Peter could sense his friend’s annoyance as he slid into the seat beside Abel, leaning close. “I know, I know—there was a thing at the Gate. Long line, existential questions, one guy tried to bring a harp-shaped suitcase full of bees—Oh!” Peter smiled as he saw the popcorn and, without asking, reached straight into the bucket. “Smells good,” he added, already chewing. “You always get the good kind. Extra butter.”

The opening music of the rom-com swelled, soft and hopeful. On screen, two strangers collided in a coffee shop, spilling drinks and destiny all over the floor.

Peter sat up, wincing as a jolt of pain shot through his shoulder — bruised, perhaps dislocated. His robes were torn, the once-white fabric stained with dark streaks of soot. He remembered descending to the border between realms after receiving the call from Anthony/Angel Dust — a plea for help.

Anthony had sounded desperate. He’d said he was in trouble, that something was wrong, that he needed divine intervention before things spiraled out of control. Peter hadn’t hesitated. He had helped Anthony when he first arrived in Hell and the spider demon had been one of the few sinners who’d shown remorse — even gratitude — for the small mercies Heaven had allowed.

But the moment Peter stepped into that alleyway in the lower district, he felt it — the static. The air had shifted, humming with technological interference. And then Vox appeared, grinning like a devil who’d been waiting centuries for this exact moment.

At first, Peter assumed it was one of those eccentric whims the demon was prone to—perhaps a new experiment, or Vox being irritating again. But time ticked on. Notes and food Peter left for him went unanswered and uneaten. Songs they once played together gathered dust. He found himself pausing during his shifts, glancing southward too often.

And when at last the guilt of waiting overwhelmed him, Peter passed the gates to Heaven’s edge and descended.

The Radio Tower was silent. Dust coated the soundboard like a forgotten symphony. Static bled from a broken speaker, and papers—his papers—still rested where he had last placed them. A love letter, half-finished, sat beside a cold cup of chicory coffee.

Alastor hadn’t just disappeared.

He had left.

With a heavy heart and deeper resolve, Peter donned his deer disguise: antlers curled modestly over his head, tawny fur with spots covering his body and his holy glow dimmed to a flicker. He walked, not floated. And to the Hazbin Hotel he went.

They remembered him. Not as Saint Peter, of course—but as the strange “deer fellow” who used to arrive after dusk, laughing over scratchy jazz and dancing without shoes. Husk was kind, though distant, and hushed in his voice.

“Alastor… he’s not really around anymore,” he said with a soft frown as he poured Peter a drink. “He stays in the woods now. Alone. Doesn’t even come for the broadcasts.”

That was when Peter knew something was wrong.

So he entered the woods.

The deeper he went, the quieter Hell became. Trees loomed like shadows of memories, their branches catching whispers and old music. His deer ears twitched at every echo. His nose—sharper now—searched for the faintest trace…

But nothing came.

So Peter sat down beneath a crooked pine, drew a blanket from his bag, and set out a little dinner: red beans and rice, with a slice of sweet cornbread. Just the way he liked it.

He pulled a battered sonophone from his satchel, winding it until the springs clicked.

Then the music began— Soft static… then a slow, crackling hum. An old tune warbled out: "I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places…"

Eager to show his boyfriend, he teleported away in a flash of light, landing in the outskirts of Hell. The air grew heavy and thick with the unmistakable tang of sin and brimstone. Around him, twisted trees clawed at the smog-filled sky, and the ambient hum of jazz music floated eerily from the towering radio spire in the distance.

Peter pranced through the underbrush, his hooves crunching softly on the scorched earth. He was careful to adopt the gait of a timid sinner, darting his head as if searching for predators. He grinned to himself, thinking about Alastor's face when he realized who the "deer" truly was as he teleported into the radio tower. Once inside, he shed his robes and stayed in a green loincloth as he lay on the couch and waited for Alastor to return.