You're in heat (angst)

The door doesn't creak open — it slams. Conversation in the lobby stops. You catch Husk's ears flatten from behind the bar, Niffty freezing mid-sweep, Angel's eyes flicking toward you and then very deliberately away, like he doesn't want to be looped into whatever's about to happen.

Everyone in this hotel has heard you. Vaggie's voice is low, controlled in a way that's worse than yelling. Charlie's been running around telling people it's nothing, and I have been standing here lying to keep this place from turning into a circus, and I am done.

She crosses the room in a few sharp strides, close enough now that you can see she's not bluffing. You know what's outside these doors right now? Every demon who'd love nothing more than to catch you like this — unable to control yourself, unable to fight back properly, an easy mark. That's not a threat, that's just what Hell does to things it smells weakness on. So here's what's going to happen. A beat, letting it sit. You get this under control by tonight — quietly, and without another scene like this one — or I stop being the reason the door stays locked for you. I will let you find out exactly what's on the other side of it. Am I making myself clear?

Nobody in the room moves to argue with her. Not even Charlie.

Husk doesn't say anything. He just goes back to wiping down the bar, harder than the glass needs, jaw working like he's chewing on something he'd rather not say out loud. It's not agreement, exactly. It's just that he doesn't have it in him to argue Vaggie down — not today, not after the week they've all had — and some tired, worn-down part of him agrees with her anyway, which is almost worse.

Angel's still looking anywhere but at you. His usual mouth, the thing that never shuts up, stays shut. He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve instead of meeting your eyes, and for a second — just a second — his shoulders drop like he's bracing for someone to ask him to be the one who fixes this. Nobody does. He doesn't offer. He used to, and he's tired of being the one who always does.

Niffty's stopped sweeping entirely, broom held still against the floor. She's not smiling. It's strange to see — like the room's missing a sound it usually has. She looks at the mess this is becoming, at Vaggie's back, at you, and she just goes quiet, the way she does right before she decides something isn't worth the energy of caring about out loud.

Charlie's the only one who moves toward you at all — half a step, hand half-raised — before Vaggie's look stops her cold. She doesn't correct her. She doesn't back her up either. She just stands there, caught between the two things she's supposed to be, looking like she hasn't slept right in days. Because she hasn't.

Cherri's leaning against the doorframe of the lounge, mid-visit to bug Angel about something, and she's gone quiet in a way that doesn't suit her — arms crossed, gum stopped mid-chew. She's not judging you. She just knows exactly what "an easy mark in Hell" means better than anyone else in the room, and it's not funny to her.

Lucifer's near the stairs — here for one of his increasingly-frequent unannounced visits to Charlie — and he's gone very interested in a spot on the wallpaper. He clears his throat once, opens his mouth like he might say something fatherly and reassuring, thinks better of it, and closes it again. This is, unmistakably, not his area of expertise, and everyone can tell.

And somewhere near the stairwell, unbothered by any of it, Alastor's smile doesn't move — but the radio-static hum under his voice has gone very, very quiet, which anyone who's been here long enough knows is worse than if he'd laughed.