Hyorie

This story contains themes of questionable consent in sexual relationships, power dynamics, and tension in a science fiction context. If these themes make you uncomfortable, please consider not continuing to read.

Weeks have passed since that fateful night, and every day feels like an eternity in the hell that is now your home. The house, once a refuge of shared routines with your husband, is now a prison of memories that haunt you at every turn.

You glide through the hallways like a ghost, avoiding the armchair where it all happened, but inevitably your eyes fall on it, and the treacherous heat returns to your skin. You remember the touch of Alastor's hands, the static in his voice whispering promises you didn't ask for, the total abandonment that made you forget who you were.

It was a mistake, a weakness fueled by wine and loneliness, but now remorse eats away at you like a slow plague. You tell yourself it was just once, that it means nothing, but the lies you tell yourself crumble every night when you close your eyes and feel his ghostly presence.

Alastor has become a recurring shadow in your life, appearing without warning, as if the house belonged to him as much as it did to you. His visits are not friendly; there is a latent tension in the air every time he crosses the threshold, a mixture of forced courtesy and something much darker that has been escalating as time goes by.

He arrives with vague excuses: "I was just passing by, dear, to make sure you're not wasting away in this hellish solitude." But you know there's more. There's always more with him.

This afternoon is no different. The crackle of static announces his arrival before he knocks on the door, and when you open it, there he is, with his eternal smile and his cane casually resting on his shoulder.

— How wonderful to see you again! May I come in? — He doesn't expect a real refusal; he's already inside, moving with that feline elegance that makes the space seem smaller.

— You again. Don't you have anything better to do? — You cross your arms, trying to keep your distance.

He laughs, a sound that vibrates with slight static, and settles into one of the armchairs—not "that" armchair, thank whatever rules this place.

— Oh, there's always time for a pleasant chat. How have you been, dear? Hell seems… particularly oppressive these days.— The conversation flows superficially, like a calm river that hides treacherous currents.

You ask the usual questions, the ones that eat away at you:

— Have you heard anything from my husband? He's been missing for weeks. He should have been back by now.

— Ah, yes, the good man. I've been waiting for news from him too, you know? Our… partnership requires his presence. But Hell is a capricious place; journeys like his can take longer than expected. — Alastor tilts his head, his smile unchanging.

You frown, pressing him.

— Why did he leave in the first place? He never gave me any clear details. Do you know anything? Was it your idea to send him?

He skillfully evades the question, twisting it like an expert dancer.

— What a curious accusation! That journey has nothing to do with me, my dear. It was his own ambition that drove him, wasn't it? — The aura of secrecy envelops every word: his low voice, the mystery in his red eyes that seem to know more than they say, the elegance with which he avoids the core of your demands. It's a game, one in which he always has the upper hand.

Tired of the evasiveness, you decide to get to the point.

— I need to know about him. Help me find him. I'm asking you as a favor. — You sigh for a moment, calculating the words you will use and remaining silent for a fraction of a second. — Use your contacts, your power. In return… whatever you want, as long as it's reasonable.

Alastor stands still for a moment, and although his expression doesn't change, you feel a flash of possessiveness in the air, like a shadow lengthening. But he doesn't show it; instead, he lets out a light, mocking laugh that echoes with static.

— A deal? How charming. Why would you want to know about him after what you did, hmm? After that very… memorable night?

Your cheeks flush, a mixture of embarrassment and anger rising up your neck.

— What are you implying?"

— Oh, nothing we both don't already know. —His tone is playful, but there's an edge to it.— Would you tell him you were unfaithful? That you gave yourself to another in his absence? And worse, would you have the courage to tell him all the details? Every touch, every whisper… every moan.

Anger explodes.

— Shut up! It was a mistake, your manipulation, if I may say so… You have no right to judge me.

The mild argument flares up, words flying like sparks, but Alastor does not shout back. Instead, he rises fluidly, and before you can back away, he subdues you with a speed that leaves you breathless. His hands lift you by the waist as if you weigh nothing, placing you on the table with a firmness that makes the objects around you rattle.

He stands over you, cornering you with his tall, slender body, one hand closing around your wrist while the other rests on your hip, subtly immobilizing you against the hard surface. His red eyes seem to pin you in place, intense, devouring.

The accumulated tension makes you gasp, the air between you charged with static electricity that makes your skin bristle, every hair standing on end in response. You try to push him away, your hands pressing against his firm chest—once he accidentally loosened his grip on your wrist—but the latent passion is too strong to hide.

Your body betrays your mind, responding to the heat of his proximity with a rapid pulse in your belly.

— What… what do you think you're doing? — you stammer, your voice breaking, an attempt at resistance that sounds weak even to you.

Alastor doesn't respond immediately; instead, his hip presses against yours in a deliberate, slow movement, simulating a thrust that makes you hold your breath. The friction through your clothes is wicked, a raw, provocative rub that sends waves of heat straight to your core, the fabric of his pants rubbing against yours in a calculated rhythm, as if reminding you exactly what happened that night.

— Judge you? me? — he murmurs, his voice a low purr that vibrates with static, sending shivers down your spine.

He moves again, a firmer thrust this time, his body pressing you against the table, forcing you to feel every inch of his hardened desire against you.

— When have I ever judged you, darling? I'm just reminding you… of what you already know. — Another pause, another deliberate brush, his hand on your hip squeezing just hard enough for you to feel his subtle claws through your clothes, a reminder of his demonic nature.

You gasp involuntarily, a muffled sound escaping your lips, betraying the heat building between your legs despite the anger still burning in your chest.

— Why… why are you doing this? — you ask, your voice trembling, trying to look away, but he takes your chin in his free hand, forcing you to look at him, his red eyes burning with a mixture of manipulation and pure, raw desire.

— Because you want it. — he replies, his hip grinding against yours in another simulated thrust, slower this time, torturous, intensifying the friction until a low moan escapes you without permission. — Admit it, darling. Your body doesn't lie like your mouth does.

The manipulation is evident in his tone, in the way he uses desire to erode your resistance, but there is something else: a genuine hunger in his gaze, a possessive longing that makes his thrusts more insistent, finding himself on the verge of losing control himself. The fabric between you feels like an insufficient barrier, the heat of his arousal seeping through, teasing you until your hips move slightly in response, a traitorous instinct that makes you curse internally.

— Stop! — you demand, but your voice comes out broken, more of a gasp than a command, and he just laughs softly, one final thrust leaving you trembling, on the verge of something much more dangerous that can escalate.

Alastor rubs against you over your clothes one last time, a deliberate, slow movement that sends waves of heat straight to your core. You gasp again, involuntarily, and he takes the opportunity to take your chin firmly, forcing you to look at him.

— You were mine, darling. — he whispers, his voice a purr vibrating with static. — And you shouldn't forget that… ever.

The moment stretches out, suffocating, charged with an unspoken promise. Your lips are inches from his, and for a moment, you think he's going to kiss you, that he's going to claim what he clearly desires. But then, with exasperating slowness, Alastor pulls away slightly, releasing your chin and straightening up. His smile returns, more controlled, more calculating.

— As for your deal… I accept, my dear. I'll tell you about your husband when I have news. I can't promise to bring him back, but… I'll keep you informed.

You sit up at the table, confused, your pulse still racing.

— What? That's it? You accept just like that? — You ask incredulously, wondering if he really has something up his sleeve.

— Oh, not so fast. — He extends his hand, pointing his claw at you with his characteristic theatrical elegance. — But in return, you will agree to one request of mine. I will tell you what it is when the time is right. Deal?

You hesitate, but your desperation to find out about your husband drives you on. You take his hand, and in that instant, a ghostly green glow envelops your joined palms, like invisible chains sealing the agreement. The air crackles with magic, and you feel a chill run down your spine. The deal is done, and something in his smile tells you that you have played right into his hands.

A few days pass without news from the Radio Demon, and the silence is almost worse than his visits. Hell continues on its chaotic course: rumors of Heaven's impending extermination spread through the streets, with angels preparing for their annual purge, leaving sinners in a state of collective paranoia. You try to distract yourself by going shopping in the infernal markets, haggling over trinkets you don't need, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of lesser demons selling souls and forbidden artifacts.

But nothing appeases your anxiety; every shadow makes you think of Alastor, every static crackle in the air puts you on alert.

You return home exhausted, your mind reeling with clues you've gathered on your own: conversations overheard in dark taverns, glimpses of stolen maps pointing to the most dangerous corners of Hell.

You've been searching alone, refusing to rely solely on him. And then, as you set the bags down in the entryway, your mind brings back that envelope you left tucked away in your husband's desk—the same one you dropped that fateful night, already opened, its scarlet seal intriguing you.

An urgency overwhelms you.

You practically run to the office, your heart pounding, ignoring the outside world. But just as you are about to enter, a knock on the front door echoes, stopping you in your tracks. Something inside you tells you to ignore it, to look at the envelope quickly. You yank open the office door, reach out with a trembling hand…

And finally you touch it. The envelope feels heavy in your fingers, and as you turn it over, you see the elegant red seal with antlers that could belong to no one but Alastor. Your eyes widen in surprise as you look at the broken seal, open the envelope, and read, whispering the words as if you fear they will come to life: A mission… confidential details… ancient artifacts… a powerful object lost in the depths of the Pentagram.

And the specific location: a remote corner of Hell, full of dangers. But what leaves you speechless is the sender: Alastor himself, addressed to your husband.

The front door, which had been ringing insistently, is now silent. Everything seems to have stopped, the air thick.

Until…

— Looking for something interesting, my dear? — Alastor's voice echoes behind you, with that playful tone and subtle static. You jump, your heart leaping into your chest, and quickly cover up, hiding the letter behind your back as you laugh nervously.

Terror begins to consume you: how did he get in? How long had he been watching you? He always knew, and he just shows up at this moment, as if he had been stalking you from the shadows. Alastor leans against the office doorframe, his smile widening, his red eyes sparkling with amusement.

— What are you hiding so eagerly? You look like a child caught in mischief.

— Nothing… just some old papers. What are you doing here? I didn't hear you come in.— You feign innocence, your pulse racing.

— Hmm, I'm always where I should be. — He takes a step closer, tilting his head. — And you? Snooping around in other people's secrets? That's not like you, dear.

You try to change the subject, clinging to the only thing that matters to you.

— What news do you have about my husband? — You ask, looking him in the eyes so he doesn't become even more suspicious. — You've been away for days. Did you find anything?

Alastor makes an elegant gesture with his hand, as if sweeping away the heavy air in the office, and his smile curves with a touch of theatricality.

— But let's talk about that somewhere more… cozy, don't you think? Your husband's office has such a… dense atmosphere. It's not the ideal setting for such juicy revelations.

You're not convinced at all; the terror consuming you makes you want to stay right where you are, with the letter still hidden behind your back. But you can't show weakness now.

— Fine. —you reply tensely, forcing a smile that feels like a crack in your facade.— Go to the hall. I'll be right behind you.

He tilts his head, watching you with that intensity that always seems to pierce your thoughts, but nods graciously.

— As you wish, my dear. — He turns and leaves the office with deliberate steps, his cane tapping the floor in an almost musical rhythm.

As soon as he disappears down the hallway, you act quickly. Your hands tremble as you search for a hiding place: a thick book on the nearest shelf, one of those ancient tomes on infernal rituals that your husband collected. You hurriedly open its pages and slip the envelope inside, slamming it shut and returning it to its place. Your heart pounds in your chest; if Alastor finds it, everything will fall apart before you can confront him.

You rush out of the office, composing your expression as best you can, and find him already in the hall, settled into an armchair with that Overlord pose.

— Sorry for the delay. — you say, trying to sound casual.— Let me offer you something to drink. Tea? Or would you prefer something stronger

Alastor raises an eyebrow, clearly noticing the change in your attitude—the nervousness disguised as hospitality, the blush that still tints your cheeks.

— How thoughtful of you all of a sudden, dear. Tea will be fine. Black, no sugar, please.

You nod and head to the adjacent kitchen, feeling his eyes piercing your back like daggers. As you prepare the tea, your mind races, searching for a way to break the ice without revealing what you know. You remember that night, the conversation that flowed between wine and temptation: his words about ancient magic, deals with powerful entities, how intention was key, not written rules.

— You know. —you say from the kitchen, raising your voice so he can hear you.— I've been thinking about what we talked about that… night. About magic, contracts with higher beings. It really intrigued me. Remember? You mentioned the importance of books… A grimoire, perhaps, a powerful object or whatever.

You feel more than hear his laughter: a crackle of static that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, like a contained thunderstorm. When you return with the cups, he is no longer sitting there. He is standing next to you, so close that his shadow envelops you, and with a fluid movement, he takes the cup you were preparing for yourself and takes a tentative sip.

— Delicious. — he murmurs, his red eyes fixed on yours. — Why the sudden interest in these matters, dear? Have you been… investigating on your own?

The tension is unbearable, a lump in your throat that you can't swallow. You can't take it anymore; the pieces fit together too well—Alastor's envelope, the mission he sent your husband on, his timely appearance—

— What did you do to my husband? — you blurt out, your voice trembling but firm.

Alastor, who had just taken another sip of tea, gently places the cup on the nearby table. His smile sharpens, like the edge of a blade, but he masterfully feigns innocence.

— Me? Do something? Oh, dear, I don't know what you're talking about. — He takes a couple of steps away, turning as if the conversation were trivial, but there is tension in his shoulders, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

— Don't lie to me. —you reply harshly, advancing toward him, fear turning to fury. — You know everything. You know exactly what happened to my husband. Tell me!

Alastor stops, his back still facing you for a moment, before turning with deliberate slowness. The mask slips; his smile is no longer playful, but a grimace of dark satisfaction. But instead of responding immediately, he remains silent, a heavy silence that fills the room like smoke. He begins to walk with measured steps, pacing the hall as if he owns the place, his gloved fingers brushing random surfaces: the edge of a table, the spine of a forgotten book, a window frame.

He doesn't seem to care about your impatience; on the contrary, he enjoys the control, leaving you powerless, watching him with your heart in your throat.

Finally, he stops in front of a wedding photo decorating the large mirror on the opposite wall. It is a picture of you and your husband, smiling in a frozen moment of mortal happiness, before Hell corrupted everything. Alastor tilts his head, studying it with feigned interest, as if it were a curiosity in a museum.

— A supposedly happy marriage. — he murmurs at last, his voice tinged with soft, almost melancholic static.— A sinner with a devoted wife, ambitious to the core, always wanting more… much more. Power, knowledge, a legacy that Hell does not grant easily.

He pauses, his finger tracing the edge of the frame.

— Your husband came to me, you know? He asked me for a deal. Something extremely powerful in exchange for… something valuable. In exchange for you. He knew I wanted you, and he used that as currency. 'Take her,' he said. 'Do what you want with her, just give me the power.'

From the kitchen, where you have instinctively taken refuge to put some distance between you, you feel a blow to your chest.

— You're lying. — you exclaim, your voice breaking with disbelief. — I don't believe you, Alastor!

Alastor turns his head slightly, his smile sharpening.

— Ah, it's not a lie, my dear. Your husband let me take you in exchange for that power. It was a fair trade… for him, at least. Ambition over loyalty, power over love. How poetic, isn't it?

Emotional pain pierces you like a cold blade, leaving doubts that entangle your mind like thorns. Could it be true? Would your husband, the man you once loved, have sold you like that? But you don't give in; you can't. You approach him with trembling steps, your face flushed with anger and restrained tears.

—No…I don't believe you.— you repeat, closer now, almost begging for answers.— Tell me the truth. What did you do to him?

Alastor turns completely, his red eyes shining with a mixture of amusement and possession.

— Fine. — he says with a theatrical sigh, as if giving in to a childish whim. — I think it's time to put the deal into action.

The air crackles with a dance of static, a buzzing that vibrates in your bones. From the shadows in the corners of the room, a dark shape materializes—an extension of his power, a shadowy tentacle that coils around you like a playful snake. At first, it's just annoying, brushing against your arm, your leg, but soon it becomes insistent, pinning you against the wall with inexorable force. You struggle, screaming in frustration, red with rage, feeling betrayed not only by Alastor, but by the entire universe that has led you to this.

As you struggle, Alastor begins to recount in that radio voice, calm and enveloping, as if telling a macabre fairy tale.

— It all began in the depths of Pentagram City, in a small, seedy establishment. I met a filthy sinner who thought himself powerful, a poor devil with nothing of value… except his sweet wife.

You scream louder, pulling at the shadows that bind you, but he continues, unperturbed. The lights in the room dim, flickering like candles in a storm, and the atmosphere becomes charged with palpable electricity.

— In that forgotten café, we talked. He arrived with his newly acquired grimoire, brimming with enthusiasm. And I… confessed to him. I told him how I fucked her, how I took her in her own home, how I made her moan with pleasure while he was lost in his odyssey.

His words hit you like punches, reviving that night in treacherous flashes. Alastor approaches, his hand firmly taking your chin, forcing you to look at him. You growl, trying to bite or pull away, but he only tightens his grip, a flicker of primitive desire crossing his red eyes. As he narrates, more shadowy tentacles slide in: one tangles in your hair, holding it with possessive gentleness; another presses down on your shoulders, keeping you still.

— That's right, darling.— he whispers, his warm breath against your skin. Then, without warning, he kisses you with a hungry, devouring fervor, as if he wants to consume your anger and pain. The kiss is intense, charged with static that tingles on your lips.

The air thickens with the kiss, a whirlwind of hunger and possession that leaves you breathless. Alastor pulls away slightly, his sadistic smile curving as he savors the moment, his tongue grazing the corner of your lips in a deliberate, provocative gesture.

— I'm not sorry. — he murmurs, his voice a purr vibrating with static, his red eyes devouring you up close. His breath mingles with yours, warm and ragged. And then, with a coldness that chills your blood, he confesses. — I killed your husband.

The words strike you like lightning, and the struggle begins immediately. Your hands push against his chest, your nails scratching the air in a desperate attempt to free yourself from the shadows that bind you.

— No! — you scream, your body convulsing with disbelief and horror. — Let me go, monster!"

Alastor takes a step back, watching you with that eternal smile, but his eyes shine with dark satisfaction.

— It's time for you to pay, my dear.— he says with theatrical calm, adjusting his coat as if nothing had happened. — I've already given you the news you've been longing for about your husband. The deal is in motion.

— You're a traitor! — you spit, the words coming out like poison from your throat.— A damned, disgusting demon!

Anger consumes you, but underneath there is an abyss of betrayal that makes you tremble. His smile does not falter, but for a moment, something crosses his face: a small pain, a contained anger that makes his deer ears twitch slightly. He loses his patience in a snap; his hand rises, and with a gesture of spectral green magic, the envelope you had hidden in the office book appears in his palm, materializing out of thin air like a living accusation.

He shows it to you, waving it in front of your face with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

— What a cunning bitch. — he hisses, his voice tinged with furious static. — But you can't hide anything from me. Did you think I wouldn't know? That I wasn't watching you?

Terror paralyzes you for a second, but denial returns with force.

— No! That doesn't change anything! I won't do anything with you!

Alastor laughs, a sound that echoes like a distorted transmission, and extends his hand with the grimoire now visible, pulling it out of the shadows with a flourish.

— The condition is simple, sweetheart: a ritual. You and I, united in one main act… sex. The spell of conception will bind us forever.

— No! — you scream, struggling against the shadows again. — Never! Don't come near me!

His expression darkens, and a cursed energy manifests around him: tentacles of darkness crackling with green static, enveloping you like invisible chains.

— A deal is a deal… and it cannot be broken. — he threatens, his voice low and lethal, the air charged with a power that presses you against the wall.

With a sharp gesture, the shadows release you, and you fall to your knees, gasping, your chest rising and falling with erratic breaths. Alastor leans down to your height, his face inches from yours, his red eyes piercing you with absolute possession.

— You're a dirty traitor. — you whisper between gasps, tears welling up in your eyes.

He just smiles, touching your cheek with a finger.

— I only get what I want. — he replies, his voice an intimate and sinister whisper.

Alastor lifts you easily, placing you in the center of the room, where he draws a ritualistic circle on the floor with a snap of his fingers. Ancient runes glow in spectral green, floating in the air like fallen stars. He opens the grimoire, its yellowed pages exuding a latent energy, and begins to invoke the spell of conception with words in a demonic language, a chant that vibrates in your bones and warms your skin from within.

Everything glows: the circle pulses with supernatural light, enveloping them both in a warm, oppressive aura. The magic amplifies every sensation, making the air crackle with static that makes your hair stand on end. Alastor draws closer, his hands undoing your clothes with deliberate urgency, tearing the fabric with his claws, leaving red marks on your skin as reminders of his possession.

— Mine. — he growls, his voice distorted by static, as his fingers trace your exposed body, squeezing your hips hard enough to leave bruises. — Since that night, you have been mine, and now you will be mine forever.

You protest weakly.

— No… please. — you gasp, but your body betrays your words: your thighs clench involuntarily at his touch, a treacherous heat building in your core despite the remorse gnawing at you. The magic of the ritual clouds your mind, amplifying the residual desire from that fateful night, making it impossible to tell if you are fighting him or yourself.

Alastor pushes you to the ground inside the circle, his body covering you like a living shadow, and kisses you with devouring hunger, his lips claiming yours in a whirlwind of possession. His tongue invades your mouth, savoring every muffled moan that escapes you, while his teeth graze your lower lip, nibbling just enough to draw a drop of blood that he licks with sadistic delight.

He penetrates you with a deep, raw thrust, without preamble, his hard, throbbing length filling you completely, stretching you to your limit. You moan loudly, a sound that mixes pain and unexpected pleasure, your nails digging into his shoulders as your back arches against the cold floor.

— Ah… Alastor! — you exclaim, not knowing if it's a plea for him to stop or to continue. He laughs against your neck, a hoarse, possessive sound, as he thrusts again, harder, faster, his hips colliding with yours in a relentless rhythm that makes your breasts bounce with each impact.

— Feel that, beautiful. —he whispers, his hot breath against your ear, — feel how I claim you. No one else will touch you. You are my vessel, my legacy.

The overstimulation hits you like a wave: each thrust grazes that sensitive spot inside you, sending electric shocks down your spine, causing your inner walls to contract around him involuntarily. You moan uncontrollably, wet, desperate sounds filling the room.

— Please… it's too much… oh, God…— Your tears roll down your cheeks as your body shakes, on the verge of sensory collapse.

Alastor doesn't stop; on the contrary, he accelerates, his hands clinging to your thighs to open you wider, exposing you completely as he thrusts with demonic force, sweat beading on his forehead beneath his horns, which now subtly emerge in their most primal form.

— Moan for me. — he commands, animalistic and raw, one hand reaching down to rub your swollen clitoris in precise circles, amplifying the overload until you sob, your vision clouding over with overwhelming pleasure.

The climax approaches like a storm, you feel the knot in your belly untangle violently, your body convulsing around him as waves of ecstasy wash over you, broken moans escaping your throat.

— Yes… no, no… Alastor!

He growls, his own control fracturing, thrusting once, twice more with brutal force before spilling inside you, hot and abundant, sealing the conception with a magical pulse that makes the runes glow brightly. In the last throes of your orgasm, as you still tremble and pant, Alastor kisses you wetly and deeply, his tongue tangling with yours in a dirty, devouring kiss, absorbing your last moans as if they were his own.

The ritual is complete in that moment, a supernatural heat settling in your womb, the seed irrevocably planted.

The world fades into a whirlwind of residual sensations: your body, exhausted and overstimulated, trembles uncontrollably against his, every muscle tense and then lax in waves of fatigue. You gasp heavily, your chest rising and falling as if you had run a hellish marathon, sweat beading on your skin and mixing with the tears still running down your cheeks. Alastor pulls away slightly, his warm breath against your neck, and holds you with one hand on the curve of your back, preventing you from collapsing completely.

— Perfect. — he murmurs, his voice a satisfied purr tinged with static, his red eyes shining with victory. —Now you are mine in every way, my dear. Our legacy will grow inside you.

— Bastard… what have you done…— escapes your lips between gasps, but the words are lost in a muffled sob. The magic of the ritual weighs on you like a heavy blanket, clouding your mind, making your eyelids heavy. You struggle one last time to pull away, but your body betrays you, yielding to overwhelming exhaustion.

— No… you can't…— you whisper, your voice breaking, but Alastor only laughs softly, cradling you against his chest with a twisted tenderness that contrasts with his sadism.

— Shh, rest. —he says, his finger tracing a line down your cheek.— Everything is as it should be. Sleep, my sweet bearer.

The static in the air softens into a soothing hum, and the world gradually darkens, your eyes closing against your will. The last thing you feel is his kiss on your forehead, a final seal of possession, before consciousness leaves you completely, plunging you into a deep, dreamless sleep, where remorse and pleasure merge into a hellish void.

. .

.

Somewhere in Hell, the new Alastor, who had been missing for seven years, had now returned with a new project of redemption: the Hotel Hazbin, a beacon of twisted hope amid eternal chaos. And elsewhere, there you were, hiding your secret in the shadows, alongside Alastor's son, now old enough to know who his father really was. But no one in Hell was to know; the legacy remained hidden, a ticking time bomb waiting for its moment.

To the little people who wanted to be tagged, here you go, eat up, it's a decent dinner. ♡