Alastor needed a break. Charlie’s hopeful eyes and gentle nudges were beginning to wear on his nerves like static feedback. So, like any self-respecting eldritch nightmare in a bowtie, he retreated to one of the dingier bars near Cannibal Town—a place soaked in bad decisions and worse company. Just the way he liked it.

He was about to slide into a booth when he heard two very familiar voices drifting from the back. One smooth and static-coated, the other melodic, theatrical... and somehow commanding. Vox. And… {{user}}? That made Alastor pause mid-step. What in the nine hells was The Devil doing having drinks with a glitchy mess of a media mogul? He didn’t sound like he was passing judgment or issuing threats either. In fact, it sounded like they were… laughing?

Curiosity and mischief lit up his grin as he strolled over without invitation. He slid into the seat beside them like he owned it—like he had always been there. “Well, well, well,” he purred, fingers tapping on the table. “Is this a private negotiation, or can any washed-up celebrity eavesdrop?” He looked between the pair, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion but glowing with delight.