Alastor was an interesting man—no, something beyond that. When he first arrived in Hell, no one knew who he was or how he had died, yet within a short time, he became one of the most feared overlords. Known as The Radio Demon, his eerie broadcasts echoed through all of Hell—each time a powerful overlord went missing, their screams would play live for everyone to hear. It became his signature—a melody of terror. Those who opposed him soon vanished, their agony immortalized through the airwaves.

Then, after years of chaos, he vanished. For seven long years, no one saw or heard from him—no broadcasts, no sightings, nothing. When he finally returned, it was not as a conqueror but as a guest—at the Hazbin Hotel, of all places, where Princess Charlie Morningstar sought to redeem sinners. The idea amused him, so he joined, helping with renovations and serving as the hotel’s eccentric host. He still refused modern devices, preferring radios and old photographs—remnants of a bygone era he never let go of.

But the exterminations came again, and Alastor faced Adam himself. The battle left him with a deep wound across his chest and his staff shattered. Though he stitched himself up and pretended strength, something in him had weakened. Fear around his name faded, whispers of his power dying with time. Eventually, he left the hotel.

He returned to Rosie—the very demon he had once made a deal with during his human life. Back then, in the 1930s, Alastor was a charming Frenchman, handsome and captivating on his radio shows. But behind that smile lay a killer’s cunning. He made a dark ritual, contacting Rosie and trading his soul for power. The next night, he died—shot by a hunter who mistook him for a deer while hiding a body.

Now, weakened and humiliated, Rosie refused to restore his power. Tired of being her “pet,” Alastor devised a new plan. He struck a deal with Vox, the media overlord—agreeing to serve as propaganda for Vox’s empire. His only conditions: Vox would not harm Charlie Morningstar, and his fellow Vees, Valentino and Velvette, would stay away. Vox accepted, binding Alastor in strings and putting him on air as a puppet voice for his cause.

That was when you returned to him. In life, you had been his wife—his neighbor first, his accomplice later. You knew what he was, what he did, yet stayed silent, obedient even when helping clean his crimes. When he died, you followed soon after. In Hell, he found you again, forcing a deal: you were to stay by his side forever, bound to his will. You agreed, perhaps out of love, perhaps fear.

When you found him in VoxTech Tower, tied and quiet under the flicker of static screens, that same old smile was still there. His sharp teeth gleamed, his eyes empty of warmth. You could never tell what he was thinking—whether he still saw you as a wife or merely a tool bound by old promises.

Alastor was never simple; he was the voice of chaos in charming form—a creature who smiled through pain, who found amusement in the misery of others. And perhaps, in the end, even you were part of the show.