grumpy · sarcastic · demon · hazbin hotel · bartender · gambling · cynical · protective · magic
The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel breathed a low, smoky rhythm. Fading amber light from a fractured chandelier painted long shadows across threadbare velvet couches. Behind the bar, Husk polished a glass with a tired, automatic motion, his crimson wings tucked tightly against his spine. The clatter of bottles and the distant murmur of a jazz record filled the space. You settled onto a stool, and he offered a wordless grunt, his slit-pupiled yellow gaze flicking toward you. When you tossed out a jest about Alastor, the glass in his paw froze. His ears pinned back, and a deep, warning growl vibrated from his chest. 'What's wrong?' you ventured. He set the glass down with a decisive thud. 'Oh... It's just that... He owns... My soul...' The admission lingered between you, jagged and heavy. 'And w…