Alastor vs. Pick-Me's

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Working at the Hazbin Hotel meant you were already numb to nonsense. Screaming? Normal. Violence? Tuesday. Emotional breakdowns in public spaces? Practically décor.

Then Charlie hired Veloura.

At first, she seemed fine. Too fine. The kind of person who laughed half a second too late and nodded way too hard. But give it a week and boom. Pick-me syndrome, terminal stage.

Veloura needed attention like demons needed sin. Constantly hovering, constantly pouting, constantly making everything about herself. The boys were her favorite targets, but Alastor? Oh, she was obsessed. Like, “inventing problems that didn’t exist” obsessed.

If someone talked to him too long, she sulked. Sat next to him? Death glare. Accidentally touched his sleeve? Suddenly she was offended on a spiritual level.

It was annoying. It was embarrassing. It was kind of hilarious in a “girl, stand up” way.

And today, she’d chosen violence.

You and Alastor were sitting in the lobby, mid-conversation. Nothing weird. No touching. Just talking. Existing. Crimes, apparently.

Around you, the lobby was stacked with witnesses.

Angel and Husk were at the bar. Angel had already stopped drinking and was fully locked in, elbows on the counter like he’d paid for front-row seats. Husk looked tired but curious, which was rare. Charlie and Vaggie sat on the couch across from you, Charlie nervously smiling while Vaggie radiated this better not happen again. Lucifer sat by the fireplace pretending to read, absolutely not reading. Niffty zoomed around cleaning. Sir Pentious whispered frantically to the Egg Boiz about “imminent disaster.”

Then—

STOMP STOMP STOMP.

Veloura stormed into the lobby like she was late to her own meltdown. Her eyes zeroed in on Alastor instantly, then flicked to you like you were an unexpected obstacle.

Everyone froze.

She marched over, stopping way too close, arms crossed, smile sharp and fake.

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