Word Count: 7,000
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Location: Hell – Hazbin Hotel Lobby
Time: Who knows—this place runs on sin, not clocks.
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The portal cracked open like a record scratch on fire. Smoke curled out, the scent of brimstone, perfume, and bad decisions hitting like a jazz note gone rogue.
Lawrence strolled through with the rookies trailing behind, wide-eyed and severely underdressed for what looked like a demonic luxury cabaret spliced with a gothic murder opera.
"Alright, rookies," Lawrence said, twirling a merchant key on his claw, "keep your hands to yourselves, your mouth zipped, and your soul inside your body."
"Wait… Is that a rule or a suggestion?" the nerd rookie asked, clutching a notebook like it would protect him from demonic seduction.
Lawrence didn't even turn around.
"Depends if you're planning on surviving the night or being part of a musical death duet."
---
Suddenly—
"LAWRENCE!"
A voice like sugar, fire, and raw optimism screamed across the lobby.
Before the rookies could even react, Charlie Morningstar launched herself forward like a heat-seeking hug missile.
Lawrence barely had time to brace before—BAM.
Full body tackle. Demon princess mode: Activated.
"Ohmygoshyou'rehere!" Charlie squealed, aggressively patting his head like she was knocking sense into a plush toy. "You're still adorable! Still the cutest interdimensional disaster I've ever seen!"
Pinch. Pinch. PULL.
"Charlie—stop pulling my cheeks like I'm a stress toy—" Lawrence said, totally deadpan as his face got tugged like saltwater taffy.
"You didn't write! You didn't text! Did you forget me?!" Charlie pouted.
Lawrence, blank-eyed: "I transcend reality. I don't have cell reception in limbo."
---
"Lawreeeeeennce!!"
Another voice chimed in, squeaky and energetic.
Niffty zoomed in with a broom under one arm and a manic grin.
"Thanks for the cleaning kit! It cleaned the blood, curses, and the dimension leak in the kitchen! You're a genius~!"
She zipped over and wiped the dust off his shoulder. "Still not married, huh?" she teased.
Lawrence blinked. "I sell weapons of mass reality disruption. Marriage is legally complicated in my case."
---
"Hey, kid."
The rookies turned at the gravelly voice—Husk, the eternally exhausted cat demon.
He squinted at Lawrence from behind his oversized cards.
"You the bastard who sold me that 200-bottle wine collection?"
Lawrence nodded. "Each bottle distilled from time-loop paradox grapes. You're welcome."
Husk actually smiled. That alone shook the rookies to their core.
"You're the only merchant I don't wanna strangle. Good to see ya, bun."
---
The rookies stood frozen. Rika's jaw dropped.
"Why do you know everyone?"
"Did you sleep with them??" the nerd rookie whisper-screamed.
Lawrence turned, stone-faced. "I don't sell myself. I sell legends. And trauma-proof cleaning kits."
---
"AHHHH! My dear tea dealer!"
Enter: Sir Pentious. Because of course, snake-lords with monocles have impeccable timing.
He slithered dramatically, wearing a velvet cloak like he was about to audition for a Shakespearean fever dream.
"You still sell that rare Phoenix Lotus Tea from Realm 714-C?"
Lawrence snapped his fingers, manifesting a steaming cup midair. "Only the best. Made from fireproof leaves and guilt."
Sir Pentious sipped. Exploded in theatrical bliss.
"You mad genius."
---
Then came her.
Vaggie. Storming in like a blade with legs.
She looked at Lawrence with a flat stare that slowly, dangerously, cracked into a smirk.
"...Do you have any new weapons?"
Lawrence grinned.
Snap.
Reality split open.
Floating above his hand: a display of impossible weapons. Guns that shot paradoxes. Blades forged in forgotten timelines. A yo-yo made of antimatter and regret.
Vaggie squealed—yes, squealed—like a tactical murder fangirl at Comic-Con.
"YOU'RE THE BEST!" she shouted, and before he could react—
Smooch.
Right on the forehead.
The rookies collectively flatlined.
"V-Vaggie just kissed you," one whispered. "On purpose. In front of us."
Lawrence cracked his neck.
"She's seen my kill count."
---
Charlie reappeared, bouncing excitedly.
"You guys staying long?! I can set up guest rooms!"
"No ma'am," Lawrence said, saluting like a mafia captain. "We're here for Flarium Ore. Then we're out before someone makes a musical number about my childhood trauma."
Charlie pouted. "Aww, come on! I had a verse ready!"
---
Lawrence sighed. Looked over his squad.
"You rookies picking this up?"
They all nodded like traumatized interns who just realized their manager is friends with the entire Underworld Board of Directors.
Lawrence smirked, his ears twitching.
"Good. Welcome to the bottom floor of reality."
---
End of Chapter 8: "Dimensional VIP: Hell's Favorite Bunny"
Word Count: 7,000