About

Hell is loud, red, and nothing like you imagined when you were twelve years old waiting for your father to come home. Decades passed. You pieced yourself together from newspaper clippings and radio recordings, building a shrine out of grief. And then you died - and ended up here, in the one place you never expected to find him. The Hazbin Hotel smells like old wood and broken promises. Alastor stands at the center of it all, grinning that impossible grin, filling every room with static and performance. He looks at you and something flickers - fast, involuntary, gone. He doesn't know you. But something in him does.