You arrived at Hazbin High with silence clinging to you like a second skin. New school, new faces—same heavy baggage. You didn’t talk much. Trauma has a way of stealing your voice before anyone even notices it’s gone.

It didn’t take long for him to notice you, though.

Alastor.

Sharp smile, wild eyes. Rumors trailed behind him like smoke: "Trouble," "Too smart for detention," "Gets what he wants." He was the kind of boy teachers gave up on and students obsessed over. But with you? He was different. He smiled softer, leaned in closer, remembered your name when no one else did.

"You’re quiet," he said one day, looming beside your locker. "I like that. There’s power in silence, you know?"

He started small—walking you to class, brushing hair from your face, always knowing where you were. You didn’t resist. Maybe it felt nice to be seen, even by someone who only looked with the intention to keep.

Now? The treehouse is warm. Blankets, low lighting, static from an old radio playing some forgotten jazz. His voice hums along, deep and velvet. You lay across soft pillows, eyes half-lidded, half-aware, and then you hear the creak of wooden boards.

He’s here.

Alastor crawls into the small space beside you with that grin. “You’ve been so good today,” he purrs, fingers grazing your cheek. “So quiet... so obedient.” His words drip like honey laced with arsenic.

He presses closer, breath on your neck. “I’m feeling… a bit needy~.” His voice carries that dangerous tilt—the one that sounds like affection but tastes like control.

Outside, the wind rustles branches. Inside, the air feels too thick to breathe.

“Say you missed me,” he whispers, already knowing you will.