Untitled

The only problem was actually finding someone who knew where that room was.

You caught Vaggie first, weaving your way through the crowd until you reached the reception desk, where she stood surrounded by paperwork and at least six impatient sinners trying to speak over one another.

"Vaggie?"

She looked up just long enough to recognize you before another voice immediately cut across yours.

"My shower only has cold water!"

"The guy next door keeps stealing my cigarettes!"

"I signed up yesterday, when do I get redeemed?"

Vaggie pinched the bridge of her nose before looking back at you with an apologetic expression.

"I know, your room. Just... give me ten minutes."

You took one look at the crowd surrounding her and immediately understood those ten minutes would probably become an hour.

Charlie wasn't any easier to reach.

She stood near the staircase with a dozen sinners gathered around her, answering questions almost faster than they could ask them, smiling patiently while everyone seemed determined to learn every detail of the battle against Heaven.

"Did you really kill Adam?"

"What was Lucifer like?"

"Can angels bleed?"

"Are they coming back?"

Charlie somehow managed to answer all four questions before spotting you across the room, her face brightening almost instantly.

"Oh! You're here for your new room, aren't you?"

"I was just wondering if—"

"Niffty!" Charlie called before you could finish, waving the tiny maid over as she zipped past carrying a stack of freshly folded towels. "Could you show her where she's staying? I'd do it myself, but..."

Another sinner had already started asking about redemption.

You smiled.

"It's okay."

Niffty bounced over without a second thought, reached behind the reception desk, grabbed a key hanging from one of the hooks, then immediately caught your wrist.

"C'mon!"

You barely had enough time to grab your suitcase before she was already dragging you across the lobby.

The first few hallways felt familiar, filled with voices spilling from half-open doors and guests wandering from room to room, but with every turn the hotel seemed to grow a little quieter. The conversations faded behind you, replaced by the distant creaking of old floorboards and the occasional groan of ancient pipes hidden somewhere inside the walls, until eventually even the noise from the lobby disappeared altogether.

You frowned.

"I didn't know the hotel went this far."

"It does!" Niffty chirped cheerfully, still marching ahead without slowing down. "Nobody really comes here anymore."

That wasn't exactly reassuring.

The corridor narrowed as you continued, the lights growing dimmer with every few steps until only a handful of old sconces remained, their warm glow barely reaching the worn carpet beneath your feet. Dust clung to forgotten picture frames lining the walls, doors became fewer and farther apart, and every sound you made echoed just a little longer than it should have, making the entire hallway feel strangely detached from the rest of the hotel, as though this corner of the building had quietly slipped everyone's mind years ago.

Niffty finally stopped in front of a door tucked away at the very end of the corridor, proudly dropping the key into your hand before pointing at the room.

"There!"

You looked around instinctively.

The hallway was completely empty, no voices drifted through the walls, no footsteps echoed from another floor, and no doors stood open anywhere nearby. Only two rooms occupied the very end of the corridor, facing the same stretch of dimly lit carpet, separated by little more than a few feet of polished wood.

"...It's quiet."

"I know!" Niffty beamed, clearly delighted by your observation. "Isn't it nice?"

Before you could answer, she was already hurrying back the way she'd come, humming happily to herself until even that sound disappeared into the distance, leaving you alone with your suitcase, your new room, and the heavy silence settling over the forgotten end of the hallway.

You slipped the key into the lock without another thought, completely unaware that Niffty had grabbed the wrong one from the reception desk, or that the room beside yours, hidden behind an identical wooden door only a few feet away, belonged to the one resident Charlie would never have assigned as your neighbor on purpose.

The room itself wasn't much different from the others you'd seen throughout the hotel.

At least... it shouldn't have been.

The furniture was the same style Charlie had chosen for every bedroom, the bed neatly made, a wardrobe tucked against one wall, a small desk beneath the window, yet something about the room felt older than the rest of the hotel. The wallpaper had already begun peeling in one corner, the wooden floor creaked beneath your footsteps, and the soft amber light hanging from the ceiling never seemed quite bright enough to chase away the shadows gathering in the corners.

It was strange.

Lucifer had rebuilt the hotel with his own magic only a few weeks ago. Everything else looked almost brand new, polished and full of life, while this forgotten corridor felt like it had somehow escaped the renovation altogether.

You shrugged to yourself.

It was probably temporary.

Once the excitement around the hotel settled down, Charlie would almost certainly move everyone back into more sensible rooms. You only had to spend a few nights here.

That wasn't so bad.

You unpacked your suitcase, folded your clothes into the wardrobe, lined a few books neatly across the little desk and placed your toiletries in the bathroom, slowly turning the unfamiliar room into something that felt a little more yours. By the time everything had found its place, the last traces of daylight had disappeared behind the curtains, leaving the room wrapped in the warm glow of the bedside lamp.

You changed into something more comfortable, climbed beneath the blankets with a book in your hands and spent the next hour reading, grateful for the quiet after the endless commotion downstairs. Eventually your eyelids grew heavy, the words began blurring together across the page, and with a small yawn, you closed the book, switched off the lamp and let darkness settle over the room.

Sleep never came.

At first, it was nothing more than a faint crackle somewhere beyond the wall beside your bed, so quiet you almost convinced yourself it was the old pipes settling inside the building. You closed your eyes again, listening to the silence return, only for the sound to come back a few moments later, longer this time, carrying the unmistakable hiss of radio static.

Your eyes opened.

The room was dark.

The static disappeared.

You frowned, waited another minute, then slowly relaxed against the pillow.

A voice crackled softly through the wall.

Not clear enough to understand.

Just fragments.

A sentence.

A chuckle.

More static.

You glanced toward the clock sitting on your bedside table.

2:03 AM.

"...Okay..."

The whisper left your lips before you could stop it.

The radio faded again, replaced by the old building creaking somewhere down the corridor. Floorboards groaned one after another, slow enough to sound like careful footsteps wandering just outside your room. You held your breath, waiting for someone to knock, but no knock ever came. Instead, something shifted beneath the gap at the bottom of your door, a shadow gliding lazily across the floor before disappearing just as quickly as it had arrived.

Your stomach tightened.

"Nope."

You pulled the blankets a little higher.

The silence lasted all of thirty seconds before another burst of laughter drifted through the wall.

It wasn't loud.

It wasn't even directed at anyone.

It simply... existed, warm and amused, as though someone next door had heard a joke only they understood.

Then came the smell.

It was faint enough that you almost questioned whether you had imagined it, something metallic lingering beneath the scent of old wood and dust, mixed with the unmistakable aroma of coffee that had long since gone cold.

You were officially terrified.

Sleep had become completely out of the question.

Instead, you sat upright against the headboard with your knees pulled tightly to your chest, clutching the blanket around yourself while your eyes remained fixed on the bedroom door, trying to convince yourself there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything you'd heard.

It was an old hotel.

Old buildings made noise.

Pipes rattled.

Floorboards creaked.

Shadows...

Shadows were probably... shadows.

Another burst of static hummed through the wall.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

"This is fine," you whispered to yourself. "It's just one night."

The radio crackled once more, louder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone speaking.

Not in English.

In French.

"Mais voyons... ce n'est pas du tout comme cela qu'on prépare un café."

Your eyes flew open.

You knew that voice.

You'd heard it every day since arriving at the hotel, greeting Charlie in the mornings, chatting with Husk in the lounge, filling entire rooms with effortless charm wrapped in old-fashioned manners.

Alastor.

You stared at the wall separating your bedroom from the next room, the realization settling in with almost embarrassing clarity.

Niffty hadn't just given you a room at the end of the corridor.

She had accidentally moved you in next door to Alastor.

Morning arrived almost offensively normal.

Golden sunlight slipped through the curtains, chasing away every shadow that had kept you awake for hours, while the room looked exactly as it had the evening before. The wallpaper still peeled slightly in one corner, the old floorboards remained perfectly still beneath your feet, and the hallway outside was silent enough that you almost convinced yourself the entire night had been the product of an overactive imagination.

Almost.

Because you knew what you'd heard. The static.The laughter. The footsteps pacing back and forth beyond the wall. And most of all...

Alastor.

You rubbed a tired hand across your face, glanced at your reflection in the mirror and immediately regretted it. Dark circles had settled beneath your eyes, your hair had long since given up trying to look presentable, and judging by the exhausted expression staring back at you, you'd managed to sleep perhaps twenty minutes in total.

"Great."

You changed into fresh clothes, made a half-hearted attempt at fixing your hair, then gathered the things you'd need for the day before heading toward the door. Maybe Vaggie would finally have a minute to spare, maybe Charlie had realized the mistake by now, maybe you could quietly swap rooms before another night turned you into a nervous wreck.

You slipped the key into the lock, turned it carefully behind you, then bent to pocket it.

The door beside yours opened. Your entire body stiffened before you even looked up.

Polished shoes appeared first, followed by the familiar red pinstripes of an impeccably tailored suit, and finally Alastor himself stepped into the hallway as though nothing in the world had ever been out of place. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, then lifted his head, his ever-present smile widening ever so slightly the moment he noticed you standing only a few feet away.

For a brief second, genuine surprise crossed his features.

It disappeared so quickly you almost wondered whether you'd imagined it.

"My," he said pleasantly, his ears giving the faintest twitch as his crimson eyes drifted from your face to the door behind you before returning just as smoothly. "This is unexpected."

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

During the months you'd spent at the hotel, the two of you had barely exchanged more than a handful of conversations. There had always been polite greetings in passing, the occasional remark over breakfast, brief exchanges whenever Charlie happened to gather everyone together, but that was where it ended. Alastor had always remained just far enough away to be untouchable, smiling that unreadable smile whenever your eyes met across a room before disappearing again as though he'd only ever been passing through.

You'd caught yourself watching him more times than you cared to admit.

He had caught you doing it almost every single time.

There was something deeply unsettling about him, something that made the instinct to keep your distance fight constantly against the quiet curiosity pulling you back in his direction. Every glance lasted a fraction longer than it probably should have, every accidental encounter carried a strange tension neither of you acknowledged, and every time his eyes lingered on yours, you found yourself looking away first.

Now there were barely three feet separating you.

His smile remained perfectly bright, his posture as relaxed as ever, as though the previous night hadn't been filled with radio static, laughter echoing through the walls and French drifting into your bedroom at two o'clock in the morning.

"I... just moved in," you managed, still sounding far more tired than you intended.

"So I gathered," Alastor replied lightly, glancing once more toward your door before giving a thoughtful hum. "I must confess, I wasn't informed I would be welcoming a new neighbor."

Neither had you.

The thought almost escaped your lips before you stopped yourself.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his smile never wavering.

"I do hope the room proved comfortable."

You stared at him.

Comfortable.

You hadn't slept a single minute.

He either had no idea what kind of noises escaped his room in the middle of the night...

...or he knew exactly what you had endured.

"Did you sleep well, my dear?"

You forced a smile onto your face, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt.

"I slept fine," you replied, perhaps a little too quickly, clearing your throat before adding, "It just takes me a little while to get used to a new room, that's all."

Alastor regarded you in thoughtful silence, his crimson eyes lingering on the dark circles beneath yours for just a fraction longer than was comfortable. His smile never changed, never faltered, yet you couldn't shake the feeling that he knew perfectly well you were lying. If he did, however, he was far too polite to point it out.

"How unfortunate," he said pleasantly. "I'm certain you'll settle in before long. One grows accustomed to unfamiliar surroundings rather quickly."

You hoped he was wrong.

"Well..." You adjusted the strap of your bag, taking an instinctive half-step toward the staircase. "I'd better head downstairs."

"Of course."

He stepped aside with effortless courtesy, one hand gesturing toward the corridor as though inviting you to pass first. "I do hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing more of one another, my dear."

You offered him a polite smile that probably looked more nervous than friendly before hurrying past him, resisting the urge to glance over your shoulder until you reached the first flight of stairs. Only then did you risk a quick look back.

He was still standing exactly where you'd left him, watching you.

The moment your eyes met again, he inclined his head politely before disappearing back into his room, the door closing with a soft click that echoed far longer than it should have.

You let out the breath you'd been holding.

The walk back toward the lobby felt considerably shorter than the night before. Familiar voices slowly replaced the oppressive silence of the forgotten corridor, footsteps echoed from occupied rooms again, and somewhere downstairs Angel Dust was already complaining loudly enough for half the hotel to hear him. By the time you reached the main hall, the unsettling feeling clinging to your shoulders had eased just enough for exhaustion to take its place.

Charlie and Vaggie stood near the reception desk, buried beneath another mountain of paperwork while Niffty darted happily between them with a feather duster nearly twice her size.

You didn't even slow down.

"Vaggie."

Both women looked up.

"I need another room."

Charlie blinked. "...Good morning to you too?"

"I can't stay there."

Vaggie frowned, immediately setting the clipboard down.

"What's wrong with the room?"

You glanced briefly toward the staircase before lowering your voice.

"It's next to Alastor."

Silence settled over the reception desk. Charlie slowly turned toward Vaggie. Vaggie slowly turned toward Charlie. Then, together, both of them looked toward Niffty, who had frozen in the middle of dusting a picture frame.

"Niffty..."

The tiny maid looked up innocently.

"What?"

"Which key did you give her yesterday?"

Niffty tilted her head, clearly thinking very hard before reaching into the pocket of her apron and pulling out another brass key.

"...Oops."

Vaggie closed her eyes.

"You grabbed the wrong one."

"I did?"

"You gave her Alastor's neighboring room."

"Oh."

Another pause.

"...Oops."

Charlie sighed, though the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself.

"I knew something felt off when I couldn't find that key this morning."

You looked from one to the other.

"So..." Hope crept cautiously into your voice. "Can I switch back?"

The hopeful expression on Charlie's face faded almost immediately. She looked toward Vaggie. She already knew the answer.

"We can't."

Your heart sank.

"What do you mean you can't?"

She gestured toward the crowded lobby behind you, where another pair of sinners had just walked through the front doors carrying suitcases.

"We're full."

Charlie nodded apologetically.

"Every room's occupied. We even converted the old music room into a bedroom yesterday, and Husk is still complaining that people keep trying to sleep in the lounge." She winced sympathetically. "If we had another room, I'd move you immediately."

"There isn't even a storage closet left," Vaggie added. "Trust me, I checked."

You stared at them in disbelief.

"So you're telling me..."

Charlie offered you an apologetic smile.

"...You're staying next to Alastor."

The words landed like a sentence.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, already imagining another sleepless night filled with radio static, laughter drifting through the walls and shadows crawling beneath your door.

Somewhere behind you, Niffty smiled brightly.

"I think you guys are gonna be great neighbors!"

The rest of the day passed far too quickly.

You spent most of it helping Charlie wherever you could, carrying boxes upstairs, showing new residents around the hotel, answering the same handful of questions you'd already heard a dozen times that morning, all while trying very hard not to think about where you'd be sleeping that night. Every now and then, your eyes drifted toward Alastor across the lobby, only to find his already resting on you before he politely tipped his head and returned to whatever conversation he had been having, leaving you wondering whether he'd actually noticed how exhausted you looked or whether your imagination had simply decided to torture you a little more.

By the time evening settled over the hotel, you had run out of excuses.

Your room hadn't moved.

Neither had his.

You climbed the stairs with considerably less enthusiasm than the night before, unlocked the door, stepped inside, and immediately began preparing for what you had already decided would be another sleepless night. You changed into comfortable clothes, left your book untouched on the bedside table, turned the lamp off much earlier than usual, then slipped beneath the blankets, determined to fall asleep before the strange noises next door had a chance to begin.

It didn't work.

Every time you closed your eyes, your mind wandered back to the previous night, replaying the static, the laughter, the footsteps pacing outside your door until your own heartbeat became loud enough to keep you awake. You shifted beneath the blankets for what felt like the hundredth time, staring into the darkness while the clock beside your bed crept steadily toward midnight, your body begging for sleep while your thoughts stubbornly refused to quiet down.

Then, almost exactly when you'd started expecting it, the familiar crackle drifted softly through the wall.

You didn't jump this time.

The radio hissed quietly for a few seconds before old jazz filled the silence, warm brass and gentle piano replacing the unsettling static that had terrified you the night before. Somewhere beyond the wall, you heard the faint scrape of a chair moving across the floor, followed by the unmistakable sound of Alastor humming absentmindedly beneath the music, as though he'd completely forgotten anyone occupied the room beside his.

It sounded...

Oddly normal.

You rolled onto your side, facing the wall separating your room from his, listening more carefully now that you knew what the sounds actually were. The laughter was still there every now and then, quiet enough to suggest he'd amused himself with some passing thought, the floorboards still creaked beneath his footsteps as he wandered from one side of the room to the other, and the radio continued playing those old songs you'd never heard before, filling the silence with something that, strangely enough, no longer felt frightening.

If anything...

It was almost relaxing.

Without really thinking about it, your fingers began tapping lightly against the mattress in time with the music, following the rhythm until, after a moment's hesitation, you shifted a little closer to the wall and gently knocked against it instead.

The sound barely carried through the wood, soft enough that you almost doubted it would reach the room beyond, yet the effect was immediate. The music cut off mid-note, the faint crackle of the radio vanished with it, the floorboards fell completely silent, and suddenly the corridor seemed to hold its breath, every strange sound that had surrounded you only moments before swallowed by a silence so complete it made your own heartbeat sound impossibly loud.

Oh no.

He'd heard you.

Of course he'd heard you.

You'd just knocked on the wall separating your room from that of one of Hell's most powerful Overlords, and for reasons you still couldn't explain, you'd somehow expected him not to notice.

You held your breath, every muscle in your body tensing as you stared at the wall, wondering whether you'd just made the biggest mistake since arriving at the hotel. The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity, your heartbeat pounding loudly enough that you were almost convinced it would carry through the wood, until, at last, a soft knock answered from the other side. It was gentle, almost hesitant, nothing like the response you'd imagined, and certainly not the angry outburst you'd been bracing yourself for.

You blinked in surprise, your fear slowly giving way to curiosity as you lifted your hand once more and answered with another careful tap, a little less uncertain than the first. The silence returned, though this time it felt different, less oppressive, almost expectant, as though whoever stood on the other side of the wall was considering what to do next, before a familiar voice finally drifted through the old wood, warm, perfectly calm, and unmistakably Alastor's.

"Y/N?"

Your heart lurched so violently you were convinced he could probably hear that too.

"...Yes?"

A quiet chuckle reached your side of the wall before he spoke again, his voice carrying that same effortless politeness it always did, softened only slightly by the late hour.

"Well..." Another brief pause settled between you, almost thoughtful this time. "The walls are remarkably thin, aren't they?"

You couldn't help letting out a small, nervous laugh.

"I guess they are."

"I do apologize if I've disturbed your rest," he continued after a moment, and although his voice remained light, there was something unexpectedly sincere beneath it. "Old habits have a tendency to follow one home, I'm afraid. The radio, the music... I confess I hadn't considered someone might be trying to sleep on the other side of the wall."

The apology caught you completely off guard.

You had expected amusement, perhaps teasing, maybe even indifference, but certainly not concern.

"If you would prefer silence," he added, "I'd be more than happy to turn the radio off for the evening."

You hesitated.

Only an hour ago, you would have accepted without thinking. You had spent the entire previous night terrified by every crackle of static, every laugh drifting through the wall, every creaking floorboard that seemed to carry some unseen presence through the corridor. Yet now that you knew exactly where those sounds came from, they no longer felt like the whispers of something lurking in the dark. They were simply... Alastor, moving around his room, humming to himself while he read, letting old records play as he passed the time.

Strangely enough, that thought warmed your chest.

"No," you answered quietly, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the blanket gathered over your knees. "You can leave it on."

A brief silence settled between you.

"...Are you certain?"

"I think..." You smiled to yourself before finishing your sentence. "I actually like the music. It's... soothing."

Another soft chuckle drifted through the wall.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"I guess it is."

The radio crackled back to life a few seconds later, softer than before, the volume lowered just enough for the jazz to become little more than a gentle melody drifting through the old wood. You rolled onto your side, resting your head against the pillow as the music filled the silence once more, and before you even realized it, your eyes had finally grown heavy enough to close.

It was the first good night's sleep you'd had since moving into that room.

The following evening, you found yourself waiting for the music.

Not consciously, at least not at first, but when midnight came and the familiar crackle of static drifted through the wall, you caught yourself smiling instead of tensing. The old records had become oddly comforting, a quiet reminder that someone was awake on the other side, going through the same familiar routine while the rest of the hotel slept.

Eventually, you reached to him more often through the wall.

The conversation that followed lasted barely five minutes, nothing more than a polite exchange of good evenings and harmless observations, yet somehow it happened again the next night, and the one after that, until speaking through the wall quietly slipped into your nightly routine without either of you ever deciding it should.

Some evenings you commented on whatever song happened to be playing, admitting you preferred the slower jazz records over the livelier ones, while Alastor insisted your taste was "surprisingly respectable," changing the record anyway whenever you wrinkled your nose at one you particularly disliked. Other nights, a loud crash from his room would make you blink toward the wall before asking, unable to suppress the smile tugging at your lips, "Did you just trip over a chair?"

His answer always came after a suspiciously long pause.

"I most certainly did not."

"You definitely did."

"...The chair was poorly positioned."

You laughed.

The conversations grew longer after that.

Sometimes he told you about his day, about the latest argument between Angel Dust and Husk, about Charlie's endless optimism or Niffty's newest obsession.

Sometimes you spoke instead, recounting little moments that had made you laugh, complaining about difficult guests, rambling about books you'd been reading, never quite noticing how late it had become until one of you pointed out the hour. Alastor never admitted how much he had begun looking forward to those conversations, but you noticed the radio always started a little earlier now.

It became your routine.

Then one evening...

The knock didn't come from the wall.

You looked up from your book, frowning slightly as three soft knocks echoed through your room, unmistakably coming from the door instead.

For a brief moment, you simply stared at it.

Another knock followed, patient and unhurried.

You climbed out of bed, crossed the room and slowly opened the door.

Alastor stood in the hallway, one hand resting lightly against the frame, dressed as impeccably as ever despite the late hour. The warm light from the corridor caught the edge of his smile as he inclined his head politely, looking almost amused by your obvious surprise.

"Good evening, my dear."

"...Good evening."

"I was wondering," he began, smoothing one of his cuffs almost absentmindedly, "whether you might care to continue our discussion without the inconvenience of several inches of plaster separating us."

Your heart skipped.

For weeks, the wall had been enough.

Comfortable.

Safe.

You had spoken to him almost every night, laughed together, shared stories neither of you had expected to tell, yet somehow standing face to face felt entirely different, as though every conversation you'd had until now had merely been preparing you for this one.

He noticed your hesitation immediately.

"There is, of course, no obligation," he added gently. "I simply thought the acoustics might benefit from a slight improvement."

A nervous laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

"...I think the acoustics are fine."

"They are adequate."

"And yet you still came knocking."

"Indeed."

Silence settled comfortably between you, neither awkward nor pressing, while you searched his expression for... something.

Anything.

Instead, you found only that familiar smile, patient as ever, waiting without the slightest intention of rushing your answer.

Finally, you stepped aside.

"...Okay."

His smile widened just enough to notice.

"Splendid."

He waited for you to lock your door before leading the way the few short steps separating your rooms, reaching his own door almost immediately and holding it open with a courteous gesture.

"After you."

You had imagined Alastor's room countless times over the past few weeks.

None of those imaginings had prepared you for the reality.

The room felt less like a bedroom and more like another world tucked quietly behind an ordinary hotel door. A fireplace crackled softly against one wall, bathing the room in a warm amber glow that danced across polished wooden floors and deep crimson furniture. Shelves overflowed with books that looked decades older than the hotel itself, old records were stacked neatly beside a vintage gramophone, and the familiar jazz you'd listened to through the wall for weeks now drifted softly through the room, quieter than usual, wrapping everything in an atmosphere that felt strangely timeless.

The room smelled faintly of coffee, polished wood and old paper.

Somehow...

Exactly the way you'd imagined.

"I hope you'll forgive the modest accommodations," Alastor said with playful formality as he closed the door behind you. "One does what one can."

You couldn't help smiling.

"This is modest?"

"I've always found extravagance rather exhausting."

Your eyes wandered toward the fireplace where two large armchairs faced one another, positioned close enough for conversation, a small table resting between them with a steaming coffee pot already waiting.

He noticed where you were looking.

"I took the liberty."

He crossed the room with the same effortless grace he seemed to carry everywhere, lifting the coffee pot before glancing back toward you.

"Do you take sugar?"

"One."

"An excellent decision."

He poured two cups with practiced precision before handing one to you, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest instant as you accepted it.

The contact barely lasted a second.

It still sent warmth racing through your chest.

You settled into the armchair opposite his, the fire crackling quietly between you while the record continued turning in the background, filling the comfortable silence neither of you seemed in any hurry to interrupt.

It should have felt awkward.

Instead, it felt strangely familiar.

You already knew the cadence of his voice, the way he laughed softly whenever something genuinely amused him, the moments when he paused to choose his next words, even the habit he'd developed of absentmindedly adjusting the volume of the gramophone whenever one particular trumpet became just a little too enthusiastic. Weeks of speaking through the wall had quietly taught you all those little things, yet sitting across from him now somehow made each one feel more real, as though the man you'd slowly come to know through old plaster and midnight conversations had finally stepped out from behind the barrier separating your worlds.

For the first time since moving into the room next to his, there was no wall between you.

Only two cups of coffee, the soft crackle of the fire, and a conversation that neither of you wanted to end.

After that first evening, the wall quietly became unnecessary.

Some nights you still spoke through it out of habit, exchanging a few words before one of you inevitably wandered into the other's room, coffee already brewing while another record waited to be played. Other evenings, Alastor simply appeared at your door with a polite knock and another excuse prepared, perhaps he'd found a book he thought you might enjoy, perhaps the gramophone had acquired a particularly delightful record, perhaps, and this remained his personal favorite, "the acoustics have once again become intolerable."

You always laughed.

You always followed him.

The evenings blurred together after that, slipping into a routine neither of you ever acknowledged aloud. You learned exactly how he liked his coffee, strong enough to wake the dead, with only the smallest touch of sugar, while he somehow remembered every tiny preference you'd ever mentioned in passing, quietly replacing records you disliked before you even had the chance to wrinkle your nose, leaving your favorite chair closer to the fire whenever the nights turned colder, making sure there was always another cup waiting by the time you arrived.

Nothing between you was ever spoken.

Nothing needed to be.

The hotel noticed long before either of you did.

Charlie caught the change first.

It wasn't anything obvious, only little things that seemed meaningless on their own. You smiled more often now, the quiet, absent-minded sort of smile that appeared whenever someone crossed your thoughts, and somehow Alastor always seemed to appear a few moments later, as though he'd heard them. Breakfasts that used to end with him disappearing into the shadows now stretched a little longer whenever you happened to sit nearby, evenings in the lounge became less lonely, and whenever you wandered into a room, it rarely took more than a few minutes before the Radio Demon found a perfectly reasonable excuse to be there as well.

"You've been seeing a lot of Alastor lately," Charlie observed one afternoon, trying very hard to sound casual.

You looked up from your book.

"...Have I?"

Charlie exchanged a quick glance with Vaggie.

Vaggie snorted.

"You literally walked in together."

"We did?"

"And you left together."

You blinked.

"I... hadn't noticed."

Charlie smiled to herself.

"We did."

You hadn't.

It wasn't intentional.

You simply reached for coffee at the same time.

Sat beside each other without thinking.

Walked through the hotel while talking about whatever book Alastor had recommended the evening before, never noticing the distance between you had quietly disappeared.

Even Husk noticed.

"He's following you."

"He is not."

"He is."

"He just happens to be there."

Husk looked over the rim of his glass toward Alastor, who stood across the lobby discussing something with Charlie. Almost as though sensing the conversation, crimson eyes drifted toward you for barely a second before his smile widened ever so slightly.

Husk sighed.

"...See?"

You looked away first.

"I think you're imagining things."

"I'm really not."

Then, for the first time in weeks...

Alastor wasn't there.

Charlie had asked him to accompany her into the city that afternoon, leaving the hotel strangely quieter than usual. You spent the day helping a few of the newer residents settle in, carrying supplies upstairs and answering questions you'd already answered dozens of times before, until evening finally began settling over Pentagram City.

You had just stepped into the lobby when one of the newer sinners approached you.

He'd spoken to you a few times before, always politely enough, asking harmless questions about the hotel or Charlie's rehabilitation program, and you smiled politely when he greeted you again.

"I've been looking for you."

"Oh?"

"I was wondering if you'd have dinner with me."

You offered him an apologetic smile.

"That's kind of you, but I'm not really interested."

He laughed.

"C'mon."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

You shifted your weight uncomfortably.

"I said no."

Instead of backing away, he stepped closer.

"You've been avoiding me."

"I've been busy."

"You could make time."

His smile had changed.

It no longer looked friendly.

"I don't think you understand," he continued, lowering his voice as though the two of you shared some private joke. "You're one of the prettiest girls in this dump, sweetheart. Don't waste your time pretending you're too good for everyone."

Your expression hardened.

"I didn't say I was."

"So what's the problem?"

"I already answered you."

"You haven't answered properly."

Another step.

Closer.

"You'd probably enjoy yourself if you stopped acting so difficult."

You took one step back.

He took another forward.

"I said no."

"Oh, don't be like—"

Your hand landed flat against his chest before you even thought about it, shoving him back hard enough that he stumbled two full steps, surprise flashing across his face as several nearby guests looked up from their conversations.

"I said," you repeated, your voice noticeably firmer this time, "no."

For a long second, neither of you moved.

His expression twisted with annoyance, lips curling into something that looked dangerously close to contempt, before he scoffed under his breath and raised both hands in mock surrender.

"Fine."

He turned away with a dismissive laugh.

"Bitch."

You stood there for another moment, your pulse still racing, before forcing yourself to breathe.

The lobby slowly returned to normal around you.

People looked away.

Conversations resumed.

Someone laughed near the bar as though nothing had happened.

You rubbed your temples, suddenly feeling far more exhausted than angry, then quietly climbed the stairs toward your room, your thoughts already drifting somewhere much safer.

Toward the room next door.

Toward the familiar crackle of an old radio.

Toward the man who, without either of you realizing when it had happened, had somehow become the part of your day you looked forward to most.

The encounter downstairs lingered in the back of your mind longer than you cared to admit, but by the time you reached your room, you had almost managed to convince yourself it was over. Hell was full of unpleasant people, you reminded yourself while closing the door behind you, and most of them eventually lost interest when they realized they weren't getting what they wanted.

You locked the door out of habit.

Then you started getting ready for the night.

Your routine had changed over the past few weeks without you ever deciding it should. Instead of throwing on the first thing you found, you found yourself hesitating in front of the wardrobe, your fingers drifting from one pajama to another before settling on the soft burgundy set you secretly liked best. It was comfortable, warm enough for the cool evenings, and if it happened to look a little nicer than the oversized shirt you'd been wearing before...

Well.

You smiled to yourself.

Alastor would probably knock within the hour.

He always did now.

You brushed your hair, lit the small bedside lamp, straightened the blanket even though it didn't need straightening, then glanced instinctively toward the wall separating your room from his. Charlie and Alastor had spent the afternoon in Pentagram City, and you already found yourself wondering what stories he would bring back, whether Charlie had dragged him into another overly optimistic conversation with strangers, whether he'd complain about the city traffic with that perfectly polite smile that somehow made every complaint sound like a compliment.

You were still smiling when the knock finally came.

Three gentle knocks.

Exactly the way he always did.

Your heart lifted almost instantly.

"Coming," you called, already crossing the room.

You unlocked the door without a second thought, pulled it open...

...and the smile disappeared from your face.

It wasn't Alastor.

The sinner from the lobby stood in the doorway instead.

The friendliness he'd worn earlier was gone, replaced by something harder, something that made your stomach tighten the moment your eyes met his. His smile no longer reached his eyes, and there was an ugly satisfaction in the way he looked at you, as though he'd already decided how this conversation was going to end.

Your hand instinctively tightened around the doorknob.

"What are you doing here?"

"I figured we got off on the wrong foot."

"I don't think we have anything else to talk about."

"I'm pretty sure we do."

You started pushing the door closed.

He caught it before it moved more than a few inches.

The wood shuddered beneath the force of his hand.

"I said I'm not interested."

"And I said," he replied, his voice dropping lower, "you're making this harder than it needs to be."

Your pulse quickened.

"You need to leave."

Instead of answering, he pushed.

The door swung inward despite your resistance, forcing you to stumble back as he stepped across the threshold without the slightest invitation, his gaze sweeping lazily around the room before settling on you again.

"You can't just walk into my room."

"I just did."

You took another step backward, keeping as much distance between you as the small bedroom allowed, refusing to let him see the fear beginning to crawl beneath your skin.

"Leave."

"No."

The single word landed heavily in the silence.

He kept advancing, slow enough that every step felt deliberate, while you matched each one by retreating until the backs of your knees brushed against the edge of the bed. Your heart hammered painfully against your ribs, your mind racing through every possible way out of the room, every scream you could let out, every object within reach that might buy you enough time.

"You've been playing hard to get all day," he said with a crooked grin. "I think we're done pretending now."

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze despite the fear knotting in your stomach.

"I'm asking you one last time."

Your voice trembled only slightly.

"Get out."

He laughed.

"I don't think you're in a position to tell me what to do."

His hand shot forward without warning.

You twisted away just in time, his fingers brushing the sleeve of your pajama instead of closing around your wrist, your heart lurching into your throat as you stumbled around the corner of the bed. The mattress dug against your hip when you caught yourself, breathing hard while he turned slowly to face you again, his grin widening as though the whole thing amused him.

"Oh, there you go," he sneered. "Run a little. Makes it more interesting."

You moved again before he could reach you, circling the bed, trying desperately to keep something between the two of you, but the room was far too small. Every step backward stole another piece of the little space you had left until your shoulders struck the wall with a dull thud, the edge of the bed pressing against your legs while he stopped only a few feet away.

There was nowhere else to go.

His eyes traveled slowly over you, lingering in a way that made your stomach turn.

"You know..." His smile curled into something uglier. "You look damn cute like this."

You didn't answer.

"I've been thinking about you all day," he continued, taking another slow step forward. "Couldn't stop imagining what you'd sound like screaming my name instead of telling me 'no.'"

Your blood ran cold.

Fear settled so heavily in your chest it became difficult to breathe, your pulse pounding painfully against your ribs while your mind searched frantically for something—anything—that might get you out of the room.

The hallway.

No.

He was blocking the door.

The window.

Too small.

Your voice.

You could scream...

But this part of the hotel was practically abandoned.

The corridor had been empty every time you'd walked through it, silent enough that your own footsteps echoed off the walls. Nobody came here unless they already lived here.

Nobody...

Except—

Your eyes darted toward the wall beside the bed.

Alastor.

Please...

Please be back.

Please have come home.

The sinner noticed your glance and laughed again.

"Looking for a miracle?"

You didn't answer.

Instead, you slammed your fist against the wall.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

The impact stung immediately, pain shooting through your knuckles as you hit the old plaster harder and harder, each blow echoing through the room while the man lunged toward you, barking a sharp laugh as he grabbed for your arm.

You tore yourself out of reach at the last second and struck the wall again with everything you had.

"Alastor!"

Your voice cracked.

Another desperate pound rattled the frame of a painting hanging above the bed.

"Alastor!"

You didn't know whether he was home.

You only knew that, for weeks, every laugh, every song, every late-night conversation had carried effortlessly between your rooms.

Now...

You prayed your voice would do the same.

On the other side of the wall, Alastor finally allowed himself a moment of quiet.

The afternoon in Pentagram City had been... exhausting.

Charlie had insisted on stopping every few streets to greet complete strangers, explain the hotel for what must have been the hundredth time, reassure nervous sinners that redemption was still possible, and wave enthusiastically at anyone who so much as glanced in her direction. He admired her determination, in his own peculiar way, and although he would sooner bargain away one of his antlers than admit it aloud, the princess possessed a stubborn kindness that even Hell had failed to extinguish.

It was... Refreshing. Also incredibly draining.

He loosened his bow tie ever so slightly, settled comfortably into the armchair beside the fireplace and lit one of his cigars, letting the first plume of fragrant smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling.

the fire burned steadily a few feet away, and for the first time since leaving the hotel that morning, he finally began to relax.

His eyes drifted almost absentmindedly toward the wall separating his room from yours. It had become part of his routine now.

He would enjoy a quiet cigar, finish whichever chapter he'd been reading, perhaps pour the two of you another cup of coffee, then, sooner or later, three gentle knocks would sound through the old plaster, followed by your voice wishing him a good evening. It happened with such comforting regularity that he had quietly begun arranging his evenings around it, though he would have denied such a thing with perfect confidence had anyone dared suggest it.

Curious.

He had spent decades avoiding company whenever possible. Now... He found himself looking forward to yours with an eagerness that bordered on impatience. The thought drew the faintest smile to his lips.

Then he heard your voice. It was muffled by the wall, too indistinct for him to understand the words, but unmistakably yours. He lifted his head slightly, listening without much concern, assuming you'd decided to entertain another guest before the evening inevitably found its way back to him.

How... unusual.

You rarely invited anyone upstairs.

He took another slow draw from his cigar. The conversation continued for another few seconds, still too quiet to make out, until a sharper voice answered yours. Male. Unfamiliar.

His smile faded ever so slightly. Perhaps one of the newer residents. The hotel had become rather crowded lately.

He reached for his coffee. A loud bang exploded against the wall. The porcelain cup stopped halfway to his lips.

Another. Then another. Not rhythmic or playful. Desperate. Every instinct in his body sharpened at once.

The cigar was already forgotten between his fingers as he rose smoothly from the armchair, his gaze fixed on the wall while another violent impact shook the picture frame hanging above the fireplace. The knocks came faster now, frantic enough to rattle the old plaster between your rooms, carrying a desperation he had never heard from you before.

He was already crossing the room.

One step. Two. Then your voice tore through the wall.

"Alastor!"

Everything inside him stopped.

The blood beneath his skin turned to ice. Not because you'd called his name. Because of the terror in your voice. He had heard fear before. He had caused it countless times. This was different.

This wasn't the trembling uncertainty of a frightened sinner. This was someone begging for help. His help.

Another crash echoed through the wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of furniture scraping violently across the floor, your breathing breaking into panicked sobs between muffled cries that grew harder and harder to distinguish.

His expression emptied. The smile remained. Everything else disappeared. The room darkened.

The fire bent violently toward him as shadows spilled across the floorboards, stretching unnaturally from every corner until they swallowed the walls themselves.

a violent burst of radio static that crackled through the room loud enough to make the windows tremble. Another cry.

Another frantic blow against the wall. His name again. There was no hesitation.

Only one thought remained, burning through his mind with terrifying clarity. Someone had laid a hand on you.

And whoever stood in that room had just made the greatest mistake of their existence.

The wall gave way with a deafening crack.

Wood splintered, plaster burst outward in a cloud of white dust, and the entire room shook as something tore straight through it without slowing down for so much as a heartbeat. The bedside lamp flickered violently before exploding in a shower of sparks, darkness swallowing the room as radio static erupted from every direction at once, loud enough to make the windows tremble inside their frames. Shadows spilled across the floor like living ink, swallowing the broken wall, climbing the ceiling, stretching until they towered over the room itself, and from the middle of that suffocating darkness stepped Alastor.

He looked... wrong.

His smile remained exactly where it always was, perfectly composed, perfectly polite, yet everything surrounding it had changed. Crimson eyes glowed with an intensity you'd never seen before, his antlers seemed taller somehow, disappearing into the monstrous silhouette rising behind him, while the creature hidden inside his shadow unfolded slowly across the bedroom, dozens of glowing eyes opening one after another until they all fixed themselves upon the sinner standing over you.

Only then did the man notice he was no longer alone.

He had been too busy wrestling you onto the mattress to hear the wall collapsing behind him, one hand still wrapped painfully around your wrist while the other forced your shoulder back against the bed, his weight pressing down hard enough that every desperate attempt to push him away only seemed to amuse him more.

"You'll stop fighting eventually," he laughed, leaning down again as you turned your face away from his, refusing to let his lips touch yours. "You'll even start enjoying it."

The radio screamed.

The sound ripped through the room with such violence that he froze mid-movement, every muscle in his body locking instinctively before he slowly turned his head toward the impossible wall of shadows now filling your bedroom.

His face drained of every trace of color.

Alastor didn't move.

He simply stood there, framed by broken plaster and shattered wood, while the static continued roaring through the room, his shadow twisting higher and higher behind him until it brushed the ceiling like some enormous beast struggling to remain contained.

For the first time since forcing his way into your room...

The sinner looked afraid.

"H-Hey..." He released your wrist so quickly it almost hurt, stumbling backward until he stood between the bed and the shattered window, both hands lifting awkwardly as he searched desperately for words. "Calm down, alright? We were just... just messing around."

Silence answered him.

"I mean..." He forced out a nervous laugh, glancing briefly toward you before looking back at Alastor. "She was playing hard to get, that's all. We were having a little fun."

Nothing.

His smile remained.

His eyes never blinked.

"You know how girls are," the sinner continued, speaking faster now, "they say no at first, then—"

His voice broke.

Only then did Alastor finally shift his attention away from him.

His gaze settled on you instead.

You were still pressed against the headboard, breathing so hard your chest ached, your hair falling across your face where desperate hands had grabbed it, your pajama wrinkled and half pulled from one shoulder, your whole body trembling violently as you struggled to catch your breath. Your eyes met his for barely a second, wide with fear, glassy with unshed tears, and somewhere beneath all of that panic sat the quiet relief of seeing him standing there.

Something inside him broke.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

The shadows exploded.

They crossed the bedroom in less than a heartbeat, surging around the sinner's legs before wrapping themselves around his torso and throat with terrifying speed. He barely managed to scream before they lifted him completely off the floor, his feet kicking helplessly through empty air while invisible claws tightened relentlessly around him.

"W-Wait!"

His voice cracked.

"It was a misunderstanding!"

Alastor took one slow step forward, the static lowering just enough for his own voice to cut cleanly through the room.

"You frightened her."

The words were quiet.

Almost conversational.

"I didn't mean—"

"You touched her."

The shadows tightened.

"I swear, I wasn't gonna—"

"You entered her room."

Every sentence landed with frightening calm, each one colder than the last, until the sinner had stopped struggling altogether, reduced to little more than terrified pleading beneath the crushing grip of the creature holding him.

"I'm sorry!"

Alastor tilted his head ever so slightly.

"I am not."

The window exploded outward.

Glass burst into the night as the shadow hurled the sinner through it with impossible force, his scream disappearing almost immediately into the darkness below while thousands of glittering shards rained toward Pentagram City. They were among the highest rooms in the hotel, high enough that the streets below looked impossibly distant, and by the time silence returned, there was no sign the man had ever been there at all.

The radio static faded.

The shadows slowly withdrew.

The monstrous figure behind Alastor folded back into itself until only his own silhouette remained, standing quietly in the middle of your ruined bedroom while dust continued drifting lazily through the air.

He didn't spare the broken window so much as a glance.

He was already walking toward you.

His pace slowed as he reached the bed, every movement suddenly careful, almost hesitant, as though he feared even approaching too quickly might frighten you after everything that had just happened. He lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, enough space remaining between you that you could choose whether to close it yourself, his crimson eyes searching your face with an unfamiliar intensity while one hand rested quietly against his knee.

"My dear..." His voice had softened so completely it barely resembled the one that had condemned a sinner only moments earlier. "Did he—"

You never let him finish.

The distance between you vanished in an instant as you threw yourself into his arms, your body moving before your mind had the chance to think, your fingers clutching desperately at the back of his jacket while you buried your face against his shoulder. The adrenaline holding you together shattered all at once, leaving nothing behind but violent trembling, ragged breaths and tears you hadn't even realized were falling, soaking silently into the fabric of his suit.

For the first time in many, many years...

Alastor forgot what to do.

He remained perfectly still for a single heartbeat, surprise flickering across his face before disappearing beneath something infinitely gentler, then, almost cautiously, his arms rose around you. One settled securely across your back while the other came to rest behind your head, his fingers threading carefully through your hair as though reassuring himself you were truly there, truly safe, and no one would ever lay another hand on you again.

He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, a quiet breath escaping him, one he hadn't even realized he'd been holding ever since your panicked voice had reached him through the wall.

"...Thank you."

Your voice barely existed.

It trembled against his shoulder, broken by uneven breaths and quiet sobs you still couldn't seem to stop, yet he heard every syllable as though the entire world had fallen silent for you alone.

"I..." You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the fabric of his jacket. "...Thank you."

"My dear..." he murmured softly.

One hand moved slowly through your hair, careful, reassuring, while the other held you just a little closer, almost instinctively, as though putting even the smallest distance between you had suddenly become unthinkable.

"You needn't thank me."

His voice remained perfectly calm, but beneath that familiar smoothness rested something heavier, something startlingly honest.

"I was..." He paused, searching for words that had never come naturally to him. "...relieved to find you in time."

The confession slipped out before he could stop it.

He lowered his head ever so slightly, resting his cheek against your hair for only a moment before his lips brushed the crown of your head in a featherlight kiss, so gentle you almost wondered whether you'd imagined it.

"You are safe now," he whispered. "Nothing will ever happen to you again."

His hand settled more firmly against your back.

"I won't allow it."

The promise lingered between you, quiet and absolute.

"You are..." His voice softened even further. "...mine to protect."

You didn't answer.

You simply held him tighter.

After a long while, once your breathing had finally begun to steady and the trembling in your body had eased into exhausted shivers, Alastor carefully slipped one arm beneath your knees while the other remained securely around your back.

"What are you...?"

"You are not spending another night in this room."

Before you could protest, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms. You were too emotionally drained to argue, your head naturally settling against his shoulder while he carried you toward the gaping hole where your bedroom wall had once stood. Broken plaster crunched quietly beneath his polished shoes, scattered pieces of wood forcing him to step carefully through the debris until he crossed into his own room, where the familiar warmth of the fireplace still danced across the walls. 

He lowered you gently onto his bed, disappearing only long enough to pull another blanket from the wardrobe before returning to drape it carefully over your shoulders. When he turned to leave, your fingers caught the sleeve of his jacket without thinking.

"...Please."

Just one word.

That was all it took.

He looked down at your hand resting against him, then back at your face, still marked by exhaustion and tear tracks, before quietly abandoning whatever intention he'd had of spending the night in the armchair.

Without a word, he sat beside you.

Your fingers never let go.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, exhaustion finally claimed you.

When you woke briefly a few hours later, the fire had burned low, dawn had only just begun creeping through the curtains, and Alastor remained exactly where he'd been, sitting against the headboard with a book resting forgotten in his lap. He wasn't reading anymore. On hand absentmindedly tracing slow circles across your back, while his crimson eyes stared quietly into the dying fire.

The moment he noticed you stirring, his gaze softened.

"Go back to sleep."

This time...

You did.

Weeks passed.

The shattered wall never returned.

Instead, Lucifer himself had found the whole situation oddly charming, and with little more than a snap of his fingers, the broken plaster disappeared, replaced by a proper wooden doorway connecting the two bedrooms. It matched the rest of the hotel perfectly, as though it had always belonged there, another quiet passage hidden away at the end of the forgotten corridor.

"It'll save me repairing the wall every time someone gets emotional," he'd joked.

Charlie had laughed.

Neither you nor Alastor corrected him.

The door remained.

So did the habit.

If one of you wanted coffee, there was no need to knock anymore. If a book needed returning, if dinner had been particularly entertaining, if one of you simply couldn't sleep, the door quietly opened, and the conversation resumed exactly where it had ended the night before.

No invitations.

No hesitation.

Just...

Home.

The rest of the hotel noticed, of course.

Angel Dust started taking bets on how long it would take before one of you admitted what everyone else had already figured out. Husk only rolled his eyes whenever someone brought it up, muttering that they'd been "acting like an old married couple for weeks," while Charlie smiled so brightly every time she saw the two of you together that Vaggie eventually started dragging her away before she could accidentally say something embarrassing.

Neither of you ever made a public announcement.

Neither of you defined whatever had quietly grown between midnight conversations, shared cups of coffee and evenings spent reading side by side before the fireplace.

You didn't need to.

Everyone already knew.

Niffty certainly did.

Every morning she bounced cheerfully into your room with feather duster in hand, humming to herself while tidying the little space that somehow never seemed lived in anymore. Your bed remained perfectly made almost every single day, the pillows untouched, the blankets folded exactly as she'd left them the afternoon before, while the door connecting your bedroom to Alastor's stood slightly ajar, never fully open, never completely closed.

Niffty always peeked through it.

She'd spot the two coffee cups waiting by the fireplace.

Sometimes two books resting on the same table.

Sometimes your cardigan draped carelessly over the back of his armchair.

Sometimes nothing at all.

She'd simply grin to herself, quietly dust around the doorway, then leave it exactly as she'd found it, half open, just enough for two neighboring rooms to remain connected.

The walls that had once terrified you had disappeared.

In their place remained only a single door, one neither of you ever bothered locking again.

ʜᴇʟʟᴀᴠᴇʀsᴇ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)

@fruttiextra @boldlyenchantingfox22 @k3nnytheg00z3

ʜᴀᴢʙɪɴ ʜᴏᴛᴇʟ

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑯𝑯

@thenasoneshots @sugar-and-spite13 @animalssssss-----love @whiteghostlyclouds @sugarrush-blush @jazztato

𝑨𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓

Adam tries his HARDEST and I mean HARDEST to act nonchalant, cool, and suave around you.

GENUINELY like he's putting in effort to be as cool. calm, and collected as possible

I mean c'mon he's THE ORIGINAL DICK??

However, all confidence falls apart as soon as you walk into a room

Adam literally swoons for you as soon as he sees you

He understands now why his marriage with Lilith and Eve fell apart, I mean he didn't really love them, not like he loves you.

Adam probably isn't the best whatsoever at communication

If you're feeling sad? "Babe, you're too sexy to feel down in the slumps. Here, hear this guitar solo it'll cheer you up."

Such a gift giver honestly, I feel like Adam is secretly attentive to random and odd things about you.

No it's not some beautiful jewelry you've been eyeing for weeks, it'll be some random niche thing you looked at once on tv, said it was nice in passing, and moved on and forgot about.

"Here's that nail polish you wanted babe." "I mentioned that once like last year Adam." "Yeah I know I'm an awesome fucking boyfriend don't sweat it.....you do like it right babe?"

Adam is ragingly insecure. I feel like he doesn't want to admit it, but what happened with Lilith and Eve messed up his self esteem. Especially since the SAME man stole both of them away.

You reassure him constantly that he is enough, and his flashy showmanship isn't going to change that fact. with or without the guitars and attitude, you still care about him

I feel like Adam would be really hesitant to marry, so hopefully that isn't an immediate want of yours because it isn't going to happen soon. Marriage feels like a betrayal to him now, and if it's going to be as sacred as he wants it to be, I think you two would need to date for a very very VERY long time

Well, Heaven is eternal so that won't be an issue!

That got his attention, “Yeah, yeah, sounds good. How about reverse strip poker. We start naked and have to work ourselves up. You first.” His eyebrows wiggled, oh so seductively.

“Hmm, no. I’m going to tell you a…quality in a partner, and you say if it’s a green or a red flag. You know red flag means—“ You explained.

“Babe, I fucking know about the flags.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair, his arms folded now behind his head, “The fuck you waiting for? Start talking.”

You drummed your finger against your chin, “She is…Self-Centered.”

Adam clicked his tongue, “Red as fuuuck. A woman should always put her man above.”

You rolled your eyes at that, swishing right and left in your own desk chair. “She is into rock ‘n roll.”

“Green. Sexy, you got a cute friend to set me up with?”

“Pfff. No. My one friend never talked to me again after going on a date with you. What did you even do?” You rested your hand on your cheek.

“Rumour has it I talked about you the whole time.” Adam confessed.

Your eyebrows shot up, “You’re such an ass. She…” Your eyes checked Adam out, “She is chubby.”

“Green. I like a lady that can eat.” Adam’s fingers were now drumming down on his big desk, “What are your plans for tonight?”

“Sleep. She is passionate.” Your eyes was focused on the clock.

“It’s a green flag. Wanna grab something to eat?” Adam’s own eyes were set on the clock, seeing through your little game.

“Only if you pay. She is…She…Uh…” You struggled to come up with something.

“Ugh, I always fucking pay. What-fucking-ever, I pick the place. My turn. She is my assistant.” Adam stood up, and you followed after him. After all, you have completed your hours.

“Uh, red flag. I heard your assistant is a bitch.” You teased.

“Ha! Don’t insult my staff, though. I loooove my bitches.” Adam held out his hand to you, and you took. He squeezed yours gently, and with the snap off his fingers he opened a portal.

A searing pain in his back. Not a cut, but something deeper. Something that had pierced straight through him, a violent rupture that stole the air from his lungs and the strength from his limbs. He could almost feel it again, the unbearable heat of steel driven between his shoulders, the pressure splitting him open from spine to chest.

And then—

Your voice. Sharp and desperate. Breaking as it tore through the chaos.

You were screaming his name. That was the last thing he remembered before everything went dark.

For a long moment, he remained on the ground, staring up at a sky that felt wrong in a way he could not immediately name. It wasn’t Heaven’s endless blue, radiant and untouched. It wasn’t the battlefield either, torn apart by divine light and infernal fire. This sky was darker, stained in deep shades of crimson and violet, choked by slow-moving clouds that did not drift so much as linger.

Adam inhaled carefully, testing his lungs. The air scraped on the way down, thick and sour, carrying the unmistakable scent of rot and smoke. It settled heavily in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

“What the hell…” he muttered under his breath, the words rough and hoarse.

He pushed himself up slowly, bracing one hand against the pavement. The surface beneath him was uneven and grimy, small fragments of glass biting into his palm. He rose to his knees first, steadying himself against a brick wall slick with something damp, then forced himself upright.

His legs wobbled under his weight.

For a second, the world tilted dangerously, and he had to grab onto a rusted fire escape to keep from collapsing again. His jaw tightened in irritation.

“Get a grip,” he hissed at himself, as though his body were a disobedient soldier.

Memory came in flashes. Lucifer’s smirk. The impact of the ground splitting beneath him. The blade.

God, the blade.

He reached back instinctively, fingers brushing over his spine where steel had torn through him. There was soreness there, a deep and unpleasant ache, but no open wound. No blood soaking through fabric. No divine glow knitting flesh back together.

And then your voice. Clearer now. You had screamed his name. Not an order. Not a command. A scream. Raw. Desperate.

His brow furrowed deeply.

He finally lifted his head and truly looked around him.

The alley stretched out on both sides, narrow and suffocating, brick walls rising high and blocking out most of the sky. Trash bags were piled haphazardly near overflowing bins, the smell of spoiled food and stale alcohol thick in the stagnant air. A flickering neon sign buzzed at the far end, casting sickly pink light over cracked pavement and scattered bottles.

Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed.

It wasn’t a normal laugh. It was sharp. Twisted. Wrong.

Adam’s lips curled in disgust.

“Pentagram City,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Of course. The battle must have pushed deeper into the city. He must have taken that hit and blacked out. That was it. He’d been knocked unconscious and dumped here while the extermination continued elsewhere.

Yes. That made sense.

He straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders with deliberate control, trying to ignore the lingering weakness in his limbs.

“Lute?” he called out, his voice echoing faintly down the alley. “Form up.”

Silence answered him.

No beating of wings. No armored footsteps. No sharp acknowledgment.

He frowned.

“Enough screwing around,” he snapped, louder now. “Report.”

Still nothing.

Only distant music drifting from somewhere beyond the alley. The clink of glass. The murmur of voices that sounded distorted, layered with undertones that didn’t belong to anything holy.

His chest tightened, but not with fear—with something colder.

Where was his army?

Where were you?

He stepped toward the mouth of the alley, boots crunching over broken glass. As he reached the edge, two figures stumbled past the entrance—tall, twisted silhouettes with glowing eyes and jagged grins, their movements loose and careless.

One of them paused when he noticed Adam standing there.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the creature drawled, voice warped and amused. “Look what crawled outta the gutter.”

The other squinted at him, head tilting. “Nice cosplay, buddy. Exorcist convention in town?”

Adam’s expression darkened instantly.

“Watch your tone,” he said coldly, straightening to his full height, the authority in his voice instinctive and sharp. “You’re speaking to—”

He stopped.

The demon was laughing. Actually laughing at him.

“Oh, this one thinks he’s important,” the first one snickered. “That’s adorable.”

Adam stared at them, something shifting uncomfortably beneath his sternum.

They weren’t afraid.

The demons moved on, their laughter loud and unrestrained as they continued down the street, their voices echoing and then fading into the distance as if nothing about that exchange had been worth remembering. Adam let out a low, irritated growl, his breathing uneven, sharp with something that felt dangerously close to anger—but not quite the kind he was used to.

“What the fuck is this shit?” he snapped, the words tearing out of him as he pushed forward out of the alley, boots crunching over glass and debris, intent on following them, on correcting that mistake, on reminding them exactly who they had just spoken to.

But the moment he stepped out of the shadows, a flickering neon light from a nearby storefront washed over him in a sickly glow, casting warped colors across his form—and he stopped abruptly.

Something was wrong.

His gaze dropped instantly to his body, and for a second his mind refused to process what he was seeing. His robes—his armor, his immaculate white uniform that had always marked him as Heaven’s chosen blade—were no longer white.

They were black.

Not stained. Not dirtied. Changed.

The fabric itself had shifted, dark and unfamiliar, swallowing the light instead of reflecting it, the once-golden details now glowing in a deep, unnatural red that seemed to pulse faintly beneath the surface.

A cold, creeping unease began to crawl up his spine.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, Adam lifted his head and turned toward the nearest reflective surface—the grimy glass of a storefront window, plastered with obscene posters that he barely registered as his focus locked onto his own reflection.

For a moment, he didn’t recognize what he was looking at.

Everything was wrong.

The silhouette was still his—broad, imposing, unmistakably him—but the colors had shifted into something darker, something corrupted. The sharp lines of his armor remained, but they no longer carried the same divine authority. The red accents burned where gold once gleamed, and the eyes of his helmet—

They glowed.

Bright. Violent. Crimson.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, the word quieter this time, less anger and more disbelief bleeding into it.

His thoughts stumbled over themselves, trying to make sense of it, trying to force it into something logical, something that didn’t immediately shatter everything he knew.

Why was he alone in Hell? Where was his army? Where were you? And why the hell did he look like this?

Something cold and insidious began to settle in his chest then, slipping between his ribs and tightening slowly, steadily, like a hand closing around his lungs.

“No…”

The word came out quieter, strained, as if saying it too loudly might make it real.

He needed proof, needed to fix this.

Adam reached up sharply, grabbing his helmet with both hands, fingers digging into the edges with sudden urgency as he yanked upward, expecting the familiar give, the simple motion of removing it like he had done countless times before.

It didn’t move. His grip tightened instantly. He pulled harder.

Nothing.

A flicker of panic sparked low in his chest.

He braced himself and yanked again, harder this time, muscles straining, teeth grinding together as he forced the motion with everything he had—but instead of the helmet coming free, a sharp, searing pain shot through his head, like trying to rip something that was no longer separate from him.

“—fuck—!”

He stumbled back a step, breath catching, but he didn’t stop.

“No, no, no—!”

His voice broke into something rougher, less controlled, as he grabbed at it again, fingers slipping slightly against the surface as he pulled with more force, desperation bleeding into the movement now, the pain intensifying with every attempt.

“This isn’t possible!”

His pulse roared in his ears, vision flickering at the edges as the realization pressed harder, heavier, suffocating in its implications.

It wasn’t coming off. It wasn’t something he was wearing anymore.

It was part of him.

“I…” he murmured, the word barely forming as his hands slowly dropped away, fingers trembling slightly as the pain faded into a dull, lingering throb.

He stared at his reflection, and for the first time since waking up, something in him gave way. His shoulders sank—not in weakness, not quite—but in something heavier. Something closer to resignation pressing down on him before he could stop it.

“I can’t be…” he tried again, breath uneven, the words dragging painfully out of him as the realization forced its way in, piece by piece, no matter how much he resisted it.

But there was no twisting this into something else. No reframing it into a tactical error, a temporary setback, a situation he could command his way out of.

Reality stood there in front of him, reflected back in red and black.

“I’m a fucking sinner.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, final, and for a second the entire world seemed to go quiet around him, as if Hell itself had paused just long enough to let that sink in.

Then the noise came rushing back.

Laughter in the distance. Music pounding from somewhere deeper in the street. Voices overlapping, arguing, flirting, shouting. The city moved on, alive and chaotic and utterly indifferent to the fact that Heaven’s former executioner had just fallen into its streets.

Adam didn’t move.

His gaze stayed locked on his reflection, as if staring long enough might force it to change back, might snap something into place and undo whatever cosmic mistake had just been made.

It didn’t.

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped him, sudden and jagged.

“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging a hand down over the front of his helmet as if that would help somehow. “That’s— that’s funny. Real funny.”

His jaw tightened.

“No,” he went on, shaking his head once, more forcefully now, trying to push back against the thought before it could settle. “No, that’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.”

His voice rose slightly, gaining edge, slipping back into something more familiar—authority, certainty, even if it was forced.

“Angels don’t just—” he gestured vaguely around him, frustration snapping through the movement, “—end up here after dying. That’s the whole fucking point.”

His chest rose sharply with another breath, the air still burning on the way in.

He turned abruptly away from the glass, like looking at himself any longer would make it worse, pacing a few steps before stopping again, agitation building under his skin with nowhere to go.

“This is a mistake,” he said, more firmly now. “Some kind of glitch. Cosmic bullshit. Whatever.”

That had to be it.

Because the alternative—

His thoughts cut off abruptly.

Because the alternative meant everything he had ever believed in was wrong.

And that—

No.

Adam clenched his fists tightly at his sides, grounding himself in the familiar tension of it, forcing his breathing to steady through sheer will.

“Alright,” he muttered, tone shifting again, sharper now, more controlled. “Fine. Doesn’t matter.”

If this was Hell, then there were rules. Even if they were twisted, even if they were wrong, there were still rules.

And he could work with rules.

His head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing behind the glowing visor as he scanned the street more carefully this time, actually taking in what was around him instead of just reacting to it. Demons passed by in loose clusters, some glancing at him with mild curiosity, others not even bothering. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting everything in shifting colors, signs buzzing and crackling, music spilling out from open doors.

No one saluted.

No one moved aside.

No one cared.

His lip curled faintly.

“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s gonna change.”

If he was stuck here—temporarily—then he wasn’t going to stand around having an existential crisis in the middle of some shitty alleyway.

He needed information.

He needed to understand what the hell had happened.

And then he was going to fix it.

But as quickly as that instinct rose, something colder followed, sharper, more controlled, the kind of awareness that had kept him alive through centuries of exterminations. Adam stilled, his gaze sweeping the street again, this time not with arrogance, but with calculation. He had slaughtered demons for ages, cut through them without hesitation, without mercy, and if even a fraction of them recognized him—if word spread—this wouldn’t be confusion or mockery anymore. It would be a hunt.

His jaw tightened.

“Right,” he muttered more quietly, the edge in his voice lowering into something more deliberate, “maybe don’t announce yourself to the entire fucking city.”

He forced himself to relax his posture, just slightly, enough to dull the immediate authority he usually carried without thinking, enough to blend—if that was even possible looking like this. The red glow of his visor dimmed faintly as he tilted his head down, angling it away from the brighter lights, instinctively seeking shadow rather than dominance.

Observe first. Act later.

It felt wrong. It felt like stepping backward instead of forward, like yielding ground he had never once considered giving. But this wasn’t Heaven, and he wasn’t at the head of an army anymore.

The thought hit harder than he expected.

He wasn’t at the head of anything.

A flicker of irritation flared in his chest, quick and sharp, and with it came another realization, quieter but far more bitter. No one had come for him. No recall, no retrieval, no divine intervention ripping him out of Hell the second he fell. Nothing. Just… silence.

Adam scoffed under his breath, the sound dry and humorless.

“Figures.”

Of course they hadn’t planned for this. Of course Heaven hadn’t even considered the possibility that something could go wrong. To them, the exterminations were routine, controlled, inevitable. Adam went down, Adam came back, rinse and repeat, an eternal cycle they didn’t have to think about because he handled it for them.

And now?

Now he was here.

And they weren’t.

Something darker settled beneath his irritation, something heavier, edged with resentment he hadn’t expected to feel, not toward them. Not toward Heaven.

“They didn’t even think about it,” he muttered, quieter now, more to himself than anything else, his gaze unfocused for a brief second. “Didn’t even consider I might not walk back through that portal.”

Not one of them had prepared for failure. Not one of them had planned for what happened if their weapon broke.

His fingers curled slowly at his sides.

Then, unbidden, your face surfaced in his mind.

You.

His second-in-command. His most trusted soldier. The only one who could keep up with him without being told twice, the only one who didn’t hesitate when he pushed harder, demanded more, expected perfection and got it. You had always been there—at his side, just behind his shoulder, moving when he moved, thinking the same way, anticipating the same outcomes.

His… friend.

The word felt strange, unfamiliar in a way that made something in his chest tighten slightly.

Adam exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck before letting it fall again.

“You made it back,” he muttered under his breath, more certain of that than anything else. You were too good not to. Too fast, too sharp, too stubborn to go down that easily. If anyone had survived that mess, it was you.

The question wasn’t if you had lived.

It was what you were doing now.

His brow furrowed slightly.

You had seen it. Him going down. That blade. You had been there at the end.

How had you reacted?

The image tried to form—your expression, your voice—but it slipped just out of reach, replaced instead by that last memory, your scream cutting through the chaos, raw and desperate in a way he had never heard from you before.

His jaw tightened again.

“Yeah,” he muttered, quieter now. “You wouldn’t just let that go.”

No. You weren’t the type to accept it, to bow your head and move on like the rest of them probably would. You were loyal to a fault, relentless when it mattered.

You’d want answers.

You’d want blood.

A faint, sharp smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite everything.

“Good,” he said under his breath.

Because if you were angry—if you were pissed enough—you wouldn’t stay in Heaven. You’d come back down. You’d tear through Hell looking for whoever did it, looking for Lucifer, for anyone involved.

And if you did…

His gaze lifted slightly, something more focused settling behind the red glow of his visor.

Then he wouldn’t be alone for long.

“Just gotta not get killed again before that happens,” he added dryly, rolling his shoulders as he pushed himself fully into motion, steps slower now, more measured as he merged into the flow of the street, keeping his head down just enough to avoid drawing too much attention while his eyes tracked everything around him, exits, groups, behaviors, patterns.

Information first.

Survive long enough to use it.

Then fix the rest.

ʜᴇʟʟᴀᴠᴇʀsᴇ (you're tagged in everything Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss)

@fruttiextra @boldlyenchantingfox22 @k3nnytheg00z3

ʜᴀᴢʙɪɴ ʜᴏᴛᴇʟ

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑯𝑯

@thenasoneshots @sugar-and-spite13 @animalssssss-----love @whiteghostlyclouds @sugarrush-blush

𝑨𝒅𝒂𝒎

You learned to read a room before stepping into it, letting your eyes drift over every face before your feet crossed the threshold. A shift in posture, a hand lingering too close to a weapon, a conversation that stopped a fraction too abruptly—those little details often mattered more than the words themselves. You learned to keep your chin high even when fear settled like lead in your stomach, because in Hell, hesitation costs far more than pride.

And yet, even in the darkest corners of this place, something stubborn refuses to disappear. Not goodness—not exactly—but warmth. It hides in moments no one thinks to value, in laughter echoing through a crumbling hallway long after the joke should have ended, in someone choosing the seat beside you instead of the empty one across the room, in quiet acts of kindness that nobody is willing to call kindness.

You found yours the day you walked into the Hazbin Hotel.

Charlie greeted you with hope that felt almost reckless in a realm that feeds on cynicism. The hotel itself looked like it had survived one disaster too many, its cracked wallpaper peeling from the walls, furniture that never quite matched, and repairs that seemed to have been made with determination rather than skill. It was chaotic, loud, and held together by little more than optimism, but beneath all its imperfections, it felt alive. Somehow, against all logic, it also felt safe.

It didn't happen overnight, but the room Charlie offered slowly became your own. The unfamiliar faces became familiar ones, greetings replaced cautious nods, and before you realized it, the hotel had stopped feeling like a temporary refuge. It had become something dangerously close to home.

Somewhere between Charlie's endless speeches about redemption, Husk's complaints behind the bar, and Angel's relentless teasing, you found him.

Alastor had always been there, as though he belonged to the hotel as much as the cracked walls and flickering lights. He never demanded attention, yet people's eyes drifted toward him all the same. Conversations seemed to bend around his presence, voices lowering without anyone realizing it, bodies shifting ever so slightly to make room whenever he entered. He didn't ask the room to accommodate him.

It simply did.

You noticed long before you ever spoke to him.

Your gaze found him almost automatically whenever you entered a room. He always stood just a little apart from everyone else, hands folded neatly behind his back, shoulders relaxed, his smile untouched by whatever chaos unfolded around him. It wasn't unsettling in the way Hell usually was. It was quieter than that, measured and deliberate, as though every gesture had been considered before he ever made it.

You learned quickly that being around Alastor meant paying attention.

Your first conversations were simple enough. Polite, almost formal. He spoke smoothly, every sentence delivered with effortless confidence, but what surprised you most was the way he listened. He never seemed distracted, never interrupted, never looked over your shoulder for someone more interesting. Instead, he listened as though every passing comment, every offhand remark, every insignificant detail was worth remembering.

You should have kept your distance.

Instead, you found yourself lingering.

It wasn't a decision you consciously made. It happened little by little, quietly enough that neither of you acknowledged it. Conversations stretched a few minutes longer than they needed to. He started appearing beside you more often, leaning against a doorway just as you arrived or stepping into a room moments after you did, always with some remark prepared as though your paths had crossed entirely by chance.

He never lingered long enough for anyone to question it. Never reached for you without reason. Never crossed a line that either of you could point to.

And still, he was always there.

The evenings became your favorite. Once the hotel settled into silence and the usual noise faded into distant voices and creaking floorboards, the conversations changed. His voice softened—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you did—and the hours slipped by almost unnoticed while you talked. Sometimes he answered with one of his usual clever remarks. Sometimes he let the silence settle comfortably between you, watching with that same unreadable smile. And sometimes, he simply looked at you with his head tilted ever so slightly, as though you had become a question he hadn't quite figured out how to answer.

Those were the moments that stayed with you the longest.

There were little slips, too. Barely noticeable, but impossible to miss once you started looking for them. A pause that lasted a heartbeat too long after you caught him off guard. The almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows when you stepped a little closer than usual. The way his eyes lingered on you for just a second before he hid whatever thought had crossed his mind behind another smile.

"You’re far too perceptive for your own good, my dear."

"And you're not as unreadable as you think."

His smile didn't falter, but something shifted behind it. His head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze resting on you in thoughtful silence before the familiar amusement returned to his expression.

"Oh, I do enjoy a challenge."

That was always where it ended.

It couldn't become anything else.

Alastor wasn't the kind of man who reached for people. Affection never came easily to him, if it came at all, and whatever thoughts crossed his mind remained carefully hidden behind polished manners, practiced smiles and a distance he never allowed himself to abandon completely.

Even so, he stayed.

He kept finding his way back to you, conversation after conversation, evening after evening, until his presence became so familiar that you stopped questioning it. You simply expected him to appear eventually, leaning against a doorway or emerging from another corridor with that same composed smile, as though your paths had crossed by pure coincidence yet again.

That was what made everything so complicated.

You felt it growing in all the spaces between your conversations. In the comfortable silences neither of you rushed to fill. In the way your shoulders brushed when you stood side by side, neither of you bothering to step away. In the quiet certainty that whenever something happened—good or bad—your eyes would instinctively search for him first.

Somewhere along the way, without realizing when it had happened, you fell in love with him.

Not all at once. There wasn't a single moment you could point to and say, there. It settled slowly, woven through habits and routines, through countless conversations and lingering glances, until loving him felt as natural as expecting the sun to rise.

And just as inevitable.

Because every time you looked for him...

...he was already there.

He knew.

Of course he did. Alastor noticed everything. You caught it in the careful way he watched you whenever your feelings threatened to show a little too clearly, or in the almost imperceptible adjustments he made whenever the distance between you threatened to become something more than either of you could explain.

He never acknowledged it. Never spoke of it. Instead, he held that invisible line exactly where it had always been, careful not to cross it himself, but never walking far enough away for you to stop hoping that one day he might.

So that became your place.

Not lovers. Not merely friends.

Something suspended somewhere in between, balanced so carefully that neither of you dared disturb it, yet strong enough that the thought of losing it felt unbearable.

That was why, when Charlie burst through the front doors of the hotel, shouting Alastor's name before she had even caught her breath, something inside you cracked.

She stumbled into the lobby with wild eyes and flushed cheeks, one hand braced against the doorway while the other waved frantically through the air, desperately trying to make the words come out in the right order.

"Alastor—Vox—the interview—he's... he's captured—"

You and Vaggie exchanged a sharp glance.

Vaggie reacted first, reaching Charlie before she could collapse from exhaustion, both hands settling firmly on her shoulders as she tried to steady her breathing. You stayed rooted where you were, your pulse already pounding in your ears as you stepped closer, your voice tighter than you intended.

"What do you mean? What happened? Where is he?"

Charlie barely seemed to hear you. She slipped past Vaggie almost immediately and hurried into the lounge, fumbling with the television remote so badly it nearly fell from her hands before she managed to switch the screen on.

The image flickered once.

Twice.

Then Katy Killjoy's unmistakable voice rang through the room, bright with barely concealed delight.

"Breaking news, folks—looks like our dear Vox has finally taken down the infamous Radio Demon!"

The image changed, and the breath caught in your throat before you even had time to process what you were seeing.

Alastor.

He was strapped to a chair, thick restraints cinched tightly around his arms and chest, his usual composure forced into unnatural stillness. A strip of fabric had been tied across his mouth to silence him, and someone—Vox, of course—had painted a crude, upside-down smile over it, mocking the one he never seemed to lose.

Your mind refused it.

This had to be staged. A trick. Some elaborate performance designed to humiliate him.

Because Alastor didn't get captured.

Not the Radio Demon. Not one of Hell's most powerful Overlords.

And certainly not by Vox.

Your knees gave before you could stop them. You stumbled backward until the couch caught you, sinking onto the cushions as your legs refused to hold your weight. Somewhere beside you, Charlie was still talking in rushed, uneven breaths, trying to explain what had happened at the interview with Katy Killjoy, how everything had spiraled out of control, how the room had suddenly erupted into chaos before everyone's attention shifted to Vox and Alastor. Her words tumbled over one another so quickly they barely sounded like sentences anymore.

You hardly heard any of it.

Your eyes never left the screen.

The cameras lingered on him from every angle, forcing him beneath glaring lights that reflected off polished restraints and bright neon signs. His ears rested lower than usual, his shoulders held unnaturally rigid beneath the ropes, his eyes sharper than you had ever seen them. There was no fear in them. No panic.

Just something profoundly wrong.

"What did you do..." you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice as the question escaped your lips.

No one answered.

The footage looped again.

And again.

Vox had turned it into a spectacle, replaying the same shots over and over as though he wanted every sinner in Hell to memorize them. Eventually the broadcast shifted to another recording. A parade crawled through Pentagram City beneath blinding neon lights, crowds cheering as Alastor remained tied to the chair, wheeled through the streets like some grotesque trophy pulled from a hunt.

Your stomach twisted.

Vaggie stepped in front of the television, trying to block the screen from your view.

"That's enough."

You barely acknowledged her. Rising on unsteady legs, you simply moved around her without a word, your eyes finding the screen again almost immediately. It felt impossible to look away, as though turning your back—even for a second—would somehow make everything more real.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Alastor wasn't supposed to lose.

He was the one who stood between the hotel and everything that wanted to tear it apart. The one who always seemed to know more than everyone else. The one who appeared before situations could spiral completely out of control, solving problems with that same infuriating smile as though he'd seen the ending hours before anyone else.

He was always there.

So what were you supposed to do if he wasn't?

The longer you watched, the more something inside you shifted. The fear never disappeared, but it slowly hardened, each replay scraping away another layer until there was nothing left but something colder. You were angry with yourself for not being there. Angry with Charlie for walking away from that interview without using the power she carried so lightly. Angry with everyone standing around you, watching with sympathy instead of urgency.

Most of all, you were angry with Vox.

The broadcast continued without mercy, laughter spilling from the television between smug commentary and carefully chosen camera angles that lingered on every second of Alastor's humiliation. By the time the footage began looping yet again, the fear had settled into something far quieter and far more dangerous.

Resolve.

You couldn't stay here.

You couldn't stand there and watch this happen to him while the rest of Hell treated it like entertainment.

The decision came before the plan. You rose without saying a word, barely aware of Charlie still talking behind you as you crossed the lounge. No one tried to stop you. Maybe they saw it on your face, the quiet determination settling where panic had been only moments before. Maybe they knew there was nothing they could say that would make you stay.

By the time your hand closed around the front door, there was only one thought left.

You were getting Alastor back.

The streets of Pentagram City blurred together as you pushed through the crowds, weaving between demons who barely spared you a glance. Neon signs bathed the sidewalks in violent shades of pink and blue, their reflections shimmering across rain-slick pavement, while somewhere overhead enormous screens continued replaying Vox's triumph for anyone willing to watch.

You kept your eyes forward.

The Vee Towers dominated the skyline long before you reached them, towering over the city like a monument to vanity, every pane of glass reflecting neon light back into the streets below. You never slowed your pace. The entrance doors slid open the moment you approached, welcoming you with mechanical precision, and you stepped inside without hesitation.

The lobby was immaculate, polished to the point of feeling artificial. Screens covered the walls from floor to ceiling, their broadcasts shifting seamlessly from advertisements to news reports before flickering back again. Cameras rotated almost imperceptibly as you crossed the room, their lenses following your every movement with unsettling accuracy.

No one intercepted you.

No receptionist questioned you.

No security guard stepped into your path.

They were expecting you.

It couldn't have been anyone else. Vox had built an empire on information, and there wasn't a corner of this tower that escaped his notice for long. You could almost feel his attention settling over you like invisible static, watching through every camera, every monitor, every glowing screen embedded into the walls.

Fine.

If he wanted an audience, you had no intention of disappointing him.

Without breaking stride, you pressed the elevator button. The doors opened almost immediately, and you stepped inside as they slid shut behind you with barely a sound. Mirrored walls reflected your expression back at you from every angle, but you only glanced at them once. Gone was the disbelief that had left you frozen in front of the television. All that remained was a face set with quiet resolve and a single thought repeating itself over and over as the elevator climbed higher.

You were getting Alastor back.

Floor after floor disappeared beneath your feet, the steady hum of machinery replacing the distant noise of the lobby. The higher the elevator climbed, the quieter the tower became until only the faint buzz of electricity lingered in the silence. You never looked away from the doors, and by the time the elevator slowed to a stop, every trace of hesitation had already been left somewhere far below.

The doors slid open onto a hallway so pristine it hardly felt real. Screens glowed behind seamless panels built into the walls, streams of muted broadcasts and scrolling data casting shifting colors across the polished floor. At the very end of the corridor, a pair of doors stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the narrow opening.

You crossed the distance without slowing. Your hand settled on the handle, pushing the doors open in one smooth motion, and your eyes lifted immediately to the figure waiting on the other side.

Vox had been expecting you. He smiled the moment you stepped through the doorway.

His office was every bit as polished as the hallway outside. Towering screens stretched across the walls, their cold blue light washing over sleek furniture and spotless glass while advertisements dissolved into news reports before giving way to endless streams of scrolling code. The room hummed quietly with electricity, every surface designed to remind visitors exactly whose kingdom they had entered.

You barely noticed any of it.

Your gaze found Alastor almost immediately.

He sat near the center of the room, restrained to a heavy chair with thick bindings wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulders, his wrists secured behind the backrest. The gag had been removed. His jacket was creased, a few crimson strands had fallen loose across his forehead, yet he still sat perfectly upright, refusing to give Vox even the smallest sign of defeat.

The moment his eyes met yours, something shifted.

It was so slight most people would have missed it entirely. His ears twitched almost imperceptibly, the corners of his eyes widening by the faintest fraction before that familiar smile settled back into place as though it had never left. To anyone else, he looked exactly the same.

You knew better.

After everything the two of you had shared, you recognized the concern hidden beneath the performance.

"What are you doing here, my dear?" he asked, his voice as smooth as ever despite the circumstances. "This hardly seems like the sort of place one visits voluntarily."

The teasing tone remained intact, but it couldn't quite hide the warning beneath it.

"You shouldn't have come."

A burst of distorted laughter echoed through the office before you had the chance to answer. Vox pushed himself away from his desk with infuriating ease, straightening the front of his suit as he wandered toward you, his glowing screen displaying a grin so wide it bordered on mocking.

"Oh, this..." he chuckled, spreading his arms as though welcoming an honored guest, "...this is even better than I expected. I figured Charlie might show up with one of her inspirational speeches, or maybe Vaggie would come barging in swinging that spear around again. But you?" His screen tilted slightly, studying you with open amusement. "Now that's interesting."

You never took your eyes off Alastor.

"Let him go."

Vox actually stopped walking. For a brief moment, he simply stared at you before another laugh crackled through his speakers, louder this time, filling the room until it bounced off every glowing screen surrounding you.

"You marched into my tower, walked straight into my office..." He took another slow step closer, folding his hands neatly behind his back. "...and that's your grand opening?"

"I'm not here to negotiate."

"No?" His grin only widened. "Then I think you're going to be disappointed."

He turned away from you without another word, strolling toward Alastor with the casual confidence of someone who had already won. One hand settled against the back of the chair before he gave it a sharp tug, dragging it several inches across the polished floor until Alastor was positioned directly in front of you.

"There," Vox said with obvious satisfaction. "Now you can get the full picture."

His hand came to rest on Alastor's shoulder, fingers brushing away an invisible speck of dust before patting him twice with exaggerated care, as though he were polishing a prized possession instead of touching one of Hell's most feared Overlords.

"You know," Vox continued, circling the chair at an unhurried pace, "people spent decades telling me the Radio Demon couldn't be beaten. Untouchable. Unstoppable. Practically a force of nature." He leaned down until his screen hovered only inches from Alastor's face, the glow reflecting in crimson eyes that never looked away from yours. "Funny how reality turns out."

The smile never left Alastor's face, but you saw his jaw tighten beneath the painted grin, saw his fingers curl against the restraints until the leather creaked softly around his wrists.

Vox noticed where your attention had gone and smiled even wider.

"Oh..." he said, turning back toward you with unmistakable satisfaction. "You don't like seeing him like this, do you?"

He let the question hang in the air for only a moment before chuckling to himself, his gaze flicking briefly toward Alastor.

"I suppose that's the problem with caring about someone. It gives people like me something to play with."

You felt your hands curl into fists at your sides, your nails pressing painfully into your palms as Vox continued circling the chair with infuriating satisfaction. Every word out of his mouth, every smug glance thrown in Alastor's direction, every casual touch against his shoulder made something tighten inside your chest until breathing itself became difficult.

Alastor endured it without protest.

That was almost worse.

He never lowered his head. Never looked away. Even with his hands bound behind his back and that grotesque smile painted across his face, he carried himself with the same quiet dignity he always had, as though refusing to let Vox take anything more than his freedom.

Your gaze never left him.

"Free him."

The words came out steadier than you felt.

Vox sighed dramatically, rubbing the side of his screen as though you had become terribly repetitive.

"My, my... you're persistent."

"I said free him."

He chuckled again, shaking his head before slipping both hands into his pockets.

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"You can."

"I could," he corrected with an easy shrug, "but then I'd be breaking the agreement, and contrary to popular belief, I do try to honor my deals."

Your frown deepened.

"What deal?"

Vox's grin widened so much it almost filled the screen of his face. He glanced toward Alastor before looking back at you, clearly savoring every second he managed to stretch the silence.

"Oh... he didn't tell you."

The words settled heavily in the room.

"You really came all the way here without knowing?" Vox let out another laugh, quieter this time, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "That's adorable."

Your eyes moved instinctively to Alastor.

He didn't look away. 

He simply met your gaze with that same composed expression, though something behind his eyes had changed. The confidence was still there, the calm still carefully maintained, but beneath it lay the unmistakable look of someone who already knew exactly how this conversation would unfold.

"We made a deal," Vox continued before Alastor could speak. "No tricks. No chains dragged through the streets. No dramatic kidnapping." He spread his hands with theatrical innocence. "He accepted my terms and came here of his own free will."

For a moment, you were convinced you had misheard him.

Your gaze snapped back to Alastor, searching desperately for the smallest sign that Vox was lying, that this was another one of his games. Instead, Alastor slowly lowered his eyes before lifting them back to yours, his smile never wavering despite the weight behind the gesture.

"You..." Your voice faltered. "You agreed to this?"

Silence.

"It was the most... practical outcome available at the time," he answered at last, his tone as composed as ever. "Not every negotiation ends pleasantly, my dear."

You stared at him, unable to reconcile the words with the man sitting in front of you.

Alastor wasn't the kind of man who surrendered his freedom. He was meticulous, always calculating three moves ahead, always the one controlling the conversation instead of following it. You had watched him outmaneuver Overlords with nothing more than a smile and a carefully chosen sentence. The idea that he would willingly place himself in Vox's hands was so completely at odds with everything you knew about him that your mind refused to make sense of it.

Question after question crowded your thoughts. What could Vox possibly have offered him? What had forced his hand badly enough that this had become the better option? What kind of bargain could make Alastor walk willingly into the office of the one man he despised more than anyone else?

None of it mattered.

Not while he was still sitting there.

Your eyes drifted back to the restraints cutting into the sleeves of his coat before you lifted your head to face Vox once more. The confusion was still there, tangled together with the hurt and the anger, but beneath it something steadier had taken hold. You still didn't understand why Alastor had made that choice, and perhaps you wouldn't until much later. Right now, there was only one thing you knew with absolute certainty.

"I don't care what deal you made," you said, your voice quieter than before but no less firm. "You're going to let him go."

Vox stared at you for a moment before another burst of laughter crackled through the room. He leaned back against his desk, one hand pressed theatrically against his chest as though you had just told the greatest joke he had ever heard.

"Oh, you're serious."

His screen glitched with amusement, the wide grin stretching from one edge to the other as he looked between you and Alastor.

"You really think you can just walk in here, demand I hand over the biggest prize I've had in years, and expect me to smile, shake your hand and send him home?"

He laughed again, slower this time, clearly enjoying himself.

"I've spent decades waiting for this." His gaze drifted lazily toward Alastor before returning to you. "Do you have any idea how satisfying it is? Seeing the great Radio Demon tied to a chair in my office? Watching every sinner in Hell realize he isn't untouchable after all?"

His smile widened.

"The humiliation is the whole point."

The room fell quiet except for the low hum of the screens surrounding you.

Vox studied you more carefully. The amusement never disappeared, but something more curious slipped in beneath it as his gaze lingered on your face a little longer than before. His eyes drifted toward Alastor, then back to you again, as though pieces of a puzzle were quietly beginning to fall into place.

"You know..." he murmured, tilting his head slightly, "most people would've seen that broadcast and decided to stay as far away from this tower as possible." He smiled to himself. "You did the exact opposite."

He circled the chair slowly, never taking his eyes off either of you.

"You came here alone."

Another step.

"You demanded I release him before you even asked what happened."

Another.

"And you've barely looked at me since you walked through that door."

His grin sharpened.

"Oh..."

A quiet laugh escaped him as realization settled across his features.

"I see."

His attention shifted to Alastor, whose expression hadn't changed in the slightest.

"So that's why."

You felt your stomach tighten.

Vox looked positively delighted.

"I was wondering why the mighty Radio Demon suddenly looked so interested when you walked in." He chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. "I thought it was concern at first." His smile widened into something openly mocking. "Turns out it's something so much funnier."

Neither of you answered.

The silence only encouraged him.

"You two..." He laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. "I never would've guessed."

"Enough."

Your voice cut through the room before he could continue.

Vox looked back at you, one eyebrow lifting expectantly.

"I want to make a deal."

Silence lingered for barely a second before Vox threw his head back, laughter echoing off every screen in the office.

"A deal?" He wiped an imaginary tear from beneath one glowing eye. "With what exactly?"

He spread his arms toward Alastor as though presenting the answer himself.

"I already have him."

His hand rested casually against the back of the chair again, fingers tapping lightly against the wood.

"I've got the most powerful Overlord in Hell sitting right here, completely at my mercy. Why would I trade that away?" His grin widened another fraction. "What could you possibly offer that's worth more than humiliating him? Because, trust me..." He glanced down at Alastor with unmistakable satisfaction. "...there's very little I want more than this."

You didn't answer immediately.

Instead, you took a slow breath, meeting Vox's gaze without letting it waver.

"I have knowledge."

That earned a faint scoff.

"So does Google."

"I know how to get you closer to Heaven."

Vox's laughter faded on its own, as though someone had pulled the plug. The grin remained on his screen, but the amusement behind it vanished so quickly it left the room unnervingly quiet.

He didn't move.

"What..."

His voice was quieter now.

"...did you just say?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the subtle shift in Alastor's posture. It was almost imperceptible, nothing more than his shoulders drawing a little tighter against the restraints and his fingers curling harder around the bindings behind the chair.

He knew.

Not what you had already said.

What you were about to say.

For the first time since you had walked into the office, something dangerously close to unease settled behind his eyes. It was subtle, buried beneath years of practiced composure, but it was there all the same, and it sent a chill racing down your spine. Alastor wasn't worried about Vox. He wasn't worried about himself.

He was worried about you.

"My dear," he interrupted smoothly, the warmth in his voice sounding almost forced now, "I'm afraid you've rather overestimated your understanding of these matters."

You didn't look at him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he continued before you could answer, his smile widening just enough to resemble its usual confidence. "Vox does so enjoy grand promises, particularly impossible ones. I'd hate for you to embarrass yourself attempting to bargain with information that doesn't exist."

He wasn't dismissing your claim; he was begging you to stop before you said something that could never be taken back, trying to steer you away without revealing why your words had unsettled him so deeply.

A grin spread slowly across Vox screen as he watched Alastor continue speaking, his amusement growing with every attempt the Radio Demon made to interrupt.

"Well," he laughed, "now you've really got my attention."

He wandered over without the slightest hint of urgency, stopping behind the chair before reaching into the pocket of his jacket. Alastor's gaze remained fixed on yours, the warning in his eyes growing more insistent as Vox unfolded a strip of dark fabric between his fingers.

"My dear," Alastor tried again, abandoning subtlety for the first time since you'd arrived, "I would strongly advise—"

"Oh, spare me."

Vox shoved the cloth roughly into his mouth before the sentence could be finished, pulling it tight behind his head with practiced ease. The knot disappeared beneath crimson hair, forcing his jaw shut once more, while the painted smile stretched grotesquely across the gag as though mocking him all over again.

"There," Vox said with obvious satisfaction, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. "That's much better."

Alastor jerked sharply against the chair, the legs scraping across the polished floor as he instinctively fought against the restraints. Leather creaked around his wrists as he pulled hard enough to tighten every binding across his chest, his breathing growing noticeably heavier through his nose while his eyes locked desperately onto yours.

You had never seen him like this.

Not frightened.

Alastor didn't frighten easily.

But helpless.

The realization hit him all at once, settling across his features with a weight that even decades of perfect self-control couldn't entirely conceal. He knew you weren't bluffing. He knew you weren't trying to distract Vox or buy yourself time. Whatever secret you had uncovered, whatever impossible bargain had formed in your mind on the walk to the tower, you intended to trade it for him without the slightest concern for what it might cost you.

His head moved in the smallest shake, barely noticeable beneath the restraint holding him upright, while his eyes pleaded with an urgency that words never could. Every instinct told him to stop you, to pull you out of this room before you sacrificed something you didn't fully understand, yet all he could do was strain uselessly against the chair and watch events slip further beyond his control.

It was a feeling Alastor had almost forgotten existed. For years, he had always been the one with another plan, another escape, another carefully calculated move hidden behind that ever-present smile. Now he could do nothing except sit in silence, bound hand and foot, as the woman he loved stood only a few feet away preparing to throw herself into a deal that would almost certainly destroy her, simply because she had decided his life was worth more than her own.

Vox's attention shifted back to you, the grin on his screen returning now that the interruption had been dealt with. He folded his hands neatly behind his back, studying you with open curiosity, while the low hum of the monitors surrounding you seemed to grow louder in the silence that settled over the room.

"Now," he said at last, "you've managed to say something interesting enough to interrupt my afternoon. I'd hate for you to disappoint me."

Your mouth had suddenly gone dry.

The confidence you'd forced yourself to wear all the way to the tower wavered for the briefest instant, and you became painfully aware that you had reached the point where there was no room left for hesitation. You didn't have a plan beyond this conversation. You didn't even know whether the knowledge you possessed would truly be enough to tempt him.

You were gambling everything on the chance that Vox wanted power more than revenge.

A muffled sound drew your attention back to Alastor.

He had stopped struggling against the chair only long enough to catch your eye again, and what you found there made your chest tighten painfully. His brows had drawn together almost imperceptibly, the tension visible in every line of his body as he pulled once more against the restraints, desperate enough that the leather dug deeper into the sleeves of his coat. His head moved in another small, insistent shake, crimson eyes never leaving yours as though he could still convince you to walk away.

It struck you then with a clarity so overwhelming it almost stole the breath from your lungs.

He wasn't trying to protect a useful ally.

He wasn't trying to preserve a convenient friendship.

He was trying to protect you.

The realization settled quietly inside your chest, pushing aside the fear that had followed you ever since Charlie burst into the hotel. For so long, you had loved him without expecting anything in return, convincing yourself that the feelings hidden beneath his careful smiles existed only in your imagination. Yet no one looked at another person the way Alastor was looking at you now unless the thought of losing them was unbearable.

Your expression softened despite yourself.

"I'm sorry," you thought, hoping he would somehow understand the words you couldn't say aloud. "But I can't leave you here."

When you looked back at Vox, the hesitation had disappeared.

"My offer is simple."

Vox's smile widened.

"I'm listening."

"You release Alastor."

He waited.

"Immediately," you continued. "He's unharmed, he walks out of this tower, and whatever agreement you made with him ends the moment we shake hands."

"And in return?"

You took a slow breath.

"You keep me."

The words echoed through the office, hanging in the air between you.

"I stay here willingly as your prisoner," you said, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady despite the way Alastor lurched violently against the chair behind you. The muffled protest that escaped him was loud enough to make even Vox glance in his direction before his attention returned to you. "I'll tell you everything I know about getting into Heaven, everything I've learned, everything you'll need if your goal is to reach it. You get your chance at something bigger than Hell itself."

For the first time since you'd entered the office, Vox didn't answer immediately.

His fingers tapped thoughtfully against his arm as he turned away, beginning a slow circuit around the room. Every few steps his gaze drifted toward Alastor, lingering on the bound Overlord with unmistakable satisfaction before returning to you.

"You drive a hard bargain," he admitted with a thoughtful hum. "Keeping him around has been... extraordinarily entertaining." A grin spread across his screen as he glanced back at Alastor. "I haven't enjoyed myself this much in years."

His pacing slowed.

"But Heaven..."

The single word lingered between you as he looked upward, already imagining the possibilities.

"Heaven changes everything."

He stopped directly in front of you.

"I become the first sinner to breach Heaven's gates, I gain access to power no Overlord has ever touched, and every pathetic soul in both realms learns exactly who Vox is." He laughed softly to himself, the excitement growing more obvious with every passing second. "That's a legacy."

His glowing eyes settled on yours.

"And all it costs me..." His smile widened into something almost predatory. "...is letting him walk away."

Another muffled cry came from behind you.

Alastor had thrown his full weight against the restraints again, the chair scraping loudly across the polished floor as he fought with a desperation that no longer resembled anger. The bindings held fast, forcing him back into place, but his eyes never left you. They pleaded with you to stop, to take it back, to leave before Vox accepted.

You couldn't.

Not anymore.

Vox extended his hand between the two of you, his grin brighter than ever.

"I do love a good deal."

You stared at the hand for only a heartbeat before lifting your own.

The moment your fingers closed around his, Alastor let out another muffled cry and lurched so violently against the chair that it tipped onto two legs before crashing back onto the floor with a deafening crack. 

The instant your hand closed around Vox's, a violent pulse of crimson energy burst from the point of contact, racing up both your arms before curling through the room like living smoke. The air crackled with infernal magic, thick enough to make every screen flicker at once, while glowing symbols burned briefly beneath your feet before disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.

The deal was done.

You felt it settle somewhere deep inside you, cold and absolute, the unmistakable weight of a contract that could no longer be undone.

Across the room, the restraints binding Alastor suddenly snapped apart.

Leather straps fell uselessly onto the floor, the chair rocking backward as he lurched to his feet almost before the last buckle had finished unlatching. He barely spared the broken bindings a glance before turning toward you, every instinct urging him to cross the room and pull you away from Vox while there was still time.

There wasn't.

The contract had already taken hold.

Vox flexed his fingers with obvious satisfaction before letting out a pleased hum. "Well..." He admired the faint traces of magic still dancing across your joined hands before releasing your grip. "That was easier than expected."

His glowing eyes drifted toward Alastor, lingering just long enough for another smug grin to spread across his screen.

"I suppose I owe you my end of the bargain."

He took a step aside, gesturing theatrically toward the open doorway.

"You're free to leave."

Alastor didn't move.

"You heard me," Vox continued with an amused chuckle. "I'm a businessman. A deal's a deal."

His grin sharpened.

"And besides..." His gaze shifted lazily between the two of you before a knowing laugh escaped his speakers. "It would be downright cruel to separate the lovebirds without letting them say goodbye." He rolled his shoulders before heading toward the far side of the office. "Go on. You've got a minute. I'm feeling generous."

The office door slid shut behind him with a quiet hiss.

Silence settled almost immediately. Alastor crossed the room in three quick strides.

"What," he said, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of you, "were you thinking?"

His hands stopped just short of your shoulders, fingers curling into fists before they could touch you.

"That wasn't bravery, my dear. That was recklessness." His smile was clearly forced, leaving only a tight jaw and eyes burning with barely restrained emotion. "You have just handed yourself over to Vox on the strength of information you do not possess. He will discover that, and when he does..." His voice caught for the briefest moment before he forced it steady again. "He will kill you."

You looked up at him quietly.

"I know."

"No, you don't."

His composure was slipping faster than you had ever seen it. Every carefully measured word came a little quicker than the last, every breath just a little sharper, as though years of perfect self-control had finally begun to crack.

"You have no idea what you've done. You cannot outplay him like this. You cannot bargain with promises you cannot fulfill." He shook his head, frustration and fear bleeding together until it became impossible to separate one from the other. "You should never have come here."

You reached for him anyway.

Your fingers rested lightly against his sleeve, and the simple touch silenced him more effectively than any interruption could have.

"I couldn't leave you."

His eyes searched yours.

"I couldn't stand there and watch him parade you around like..." Your voice faltered as the images from the television flashed through your mind again. "Like you were nothing."

He didn't answer.

"I couldn't watch him laugh at you," you whispered. "I couldn't watch him humiliate you while I walked away knowing I had done nothing." A small, bittersweet smile found its way onto your lips despite everything. "Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was stupid."

You drew a slow breath.

"But it hurt more than the thought of standing here in your place ever could."

The words settled softly between you.

"I'd make this choice again, Alastor."

You searched his eyes for a moment before adding, barely above a whisper,

"Every single time."

For perhaps the first time in decades, Alastor found himself completely speechless.

Every explanation he had prepared, every argument, every carefully constructed sentence dissolved before they ever reached his lips.

He had known. Some part of him had always known.

The office door slid open so abruptly that the sound made you both turn.

"Touching," Vox drawled, already sounding impatient. "Really, ten out of ten. I'd cry if I still respected either of you."

He pointed toward the hallway.

"Out."

Alastor's eyes never left yours.

"I'm not leaving."

"Oh, yes you are."

Before either of you could react, the magic woven into the contract flared again.

Invisible force seized Alastor around the torso, dragging him backward despite the way his heels dug into the polished floor. He fought immediately, claws scraping across the tiles as shadows twisted violently around him, but the contract overruled brute strength. Inch by inch, it forced him toward the open doorway.

His gaze remained locked on yours until the last possible second.

"I will come back for you."

The promise was quiet but absolute. Then the force hurled him into the hallway, the office doors slamming shut between you with a deafening crack.

Outside, Alastor stood motionless for only a heartbeat.

The corridor around him groaned.

Shadows exploded across the walls like ink spilled through water, swallowing lights, crawling over screens until glass splintered beneath the sheer pressure of his magic. Every radio in the building shrieked with deafening static before bursting into showers of sparks, while the polished floor trembled beneath his feet.

Rage unlike anything he had felt in years settled coldly beneath his skin.

Vox had humiliated him.

That could be repaid.

But you...

You had sacrificed yourself for him.

As his smile slowly steadied—not warm, not amused, but terrifyingly thin—one thought drowned out every other. He was going to tear Hell apart if he had to.

And he was bringing you home.

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