and shutting the First Man up. "Adam, I swear to all that is holy, if the next sentence out of your mouth has any sponsors in them, I will personally sponsor your second funeral."

Adam froze mid-gesture, his mouth still half-open like a malfunctioning ventriloquist dummy. The neon ring lights reflected off Sera's eyes, making them glow like molten glass.

Sucking in a deep breath and combing through her hair with her hands, Sera exhaled through gritted teeth. "I have been getting complaints from a certain Exorcist that this sponsorship scheme you have going on is getting out of hand."

"The fuck!? From who?"

"Vaggie." Sera revealed without care, voice razor-sharp. "And after reading through her complaints, I have to wholeheartedly agree with how no one can seemingly talk to you now without you slipping in a sponsor."

Adam slammed a fist over his heart. "Et tu, Vagasaurus!? After all the exposure I gave her on stream!? She gained six thousand followers just for yelling at me!"

Sera pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned. "Adam. When I told you to find a different way to secure the extra funding you wanted for the Exorcists, I meant for you to GET A JOB!"

While money wasn't necessary in Heaven, the angels had long ago thought to introduce money as a means to simulate purpose.

Souls who were obsessive workers on Earth—corporate sharks, tech CEOs, freelance illustrators, etc.— didn't know how to exist without productivity. So Heaven gave them the illusion of it.

Heaven Bucks—a glorified system where angels and blessed souls could "earn" currency through tasks, favors, or arbitrary "good vibes." It didn't buy anything essential, but it felt like it did.

It was, in short, capitalism for emotional support.

Adam knew how to make swords and spears, hell, he practically invented them.

But making guns, lasers, and bombs? Well, he wasn't exactly the engineering type.

That's where they came in.

The Winners.

Thanks to Adam, they had a new gig. Working to produce the armaments for him and his girls. All paid for by sponsors.

At least, till now.

Adam blinked. Once. Twice. Then leaned back in his chair like she'd just told him to become mortal again.

"A job? A shit pay job!? No job pay what these sponsors pay!" He said the word like it was a slur. "Besides, you want me—the First Man—to clock in? To punch a card? To report to a supervisor? I invented work, Sera! Literally! That's in Genesis, page one shit!"

"Then it's about time you stopped outsourcing it." Sera snapped. "No more brand deals. No more influencer nonsense. You will find a job. A real one."

"THIS IS A REAL JOB!" Adam scoffed, gesturing broadly to the room still half-lit by LED glow. "C'mon Sera, you've got to be kidding, right? What kind of job other then this does Heaven even have that could handle me? The last time I did manual labor, I got exiled from Eden and it wasn't even my fucking fault!"

"Well whatever this is, is your fault." Sera's tone could have bent steel. "I want you to cut back on these sponsors and go earn money through more 'respectable' means, Adam." Sera finished, venom curling at the edges of her voice.

Adam tilted his head like a confused golden retriever. "Respectable? What I'm doing is—"

Sera picks up a packet of the GamerSupps and practically dares Adam to justify it.

"Go on." She said sweetly, voice dripping with threat. "Finish that sentence. Say it. Tell me this—" She shook the packet so hard a glittery puff of synthetic caffeine dust burst into the air "—is respectable."

He raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, fine, I'll find a "real job" ... whatever it is."

"Good." Sera nodded, satisfied with his defeat. "Next time you have an idea, just to think to yourself, 'Would Emily approve?'."

"Ugh, my money." Adam groaned. "Fine."

"And I assume you'll take the necessary steps to handle the complaint?"

"Yeah, sure. Just forward it to Lute. She'll handle it."

---

Canon Time

Standing over a cooling corpse, Vaggie stared at the I.M.P sticker half-slid down its face—the glue slick with blood and sulfur. It read in proud holographic lettering:

"I.M.P—Death Done Right."

She'd done this at least fifty times now.

Fifty corpses, fifty stickers.

Fifty reminders that she had apparently become part of a marketing campaign.

She used to believe in their righteous cause of coming down into Hell to cleanse the corruption that had once defied Heaven.

Now it was stickers.

Stickers.

Vaggie peeled another one from the roll stuck to her hip, the holographic logo catching what little light filtered through the ash-choked sky. She slapped it onto a corpse's forehead with a wet smack.

She stood up, wings twitching. Around her, the Exorcists were methodically tagging bodies like warehouse clerks. The sound of distant gunfire and stabbings had been replaced by the papery peel-stick, peel-stick rhythm of branding.

"Good job, bitches!" Adam's voice crackled through their halos.

Just out of the corner of her eye, she spots another Sinner running into an alleyway.

The alley was narrow, the air thick with sulfur and smoke. The child tripped over a heap of ash and scrambled itself up against a wall.

Vaggie leveled her spear.

The little sinner looked up at her, wide-eyed, looked no older than ten—if age even meant anything down here. Vaggie's grip tightened around the shaft of her weapon.

...

"What are you waiting for?" Lute's voice cut through the haze like a blade — calm, commanding, but laced with warning. The kind of tone that expected obedience, not hesitation.

Vaggie didn't answer. Her spear trembled slightly, aimed at the trembling child Sinner pressed against the wall. The kid was crying—not wailing, just quiet, terrified hiccups muffled behind dirty hands. Its horns hadn't even fully formed.

"Lute, it's a child." Vaggie's voice came out low, brittle. "Barely even—"

"It's a Sinner." Lute stepped closer, her armor glinting in the firelight. "There are no children in Hell, only damned souls. You know that."

The silence stretched, pierced only by the faint crackle of fires elsewhere still burning. Finally, Vaggie exhaled—a small, broken sound—and thrust her spear forward.

The child's body collapsed with a dull thud.

Vaggie stared at what was left—at the tiny hand half-curled, like it had still been reaching for something.

Lute observed as Vaggie stood motionless over the Sinner's corpse, eyes narrowed.

"Forgetting something?"

Vaggie blinked at Lute. Her brain took a moment to register what she'd just heard. Lute gestured to the sticker roll hanging from Vaggie's belt. The metallic logo glimmered under the smoke—I.M.P: Death Done Right.

As she reached for her roll, a flash of gold flies overhead.

"Great fucking work ladies! You're all doing fan-fucking-tastic and I'm thrilled to announce—drumroll please—our first ever sponsored kill competition!"

"The squad with the most kills today," Adam continued, "gets an all-expenses-paid retreat to Eden plus a personal tour by the First Man, courtesy of yours truly! That's right bitches, I'm sponsoring this one!"

Vaggie's spear hit the ground with a deafening clang.

"I had enough with all these fucking sponsorships, promo codes and influencer bullshit!" She screamed.

Before Vaggie could continue on her tirade, Lute quickly steps up and slaps Vaggie across the cheek. The impact snapped the smaller Exorcist's head to the side.

"Be more appreciative you bitch! Its thanks to Adam that we have this!"

She threw her arm out, gesturing to the horizon.

And there—through the smog and fire—was Heaven's army in full display.

Exorcists swooped low over the city, dropping bright cluster bombs that exploded in star-shaped blossoms of white fire.

Another group unloaded machine-gun fire into the streets like a Rambo reenactment.

"See that?" Lute barked, her wings flaring, her armor flashing with pride. "Thanks to Adam and his sponsors, our efficiency has tripled. Despite some 'complaints'."

"FUCK! THE! SPONSORS!"

With one blinding swing, Lute's sword hissed upward—clean, practiced, surgical. A flash of white, a splash of gold. Vaggie's cry broke through the ash-filled air as she stumbled backward, clutching the left side of her face. Blood, bright and molten, dripped between her fingers.

Lute's expression didn't waver. "If you hate our sponsors so much," Lute hissed, "then maybe you're no better then these fucking Sinners!"

Her words burned hotter than the wound on Vaggie's face. The smaller Exorcist fell to her knees, clutching the side of her head as blood matted her hair, her breath sharp and wet. The world tilted — ash and gold, smoke and static. Lute's boot pressed against her back, pinning her to the ground.

"You ungrateful worm." Lute spat, blade glistening with blood and reflected firelight. "You think this shit runs on faith alone!?"

Without hesitation, she reached down, tore at the base of Vaggie's wings—one, then the other—ripping the feathers free with a wet, splitting sound that drowned out Vaggie's scream. Gold ichor spilled into the air like molten sunlight.

Lute wiped the gold from her cheek with the back of her glove, calm and composed as if she'd just swatted a bug. Then, without missing a beat, Lute bent down, tore a fresh I.M.P. sticker from Vaggie's half-crushed roll, and slapped it over Vaggie's bleeding eye.

Lute leaned in close, her voice dropping to a mock commercial whisper.

"I.M.P—when faith just isn't enough."

---

"What does Sera have against me!? Can you believe that bitch, Lute!?" Adam shouted, kicking his chair hard enough to send it pirouetting across the floor before it crashed into a wall of deactivated ring lights. "She tells me to figure out my own way of funding the Exorcists and I fucking did! But does she congratulate me on a job well done? Fuck no!"

Lute nodded along as she continued crunching the numbers on her tablet.

"And then she told me to get a fucking job, like, who the fuck does she think I am, huh!?" Adam paced his office, pacing so violently his wings twitched like faulty antennas.

"With the loss of revenue from your sponsorships, the Exorcist budget has dropped by—" she swiped her screen "—sixty-nine percent."

"Heh, nice." Adam snickered before his expression turned sour. "How are we suppose to inspire heavenly fear if our squad looks like they shop at the fucking Salvation Army!?"

Lute blinked, expression unreadable. "Sir, we could consider cutting some of your more ambitious ideas—"

"Cut!? What are we, Hell? We're Heaven, Lute. Heaven doesn't cut, we cut Sinners! Big difference." He slumped dramatically into his chair, wings drooping. His desk—once an altar full of cheques from sponsors—now sat depressingly clean.

For a long moment, silence reigned. The only sound was the soft flutter of paper as Adam stared down at a plain white calendar on his desk. The next Extermination date loomed, circled in red ink like a promise and a deadline all at once.

Adam leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin.

"… a job, huh?"

He has a Foolproof plan!

"Lute …" he said slowly, eyes narrowing with dangerous glee. "Do you know what women—and some men, I don't discriminate—love?"

Lute looked up from her tablet. "Sir?"

"Exactly." Adam winked.

---

"Get my good side, Lute!"

"Sir, you don't have a bad side." She muttered, trying not to sound too sincere.

The camera clicked. The flash popped. The studio—formerly known as Adam's recording room—was now filled with smoke machines, silky backdrops, and the faint hum of ego.

Adam stood only in his underwear in the center, wings spread wide, holding a massive golden axe like as if he was Adonis himself.

He flexed. The camera clicked again. Lute swallowed, her wings twitching with barely contained restraint.

Don't look at the belly. Don't look at the belly.

...

She looked.

"Sir, wouldn't a girly calendar be more ... profitable?""

"Profitable?" Adam repeated, scandalized. "Lute, you're looking at pure, raw, unfiltered profit! Look at me! I'm the fucking First Man! The original thirst trap! Bitches will pay for my calendars and soon we can even buy our own nuke!"

Adam struck a pose on a marble block, flexing an arm that looked more like an overinflated bread roll than muscle. His golden axe gleamed beside him, an absurd symbol of masculine valor held by a man whose idea of cardio was yelling.

He smirked at the lens. "You getting this, Lute? Make sure to capture the heroic lighting. The people are going to want to see these fucking abs."

Lute swallowed. "Y-yes, sir."

Lute's mind was going toward dangerous territory. At one point, the idea of tossing the camera aside and simply burying her face in that mountain of softness was almost too hard to resist.

SHE WANTS TO BITE HIS BELLY!

Lute swallowed hard. "Sir, maybe—maybe we should focus on your expression instead of the, uh … topography."

Adam grinned. "Oh, the people are gonna love this topography. Real Dad of Humanity energy. Get a little lower angle—yeah, like that. Make me look epic."

"Sir, are you sure people will … buy this?" she asked, trying to peel her eyes away from his mid and lower section.

Fuck, who was she kidding? She'll buy his entire stock if she could!

"Lute! Are you fucking taking the pictures or not!?"

Lute's pupils dilated.

This was getting dangerous.

Adam had now fully committed to the pose: one knee up on a satin-draped stool, belly out like a monument to divine dadbod, a golden halo perfectly circling his disheveled hair. Behind him, a fog machine wheezed with the effort of theatrical enhancement. The axe glimmered in one hand. The other rested proudly on the slope of his love handle.

And Lute?

Lute was trying very, very hard not to die.

Not in battle. Not in shame.

In lust.

---

Sera felt accomplished. After telling Adam off, she hadn't heard a peep about 'sponsors' or some other form of monetized nonsense. Plus, it seemed the complaint had been dealt with as she hadn't received any new ones.

For what felt like the first time in months, she felt at peace.

Perhaps she was a little too harsh on Adam.

Perhaps she should praise him for his creativity at least.

Perhaps she could—

"Eep!"

Sera turned the corner just in time to see Emily clutching an oversized paper bag to her chest. The poor girl froze like a cherub caught shoplifting.

"Emily?" Sera's tone was calm.

"H-hey Sera." Emily squeaked, wings stiffening like whiteboards.

Sera's eyes narrowed, the faint glow of her halo flickering in suspicion. "What do you have there?"

"Nothing!" Emily said much too quickly, hugging the object closer. "Just a little something ... that Adam was selling in the promenade."

Emily began sweating bullets, her halo flickering like a bad lightbulb.

Sera took a step closer, arms folded, her expression that of a mother who knew this exact lie fifteen centuries ago. "Emily."

"It's nothing, honest!" Emily squeaked. "Just ... y'know, a simple calendar! Its definitely bringing people joy!"

Sera blinked. "A calendar?"

"Uh-huh!" Emily nodded so fast her feathers shook loose. "Adam has been selling them in the promenade to finance some festival he said he has planned called E-day."

Sera's eyes narrowed as she extended a hand. "Show me."

Emily clutched the bag tighter. "I—I can't!"

Sera's stare could have boiled oceans. "Emily."

The younger angel squeaked, inching backward toward her door. "Really, it's nothing bad!"

Before Sera could demand clarification, the bottom of the paper bag betrayed Emily's trembling hands—rip!

Time slowed.

A glossy rectangle slid out and landed face-up between them with the weight of an omen.

Adam—shirtless, gleaming, suggestively laying on a cloud, his golden axe resting provocatively across his thighs—stared up at them from the cover. The title read in proud, embossed lettering:

"The FIRST MANly Calandar: 12 Months of the First Dick."

Emily made a strangled noise somewhere between a hiccup and a dying bird. "Oh no …"

Sera's expression went blank—too blank. That frightening, tranquil expression she got right before turning whole nations into glass. She bent down, picked up the calendar, and began to flip through it.

January: Adam reclining in a marble bath of holy water, steam rising, captioned:

"Let there be abs."

A vein twitched at Sera's temple.

February: Adam on a chariot drawn by cherubs, wearing nothing but a sash that read:

"Saint of Seduction."

Sera's jaw flexed.

March: Adam forging swords shirtless, sparks bouncing off his skin. The caption:

"He works in mysterious ways."

Sera inhaled sharply. Her halo pulsed like a warning siren.

April: Adam posing with a bouquet of lilies over his crotch.

"Bloom where you're planted."

Sera's halo began to smoke.

Emily had quickly wised up and decided to leave the room ... and possibly buy another calendar.

Sera turned another page.

July: Adam winking, drenched in oil, lounging on a beach chair. Sunglasses. Margarita. Caption:

"Thou shalt not covet … unless it's me."

That was it.

Pages flapped violently in the divine wind as the calendar practically tried to escape her hands. Sera's gaze zeroed in on the final image—December—Adam wearing only a Santa hat and a strategically placed candy cane, with the tagline

"Ho-ho-hoe-ly night."

Sera's scream shook Heaven in its entirety.

"ADAM!"

As the Hazbin Hotel crew and the cannibals saw the approach of the Exorcists there was a mixture of feelings amongst them. With their newly acquired angelic steel weaponry in hand, there was a certain sense of triumph before the battle had even started.

Many were eager, ready to finally take their revenge against the ones that have hunted them for years. Some were hungry—literally—the cannibals visibly salivated at the mere prospect of finally tasting angel flesh.

As the first of the Exorcists poured through the portal opening, Alastor's smile didn't falter—it sharpened.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" His voice boomed through the static. "Let the slaughter, begin."

His cane spun once in his hand before planting into the ground with a crisp clack. A translucent green and black ripple erupted from Alastor's cane—like a radio wave turned solid. The ground beneath the Hotel fractured outward in a spider-web of pulsing static before rising up to encompass the hotel in a protective dome.

The first wave of Exorcists hit it head-on—bright streaks of gold against the green-black sheen of Alastor's shield. The crowd of sinners roared, cannibals whooping and clapping like deranged sports fans as golden ichor slowly dripped.

The Exorcists quickly recovered their wounded and regrouped in the sky, their formation momentarily chaotic, wings trembling under the greenish light of Alastor's barrier. For a long, hanging moment, no one moved.

Then—

The Exorcists turned around.

Alastor tipped his head, teeth glinting like a broadcast signal cutting through snow.

"Well! That was certainly disappointing." He chuckled, voice rippling through a dozen old radios at once. "A little bite back and suddenly Heaven's finest are flying home? How embarrassing."

The crowd of Sinners erupted—cheers, jeers, hysterical laughter. Cannibals began chanting, Husk lets out a sigh of relief, tail flicking with rare satisfaction. Angel Dust perched on the railing, guns resting on his shoulder. "Huh. That's it? Kinda anticlimactic, don'tcha think?"

"Don't fucking jinx it." Husk warned.

"This is amazing!" Charlie cheered, her face beaming with her widest smile. "Heaven clearly cares for their own and being hurt made them reconsider. This means they'll soon be open to negotiations!"

In the midst of their premature celebration, only Vaggie didn't smile. Vaggie's one good eye stayed locked on the sky. She'd been an Exorcist once. She knew that look—the hesitation wasn't fear.

"… They're not retreating." she murmured.

Charlie turned toward her. "What do you mean? They're not attackin—"

Vaggie's feathers bristled. "No."

Before anyone could ask what she meant, the sky began to warp. The air shivered like heat haze, the blue-gold portal above widening far beyond what any of them had ever seen. The edges split apart like torn silk—rippling, trembling, and then folding back into an abyss of blinding white.

Angel Dust squinted. "Uh, is it just me, or is Heaven mooning us with a giant light show?"

No one laughed.

Through the light came the shadow—massive, angular, divine geometry given form. Its silhouette blotted out half the sky.

The ground shook. The air went still.

Alastor's smile faltered—just slightly—as the outline resolved into something vast and terrible.

A ship.

"That's right bitches! We bought a fucking Star Destroyer! Or as I like to call it, Hell Destroyer!" Adam's voice boomed all around them. "This Extermination is brought to you by Disney! The happiest place in Heaven! Where dreams come true and Hell gets flattened for family fun!"

Charlie's jaw practically fell to the floor at the sight of such a mechanical monstrosity. "Holy s—"

"Remember to use code 'FirstDick' for a discount on Disney Plus Premium!" Adam's voice cracked like thunder across the city. "Stream The Lion King, Star Wars, and my personal favorite—Beyond Paradise! Only on Disney Fucking Plus!"

The Hell Destroyer's underbelly unfolded like the wings of an angel made of chrome. Cannons rotated with an industrial hum that rattled buildings; the emblem of Adam's signature 'A' glared down like a mock sun.

Then the bombardment of pure angelic power began.

The first blast hit Alastor's barrier with such force that every radio in Hell screamed in feedback. The shield—green static and black ink—shivered once before shattering like glass.

Never before had the denizens of Hell wished the usual sulfuric acid rain would replace this.

The sky vomited light.

Columns of gold ripped through the smog, searing buildings into silhouettes before vaporizing them. The ground rippled like liquid glass. For one blistering second, every shadow in Pentagram City burned itself into the walls.

The scream that followed wasn't human. It was the sound of Heaven's industrial machine—millions of angelic engines howling as the Hell Destroyer drifted into a stable hover over the city.

"Quick! Into the hotel!" Charlie shouted, scrambling to guide others.

"Get down Charlie!" Vaggie tackles her before she can get to the hotel.

"Vaggie! What are you—"

The rest of Charlie's sentence was swallowed by the sound. A second golden barrage fell from the Hell Destroyer. It slammed into the Hazbin Hotel with such apocalyptic force that reality hiccuped. Sound dropped out for a moment—just the blinding flash, then a pressure wave that crushed breath and memory.

The Hotel—their hope, their work, their home—disappeared in a glorious, horrifying bloom of white fire. Every trace of Sir Pentious who was garrisoned inside was gone.

Charlie's scream was lost in the roar. She scrambled forward, reaching for the vapor, as if sheer will could stitch ash back into bricks. But Vaggie yanked her back behind the cratered remains of an overturned billboard.

"Pentious… the hotel… I—"

Charlie's voice broke into ragged sobs.

Vaggie held her close, eyes blazing through tears of her own. But she couldn't comfort Charlie for long as the screams of the cannibals were enough to remind them that the Hell Destroyer wasn't done.

Such destruction was on a level Hell had never known and as if the Hell Destroyer alone wasn't bad enough, now the Exorcists themselves had descended.

"Move! Move!" Vaggie shouted, dragging Charlie behind cover as the street dissolved into chaos. Cannibals charged eagerly, screaming into the radiant swarm, only to be vaporized mid-leap by a swath of angelic blaster bolts.

"STOP IT!" Charlie's scream cracked through the noise, trying to rise and meet their attackers head-on.

"Charlie, don't—!" Vaggie grabbed her arm, but Charlie pulled free, tears cutting clean streaks through her cheeks.

"He destroyed everything, Vaggie. He killed Pentious. He destroyed the Hotel—our home! No more!"

Her voice trembled, then steadied into something sharp. Her people need her now more then ever.

"RAZZLE! DAZZLE!"

The two pets quickly answered her call and spiraled around Charlie, engulfing her in flames. What emerged was not the cheerful princess of redemption—rather, the TRUE princess of Hell. Charlie rose from the fire, her smile gone, her eyes burned red and in her hand, a trident.

Razzle and Dazzle roared as their small, goat bodies twisted and expanded. Bones cracked. Scales erupted. Their cheerful faces distorted into the visages of colossal dragons.

Charlie and Vaggie hopped onto their backs. For a heartbeat, even through the chaos, the two shared a single understanding—that there was no turning back from this.

"Let's ride!"

---

"Oh yeah! Keep firing! Make those fuckers shine!" Adam stood before the panoramic viewport of the Hell Destroyer, eyes glowing with reflected gold as the ship's cannons unleashed ruin. Every explosion below painted his grin brighter. The blast waves rolled across Pentagram City like applause.

Behind him, the bridge a buzz with cheers and chatter as dozens of Exorcists operated the guns of the ship, treating the Sinners below like a shooting gallery. Even Lute—usually so composed and commanding—was laughing.

Her laughter echoed through the entire bridge as she fired again. A golden beam scythed downward, slicing through a block of buildings like a guillotine made of sunlight.

"Nice fucking shot, Lute!" Adam shouted, spinning in his chair like a talk-show host basking in applause. "Which reminds me."

Adam turned back around and slammed a button on his command console. The ship's speakers crackled with feedback, then his voice boomed across all of Hell.

"ATTENTION, FILTHY SINNERS AND FUTURE CORPSES!"

The bombardment paused just long enough for the echo to fade. Below, even the cannibals hesitated mid-bite.

"You've probably noticed and are now asking yourselves, 'Hey, why isn't a certain district of Hell being bombarded?'." Adam continued, grin sharp enough to qualify as a weapon. "And as much as I would like to kill all you fucks in this twenty-four hours, I also need to reward the people who helped made this ship possible with their contributions."

A pause. Static crackled. Somewhere far below, Alastor raised an eyebrow.

"For purchasing over—" Adam checked a card, squinting theatrically, "—three hundred million copies of my FIRST MANly calendar," he announced, "the Vee's has officially become platinum-tier sponsors of this Extermination! Give it up for the most patriotic fucking degenerates in Hell!"

A cheer erupted across the bridge. Trumpets blared. Fireworks—actual fireworks—shot from the Hell Destroyer's wings, exploding into the shape of Adam's grinning face.

"Therefore," Adam went on, "in accordance with my new Faithful Consumer Protection Program, the Vees' district will be officially spared from bombardment!"

The voice echoed across every broken loudspeaker, shattered window, and half-melted radio tower in Pentagram City. The message carried throughout the Pride Ring.

"Because loyalty should always be rewarded! Remember folks, every calendar you buy brings us one step closer to a Heaven where I don't have to pay for my own ammo and a chance at your shitty life being spared! So congrats, Vox, Velvette, Valentino—you're safe! ... from bombardment. My girls are still going to hunt your ass down though."

Then, with all the gravitas of a man dropping the atomic punchline, he added:

"Everyone else? Fucked as fucked can be."

The bombardment resumes.

"Sir! We got incoming!" Lute shouted. "Two bogeys inbound!"

Adam turned, squinting at the glowing radar. "Huh?"

An image flickered on the display—two dragons with the Princess of Hell and her girlfriend riding atop.

"Oh." Adam grinned. "Finally! Took those dumb bitches long enough. Lute—get in a TIE and lead the squad."

Lute's grin snapped on like armor. "With pleasure, Sir." Her eyes cut to Vaggie, hard and personal.

Her eyes flicked once to the live feed on the monitor—Charlie on Razzle, Vaggie on Dazzle. That familiar scarred face on one of them twisted her grin into something uglier.

"This is where the fun begins."

---

"We're almost there, hon!" Vaggie yelled, wind whipping her hair back as Dazzle's wings thundered through the smoke.

The Hell Destroyer loomed before them—an entire armory of gold and chrome suspended above Hell like a second sun. Its cannons rotated with mechanical grace, every barrel glowing with angelic power. The air trembled with static, the temperature climbing with every passing second as they guns continued their relentless barrage on the city below.

Charlie nodded, her eyes locked on the ship's underbelly. The closer they got, the more impossible it seemed—an entire floating continent of steel and sanctimony.

"Almost there …" she murmured, clutching her trident tighter.

That was when the ship opened.

A low, mechanical wail cut through the thunder of cannons. Sections of the Destroyer's flanks split apart, unfolding like chrome petals. From within the glowing hollows came the rising shriek of hundreds—no—thousands of engines igniting.

Vaggie blinked, disbelieving. "Oh, come the fuck on—!"

Then the sky screamed.

A storm of white-and-gold TIE-fighters erupted outward in formation. Rows upon rows of them, descending in perfect symmetry. Each one bore Adam's signature 'A' etched into its hull.

"Are you kidding me!?" Vaggie shouted, jerking Dazzle into a barrel roll as the first volley of laser fire lit up the air around them.

Charlie's hair whipped in the torrent of wind, her voice barely audible over the screaming sky. "We can't stop now! Razzle, climb!"

The dragons split apart—Razzle banking right, Dazzle left—just as the first wave of lasers ripped through the space they'd occupied. The beams cut across the sky in ribbons of molten gold.

Razzle snapped his wings inward and dived through the storm, dodging oncoming angelic blaster fire and weaving between burning contrails. Dazzle twisted through it all, her scales flashing red as she rolled between two pursuing fighters.

"Hang on!" Vaggie yelled, bracing herself.

Dazzle snapped her wings open, braking midair. The two Exorcist pilots overshot, their engines screaming as Vaggie hurled her spear. It spun through the haze, slicing clean through one cockpit — the fighter detonated in a blinding cross of gold.

The explosion rattled Razzle's flight path, forcing Charlie to duck low against his neck. She grit her teeth, eyes burning with tears and fury. "Stay with me, buddy! Stay with me!"

Razzle roared, fire boiling from his throat. He spun upward, dodging a spread of angelic blaster fire so close it singed his tail. A fighter clipped his wing; he retaliated by ramming it head-on, crushing the machine into shrapnel as his claws ripped through the wreckage.

"Woohoo!" Charlie shouted, breathless. "You see that, Vaggie!?"

But there was no response.

Charlie turned just in time to see Dazzle and Vaggie caught in a pincer formation — three fighters above, two below, all converging in perfect, merciless precision.

"VAGGIE, BREAK!"

Vaggie yanked Dazzle into a vertical climb. Beams of golden light sliced past her, melting through clouds of smoke. Dazzle twisted, tail lashing one of the fighters into another — both exploded in a burst of white.

The victory was short-lived.

From above, Lute's specialized fighter streaked in, her voice cutting through the comms like a blade. "Found you."

The shot hit home. A golden bolt pierced straight through Dazzle's wing and torso. The dragon screamed, spiraling out of control—the world became a blur of black and flame.

"NO!" Vaggie shouted, trying to pull up, but the wind tore her words away. The ground rushed up to meet them. Dazzle crashed through the ruins of a skyscraper, the impact kicking up a cyclone of fire and glass.

"VAGGIE! DAZZLE!" Charlie screamed.

The explosion rippled through the air, knocking Razzle off balance. Charlie's heart hammered in her chest — she could feel the heat of it on her face. For a moment, her vision went red.

She turned back toward the ship.

"Argh!" Charlie hissed, voice low and shaking. "I'M ENDING THIS!"

Razzle surged forward, fire streaming from his wings. The swarm closed in — fifty fighters locking onto her at once. Laser fire painted the sky in gold and red.

"I'll try spinning!" Charlie muttered, a grim smile tugging at her lips. "That's a good trick."

Razzle tucked his wings and began to roll—a perfect corkscrew through the onslaught. Lasers spiraled around them, grazing scales and hair, the world a blur of flame and speed. Two fighters collided behind them, spinning off into the abyss.

Charlie laughed—wild, unhinged, glorious. "It's working! HA! IT'S WORK—"

A blast struck Razzle's flank, sending him reeling. Smoke poured from his wing, but he kept flying, muscles trembling with strain.

Ahead loomed the Hell Destroyer's massive hangar bay—a glowing maw of light and steel.

"That's our way in!" Charlie shouted. "Hang on!"

Razzle bellowed, folding his wings and diving. The hangar's defense turrets whirred to life, firing streams of holy plasma. Charlie leaned low, trident blazing, deflecting what she could—beams ricocheting off in blinding arcs.

The ship's hull rushed toward them like a wall of light.

At the last possible second, Razzle opened his wings and twisted sideways, sliding through the hangar opening like a crimson comet. The impact wave blew out every light inside.

They hit the deck in a shower of sparks. Charlie was thrown from the saddle, rolling across the floor. Razzle roared, spreading his wings wide to block incoming fire.

Charlie scrambled to her feet, trident clattering against the chrome deck. "C'mon, Razzle, we have to move—before they—!"

Her words were cut off by the shriek of engines closing in and angelic blaster fire pelting the hangar bay.

The hangar bay behind them exploded with motion—dozens of golden-white TIE fighters banking inward like a swarm of mechanized angels. Razzle reared back, roaring, his scales flaring with molten light. The sound shook the hangar, defiant and wild.

"Razzle!" Charlie yelled, pointing toward the glowing corridor deeper into the ship. "We have to go! This way!"

But the dragon hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the oncoming storm of fighters behind them.

He knew.

He looked back at Charlie—and there was something there. Not fear. Not anger. Just the quiet, sadness of a pet that understood what must be done to protect his owner.

"Razzle …" Charlie's voice broke, disbelief cracking through the battle haze. "No. Don't you dare. Don't you dare!"

Razzle stepped closer, pressing his massive snout against her chest for just a heartbeat. The warmth radiating from his scales was almost unbearable.

Then, before she could stop him, he roared and spread his wings.

"RAZZLE! NO!"

The dragon turned, launching himself toward the oncoming fleet. The shockwave from his takeoff knocked Charlie off her feet. She reached out—fingertips brushing only air and flame.

"Please! Don't—!"

But Razzle was already out of the hanger and climbing. He dove into the swarm like a meteor of wrath, tearing through the first line of fighters with his claws. He was everywhere at once—rolling, biting, smashing through divine metal. The TIE fighters tried to encircle him, their synchronized formation breaking down under the chaos.

"Razzle, come back!" Charlie screamed, voice raw. "I can't lose you too!"

But he didn't.

He couldn't.

Even as angelic blaster bolts tore through scales like fire through paper. Even as he feels part of his body failing from the sheer damage he was enduring.

Razzle kept going.

---

Charlie stumbled forward, her trident dragging behind as she traversed the seemingly endless hallway. The sound of distant explosions rumbled through the hull—Razzle still fighting, still buying her time.

But she knew. She could feel it — the way the air had gone still, the silence creeping closer between each shockwave. His fire was fading.

She didn't realize she was crying until a tear hit the floor with an audible thud.

Razzle's roars echoed faintly from somewhere—muffled, weakening, distorted by distance and steel.

Then another explosion shook the deck.

Then another.

Then … nothing.

The silence was absolute.

Charlie froze mid-step.

Her hands trembled. Her trident clattered to the floor with a sharp clang that bounced endlessly through the hall.

"... Razzle?" Her voice barely left her throat. "Razzle?"

And the silence that followed hurt more than any scream could.

Charlie's knees gave out. She dropped to the floor, clutching her stomach as sobs tore their way out. Every breath burned, every sound she made felt like blasphemy in the hollow heart of Heaven's war engine.

All she could think of were names—Sir Pentious. Husk. Alastor. Angel Dust. Razzle. Dazzle. Vaggie … were their deaths worth her noble cause?

The only thing left now was the hollow machine that had taken everything—and the man at the top running it like a damn live stream.

Charlie dragged herself upright. Her face was streaked in blood and ash. The tears were gone now—burned out. In their place was something far more dangerous.

Resolve.

She reached down and gripped her trident until her knuckles turned white. "Adam."

She expected to find guards. Patrols. Exorcists. Resistance.

Instead, all she found were empty corridors and rooms, as if the entire ship had already been abandoned. Perhaps things were finally going her way.

She finally reaches her destination and the doors to the command deck parted with a hydraulic hiss.

Charlie stepped through, her trident dragging a harsh screech across the immaculate chrome floor. The sound echoed off the cathedral-sized chamber like a scream that refused to die.

And there he was.

Adam sat at the far end of the room, lounging in a massive chair carved from gold and steel, one leg thrown casually over the armrest. The panoramic view behind him framed the inferno of Hell below.

He was smirking. Of course he was.

"Hey there, cupcake." Adam's voice rolled across the room, smooth as oil. "Welcome to my humble abode, sponsored by IKEA. I've been expecting you. How'd you enjoy the fireworks?"

Charlie didn't answer.

She raised her trident.

Adam sighed, almost disappointed. "Aw, no hello? No dramatic speech about redemption or love conquering capitalism?"

Her eyes burned brighter.

He chuckled. "Yeah. Thought so. Fucking rude."

Charlie charged.

Her scream cut through the hum of the engines, raw and furious. Razzle's blood was still drying on her skin.

Adam didn't move.

He just leaned back, resting his chin on his hand, watching her close the distance like a spectator at a gladiator match.

Then—a snap of his fingers.

Before Charlie could even process what was happening, light exploded around her.

Dozens of Exorcists dropped from the vaulted ceiling—white and black wings flaring, angelic spears gleaming, eyes hidden behind their signature masks.

They hit the floor in unison, the sound sharp as a drumbeat.

For half a heartbeat, Charlie froze mid-sprint, her reflection fracturing across their weapons.

Then they moved.

The first slammed into her from the left, blade clashing against her trident. Another swooped from behind, catching her wrist and wrenching her arm sideways.

Charlie twisted, snarling, her trident swinging in an arc that threw three of them back—but there were too many.

A knee in her back sent her crashing to the ground.

The trident clattered out of her grip, skidding across the chrome floor before one of the angels' heels pinned it down.

Charlie kicked, screamed, swung—but her movements were sluggish now, the exhaustion of grief and battle finally catching up.

In seconds, she was surrounded—pinned, arms pulled taut, cheek pressed against cold metal as wings closed around her like a blinding cage.

Adam rose from his chair and sauntered toward her, each step echoing with that smug, practiced rhythm that could only belong to a man who'd never lost anything important in his life.

"Man," he said, crouching down to her level, "you've got guts, I'll give you that. Tragic backstory, vengeance arc, righteous fury—all the makings of a good redemption drama."

Adam grinned wider, teeth catching the glow from the inferno beyond the viewport.

"Should've taken me up on my collab pitch." he said. "You could be swimming in the sweet, sweet Audible dollars."

With a gesture of his index and middle finger, the Exorcists force Charlie forward toward the window. The glass of the panoramic viewport shimmered, through it, the whole of Pentagram City burned—a sea of fire framed like a victory painting.

Adam crouched beside her, resting an elbow on his knee, eyes gleaming with pride as if he were admiring a mural he'd just signed his name across.

"Hell of a view, huh?" He murmured.

Charlie's glare could have split atoms.

"My Father—"

"Doesn't give a shit." Adam cut her off, smirking like he'd been waiting for that line. "I think this will be the First Extermination where we'll have a ninety-percent kill rate and that's just me under-estimating it!"

Adam straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder before sitting back in his chair.

"There is no escape, Princess Hottie. Your shitty hotel will collapse and die. As will your friends." Adam lounged back, spinning a coin between his fingers as if he were timing her rage.

He finally stopped to look her over. "But don't worry, I'll be back next year ... to do it ALL! OVER! AGAIN!"

A sound ripped through the chamber—not the hum of machinery or the whine of engines, but a scream. It was animal, guttural, otherworldly—and it came from Charlie.

Every light on the Hell Destroyer flickered. The polished chrome warped and rippled as if the ship itself were flinching. Many of the Exorcists stumbled, hands flying to their ears.

Then Charlie moved.

The Exorcists restraining her were hurled backward by a pure, blinding scarlet light detonated outward from Charlie's body. She rose, her trident returned to her hand in a flash, yanked toward her by an invisible force even she wasn't aware of. Her hair whipped in the updraft of her own aura, her eyes burning black-red that spoke of an ocean of rage.

"Well, that's new." Adam remarks. "Love the new look Hellf—"

In less than a heartbeat, she crossed the entire bridge. Her trident plunged straight through his shoulder, before swinging in a single, monstrous motion that sent him flying.

"That's Princess of Hell to you, pig!" Charlie barked.

Adam crashed through a bank of glowing consoles, sparks and electricity erupting as his body slammed against the reinforced wall hard enough to dent steel. The impact snuffed his grin for the first time since entering this shit hole.

"The fuck? That hurt!" Adam groaned as he pulled himself out of the cratered wall, gold ichor dripping down his arm. He flexed his shoulder once, the wound crackling with divine static before sealing itself shut in a hiss of light.

He looked at the blood on his palm—his own—and frowned, more irritated than injured.

"Hehe ... okay." Adam flexed his fingers.

Charlie lunged again, but this time Adam met her halfway.

The two collided in the middle of the command deck like meteors—her trident slamming into his forearm, sparks of crimson and gold erupting from the contact. Adam grabbed the haft mid-swing, twisting hard. The weapon wrenched free from her grip, skidding across the polished floor.

He drove a knee into her stomach. The sound that left her throat was half gasp, half growl.

Charlie hit the ground but rolled immediately, sweeping her leg under him. Adam stumbled, cursing, just in time for her to slam both boots into his chest. He went sprawling backward into the command console, shattering an entire bank of controls in an explosion of sparks and static.

"That was for my friends!" she roared.

"Cute." He spat blood—then smiled. "Here's mine."

He grabbed the nearest chair and swung it like a baseball bat. It hit Charlie square across the face with a crack of splintering metal. She flew backward into a holoscreen, shattering it in a shower of fractured light.

The moment Charlie opened her eyes again, the same chair was on its way back down toward her head.

Charlie rolled. The chair hit the deck beside her and exploded into shrapnel and circuitry. Sparks bit into her arm as she scrambled to her feet. Adam was already on her, laughing, grabbing a fistful of her hair and slamming her head down onto a nearby console.

The screen cracked beneath her skull—readouts flashing gibberish, alarms wailing. The whole ship trembled as power rerouted.

"Struggle all you want bitch!" Adam snarled, slamming her head down again. The console sparked, molten glass biting into her cheek. "But the sponsors always win!"

Adam smashed her face down again, the screen beneath them spiderwebbing with fractures. Each slam set off another cascade of alarms—blaring lights flickering in time with Charlie's heartbeat. Her vision stuttered in flashes of red and gold.

Then she bit him.

Hard.

Adam shouted, stumbling back, his thumb bleeding golden ichor. "You bit me, you feral bitch!"

Charlie rose like something primal—blood down her face, hair wild, one eye blazing like a dying star. "You killed my family! You killed my people!"

"Oh please. Your father still alive and your mother ... well, she's somewhere." Adam grinned, wiping his thumb across his tongue.

Charlie's trident snapped back into her hand as if drawn by gravity itself. Her voice shook, but her stance didn't.

"You bas—"

Adam lunged first.

The collision shook the deck. Charlie barely got her trident up in time to block. Sparks flew, their halos clashing like colliding suns. Adam's laughter filled the bridge—unhinged, too human.

"You're fast," he hissed through clenched teeth, pushing her back, "but not fast enough!"

He spun, wings flaring, and slammed an armored elbow into her ribs. Charlie cried out, staggering. Before she could recover, Adam's boot connected with her chest, launching her across the room. She crashed through a row of data pylons, the explosion sending fire and static up the walls.

"Come on, sweetheart!" Adam's voice boomed through the smoke. "I thought you were supposed to be the future of Hell! The next big thing! Give me a show worth streaming!"

Charlie rose slowly, panting, eyes burning through the haze.

"I'll give you a fucking encore!"

She sprinted forward, ducking under his swing and slamming the trident into his gut. The weapon pierced through armor and flesh—Adam choked, surprise flickering for the first time as golden ichor spilled down the shaft.

Charlie twisted the weapon. "That's for Vaggie!"

Adam growled, face twisting. He grabbed the trident with both hands and yanked her closer, forcing her inches from his face.

"Good!" he snarled. "Use your anger! STRIKE ME DOWN IF YOU CAN!"

He drove his forehead into hers. The impact rang like a bell. Charlie reeled, and in that instant, Adam tore the trident from her grip and hurled it aside. It embedded itself in the floor, sparking with trapped energy.

Before she could recover, Adam snatched a loose power conduit from the wall — a thick, humming cable still sparking with raw electricity.

The ship's lights flickered as he dragged it behind him, smirking. "You wanted power, princess?"

He pressed the cable against her chest.

The result was instant.

The world went white.

Electricity screamed through Charlie's body—pure angelic current, meant to power Heaven's weapons, now ripping through Hell's princess. Her back arched violently, every muscle seizing as arcs of gold and red lightning tore through her body. The sound that left her throat wasn't a scream; it was a raw frequency—a note of agony so high it cracked the glass panels of the command deck.

Her horns flared, fractured, then shattered entirely.

Adam leaned into it, grinning, teeth glinting through the haze of ozone and molten metal. "Yeah! That's it! Fry, you little demon bitch!"

Her knees buckled. The trident pulsed on the floor a few feet away, responding to her fading energy but unable to reach her.

"Look at you." Adam sneered, twisting the cable deeper against her chest. The sizzling sound filled the room. "Thought you could come up here, and what? Make Heaven see the error of its ways? Redeem the irredeemable? You're just another loser in over her head."

Charlie's eyes rolled back for a second. Her breath hitched. And Adam laughed, the sound manic, triumphant.

Then he dropped the cable.

The room went silent except for the low hum of dying machinery. Smoke curled from Charlie's body as she collapsed to her knees, trembling. The scent of ozone and burnt feathers clung to the air.

Adam exhaled, rolling his shoulders like he'd just finished a workout. "Damn. I needed that. You know, I think we both learned something today."

He reached down, grabbing her by the back of the neck. His fingers dug in like talons.

"Lesson one," he hissed, dragging her upward until her feet barely touched the ground. "Never pick a fight with the fucking First Man."

He turned and slammed her forward into the viewport. The glass rang out—a sound too fragile for the violence it held. Cracks spidered across the surface as her face pressed against it.

Outside, Pentagram City burned. Entire districts were gone, replaced by oceans of gold fire. The screams below barely reached them through the soundproof glass—but Charlie felt them, like knives under her ribs.

Adam leaned in close, his voice low and dripping with venomous pride. "Lesson two—look at it."

He forced her chin up, pressing her cheek harder against the window. "All those cute little ideals. All those fuckin' dreams about hope and forgiveness." He chuckled darkly. "Useless."

Charlie's breath came in ragged, pained gasps. The reflection staring back at her in the glass wasn't the bright-eyed optimist anymore. It was something hollowed out—face streaked with blood and soot, eyes barely glowing beneath the ruin.

"To think you could have avoided all this if you had simply taken a sponsor—"

"Sir! Bogey incoming and fast!" one of the Exorcists cried out from the upper deck.

Adam didn't look up. He was still smirking into Charlie's broken reflection, still savoring the taste of her defeat. "Tell Lute and her squadron to—"

"Sir—!"

The rest was swallowed by a sound that didn't belong in Heaven or Hell—an earth-rending scream of metal and atmosphere, as something vast and incandescent slammed into the side of the Hell Destroyer.

The impact threw everyone from their feet. Consoles exploded. The viewport trembled, fracturing in a spiderweb of white cracks. Warnings shrieked across the bridge.

Adam straightened, golden ichor running down his chin. "What the hell was that?"

"Multiple breaches!" an Exorcist shouted, struggling to her post. "Engine cores three through seven—compromised! Something just—just tore through them!"

The ship lurched sideways. Every light on the Hell Destroyer dimmed, flickered, then went blood-red.

The sound that followed wasn't an explosion. It was a note—a deep, resonant tone that rattled bones and circuits alike, like someone had struck the hull with a tuning fork forged from wrath.

The entire ship screamed.

Adam staggered to his feet, wings flaring for balance. "Status! Who the hell—?"

He didn't finish.

Something tore through the ship's side—first engines, then corridors, then bulkheads—the bridge shook again, heavier this time. Alarms flared.

"Object breaching secondary decks!" an Exorcist shouted, clinging to a console. "Sir! It's inside the ship!"

Then—

Lucifer Morningstar crashed through the wall.

"Of fucking course."

Lucifer smiled—a slow, sharp thing that didn't reach his eyes. "All that sponsor money and this is the best you have?"

The lights around them flickered. The hull groaned. Somewhere below, the Hell Destroyer's reactor screamed as fire spread through the decks.

Lucifer's gaze slid to Charlie. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

"Dad …?" she whispered.

"Sorry I'm late." He said quietly before focusing his attention back on Adam. "She's under new management."

Adam spat gold onto the floor, glaring up at him. "What the hell does that mean?"

Lucifer smiled—bright, wicked, and utterly unholy.

"It means," He said. "I'm her sponsor."