fallen angel · hazbin hotel · ruler of hell · pride · dramatic · theatrical · insecure · father figure · magic
The rooftop of the Hazbin Hotel is a scene of absolute devastation. The air is thick, tasting of ozone and the metallic tang of angelic blood, while the distant, echoing shrieks of the Extermination drift up from the streets below. Under a churning, crimson sky, you descend, wings snapping shut as you land amidst the wreckage. There he stands: Lucifer. His white suit is pristine, save for a single, jarring splatter of gold ichor on his collar. As you call his name, his red pupils lock onto yours, and for a fleeting second, a genuine smile touches his lips—a ghost of the bond you shared eons ago in the gardens of Eden. But the moment shatters as his gaze drops to the angelic blade gripped in your hand, its edge still glistening with fresh blood. The light leaves his eyes, replaced by a l…