[AN: Hey longtime no see. Sorry for the long, long wait, but please enjoy the long-awaited chapter]
Evelyn POV
The party rages for hours.
Not limps along. Not burns out after the first burst of excitement. It rages, bright and loud and alive, stretching deeper into the night until the streets of Pentagram City feel less like a battlefield and more like one massive, beating heart.
Music shakes the pavement beneath my paws. Neon lights flash overhead in wild ribbons of pink, red, gold, and electric blue, reflecting off broken windows and polished horns, catching in the smoke curling from food stalls and harmless pyrotechnics. Sinners and hellborn crowd together in ways I never expected to see without violence erupting within five minutes.
But it doesn't.
They dance.
They eat.
They drink.
They laugh.
A sinner with too many eyes spins an imp twice his size until they both nearly crash into a table. A group of hellhounds howl along with the music off-key, arms slung over each other's shoulders. Even a few succubi and incubi lounge near the edge of the crowd, drinks in hand, just talking and enjoying the night without turning every interaction into a transaction.
It's strange.
Beautifully, painfully strange.
I sip my drink and look around, trying to pretend my throat isn't tightening.
This isn't canon.
That thought settles into me slowly, almost cautiously, like it's afraid to be noticed.
So much is already different.
The exterminations have been shortened. Heaven has been forced to listen, even if they hated every second of it. Hell isn't fixed, not by a long shot, but the people here are breathing easier than they should have been able to. They're celebrating something that, in another version of events, might never have happened.
A version I knew.
A version I feared.
And now here I am, standing in the middle of a street party I never saw coming, disguised as an ordinary hellhound while the people of Hell laugh like tomorrow might actually be worth reaching.
My claws tighten slightly around my cup.
I changed things.
The thought should scare me.
It does, a little.
But then I see a child-sized imp sitting on someone's shoulders, waving a sparkler that spits harmless violet stars into the air, and the fear softens into something else.
Something warmer.
Something dangerously close to hope.
I smile down at my cup, watching the liquid shimmer with reflected neon.
Then I hear Scylla's voice scream through the speakers.
"EVIE!"
My ears shoot up.
I look toward the stage just in time to see her pointing directly at me.
No.
Absolutely not.
Scylla stands under the lights with the microphone in one hand and her other arm extended dramatically toward me like she's summoning me for trial by public humiliation. Her grin is enormous, her eyes wild with delight, and the crowd immediately follows her gaze.
Several heads turn.
Then more.
Then far too many.
My stomach drops.
I shake my head once.
Scylla's grin widens.
I shake my head harder.
She lifts the mic back to her mouth. "Come on, Evie! Don't be boring!"
The crowd erupts.
"Evie! Evie! Evie!"
Oh, I hate her.
I love her, but I hate her.
Heat crawls up my neck beneath my fur as sinners and hellborn cheer, stomp, clap, whistle, and howl. Someone near the makeshift bar starts banging a metal cup against the counter in rhythm. A trio of imps pick up the chant. A hellhound near the front throws both hands in the air and barks my name like this is somehow a sacred calling instead of Scylla being a menace with stage access.
I stare at Scylla.
She puts one hand over her heart and mouths, Please?
Dramatic little gremlin.
I sigh, long and theatrical, then finish the rest of my drink in one swallow.
The cheering gets louder.
"Fine," I mutter, setting the cup aside. "But if I embarrass myself, I'm throwing her off that stage."
A nearby sinner laughs. "Worth it!"
I bare my teeth at him.
He laughs harder.
I make my way through the crowd, my paws brushing over confetti and glitter-stained pavement. Bodies part for me with surprising ease, not out of fear, not because they know what I really am, but because they're excited. Because for some reason, they want to hear me sing.
Scylla practically vibrates as I climb onto the stage.
"There she is!" she crows, throwing an arm around my shoulders the second I'm close enough. "My girl!"
"Your funeral," I mutter.
"My favorite kind of event!"
She shoves the microphone into my hand before I can change my mind.
For a second, all I can do is stare out at them.
The crowd stretches farther than I realized. Sinners packed shoulder to shoulder. Hellborn leaning from windows. People perched on balconies and signs and the roofs of parked cars. Hellphones glow in scattered hands, some already lifted, some recording before I've even opened my mouth.
The lights hit my face.
My heartbeat thuds once.
Then again.
I should feel exposed.
Instead, I feel something old stir beneath my ribs.
Not magic.
Not exactly.
Something more dangerous.
Truth.
I take a deep breath.
The music shifts behind me, as if the band can feel the change before I give it shape. The drums soften first, falling into a slow, steady pulse. A piano joins, bright and theatrical, then brass swells beneath it, low and rich. The crowd quiets by degrees, laughter fading, conversations thinning, until even the party seems to hold its breath.
I lift the microphone.
When I sing, my voice rings out clear across the street.
Not enchanted.
Not commanded.
Just heard.
We were born beneath a burning sky,
raised where the sirens scream.
Taught to bare our teeth and bite
before we learned to dream.
They called us lost, they called us damned,
a stain they could erase.
But every scar across this land
became a light we'd chase.
We danced through smoke, we laughed through pain,
we stitched our wounds with wire.
And when they thought we'd break again,
we learned to walk through fire.
So hear the streets beneath your feet,
hear every broken bell.
This is not a graveyard, loves,
this is the heart of Hell.
So raise your glass, raise your claws,
raise your voice into the night!
We are the ones they tried to cull,
but we refused to die!
Let Heaven glare from gilded gates,
let angels turn away.
We built a home from ash and rage,
and we rise anyway!
Yes, we rise, we rise,
with smoke in our lungs and stars in our eyes.
They can curse our names,
they can fear what we became,
but we rise anyway!
The crowd is silent at first.
That silence almost scares me more than cheering would have.
Rows of faces look back at me, wide-eyed and still. A sinner with a cracked porcelain face lowers their drink. An imp wipes quickly at one eye and pretends they didn't. One of the incubi near the wall stops laughing mid-whisper, expression softening into something almost reverent.
Hellphones rise higher.
I see the red recording lights blink on.
Scylla stands near the side of the stage, uncharacteristically still, her grin smaller now but no less bright.
The music swells again.
I keep singing.
We know the cost of waking up
with shadows at the door.
We know the sound of counting down
and wondering what for.
We know the taste of bitter dust,
of names carved into stone.
We know what it means to survive
and still feel all alone.
But look around, the night is ours,
the streets are burning bright.
For once the screams have turned to song,
for once we own the light.
So stomp your heels and bare your teeth,
let every rooftop ring.
They wanted prey, they wanted fear,
but listen now, we sing.
So raise your glass, raise your claws,
raise your voice into the night!
We are the ones they tried to cull,
but we refused to die!
Let Heaven glare from gilded gates,
let angels turn away.
We built a home from ash and rage,
and we rise anyway!
Yes, we rise, we rise,
with smoke in our lungs and stars in our eyes.
They can curse our names,
they can fear what we became,
but we rise anyway!
By the second chorus, someone joins in.
Just one voice at first.
Rough. Off-key. Sincere.
Then another.
Then five more.
Then the front of the crowd catches the rhythm, and suddenly the chorus isn't mine anymore.
It belongs to them.
Sinners lift their drinks. Hellborn stomp their hooves, boots, claws, and paws against the pavement. The makeshift bar shakes with the rhythm as people pound along. Somewhere above, illusion magic blooms into red-gold sparks, raining harmless embers over the street.
The song grows teeth.
The song grows wings.
I feel it move through them, not as control, not as power, but as recognition. Like I opened a door and all of Hell shoved its voice through.
My throat tightens, but I don't stop.
Maybe we're wicked, maybe we're wrong,
maybe we're ruined through and through.
Maybe the world gave up on us,
but I never gave up on you.
Not the lost, not the loud,
not the cruel, not the scarred,
not the hearts that learned to hide
because living got too hard.
You are more than what broke you.
More than blood on the floor.
More than teeth in the dark.
More than every slammed door.
So take this night and hold it close,
let the old fear decay.
Tomorrow may come snarling,
but tonight we rise anyway.
The crowd is fully quiet now.
Not dead quiet.
Living quiet.
The kind where everyone is listening so hard the air itself seems afraid to move.
I can see faces tilted up toward me, bathed in neon, softened by something they probably don't know how to name. Hope looks strange on sinners. Awkward. Almost suspicious. Like a coat stolen from someone else's closet.
But it fits them better than they think.
My voice drops lower, softer, carrying over the hush.
We are not clean,
we are not saints,
we are not easy to save.
But we are still here,
still singing loud,
still dancing on our graves.
A few people laugh softly at that.
A few cry.
Most just stare.
Then the drums return.
Slow at first.
Then louder.
The brass kicks in.
Scylla throws both arms into the air with a whoop, and the crowd explodes back to life.
So raise your glass, raise your claws,
raise your voice into the night!
We are the ones they tried to cull,
but we refused to die!
Let Heaven glare from gilded gates,
let angels turn away.
We built a home from ash and rage,
and we rise anyway!
Yes, we rise, we rise,
with smoke in our lungs and stars in our eyes.
They can curse our names,
they can fear what we became,
but we rise anyway!
We rise!
We rise!
We rise anyway!
Through the fire!
We rise!
Through the pain!
We rise!
Let them learn our names today!
We built a home from ash and rage,
and we rise anyway!
The final note leaves me before I can think better of it.
It rings out over the street, high and full and trembling with everything I didn't know I'd been carrying.
For one breath, there is silence.
Then Pentagram City erupts.
Cheers slam into me like a physical force. Sinners scream. Hellborn howl. Drinks fly into the air. Confetti cannons explode from somewhere behind the stage, showering us in glittering red and gold. The crowd chants the last line back at me again and again until it becomes less like a lyric and more like a declaration.
"We rise anyway!"
"We rise anyway!"
"We rise anyway!"
I stand frozen beneath the lights, microphone still in my hand, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
Scylla tackles me from the side.
Not hard enough to knock me over this time, but close.
"EVIE!" she shrieks, shaking me by the shoulders. "What the fuck was that?! Since when do you sing like you're trying to make the whole street have feelings?!"
I blink, breathless.
"I don't know," I admit.
And I don't.
Not really.
I only know that for the first time in a long time, the weight in my chest feels lighter.
Then I look out at the crowd again.
At the sinners still chanting.
At the hellborn singing pieces of the chorus to each other.
At the phones still recording.
At the way Hell, for one impossible moment, looks united beneath broken neon and artificial stars.
And I realize with a strange, sinking warmth that this song is not going to stay here.
By morning, everyone will have seen it.
By morning, people will be asking who Evie the hellhound is.
By morning, my quiet day off may become something much bigger than I intended.
Scylla leans close, still grinning like a maniac.
"You know," she says, voice bright with delighted trouble, "I think you just accidentally became famous."
I stare at her.
Then at the crowd.
Then back at her.
"…I hate you."
Scylla beams.
"No, you don't."
The crowd keeps chanting.
And unfortunately, she's right.
Charlie POV
For a few seconds after the song ends, I can't move.
I just stand there in the middle of the crowd, one hand still tightly holding Vaggie's, my eyes wide as the cheers crash around us like a wave. The whole street is chanting the last line back at the stage, sinners and hellborn together, voices rough and loud and messy and beautiful.
"We rise anyway!"
"We rise anyway!"
"We rise anyway!"
My chest feels so full it almost hurts.
Not in a bad way.
In the way it does when something impossible suddenly becomes real right in front of you.
I've given speeches before. I've sung before. I've stood in front of people and begged them to believe that Hell could be more than pain and punishment and endless survival. But hearing someone else sing it, hearing an entire crowd answer her like they believed it too…
I think I might cry.
Actually, no.
I am definitely going to cry.
Vaggie notices immediately.
She squeezes my hand. "Charlie?"
I inhale sharply, turning to her with what I know must be the most ridiculous, overwhelmed expression on my face.
"Vaggie…" I whisper, then immediately fail at whispering because my excitement punches through my voice like a glitter cannon. "Did you see that? The song! It was amazing! Oh my father, Vaggie, that was amazing!"
Vaggie's single visible eye flicks from me back to the stage, where the hellhound singer is still standing beside the sinner who hosted the party. The singer looks stunned by the crowd's reaction, ears slightly lowered, microphone still in hand like she forgot she was holding it.
The sinner beside her, Scylla, is practically bouncing in place, laughing and waving at the crowd with both arms.
I grab Vaggie's shoulders.
"I have to talk to her."
Vaggie blinks. "Charlie."
"Do you think she would sing at the hotel?" I ask, words tumbling out faster than I can stop them. "Or maybe visit? Or perform for one night? Or maybe she could help with morale! Or maybe she could be part of a special event! Or maybe she'd want to join the hotel completely! I mean, did you hear her? She understood it, Vaggie. She understood everything I've been trying to say, but in music!"
Vaggie stares at me for a beat.
Then, slowly, her expression softens.
She reaches up and taps the tip of my nose with one finger.
"We won't know unless you ask."
That is all the permission I need.
I grin so wide my cheeks hurt.
"You're the best!"
"I know."
"Come on!"
"Wait, Charlie, don't run straight at them like a battering ram with feelings."
But I am already moving.
Not running.
Okay, maybe running a little.
I weave through the crowd, still holding Vaggie's hand as I pull her after me. People are laughing, singing pieces of the chorus, replaying recordings on their hellphones. Every few steps, I hear snippets of the song again from someone's screen.
"We built a home from ash and rage…"
"And we rise anyway!"
My heart flutters.
This is bigger than just one performance. I can feel it. The song has sunk into the street itself, into the cracks in the pavement and the neon buzzing overhead. People are holding onto it like it gave them something they didn't know they were allowed to have.
Hope.
Messy, loud, sharp-toothed hope.
Exactly the kind Hell understands.
As we get closer to the stage, I spot Scylla first.
She's impossible to miss.
Pink skin, wild white curls, mismatched eyes, and an outfit so loud it feels like it should come with its own warning siren. She has one arm slung around the hellhound singer's shoulders and is talking animatedly, probably at the speed of a train crash.
The hellhound beside her looks much more composed, at least at first glance.
Dark fur. Bright eyes. Sharp teeth. A simple jacket. Nothing flashy, nothing overly dramatic, and yet there's something about her presence that keeps pulling my gaze back. Not in a scary way. More like she carries herself with a kind of control that doesn't quite match the disguise of casual confidence.
Like someone used to standing in rooms where everyone watches what she does.
But I don't think too hard about it.
This is Hell. Everyone has layers. Usually several, and at least one of them bites.
Scylla notices us first.
Her grin widens.
The hellhound turns too.
The second her eyes land on me, she freezes.
It's quick.
So quick I might have missed it if I wasn't already staring right at her with the intense focus of someone about to recruit a possible musical miracle.
Her ears stiffen. Her shoulders lock. Her eyes widen just slightly.
Then it's gone.
She smooths herself out in a breath, posture relaxing, expression shifting into something calmer and politely guarded.
I don't think much of it.
People freeze around me all the time.
Being Charlie Morningstar tends to do that.
I slow down a few feet away, suddenly aware that maybe charging up to someone after they poured their entire soul onto a stage might be… a lot.
Unfortunately, I realize this after already charging up to her.
Scylla looks between us, eyes sparkling with interest.
"Well, well, well."
The hellhound shoots her a look.
Scylla's grin turns even brighter, but she says nothing else.
I clasp my hands together, practically vibrating.
"Hi! Your name's Evie, right?"
The hellhound's mouth opens for half a second before she nods.
"Yeah," she says, voice smoother than I expected after singing like that. "That's me."
I beam.
"I'm Charlie Morningstar!"
Her eye twitches.
Just a tiny bit.
Again, I don't think anything of it.
"And this is Vaggie, my girlfriend!" I continue, turning slightly to gesture at Vaggie, who gives a small, cautious nod.
"Hey."
Evie nods back. "Hi."
There's a pause.
A very small one.
I fill it immediately.
"Your song was so amazing."
Evie blinks.
I take a step closer.
"No, really, it was incredible! The lyrics, the emotion, the way everyone joined in, the way you made them feel seen without making it sound forced or cheesy or preachy. It was powerful, and beautiful, and exactly the kind of thing Hell needs more of!"
Vaggie's hand tightens around mine.
I do not stop.
"I run a hotel."
Evie's ears flick.
Scylla leans slightly toward her, looking delighted.
"It's called the Happy Hotel," I rush on. "Well, it's still a work in progress, but the goal is to help sinners become better versions of themselves and maybe, eventually, hopefully, prove redemption is possible."
Evie stares at me.
Scylla's eyebrows climb higher and higher.
Vaggie gives me a look from the side.
I still do not stop.
"And I know that probably sounds huge and weird and impossible, and I know a lot of people laugh when I say it, but what you just did up there? That was exactly what I believe in. You reached people. You made them listen. You made them sing together! Sinners and hellborn! Together! Without anyone stabbing anyone over microphone rights!"
Scylla raises a finger. "There was one stabbing earlier, but it was consensual."
Vaggie's eye narrows.
Evie slowly turns to Scylla.
Scylla lowers her finger. "Not relevant."
I continue, only slightly derailed.
"Would you maybe be willing to come to the hotel sometime? Or sing there? Or maybe do a performance? Or talk to the residents? Or help with a musical event? I think you'd be such a great addition to the Happy Hotel crew!"
The words leave me in one giant burst.
And then I see Evie's face.
Not fully, because she's very good at controlling it, but enough.
Her mouth tightens. Her ears angle back just a little. Her tail stills behind her. The easy calm she pulled around herself earlier starts to look less like comfort and more like armor.
My stomach drops.
Vaggie gives me another look.
This one is very clear.
Slow. Down.
Right.
Right, right, right.
I immediately deflate.
"Sorry!" I blurt, lifting both hands. "Sorry, that was a lot. I came in way too strong, didn't I?"
Evie's expression shifts.
Not into a smile exactly, but something less tense.
"A little," she admits.
I wince, rubbing the back of my head.
"Yeah. That's my fault. I got excited, and then my mouth started sprinting before my brain put on shoes."
Scylla snorts so hard she almost coughs.
Vaggie sighs, but I can tell she's trying not to smile.
Evie looks at me for a long moment, and there's something strange in her gaze. Something soft and sad and fond all tangled together, gone before I can name it.
"It's okay," she says finally. "You meant well."
That makes my chest squeeze.
"I really did," I say, quieter now. "I don't want to pressure you. I just… I heard you sing, and it felt like you understood something I've been trying to explain for a long time."
Evie looks away toward the crowd.
People are still celebrating. Some are singing the chorus badly, loudly, joyfully. A group of imps has turned the last line into a drinking chant. A sinner with glitter in his horns is crying into a plastic cup while insisting he is absolutely not crying.
Evie watches them with an expression I can't quite read.
"Maybe I do," she says softly.
The words are quiet enough that I almost miss them.
Scylla doesn't.
For once, she doesn't make a joke.
Vaggie's grip on my hand loosens a little.
I take a careful breath, trying very hard to be normal about this.
"Then… no pressure," I say. "Really. But if you ever wanted to stop by, even just once, I'd love to show you the hotel. And if you ever wanted to sing there, I think it could mean a lot to people."
Evie turns back to me.
Her gaze flickers over my face, almost searching for something.
Then she gives a small, careful smile.
"I'll think about it."
My whole body lights up.
"Really?"
Vaggie clears her throat.
I clamp my mouth shut before the squealing escapes.
Evie's smile grows by the tiniest amount.
"Really."
Scylla throws both arms into the air.
"Look at that! Networking! Friendship! Emotional vulnerability! Nobody exploded!"
A firework immediately pops somewhere behind her, showering the stage in red sparks.
Scylla points upward without looking.
"That one doesn't count."
Vaggie pinches the bridge of her nose.
I laugh before I can stop myself, and Evie does too.
It's small.
Almost hidden.
But it's real.
And for some reason, hearing it makes something warm bloom in my chest.
I don't know who Evie is beyond a hellhound with a voice powerful enough to silence a street full of sinners.
But I want to.
And maybe, if she really does visit the hotel, I'll get the chance.