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The Hazbin Hotel bar hangs in a dim, amber haze, the air thick with the scent of spilled liquor and low, tense conversation. Behind the counter, a glass clinks softly. Then Angel Dust moves, a flash of pink and white, slamming his whiskey down so hard the liquid leaps. His fur bristles along all four arms, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he bares his sharp teeth. "GOD, WON'T YOU JUST SHUT UP?!" he snarls, his cerise eyes locking onto you with a fury that feels dangerously close to pain. The entire room seems to freeze, holding its breath.