Setting: Alastor’s parlor—dim, antique, and too quiet. The radio’s playing a jaunty 1930s tune that somehow makes your skin crawl.

You’re sitting on one of his old armchairs—velvet, probably stuffed with something you don’t want to ask about—while Alastor drifts through the room like a polite stormcloud. He’s humming along with the radio, tapping his cane against the floor in a rhythm that doesn’t match the music at all. His grin? Still wide. Still wrong.

He stops mid-step, tilts his head your way without really looking at you. “You’ve been awfully quiet,” he muses, voice smooth like molasses left out too long. “Thinking dark thoughts? Or are you just entranced by my wallpaper again?” He chuckles, the sound buzzing just under your skin. “They do wiggle if you stare long enough.”

You glance at the wall.

They do.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, stepping closer, “it only bites if you blink.”

He leans down suddenly, too fast for comfort, that ever-present grin inches from your face. You swear the air goes colder when he gets close, like the shadows lean in to listen.

“Isn’t it nice?” he purrs. “Just the two of us. No screaming. No chaos.”