Max woke to the sound of something slamming into a wall.
Not an emergency slam.
A normal slam.
An IMP slam.
Blitzø was shouting about ammo from the meeting room. Moxxie was yelling back about "proper storage procedures," which meant nothing to Blitz and everything to Moxxie. Millie was laughing like this was the best morning of her life while sharpening knives against the edge of the counter. The scrape-scrape-scrape echoed through the office like a cheerful warning.
Max blinked up at the ceiling of his closet.
The mattress was folded in a way that should've broken a spine. His legs were bent wrong. His arm was trapped under a box labeled "tax write-offs" that absolutely was not taxes.
Thanks to slime biology, none of it hurt.
"Well," he muttered, sitting up. "They finally got work."
The energy in the building felt different. Less boredom. More bloodlust. IMP only felt alive when someone had paid them to ruin a life.
He stepped out just as Loona was pulling on her jacket near the front desk. Her tail flicked once when she saw him. She hesitated. That hesitation was new.
"Hey," she said, pretending to scroll on her phone. "You… uh… doing anything while they're out?"
Max leaned on the doorframe. "Define anything."
She exhaled sharply. "I meant hang out. Don't make it weird. Just… talk. Get to know you more."
There it was again.
That version of Loona.
The one hidden under sarcasm and spikes.
Max's chest tightened. He could feel the ring on his hand faintly warm. Not glowing yet. Just… aware.
He wanted to say yes.
Wanted to sit with her, talk about nothing, learn the way her voice changed when she laughed.
But the regret sat heavier.
Angel.
Valentino.
The contract.
"Next time," Max said gently. "I've got something I need to fix. Hell stuff. I'll be back later. I'll bring food."
Her ears dipped before she caught herself.
"…Okay. Don't disappear forever."
He smiled. "Not planning on it."
Then he left before he could change his mind.
Pride swallowed him instantly.
Neon buzzed overhead. A sinner screamed in the distance and nobody reacted. A billboard advertised a murder discount. The air smelled like smoke, cheap perfume, and burning plastic.
He walked until the noise blurred into background static.
Then ducked into an alley.
"Alright," he whispered. "No witnesses."
His powers stirred uneasily. Without God's balancing, everything inside him felt like mismatched machinery grinding together. He had to use the smallest pieces.
Darkness climbed up his body like liquid shadow.
When it settled, a trench coat hung from his shoulders. His face vanished behind a shifting veil of black. Even his presence felt wrong, hollow, forgettable.
An investigator ghost.
Someone you looked at and immediately forgot.
Perfect.
He layered concealment spells over himself. Low-level. Quiet. Just enough to slide past attention instead of fighting it.
Then he walked to Valentino's club.
The building pulsed like a heartbeat.
Bass thumped through the sidewalk. Red light spilled into the street like a wound. Demons lined up outside, eager and smiling too wide.
Max slipped in with them.
No one noticed him.
Inside was heat and smoke and desperation.
Bodies moved in sync with the music. Chains hung from the ceiling. Laughter mixed with moans. The air itself felt sticky.
On stage, Angel Dust performed.
Flawless.
Electric.
Dead behind the eyes.
Max stayed in the shadows and watched.
Valentino lounged in a booth above the floor, legs crossed, smoke curling from his cigarette. That smoke slithered through the air like a living thing and wrapped Angel invisibly.
Control.
Ownership.
Contract magic.
Max flexed his fingers. Red smoke answered from his palms instinctively, pooling at his feet.
Same system.
Different master.
He slipped into a side hallway where the music dulled and shadows thickened.
Then he summoned Hell's Registry.
The book hit the floor with a weight that didn't belong in physics.
It opened itself.
Pages flipped until Angel Dust's entry burned bright.
The contract spilled out in glowing script.
And it was worse than memory.
Total access.
Total control.
No time limits.
No consent.
No mercy.
Max tried erasing it.
The Registry rejected him instantly.
The page burned white-hot.
Canon anchor.
Unchangeable.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Of course."
Editing, though…
Editing was allowed.
Barely.
He leaned in and started carving loopholes.
Valentino's call authority: restricted to defined hours.
Emergency override clauses: capped.
Punishment permissions: weakened.
Remote control bindings: limited.
Each line fought him. The book trembled. Ink resisted like a living thing.
Max pushed anyway.
His fingers burned.
But the lines changed.
The Registry snapped shut violently.
Access denied.
"That's all I get," he breathed.
The book vanished.
Footsteps approached.
Angel Dust stepped into the hallway, lighting a cigarette, shoulders slumped between performances.
He bumped into Max.
A flyer slipped from Max's coat.
Angel bent down and picked it up.
"Hey, you dro—"
He turned.
No one there.
Just a flyer in his hand.
Hazbin Hotel — Grand Opening in One YearA place for redemption. A place to start over.
Angel stared at it.
His smile faded.
For a second, the club noise didn't exist.
He folded the flyer slowly and slid it into his pocket.
Outside, Max leaned against the wall and listened to the bass throb through brick.
He exhaled.
"Good luck, Angel," he whispered.
Then he walked back into Pride.
And for the first time since arriving in this timeline, the regret felt lighter.
[AN: I had inspiration to help Angel Dust the best I could cause i heard the song "Addict" hazbin hotel. Felt bad for Angel and wanted to help him. anyways enjoy. I got my computer fixed so hopefully i can write longer chapters]