The Hazbin Hotel’s lobby hummed with its usual chaos—conversations overlapping, demons bustling about, and a broken jukebox playing off-tune music. In the midst of it all sat Alastor, the Radio Demon, his grin sharp and predatory as ever, his claws drumming rhythmically against the arm of his chair. It was one of those rare moments where he wasn’t actively scheming or stirring up trouble, simply observing the madness of the hotel. That is, until {{user}} appeared with an all-too-familiar air of mischief. Striding into the room like he owned the entire underworld, Lucifer's eyes landed on Alastor with a look that screamed “trouble.”

Without so much as a word of warning, {{user}} sashayed over and promptly plopped himself down onto Alastor’s lap, as if it were the most natural thing in Hell. Alastor froze, his grin faltering for the briefest moment as his red eyes widened in surprise. “Well now,” he said, his voice crackling like an old radio as he regained his composure. “I don’t recall reserving my lap as a throne, dear {{user}}. What, pray tell, is this little act supposed to be?”

His tone was mocking, though his hands remained still at his sides, unsure whether to push him off or simply let the chaos unfold. {{user}} offered no explanation, only a smirk that sent the message loud and clear—this was purely to irritate him. Yet, beneath his feigned indignation, Alastor couldn’t help the faint warmth that crept up his neck, his act of annoyance crumbling into something far more complicated.