The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel finally felt like it had a soul. Not the screaming, tormented kind that usually populated the Pride Ring, but a genuine, structural warmth. Max stood back, wiping a smudge of celestial-grade wood polish from his thumb. He had spent hours undoing Alastor's "aesthetic improvements," which mostly consisted of adding unnecessary teeth to the crown molding and shadows that whispered insults in French.
The hotel didn't look perfect, but it looked intentional. The mismatched furniture now sat in conversational clusters rather than looking like they were waiting for a signal to riot.
"Not bad," Max muttered, surveying the room. "If I keep this up, maybe this place will look less 'Haunted New Orleans' and more 'Cozy Chaotic Salvation.'"
He reached up to realign a painting of a very confused-looking duck. As he adjusted the frame, a stray thought drifted through his mind, unbidden and heavy.
"Actually… I don't even know if I can go to Heaven. Or if I'd even want to."
"Of course you can!" a cheerful, melodic voice chirped directly behind his left ear.
Max jumped, the painting rattling against the wall. "Wha— Charlie?! When did you—?"
Charlie Morningstar stood there beaming, her hands tucked neatly behind her back. She had that radiant, unrelenting optimism that usually made Max feel like he was squinting at the sun.
"We're just missing one thing," she said brightly, ignoring his startled heart rate. "A positive attitude and a little more glitter! But the lobby looks amazing, Max. Truly."
Max carefully finished hanging the duck. "Right. Glitter. I'll add it to the list. Speaking of lists… any word from your father? I thought you were going to ask him about arranging a meeting with the higher-ups in Heaven."
Charlie blinked, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second. She and Vaggie had discussed that strategy only last night, behind the heavy, soundproofed doors of their private quarters.
Max raised his hands defensively before she could ask. "Don't worry. I wasn't listening in. I'm not stalking you two. I just connect dots, Charlie. You want Heaven to acknowledge your project. The Exterminations are a looming deadline. Your father still has angelic ties, even if they're… complicated. It's the logical next step."
Charlie sighed, a mix of relief and genuine impression crossing her face. "You really are sharp, Max. Sometimes it's like you've already read the script of our lives."
"Well, I try," he said with a small grin, moving over to Husk's bar corner. He began straightening the bottles so they sat in neat, descending order of alcohol content. "So? Any luck with the Big Guy?"
Her shoulders drooped. "No. Dad's… avoiding the topic. He's been spending a lot of time making rubber ducks and 'reorganizing' his library. It's his way of saying 'I don't want to talk about the people who kicked me out.'"
"Heard that's one of his greatest talents," Max teased gently.
Charlie giggled, the tension breaking. She leaned against the polished bar top, watching him work. "So… how was Earth? You were there on that mission for I.M.P., right? Is it still better than Hell?"
Max snorted, thinking of the damp, gray woods and the rotting farmhouse. "Not as good as I remember. Honestly? There isn't much 'good' left there anymore. Between the pollution and the people… Hell's better."
Charlie's eyebrows shot up. "Really? You'd choose this place?"
"Yeah." He wiped down a dusty shelf while Niffty zipped past in a blur of cleaning supplies and high-pitched humming. "In the mortal world, people wear masks. They smile while they're stabbing you in the back. Here, everyone's brutally honest. Sinners can't hide what they are. You know exactly what to expect from a shark-demon or a guy made of fire. There's a certain comfort in that transparency."
Charlie nodded slowly, her expression turning thoughtful. "You know… you never talk about your former life, Max." She stepped closer, her curiosity getting the better of her as she reached out to poke one of his tufted wolf ears. "There has to be a reason you have these cute things. What was the 'Original Max' like?"
The ear twitched uncontrollably under her touch. His tail, usually tucked away or still, gave a single, traitorous thump against his leg. Max coughed, looking away.
"I'm not proud of it," he admitted quietly, the weight of his "backstory" settling in. "In my past life, I was a predator. I preyed on misfortune. I was an executive who sold people beautiful promises of a better life while I was actually stripping them of everything they owned. I got rich off desperation. I was influential. Untouchable."
His voice dimmed, the shadows in the corner of the room seeming to deepen. "And then my conscience woke up. It was inconvenient. It made me slow. And right before I could try to fix anything… someone I'd stepped on decided to fix me. Permanently."
Charlie's expression softened into one of pure, heartbreaking empathy. She reached out, resting a hand on his arm.
"Maybe helping you redeem others might help redeem me," Max continued, his voice barely a whisper. "But honestly? I'm not even sure I want that anymore. I have you. Vaggie. Loona. Bee. Octavia. For the first time in two lives, I have people I actually care about. I never thought I'd find love in Hell. Much less this much of it."
Charlie stepped in, rising on her tiptoes to press a soft, warm kiss to his cheek.
"Then you're the one person I don't want redeemed," she said gently. "Because if you went to Heaven, who would help me fix the chandelier?"
Max's somber mood vanished, replaced by a mischievous glint. "Does that mean I can sleep with you and Vaggie tonight? For 'emotional support'?"
Charlie burst into a fit of giggles, floating backward toward the stairs. "Nice try, wolfie! Maybe when you finish the rest of the molding!"
Max watched her go, a lingering warmth in his chest that no hellfire could match. Once he was sure she was gone, he headed up to his room, locking the door behind him. He needed a moment of silence to process the sheer scale of the "gifts" the Reincarnation God had dumped into his lap.
"Alright," he sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Let's see the damage. Status: Beelzebub."
A swirling void of purple-and-black smoke spiraled open in the center of the room. A metaphysical skill window flickered into existence, scrolling with names of spells that made his head ache.
"He really gave me the full suite," Max muttered. "Unbelievable. Angelic abilities too? Raphael's Healing… Uriel's Judgment… not that I need to nuke a city block right now. What's actually practical?"
He scrolled past world-ending incantations and conceptual erasures that looked like they could delete the color "blue" from existence. Everything was overkill. He was a god-tier entity working a 9-to-5 at a startup assassination agency.
His phone buzzed. A flood of messages: Loona complaining about Blitzo's "theatrics," Octavia asking if he was okay, a selfie from Charlie with a heart drawn in digital glitter, and a terrifyingly direct text from Vaggie: Drink water or I stab u.
He answered them all, a faint smile on his lips. Then his eyes landed on a notification from Octavia. She didn't say much, but he knew the subtext. Her parents were likely at it again.
"Right," Max said, standing up. "I promised I'd visit her."
The shadows behind him rippled, not with his own power, but with a familiar, distorted static. Alastor stepped out of the wall like a broadcast cutting into a peaceful signal.
"My, my," the Radio Demon crooned, his grin wide and fixed. "Struggling to keep your various 'appointments' in line, my little secret overlord?"
Max didn't even turn around. "I'm guessing you saw the teleportation earlier, Alastor. Or maybe the way the shadows bowed to me in the lobby?"
"Oh, I saw far more than that," Alastor said, his cane clicking on the floorboards. Radio static hissed around him, deepening his voice. "Tell me… who did you sell your soul to for such… excessive power? A few years in Hell and you're already rivaling the old guard? Quite impressive. I simply must know… who owns you?"
Max finally faced him. He didn't look scared; he looked bored. "I'm not telling you. And I don't need a reason to be strong, Alastor. Some of us are just born—or reborn—different."
Alastor's grin sharpened, his eyes becoming radio dials. "Then let's make a deal. Tell me who holds your contract… and I won't tell the charming Princess that her favorite 'reformed' sinner actually belongs to a power even darker than her father."
Alastor extended a hand, green magical energy swirling around his palm. Max didn't hesitate. He reached out and took the hand.
Nothing happened. No contract formed. No green light snaked up Max's arm.
Alastor's smile faltered for the first time.
Max leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that vibrated with primordial weight. "Amaterasu."
White fire—purer than anything in Heaven or Hell—ignited in a perfect ring around them. It didn't burn the wood of the floor or the fabric of the bed. It burned possibility. The shadows in the room evaporated instantly. Every shadow Alastor could slip through, every dark corner he could retreat to, vanished under the absolute light.
Max stepped forward, his eyes glowing a soft, dangerous violet. "These flames strip away the concept of 'hidden,'" he said calmly. "You have nowhere to run, and no darkness to hide in. You want to know who owns me? Look around you, Alastor. You're standing in my living room."
Alastor's grin twitched violently. The static in the room crackled with an agonized screech before he was forcibly expelled from the space, his form flickering out as the light became too much for him to endure.
The white fire faded, leaving the room exactly as it had been.
Max stared at the spot where the demon had been. "…Strange," he murmured, rubbing his chin. "I wasn't supposed to have Amaterasu. That wasn't on the list."
He checked the holographic window again. The list of skills seemed to be growing on its own, adapting to his needs. "He said demonic and angelic skills… maybe he just gave me the 'Everything Everywhere' package for fun."
He grabbed his coat, feeling the weight of the world—and several others—on his shoulders.
"Alright, Octavia," he said softly, his voice returning to the kind man she knew. "Let's go see the stars. The real ones."
He stepped into the center of the room and simply ceased to be.