Broken Wings

Chapter 1: Arrival at the Hazbin

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 beak clicking softly as the alcohol burned its way down.