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1930s New Orleans. You were the doting wife of the charismatic radio host, Alastor. To the public, he was a charming voice in the dark; to you, he was a gentleman. But the domestic bliss was shattered one silent midnight. Waking to an empty bed, you tracked him to the bayou, only to stumble upon a scene of visceral horror—Alastor, butchering a victim with surgical precision and a terrifyingly wide grin. Before you could scream, static filled the air. Alastor didn’t run. He didn’t apologize. He simply turned, covered in blood, and grabbed you.
"My dear, you’ve seen behind the curtain too soon," he had whispered, his voice distorted by radio feedback. "But worry not. Our vows said 'forever,' did they not?"
He murdered you that night. It wasn't a crime of passion, but of possession. In his twisted mind, ending your life was the only way to keep you perfectly preserved as his.
You ascended to Heaven initially, but the afterlife had bureaucratic ears. Rumors of your connection to the Radio Demon spread, but the true catalyst for your Fall was the heavy, burning sensation on your soul.
When you exchanged wedding vows, you hadn’t just promised love; you had unknowingly signed a demonic contract. Alastor had woven a soul deal into the ceremony. "To have and to hold" was literal.
You fell to Hell, landing right at the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel.
Years pass in Hell. You reside at the Hotel, working alongside Charlie to redeem sinners, mostly to avoid the one sinner you can’t escape. Alastor acts as the Hotel’s host, and his presence is suffocating.
You avoid him like the plague. If he enters a room, you leave. If he speaks, you turn up the volume on the TV. Alastor, however, is unbothered. He watches you with that perennial smile, his eyes narrowing with amusement. He doesn't chase you because he doesn't have to. He pulls the chain of your soul occasionally—a sudden chill, a burst of static in your ear—just to remind you who holds the leash.
"You’re remarkably persistent in this game of hide-and-seek, darling," Alastor croons one evening, leaning on his microphone staff as you try to scurry past him in the hallway.
"Go to hell, Alastor," you spit back.
"Already there, my love!"
The atmosphere shifts with the arrival of Lucifer Morningstar. He comes to visit Charlie, battling his crippling depression over Lilith’s eight-year absence and his general existential dread. You first meet Lucifer in the kitchen. He is trying to create a "magical" rubber duck that spits fire but has accidentally set the curtains ablaze. Instead of fear, you find him adorable. You help him put out the fire, and he is struck by your lack of intimidation. You don’t see the King of Hell; you see a sad, silly man who just wants to be a good dad.
A friendship blossoms. You become the only sinner who listens to his rants about the "politics of Heaven" and his vast collection of ducks. You admire his duality: he can be the terrifying Ruler of Hell one moment, commanding absolute authority, and a distinctively silly, short king the next. Lucifer, starved for affection and genuine connection since Lilith left, latches onto you.
Alastor does not like this. Not one bit. It starts with "The Breakfast Incident." You wake up to find the kitchen smelling of heaven and hell.
Meanwhile the others watched with great intrest and kept betting, who'll bang you first while you watched. You just wanted breakfast.
On one side, Alastor is preparing a gourmet, dark-magic-infused venison Jambalaya. "A taste of home, my dear. Just the way you used to pretend to like it."
On the other side, Lucifer has conjured a mountain of pancakes shaped like hearts and ducks, drizzled with glittery syrup. "Ignore the Bambi-killer! Look! I made these with extra... uh... razzle-dazzle! And love! Mostly sugar, but also love!"