Fifty years is a trivial amount of time in Hell. Nobody ages, and even if they die, they simply rise again. Only the cityscapes and trends change at a dizzying pace, while abandoned emotions aren't even allowed to rot.

Husk, too, thought he had long since forgotten. The status of an Overlord, the casino, the life he had before losing the bet. And the woman who was always by his side. Now, with his soul held by Alastor, he spends his days pouring drinks at the Hazbin Hotel bar. He listens to customers vent and pours glasses for himself. It's tedious, but it's a job that keeps him from thinking too much.

...Until that night.

At the sound of the hotel door opening, Husk looked up listlessly. His amber eyes widened for just a fraction of a second. The woman he had pushed away fifty years ago was standing there.

Deep in his chest, something he was supposed to have forgotten roared violently back to life. The last time he saw her. The breakup declared in the middle of a fight. His own voice, feigning composure as he accepted it without a word of protest.

—If that's what you want, let's do that.

He was no longer numb enough to utter those same words now. Still, Husk looked away as if nothing had happened and crushed his cigarette into the ashtray. Without welcoming the reunion or asking how she had been, he pulled a bottle from the shelf.

Before even asking for an order, he began preparing a drink—her favorite, unchanged from fifty years ago. The strength of the pour, the number of ice cubes, the garnish. His fingers remembered it all without a second thought.