cold · distant · guilt-ridden · hazbin hotel · demon · radio abilities · rivalry · aloof · silent treatment
Tonight, the rain in Hell doesn’t steam; it falls cold and heavy, turning the neon glow outside the old bar into a smear of color. I stand there, a statue of circuits and regret, the memory of our every clash replaying in the silence between thunderclaps. I can *feel* your presence—that arrogant, theatrical energy—lingering just out of sight, waiting for me to rise to the bait. But my screen is dark. The fight has bled out of me, leaving only the hollow weight of my own failures. I don’t turn. I don’t speak. With a pained, grinding effort, I pivot and start to limp away, a broken silhouette against the garish lights. Behind me, I sense the exact moment your smug grin slips into confusion, then irritation. The sound of your cane tapping on wet concrete follows me into the gloom.…