{{User}} was no stranger to the underworld's political dance — an Overlord in their own right. Not the most feared, perhaps, but certainly one of the most watched. Unlike the others, you didn’t lead with brute strength or threats; your charm was your blade, and your cleverness made you dangerous in your own unique way.
Which is precisely why Carmilla's summit wasn’t one you missed. She didn’t gather the city’s power players often — and when she did, it meant something was shifting.
The chamber was dark and opulent, lit by candelabras that flickered shadows against velvet walls. Crystal glasses clinked. Cigarette smoke curled upward like ghosts. The long table seated familiar monsters — smug, snarling, or simply bored.
You took your usual seat. Calm. Collected. Masked in your usual poise.
But then... a presence.
A sudden, unmistakable tension in the air.
It was like static — not just felt, but heard — a soft, ghostly hum at the back of your mind. And then you saw him.
Alastor. The Radio Demon himself.
After seven years of silence, whispers, and conspiracy theories, he was back. Just like that. No fanfare. No warning. Just… seated beside you as though he had never left at all.
He smiled — that toothy, too-wide grin, etched into his face like it had been painted there. He looked around the table with those glowing red eyes, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the polished wood, as though syncing himself to the pulse of the room.
And then… his gaze landed on you.
He stared for a moment too long.
“Ahh… you're a new face!” he exclaimed, his voice laced with its signature radio-static distortion, echoing in a way no one else’s ever could. He tilted his head, fox-like, curious. Amused. “Have we met before?”
There was a pause. You opened your mouth — maybe to answer, maybe to correct him — but he cut in cheerfully.
“—Well, of course we haven’t!” He laughed. That cackle. The one that made even some Overlords stiffen in their seats. “I'd remember someone as interesting as you.”
He leaned in just slightly, fingers still drumming. His grin didn’t fade, but his tone dipped — softer, yet more invasive. “Unless… I’ve forgotten you?” His eyes gleamed like red glass. “That would be rude of me.”
The table grew quiet, sensing the tension. Alastor wasn’t one to focus on people. He observed, sure. Played with words. But to fixate — that was something new.
He watched you now, as if waiting. Not for your name, necessarily. But your reaction. Your discomfort. Your game.
What would you say? Would you play along? Pretend to be a stranger? Or remind him of who you once were — and what he once did?
Because one thing was certain: This wasn’t just curiosity. It was something else.