As dawn's tender fingers unfurled the curtains of the night, Y/N wearily shuffled back to the hotel suite, her breath fogging the chilly air of the early morning. The ache in her wing, a stark reminder of the previous evening's encounter, throbbed in rhythm with her racing heart. Each step she took was a silent battle between enduring the pain and succumbing to the exhaustion that clung to her like a stubborn cobweb. Upon her entry, the grandiose room, with its velvety drapes and gleaming chandeliers, seemed to whisper secrets of the night's escapades, secrets that only the crimson stain on her feathers could reveal.

With trembling hands, she approached the ornate vanity mirror, the soft light casting a warm glow on her ethereal reflection. The sight of her damaged wing, the once majestic expanse of midnight plumage now marred by a jagged crimson line, brought a well of anguish bubbling to the surface. She gently peeled back the makeshift bandage to reveal the wound beneath, a raw, gaping insult to the beauty of her natural form. The edges of the lesion were swollen and fiery, a stark contrast to the porcelain skin of her wing, and the scent of copper and antiseptic wafted through the air, a bittersweet bouquet of pain and healing.

It was in this moment of vulnerability that Alastor chose to make his grand entrance, his sudden apparition a stark intrusion into the sanctuary of her solitude. His customary smile was as radiant as ever, though it bore an underlying tension that even his usual theatrical flair couldn't completely conceal. He swept into the room, twirling his cane with the finesse of a maestro conducting an invisible orchestra, the tip of the cane leaving a trail of shimmering purple dust in its wake.

"Ah, my dear, you've finally graced us with your presence," he exclaimed, his voice a symphony of velvet and steel. "Where on Earth—or perhaps I should say, where in the many realms—have you been gallivanting?"

The question hung in the air, a silent accusation wrapped in the guise of genuine concern. He reached out, his hand a gentle, almost paternal touch on her uninjured shoulder. However, his gaze was drawn to the macabre tableau reflected in the mirror, the crimson wound demanding his attention like a siren's call. His smile wavered, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards as he took in the sight.

"Y/N," he said, his voice a low murmur of disbelief, "who could have been so brazen, so barbaric, as to lay a hand on you?"

The concern in his eyes was palpable, but she offered no solace, no words of comfort. Instead, she continued her meticulous ministrations, her eyes never leaving the mirror. Her movements were precise, a ballet of survival learned during her tenure as the Nightwing Queen's emissary. The gauze, pilfered from the medical bay of a distant planet under her sovereign's protection, was applied with a deft touch, each layer whispering a promise of relief against the angry flesh.

Alastor's eyes narrowed, his gaze flitting from the wound to her stoic face and back again. He could feel the tension coiling around her, a serpent waiting to strike. Recognizing the unspoken boundary, he sighed, his breath a soft hiss that echoed his frustration. He retreated, his hand dropping away from her shoulder like a forgotten embrace.

"I'll be outside," he murmured, his voice a fading echo as he disappeared with a pop, the air shivering in his wake.

The room was once again filled with silence, the only sound the rustle of gauze and the quiet determination of her breath as she tended to the gaping testament of her valor. The mirror reflected not just her image but the unspoken narrative of her struggle, a silent conversation between her reflection and the shadows that danced around the edges of her consciousness.

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As the evening deepened, the soft glow of the pendant lights above the grand wooden staircase cast a warm embrace over the opulent Hotel Inferno lobby. You found yourself nestled in the plush velvet chair, nursing a crystal goblet of Merlot, the crimson liquid a stark contrast to the paleness of your skin. It was a wine of exquisite taste, a vintage Husk had procured from the shadowy cellars of the underworld, a token of his concern. The cat demon's emerald eyes were fixed upon you, filled with a silent question that mirrored the unspoken tension in the air. The usual light-hearted banter had given way to an oppressive silence, a stark reminder of the turmoil that had gripped the hotel since your unexpected return.

The rich aroma of the wine filled the space around you, mingling with the faint scent of brimstone and the crackling of the fireplace. Each sip was a dance of flavors, but your mind remained preoccupied with the tumultuous events of the past few days. The quietude of your solitude was interrupted by the soft clack of the cat demon's claws on the polished marble floor as he approached with a grace that belied his size. The fur on his neck stood on end, and his tail swished with agitation, the tip flicking back and forth like a metronome keeping time with his racing thoughts.

Across the room, Angel Dust, the flamboyant spider demon, had toned down his usual flamboyance, his eyes reflecting a genuine worry as they followed your every move. His tentacles, which usually fluttered about with a flirtatious air, hung limp at his sides, and his charismatic smile had been replaced by a tight-lipped expression of concern. Charlie, the three-eyed succubus, was perched on the edge of the velvet couch, her usual playfulness replaced by a solemn gaze that spoke volumes about her anxiety. She fidgeted with her fingers, the nails of which were painted a shade of dark purple that matched the velvet upholstery.

Vaggie, the stoic hellhound, could be seen through the large bay windows, her eyes scanning the perimeter of the hotel grounds with a vigilance that suggested a foreboding presence. Her steps were precise, the rhythmic thud of her paws against the stone pathways echoing through the quiet evening like a solemn drumbeat. Meanwhile, Alastor, the enigmatic radio demon, remained a ghostly presence, his absence a palpable void in the room. As for Sir Pentious, he lurked in the shadows, his sulking posture and folded arms revealing his bruised pride.

Finally, you decided to break the silence, setting the goblet down on the antique mahogany table with a gentle clink. The sound reverberated through the room, snapping Husk out of his contemplative stare. He tilted his head, his pointed ear twitching as he awaited your response to his unspoken inquiry.

You rose to your full height, your dark, serpentine tail trailing gracefully behind you, the scales shimmering like a river of ink in the firelight. With each step you took toward the staircase, the floorboards beneath your heavy boots groaned in protest, echoing through the hushed space.

Before you could ascend to the sanctuary of your room, Angel Dust darted forward, his movements swift and silent like a spider. He took your hand in his, the heat of his touch a stark reminder of the warmth that your kind was not accustomed to. You stiffened, your eyes widening slightly at the sudden contact, as you weren't used to such gestures of affection from the others.

"Hold up, darling," he murmured, his voice a velvety purr that didn't quite conceal the steel beneath. "You've been gone for what feels like an eternity, and when you finally grace us with your presence again, you're as quiet as a mouse in a dragon's lair. Did something happen out there?" His gaze was intense, his eyes boring into yours with a mix of suspicion and concern.

You met his stare unflinchingly, the gold in your eyes flickering like embers in the fireplace. You knew the undercurrents of his emotions—the jealousy he harbored for Alastor, the possessiveness he felt for you. Yet, you couldn't help but miss the gentle warmth of Stolas' embrace and the carefree laughter of Blitzø, the goat demon, who had the power to lighten even the darkest of moods.

With a heavy sigh, you allowed him to guide you to the communal couch, the plush fabric enveloping you as you sat down. Charlie was quick to follow, her touch gentle as she intertwined her long, slender fingers with your talons. Her eyes searched yours, filled with a compassion that was as surprising as it was touching.

"We're your family, Y/N," she began, her voice a soft melody that seemed out of place in the tense atmosphere. "We care about you, and we want to know what's going on. You don't have to carry your burdens alone."

Angel's expression grew stern, his grip on your hand tightening. "You've got scales of iron, darling," he said, his tone bordering on anger. "But even they can't protect you from everything. You've been shot—in a turf war, of all things. And now you're hiding something from us. Who did this to you?" His tentacles waved in the air, punctuating his words with an agitated flourish.

You felt a twinge of annoyance at his accusation, but his concern was not lost on you. With a sigh, you extricated your hand from Charlie's comforting grip and stood up, towering over Angel. Your wings unfurled slightly, the bandages on the injured one a stark reminder of your recent ordeal.

"I tell you what I choose to tell you," you said, your voice a mix of steel and weariness. "But, yes, I got caught in a war between the Vees and another gang. I was healed, and that's all you need to know."

Your tail swished behind you, the tip brushing against the velvet curtains that framed the window, sending them fluttering in your wake. You stepped back, the space between you and the others suddenly vast.

"And as for where I've been," you continued, your voice dropping to a whisper, "I've just been... with friends."

The words hung in the air, a veil of secrecy that none of them could penetrate. You could feel the weight of their collective confusion and concern, their thoughts swirling around you like a maelstrom of emotions.

With a shake of your head, you turned and made your way back to the staircase, the sound of your boots echoing through the lobby. "I need some time alone," you murmured, placing a gentle claw against your forehead. "I'm... I'm starting to lose my mind a bit."

Their eyes followed you as you disappeared up the stairs, their faces etched with worry. The lobby, once a place of camaraderie and laughter, now bore witness to the unspoken words that lingered like a thick fog. As you reached the landing, you could hear their hushed whispers, a symphony of concern that only served to deepen the ache in your heart.

You stepped into the corridor, the plush red carpet muffling your footsteps as you made your way to your room, the door a beacon of solace in the sea of doubt and uncertainty. You knew that behind that door, you could shed the armor of your secrets, if only for a brief moment, and let the weight of the world slip away. But even as you closed the door behind you, the whispers of Hotel Inferno's inhabitants remained, a constant reminder of the tangled web of relationships and secrets that bound you all together in this infernal abode.