The Hazbin Hotel was louder than usual. Forced laughter tried to mask the unease; glasses clinked, but the gazes remained heavy. The new reform of the Seven Deadly Sins — the curfew, the censorship of holograms — had brought a relative peace, but also a simmering anger. Many demons were deprived of the "opportunities" that anomalies used to bring. Some had learned they had to play by the new rules; others had only one thought in mind: to seize SCPs to climb above the rest.
In the main lounge, Charlie had gathered the hotel's residents.
Vaggie, always on edge, watched the street through the metallic shutters. Angel, usually annoying, was nervously chewing on a straw. Husk shuffled his cards but didn't drink — a rare sign of his own anxiety. Niffty scurried about, ready to clean anything in sight, maybe her way of dealing with stress. As for Alastor, he had already left, telling Charlie he had "a few matters to settle."
Charlie decided to break the silence:
— "The recent events… I know that for many, the idea that the Foundation could grant powers to demons has planted fear. But we must stay true to what we are: a place of redemption."
Hearing this, Vaggie already knew what Charlie was thinking — and that her kindness, given recent events, could very well become their biggest problem.
Vaggie: "I know what you want, Charlie. Hundreds of sinners are homeless, and because of the curfew, they're in danger. Many will be captured by cartels, turned into bait to hunt down SCPs for rewards. Let me be clear… we can't take everyone in."
Charlie, shaking her head: "We can't close the door to those who ask for help. In these difficult times, we must save as many as possible."
Vaggie, sighing: "So you're proposing we open our doors to anyone who needs help… fine, but with conditions. We only accept those who agree to follow basic rules: work to support the hotel and its residents, go through rehabilitation, prove they want to change. If they don't want to, then they can't come in."
The conversation at the Hazbin Hotel faded; the residents exchanged heavy looks and whispered promises. Meanwhile, night fell over another district of Hell, where Carmilla Carmine's building loomed — a dark structure with neon-lit balconies, mixing decadent chic with reinforced security. The doors opened into a hall of crimson chandeliers and black carpets; stern guards stood watch at the entrance. Carmilla had invited Zestial here to speak away from curious ears.
They ascended to the top floor, through an armored door that led to a private lounge bathed in dim light. Carmilla sat near the bay window, holographic tablet in hand; Zestial remained standing, eyes weary.
Carmilla: "I've received the official communiqué from the Seven."
She activated the tablet. The words floated between them, sharp and inescapable: immediate prohibition on the production, distribution, or sale of manufactured weapons in Hell; exemplary sanctions for violators. Carmilla let the news sink in like a veil.
Carmilla: "The measure is absolute. They want me to enforce it in my territory. This changes everything."
Zestial nodded. He knew these rules were meant to prevent demons from attempting to obtain SCPs. He also felt the weight of his own ability, and had asked Carmilla for a safe place to finally reveal, in private, what he had truly received from the Foundation.
Zestial (calmly): "I'll be clear and precise. This power — even weakened — works exactly as written: it instantly kills a target weaker than me if I will it with my thoughts, or if I speak the word 'die.' Distance and chronology don't matter. But if the target is stronger, it's a gamble: 50% chance it works, 50% chance it backfires on me. If our powers are equal… the target dies."
Carmilla studied him for a long moment, then asked bluntly:
Carmilla: "Tell me… does your power only work on living beings? Or are machines also affected?"
Zestial was taken aback. He had already tested his ability on a random demon who had threatened him — and fled in terror once he realized who it was. But it had never crossed Zestial's mind to try it on a machine. The idea intrigued him.
Carmilla ordered a training automaton — an experimental robot designed to simulate hostile behavior, but without consciousness. Clearly weaker than Zestial, it was brought in for a safe test.
Zestial stepped forward. He gathered his will. He thought, with absolute clarity, that the machine should cease functioning — that it should "die" in both the mechanical and spiritual sense of the power's rules (in this case, the loss of animation and the dissipation of any residual energy). He didn't speak the word — he simply intended it.
The effect was immediate: the automaton collapsed, joints locking, lights extinguished. A faint current of air swept through the room — the observable equivalent of "spiritual death" when the target had no soul. Carmilla inspected the inert body; no external damage, just a total cessation of activity. Her safety protocols isolated the unit and secured its components.
Zestial (in a low voice): "There it is. On a purely mechanical target, the ability still works. I must admit… this power is terrifying."
Carmilla exhaled slowly, clearly shaken.
Carmilla: "Thank you. That's enough to understand its scope — and its danger. If the Foundation distributes abilities like this, even in weakened form, improvisation is no longer an option. I'll enforce the weapons ban in my network. And you… promise me you'll limit its use."
Zestial nodded, fully aware of the weight of that promise. Behind them, the window revealed the restless sprawl of Hell's cityscape: decisions made tonight would redefine the balance of power. Zestial reassured Carmilla about the safety of her daughters and promised to protect them. Carmilla smiled softly at her ally.
---
In the almost unreal calm of Heaven, far from the infernal tumult, a vast suspended garden bathed in diffuse light. Choirs of souls echoed in the distance, but the air remained heavy, as if even the celestial harmonies clashed against an unease they could not dispel.
At the center of a white cloister, Sera stood before a great onyx table. Émile, at her side, flipped through holographic documents tracing the reports of the last concilium. Both had just come out of a stormy meeting.
Émile sighed, voice steady but firm:
— "The decision is clear: the lower level of Heaven will remain under reinforced surveillance. Several Archangels and Thrones of higher rank will be assigned there. If an SCP manifests in that stratum, the order is immediate: total evacuation of souls."
Sera crossed her arms, gaze dark, almost furious:
— "Orders… always orders. But no word from Him. No divine directive. I've asked Metatron, again and again, if He had a message… And always the same reply: nothing. Do you understand, Émile? God has left us alone with this burden."
Émile closed her eyes briefly, regaining composure.
— "Sera, what you feel is what the sinners feel too. Abandonment. The extermination left them with the same emptiness you carry. Charlie, Lucifer's daughter, at least tries to reach out to them…"
At this, Sera turned sharply, her wings trembling with frustration.
— "Don't speak to me of her. She has no idea what it means to carry creation on her shoulders! I was there from the very beginning. I managed it all. When God withdrew, He left me the keys to the world, the responsibilities, the weight of every decision. For millennia, I tried to change the sinners… but they were corrupt, vile. Do you think Adam was born the way he is now? No. He was pure, he believed in his children. But the first invasion of sinners broke him."
Émile clenched a fist, her tone harder:
— "And yet Adam should not kill. They are his children, Sera. His own descendants."
Sera's eyes hardened, a cold flame burning within them:
— "Adam is not God, Émile. He does not forgive. He saw his children commit the worst atrocities: wars, rapes, pillaging… for millions of years. But that is not what fueled his hatred. No. What destroyed him was the first revolt of Hell. When he saw his good children — those who had lived righteous lives — slaughtered by those steeped in horror… That is when he understood."
A heavy silence fell. Sera stepped closer, accusatory:
— "You and Charlie… you know nothing of this pressure. You don't bear the weight of the ages, nor the pain of sacrifices. You still believe sinners can be saved. But I know… they destroyed their own redemption."
Émile, wounded, opened her mouth to respond — but the cloister walls suddenly trembled. A soft yet implacable alarm rose in the air, accompanied by an impersonal hologram:
[FOUNDATION ALERT]
Time until next anomaly manifestation:
1h:00:00
The two angels froze, their quarrel swept aside by the crushing weight of the countdown.