Husk wasn't sure if it was the sixth or seventh glass of whiskey that finally did it, but something hit. Maybe it was the liquor or maybe just the monotony. Whatever it was, it settled heavy, deep in his chest like the weight of a collapsed star, pushing everything out except a low simmering anger. His claws gripped the glass too tight, but he didn't care if it shattered. Hell, he almost wanted it to. At least that'd be a distraction.
The bar was as dead as everything else in this godforsaken hotel. Dust clung to the air, thin motes hanging like little ghosts in the low red light. The dull hum of the neon sign outside buzzed endlessly, flashing a garish, flickering red through the fogged windows, like Hell itself was trying to sneak inside.
It probably was.
Not that it mattered much. Nothing much mattered anymore—not in a place like this. Husk leaned against the bar, his wings slumped against the back of his stool, feathers ruffled in permanent disarray. He'd given up on keeping them tidy long ago. It wasn't like anyone noticed or cared. He let out a slow, heavy sigh, his breath ghosting over the rim of his glass, condensation collecting in little droplets like the sweat beading on his forehead.
At least the whiskey was real. That was about the only thing that wasn't a disappointment.
Husk stared into the amber liquid, swirling it around with one clawed finger. The muted clink of the ice cubes echoed in the stillness of the room, a small sound in the vast emptiness. This place was supposed to be rehabilitation, but that was just a joke, wasn't it? More of Charlie's naive optimism dressed up in a neon glow. Hell didn't work like that, and it never would. He knew that better than anyone. He'd seen the best and worst of it. He'd been the best and worst of it.
Now? He was just tired.
Tired of it all.
The door to the bar creaked open, an unwelcome noise that grated against Husk's already raw nerves. His feathers bristled, and he glared at the entrance with half-lidded eyes, expecting another one of those damned fools looking for some kind of salvation or whatever Charlie had promised them. It was always the same—wide-eyed and hopeful, only to be crushed by the weight of reality when they realized that no amount of reform was going to save them from Hell.
But this was different.
The figure that stepped in wasn't another lost soul eager to prove something or desperate for redemption. No, they moved like someone who had already seen the worst and lived through it. Their eyes—your eyes—were shadowed, like you'd been carrying the weight of the world long before you ended up here. Husk noticed the quiet way you moved, the purposeful steps, and the way you scanned the room like you were already calculating every exit and every weakness. Like you weren't just another fool in Hell—you were something more.
Not that he cared. Not really.
You walked up to the bar, your gaze flicking over him for a brief moment before settling on the empty bottles behind the counter. Husk gave a low grunt, his ears twitching as he stared back into his whiskey, pretending not to notice. He was good at that—pretending not to care, not to see. But something about you gnawed at him, just beneath the surface, irritating like an itch he couldn't scratch.
"Whiskey," you said, voice low but clear, like you were used to giving orders without saying much. Husk didn't bother looking up, just slid the bottle across the bar with a flick of his claw. You caught it without a word, pouring yourself a drink with the kind of practiced ease that told him this wasn't your first time at a bar. Not even close.
There was a silence after that—thick and heavy, like the air in the room had decided to cling to every surface, every breath. Husk downed his drink in one swig, his mouth clicking softly as the alcohol burned its way down.
"You got a name?" Husk finally muttered, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the stillness. He didn't actually care. Not really. Names were just something to fill the void with, something to pretend that they all weren't just damned souls in a pit with no way out.
You glanced at him over the rim of your glass, eyes unreadable for a moment before you answered. The name didn't matter. It was just a sound, another piece of meaningless information that Husk would forget as soon as the conversation ended. But something about the way you said it, the way you carried yourself, stuck with him, like a whisper of something more—something deeper than the usual riffraff that passed through these doors.
He grunted again, half in acknowledgment and half in dismissal. Names didn't change anything. They never did.
He knew better than anyone that in Hell, names were just labels slapped onto broken things.
You leaned against the bar, eyes scanning the room again, your posture still tight, still alert, like you were waiting for something. Husk could feel the tension radiating off you, could sense the coiled energy that seemed ready to spring at any moment. It wasn't the nervous energy of someone who didn't belong here—it was something else. Like you were used to danger, used to watching your back.
Husk knew the type. He'd seen plenty of them in his time, back when he still bothered to care about things like that. But there was something different about you. Something that didn't quite fit the mold. He wasn't sure what it was, but he didn't like it.
Didn't like the way it made him feel.
You finished your drink and set the glass down with a soft clink, your fingers lingering on the rim for a moment. Husk watched out of the corner of his eye, curious despite himself. Most people didn't last long in this place—not with the way the hotel worked, not with the way Charlie's endless optimism grated on everyone's nerves. But you… you didn't seem phased by it. You seemed like you belonged here, in a way that most didn't. And that was unsettling.
"Why'd you come here?" Husk asked, his voice a low growl as he poured himself another drink. He didn't know why he was asking. It wasn't like he cared about the answer.
You didn't answer immediately. There was a pause—too long, too heavy. The kind of pause that said there was a story behind it, a long one. Maybe one you didn't want to tell. Husk wasn't interested in hearing it, but for some reason, the silence hung between you like an open wound, waiting to be addressed.
"I needed a place," you said finally, your voice quiet but firm. "Somewhere… different."
Husk snorted. "Everything in Hell's the same," he muttered, taking a long pull from his glass. "You'll figure that out soon enough."
You didn't argue, didn't try to contradict him. You just watched him with those same unreadable eyes, like you knew something he didn't.
Something important.
That made Husk uneasy. He wasn't used to people looking at him like that, like there was more to him than the grumpy, drunken shell he presented to the world. He preferred it that way. Kept people from getting too close. Kept things simple.
But something about you wasn't simple.
Not by a long shot.
The silence stretched between you again, but this time Husk felt it pressing in on him, heavy and suffocating. He downed his whiskey in one swig, hoping the burn would distract him, would drown out the strange, uncomfortable feeling gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
"Place ain't exactly full," Husk muttered after a while, his voice rough, trying to fill the quiet. "Why this dump?"
You shrugged, but there was a weight behind it, a meaning that Husk couldn't quite pin down. "It felt right."
He scoffed. "Right," he repeated, voice dripping with sarcasm, "in a place like this?"
But you didn't react to his cynicism, didn't rise to his bait. You just met his gaze again, steady and unflinching, and Husk hated how it made him feel. Like you could see right through him. Like you understood something about him that he wasn't ready to admit to himself. He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, claws tightening around his glass as if the pressure might somehow ground him, keep him from being pulled into whatever it was that was lurking behind your eyes.
The silence dragged on, thick and oppressive, but neither of you made a move to break it. Husk had been in countless bars with countless people, and most of the time he could tune them out, let the noise of their chatter and the clink of their glasses blend into the background. But not with you. You were too still, too quiet, too focused. And he didn't like it.
"Place like this… people come and go," Husk grumbled, more to himself than to you. "Don't stay long. Ain't worth it."
You tilted your head slightly, as if considering his words, but you didn't respond. Instead, you reached for the bottle of whiskey again, refilling your glass with slow, deliberate movements. Husk watched, his beady eyes narrowing as he tried to figure you out. Most people who ended up in the hotel had a reason. Some kind of story or sob tale about how they were going to turn their life—or their afterlife—around. But you? You weren't giving him anything. No hints, no cracks in the armor. Just that quiet intensity, like you were waiting for something.
"You got a story, don't you?" Husk asked, his voice a low rumble. He wasn't sure why he was pushing. Maybe it was the whiskey talking, or maybe it was the gnawing curiosity that had been building since you walked through the door. Either way, he couldn't help himself. "Everyone here's got one. Why you hiding yours?"
You didn't answer right away. Instead, you took a slow sip of your drink, eyes half-lidded, thoughtful. When you finally spoke, your voice was measured, careful, like you were choosing each word with precision.
"Hiding's not the right word."
Husk's ear twitched at that. "Oh yeah? What is it then?"
"I just don't see the point in talking about the past when it doesn't change anything," you said simply, setting your glass down on the bar with a soft clink. "The only thing that matters is now."
Husk let out a bark of laughter, harsh and bitter. "You really believe that? That's cute." He leaned forward, feathers bristling as he eyed you with a mixture of skepticism and disdain. "In Hell, everything's about the past. Doesn't matter how much you try to pretend otherwise. Ain't no 'moving on' down here. It's all just one big, never-ending reminder of how you screwed up."
You didn't flinch, didn't react to his bitterness the way most people did. Instead, you just stared back at him with that same calm, unreadable expression, like you were used to dealing with people like him. People who were broken, angry, and hiding it behind layers of cynicism and booze.
"You're probably right," you said after a long pause, your tone even. "But that doesn't mean I have to dwell on it."
Husk snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, good luck with that."
He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, feeling the familiar burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat. It was a comfort, in a way. A reminder that at least something still made sense, still felt the way it was supposed to. But it didn't numb the strange sense of unease that had settled over him since you'd walked in.
"You ain't like the others," Husk muttered, half to himself. "Most people who come through here, they got that look in their eyes. Desperate. Or guilty. Or scared. But you… you ain't any of those things."
You raised an eyebrow slightly, but still didn't say anything. Husk wasn't sure if that made him more irritated or more intrigued.
"Why'd you really come here?" Husk asked, his voice sharper now, the words cutting through the thick air between you. "Ain't no one walks into a dump like this unless they're lookin' for somethin'. So what is it?"
For the first time, something flickered in your eyes. Something quick and dark, like a shadow passing over the surface of deep water. But it was gone as fast as it came, and your expression remained calm, composed.
"I'm just looking for a place to be," you said, your voice steady. "Same as anyone else."
Husk's teeth clicked softly as he considered that. He didn't believe you—not entirely. But he couldn't figure out what you were hiding either. There was something off about you, something that didn't fit, and it was starting to get under his skin.
But before he could push any further, the door to the bar swung open again, this time with a creak that sounded louder than it should've. Husk's feathers bristled as he turned to see who had interrupted. It was Angel Dust, strutting in like he owned the place, all flamboyant confidence and cocky swagger.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't my favorite feathered friend!" Angel Dust called out, a wide grin plastered across his face as he sauntered over to the bar. "And who's this fine piece of eye candy?"
Husk groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Not now, Angel," he muttered. The last thing he needed was Angel Dust sticking his nose into whatever this was.
Angel Dust ignored him, of course. He always did. "C'mon, Husk, don't be such a grouch! Introduce me to your new drinking buddy!"
Husk shot you a glance, half-expecting you to bristle under Angel's over-the-top personality, but you just gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, like you found the whole thing amusing. That only made Husk more irritated.
"Angel, just—go find someone else to bother, okay?" Husk snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. "I'm not in the mood."
Angel Dust pouted dramatically, but it was clear he wasn't taking the hint. "Aww, you're no fun, Husk! Fine, I'll leave you lovebirds alone. But don't think I'm not gonna be watching—" He winked at you before flouncing away, humming some obnoxious tune as he went.
Husk let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping as the tension drained out of him. He hated dealing with Angel Dust on a good day, and today was definitely not a good day.
"Don't mind him," Husk muttered, his voice low again. "He's harmless. Annoying, but harmless."
You nodded, still watching him with that same calm, steady gaze that made Husk feel like he was the one under scrutiny, not the other way around. It was unnerving. He wasn't used to being on the receiving end of that kind of attention, especially not from someone who seemed so…
"Why're you really here?" Husk asked again, unable to stop himself. There was something about you that just didn't sit right with him, something that made him want to keep asking questions, even though he hated himself for it. "Ain't no one just looks for a place like this unless—"
But he cut himself off, realizing he wasn't going to get an answer. Not yet, anyway. Not until you were ready to give one.
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