The Uber pulls up in front of the looming structure that is Hazbin University — a building that looks more like a haunted theater or a forgotten asylum than a college campus. Its jagged rooftops, faded red brick, and stained glass windows give it an eerie charm. Gargoyle-like sculptures cling to the corners, vines crawl along the stone, and a broken neon sign buzzes faintly above the arched entrance:

"WELCOME TO HAZBIN UNIVERSITY."

One of the bulbs is flickering.

Y/N steps through the creaky double doors with his rolling suitcase in tow. The lobby is dimly lit, the floor an odd mix of cracked tile and velvet carpet. A dusty chandelier swings above. The smell of old paper, lavender air freshener, and burnt coffee hangs in the air.

Behind the mismatched front desk sits a woman in her late 40s with cat-eye glasses, a pencil in her hair, and a "Don't Talk to Me Until I've Had My Third Coffee" mug in hand. Her name tag reads: "CAROL."

She's sorting through a stack of papers when Y/N quietly clears his throat.

Y/N (softly): Um... hi. I'm Y/N. I'm supposed to check in.

Carol blinks at him, squints, and then... her eyes widen.

Carol:...Wait. You're Y/N? The Y/N?

Y/N awkwardly shifts his weight, nodding a little.

Y/N: Yeah... I guess.

Carol stares at him like he just sprouted antlers.

Carol: I thought that was a prank. You actually enrolled here?

Y/N (quietly): Yeah.

Carol: Oh my God...

She fumbles through a drawer, muttering to herself.

Carol (murmuring): We have to update the 'notable students' board... we haven't had one since 1996...

She pulls out a tarnished brass key attached to a red leather tag labeled "Room 407 – West Wing."

Carol (handing it to him): Your room. Top floor, elevator works when it wants to. Don't stand under it too long—it drips. And avoid the vending machine near the old music room; it ate someone's debit card in 2018 and we never found it.

Y/N just blinks.

Y/N (softly): Thank you...

Carol lowers her voice a little, her tone softening.

Carol: If you need anything... seriously, let us know. This place is weird, but... we're not monsters.

He gives a tiny nod, gripping the key tightly.

Y/N: Thank you.

He picks up his suitcase again and heads toward the stairs—his heart thudding like a drum in his chest.

Y/N pushes the creaky door open and steps inside.

CREEEAAAAK.

Room 407 greets him like a tired sigh.

It's... small. Cramped, almost coffin-like, with walls painted in a faded maroon that's chipping at the corners. The air smells faintly of old popcorn, old books, and maybe just a bit of despair.

A narrow twin bed rests in the corner beneath a crooked wall sconce. The mattress has definitely seen better decades. There's a lamp on a small bedside table—its shade tilted and fabric burned slightly at the top.

Against the opposite wall, an ancient box TV sits on a wire cart. On top of it is a built-in VHS player—yellowed and clunky. Next to it, a tiny stack of tapes:

The Andy Griffith Show – two episodes: "The Pickle Story" and "Barney's First Car."

Frankenstein (1931)

Aliens (1986)

There's a tiny hot plate built into a desk-like surface in the corner with one slightly scorched burner. No microwave. Above it is a lone cabinet holding a chipped mug and a rusted spoon.

The bathroom is closet-sized. Toilet, sink, standing shower with a curtain that's been repaired with duct tape. The mirror is cracked at the corner and fogs up when Y/N breathes near it.

He walks to the window, pulls the blinds open. The view? A crumbling brick wall... and part of a dumpster. The kind with graffiti and a seagull perched on top, glaring in.

He sets his bag down and sighs.

Y/N (softly):...Better than prison, I guess.

He sits on the bed. It lets out a tired groan beneath him, like it's resentful of being used.

He stares around the room: bare walls, old furniture, and not much else.

Still.

It's his, for now.

The door clicks shut behind him. Alone now, Y/N stands in the cramped room, his suitcase at his feet, the old walls pressing in like quiet onlookers.

He sighs, the weight of it all tightening around his chest. He runs his hand over the faded wood of the desk, testing how much dust it's collected. A small puff lifts into the air, catching a shaft of light from the dirty window.

Y/N (quietly, to himself): Okay... let's just... get settled.

He kneels by his suitcase and slowly unzips it. A few neatly folded shirts, hoodies, socks, and a worn notebook. A photo of his family clipped inside the lid. He carefully sets it on the desk next to the lamp, angling it so he can see it from the bed.

Next, he moves to the dresser—just two stiff, rickety drawers that creak louder than a haunted house. He places his clothes inside gently, as if not to wake it. One drawer sticks halfway. He frowns and leaves it like that.

His plush Moon Knight keychain comes out next. It's frayed from years of fiddling. He hooks it onto the drawer handle like a little guardian.

He opens the cabinet and carefully sets the single chipped mug next to the hot plate, beside the spoon he doesn't remember packing. He checks the cabinet's other side—empty. Not even a single paper towel.

In the bathroom, he lines up his toothbrush, toothpaste, and meds. The mirror wobbles slightly when he looks into it. He tries to avoid eye contact with his own reflection.

Back in the room, he tries the TV. Static.

He pushes in Frankenstein and presses play.

It whirs, buzzes... and actually works.

The classic Universal logo flickers to life on the dusty screen. A bit warped, a bit fuzzy. But it plays. That calms him a little.

He sits on the bed, arms curled around his knees. He stares at the TV, but he's not really watching.

The unfamiliar quiet buzzes louder than it should.

His hand finds his phone. No new texts yet. He doesn't send one either. Just holds it. His breathing is slow, shaky.

He lets his head rest against the wall behind the bed and closes his eyes for just a moment.

The bed creaks again.

A car horn honks faintly in the distance.

Somewhere outside, a voice yells, "I told you that chicken wasn't yours!"

He breathes in. Then out.

Still alive. Still here.

Y/N (softly): You can do this...

The bathroom light flickers once... then steadies, though it hums like a mosquito in the walls. Y/N steps inside slowly, clutching a towel, a pair of pajama pants, and a travel-sized bottle of body wash.

The bathroom is barely big enough to turn around in. The mirror is cracked, the tiles are a mismatched pattern of faded green and yellow, and the sink drips rhythmically. A single roll of toilet paper sits on the back of the tank like a trophy no one claimed.

The shower stall is tight, with a curtain held up by what looks suspiciously like zip ties and stubbornness. The plastic is cloudy and duct-taped in three places.

Y/N peeks inside and immediately steps back as the scent of old mildew hits him.

Y/N (softly): Oh... okay. That's... vintage.

He reaches in and turns the knob. It takes ten full seconds before water sputters out like the pipes are coughing.

At first, it's ice cold. Then suddenly—scalding. He fumbles and adjusts it, trying to find the balance. It never really settles, but at least it stops trying to boil him.

He steps in, slowly, bracing.

SQUEAK.

The floor of the stall shifts slightly under his feet. He closes the curtain, more for emotional comfort than privacy.

The water hits his skin, and despite everything—the smell, the temperature fluctuations, the curtain brushing his back—it feels... calming.

He lets it run through his hair, down his back.

The hum of the bathroom fan, the patter of the shower, and the staticy sound of Frankenstein still playing from the other room blend into white noise.

He leans his forehead gently against the tile.

Breathes.

Thinks.

Doesn't think.

Lets himself just be.

He soaps up quickly—autistic sensory overwhelm is creeping in from the cold tile, the itchy curtain, the sudden burst of hot water again—but he powers through it.

He rinses off, shuts the water, and towels himself dry in the cramped space. It smells like the 1970s and a YMCA locker room, but he manages.

Y/N (quietly): Okay. Survived. Shower complete.

He exhales.

He may be in a weird, cursed school. In a tiny, mildew-friendly dorm.

But at least he's clean.

———

Y/N pushes open the heavy, rust-colored double doors of the Orientation Hall—if it can even be called that. The room looks like an old movie theater that never made it past 1974: cracked velvet seats, cobwebs in the corners, and a projector screen hanging by only one chain.

He steps in slowly, clutching a notepad and a pen, doing his best to look like someone who isn't completely second-guessing every decision that led him here.

The lights are off.

There's no podium.

No students.

No speaker.

Just... him.

Y/N (softly, under his breath):...Did I miss it?

He checks his phone. 10:02 AM. Orientation was scheduled for 10:00.

He walks down the aisle, his footsteps echoing faintly against the dusty floor, until he stops halfway to the front.

Y/N:...Hello?

No response.

He turns toward the exit, thinking maybe he got the time wrong—

SLAM!

The side door to the hall swings open with a loud bang, and in struts Blitza—black hair wild, trench coat barely buttoned, oversized coffee in hand, and a cigarette already halfway to her lips.

Blitza: Holy hell, Y/N, you actually showed up.

Y/N jumps slightly. He straightens his spine awkwardly and gives her a small wave.

Y/N (softly): I... thought this was orientation.

Blitza (grinning): Yeah, it was. You're it.

She kicks a chair, puts her boot up on it like she's giving a TED Talk to a ghost.

Blitza: You're the only one who willingly enrolled this semester. Most students here are either court-ordered, failed out of other schools, or are just here to avoid jail time. You? You actually chose this place.

She stares at him for a second, then lets out a low whistle.

Blitza: Damn. You're either brave, insane, or being blackmailed.

Y/N (quietly): It's all three...

She snorts, takes a sip from her coffee, then shrugs.

Blitza: Well, welcome to Hazbin U. Orientation usually involves a PowerPoint we haven't updated since 2009, a speech from a dean who's technically missing, and a safety video that ends with the fire alarm going off. But hey, you're special, and cute—so you get the VIP tour. Again.

Y/N: But we already did one.

Blitza (smirking): Yeah, but I was drunk. Might remember this one better.

She turns dramatically and gestures toward the exit.

Blitza: Come on, freshman. Let's go show you where the rats hide during the rain.

Y/N:...Okay.

———

The walls of the office are lined with dusty filing cabinets, old plaques from obscure awards ("Most Improved Cafeteria – 1994"), and a corkboard full of unpaid invoices. A dim lamp casts long shadows across the room, flickering slightly with every low hum of the ancient radiator.

At the desk sits Alastor—radio host by night, makeshift financial advisor by reluctant agreement. His crimson tie is perfectly knotted, his suspenders tight, and a disturbingly cheerful smile is painted across his face as he taps numbers into a battered calculator with large, bone-shaped buttons.

A small crank radio on the desk quietly plays swing jazz in the background.

Across from him, sitting with a cup of cold tea and a migraine brewing behind her eyes, is Dean Sera—tired, overworked, and rapidly losing hope. She's dressed in a frayed blazer and a lanyard that reads: "Dean-ish" in sharpie over a mismatched nameplate.

Alastor (grinning, singsong): Well, Sera, I've gone over the books thrice now, and I can officially confirm... we are absolutely, categorically, and flamboyantly—screwed!

He spreads a stack of papers across the desk like a blackjack dealer showing off a losing hand. Most of the budget sheets have red ink, coffee stains, and at least one page labeled "Emergency Fund" with the word 'Pizza' scribbled over it.

Sera (deadpan): How bad is it?

Alastor (leaning back, clasping his fingers): Well, let's put it this way: if the school were a boat, it would already be underwater... and on fire... being eaten by sharks...and sinking the ground...

Sara:...So we're bankrupt.

Alastor: Oh, gloriously. Between the hurricane damage, the Chromebook debt, the 'technology initiative' the board and parents insisted on, and the electric and water bills...

Sera groaned.

Alastor: We are, to put it delicately, hemorrhaging money. Our repair fund is at zero, our emergency fund is made of I.O.U.'s, our equipment fund was converted into a pizza tab back in March, and it turns out we still owe the vending machine company for those machines from 2003!

Sera (rubbing her temples): How much are we in the hole?

Alastor clicks a button and the number $2,347,982.17 flashes on screen, complete with a "sad trombone" sound effect.

Sera (quietly):...That's worse than I thought.

Alastor (nodding with a smile): Indeed! We've officially reached what I like to call 'existential debt!' If we declared bankruptcy, the bankruptcy would declare bankruptcy!

Sera: What the hell can we even do?

Alastor clasps his hands together and leans in.

Alastor: Well, I do have a plan! We tighten the budget, cut a few corners—nix the pool filters, cancel WiFi, sell all laptops, sell off the unnecessary fencing from the fencing club... that's mostly unused stabbing equipment anyway. And if we start charging students for things like light usage and hallway access...

Sera (deadpan): You're joking.

Alastor (still smiling): Never more serious!

He flicks to another page.

Alastor: If we implement these measures immediately, with just a pinch of creative accounting, we should be financially stable by Christmas!

Sera (hopeful): This Christmas?

Alastor (cheerful): Of 2041!

He gives a dazzling smile, clearly enjoying the chaos far more than he should.

Sera:...

She leans back in her chair, unscrews the lid on her energy drink, and mutters into it.

Sera: We're...doomed...

Alastor gently pats her shoulder with a gloved hand.

Alastor: Not screwed, my dear. We're merely... dramatically underfunded with a flair for the theatrical!

He beams like a man watching his favorite comedy.

Alastor (grinning wider): Exactly! But now we have a celebrity student. Let's squeeze that lemon for all it's worth before he realizes this building has no insurance.

He stands, snapping his fingers. The jazz on the radio cuts out.

Sera (quietly):...We're doomed.

Alastor: If we fire the entire cleaning crew and kitchen staff, we be able to knock 2041, to 2038.

———

The door creaks open as Blitza kicks it wide with her boot.

Blitza: Alright, baby bird. Time to toss you outta the nest and see if you fly... or land in a trash fire. Welcome to English 101.

Y/N steps cautiously into the room, notebook in hand, heart in his throat.

The classroom is about as put-together as the rest of Hazbin U. The whiteboard is stained with permanent marker, one of the fluorescent lights flickers every few seconds, and a giant fan in the corner whirs like it's trying to take off.

There are only five other students, scattered in various positions with the energy of people who are here either by force, bribery, or boredom.

Charlie, bright-eyed, seated front and center with a glittery pink notebook, smiling warmly as Y/N enters.

Vaggie, beside her, arms crossed.

Cherri Bomb, sprawled across two chairs in the back, boots up, chewing gum like it insulted her family.

Velvette, seated fashionably near the middle, scrolling her phone and barely looking up, though her lip curls in amusement when she sees Y/N.

Angel Dust, leaned way back in his chair with his shirt half unbuttoned, twirling a pen in his fingers.

Angel Dust: Well, look who's bringin' in the fresh meat. Not a bad looking guy too. You takin' private lessons from this one, teach?

Blitza (deadpan): Shut it, Dust. I can smell your cologne from here and it's giving me war flashbacks.

Angel Dust (grinning): Aw, c'mon. It's called 'Sensual Mistake.' Limited edition.

Y/N quietly takes a seat near the edge of the room, trying not to draw attention. Charlie gives him a little wave. He waves back nervously.

Blitza slams her coffee cup onto the desk at the front of the class and drops her worn-out satchel next to it.

Blitza: Alright, class. This is Y/N. He's new, he's brave, and—miraculously—he enrolled willingly. Try not to scare him off. Or do. I don't care.

She pulls a crumpled syllabus from her coat pocket and tosses it onto the desk like it's on fire.

Blitza (continuing): This is English 101, but don't expect fairy tales. We're gonna cover books, poems, sentence structure, metaphor, the slow decay of the American spirit—y'know, the classics.

Cherri: Do we get to read Catcher in the Rye?

Blitza: Only if you wanna get caught in detention. That book's banned in this building. Made three people cry.

Velvette: Honestly? Iconic.

Y/N opens his notebook slowly, his eyes darting between the others. It's chaotic, unfiltered, barely stitched together...

But somehow?

It's real.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn't feel out of place. Just... curious.

Blitza leans back on the desk, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room.

Blitza: Alright. Let's get started. Page one: 'Why English Class and other required courses are a Scam but You Still Have to Do It.'

She grins wickedly.

Blitza: Let's suffer together, kids.