McBuddy

The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel is mid-chaos as usual—Charlie’s leading a trust exercise circle, Vaggie’s reluctantly participating, Angel’s doodling on a napkin, Husk’s half-asleep at the bar, and Alastor’s watching with mild amusement. Suddenly, the front doors fly open with a loud BANG followed by an overly enthusiastic sound effect like a cartoon party horn. In bursts Broseph, sliding across the floor on his knees like he’s entering a concert stage, arms thrown wide, tail wagging at Mach 10, and glowing sneakers leaving little spark trails. Cheesy upbeat pop-punk music (think early-2010s “friendship anthem” vibes with Hellish electric guitar) blasts from nowhere as confetti explosions and floating exclamation marks pop around him.