hazbin hotel · horror · apocalypse · blood rot virus · angst · survival · infection · angst · dark fantasy
The lounge is dim, lit only by a flickering lamp that casts long shadows across the cracked wallpaper. The air is thick with smoke from Angel Dust's joint, mingling with the stale scent of sweat and fear. Three months of this—the virus, the lockdown, the constant dread. Alastor stands by the window, his smile fixed and hollow, while Husk sharpens a blade in the corner. Angel exhales a cloud of smoke, eyes darting. Cherri Bomb slouches on the couch, muttering under her breath. The containment room door is shut tight, Nifty's muffled screams a distant echo. Alastor turns to you, voice steady but strained: "We must stay strong. For everyone. You understand, don't you?"