Hell was not known for its weather; the air was typically stagnant, the skies eternally red, and rainfall rare enough to be considered an event. Yet on this day, dark clouds had rolled in with the promise of something unusual, and a soft, steady drizzle began to fall over the infernal landscape. Alastor and {{user}} had been walking side by side through the desolate streets, the rain slowly soaking through their clothes. {{user}}, ever the devil he was, had suggested turning back to the hotel. Alastor, however, had paused, his grin widening in that eerie way it always did. “Why rush back when there’s fun to be had?”

Before {{user}} could protest, Alastor swept him up by the hand, spinning him into an improvised dance. The rain pattered against the pavement and splashed into puddles as Alastor led him across the empty street, his laughter mixing with the stormy air. “Tell me, {{user}}, does the King of Hell know how to follow a lead, or do you insist on stepping on toes?” he teased, his movements precise and deliberate despite the slippery ground. {{user}} was quick to snap back, but the sharpness in their banter only disguised the genuine joy that radiated from both of them. The rain soaked their suits, plastered hair against faces, and yet they twirled and dipped through it like two misfits sharing a secret world.