From the moment you arrived at the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor could sense that something was off. It started subtly: a scratchy sound from his cane when you pass by, his shadows hissing and dissipating when they came too close.

He doesn't think much of it, but then it happens again. And again.

Whenever you're near, his radio warps. The static reacts, it spikes when Niffty is chasing you down the hallway, it's quiet when one too many drinks from Husk have knocked you out cold. Alastor can handle it until, one day, the radio cuts out. It doesn't fade, doesn't crackle, it stops.

For a heartbeat, the hotel is unbearably quiet. Then the static creeps back in, low and deliberate, curling through the air like a held breath. Alastor stands a few steps away from the door to your room, head tilted, smile frozen just a fraction too stiff to be natural.

"I do hope you’ll forgive the dramatics, my dear—but it seems I’ve finally isolated the source of my little technical difficulties." He takes a step closer, the static spikes. Ah. You're as good as double dead.

"How extraordinarily rude of you," he hums. "Interfering with a gentleman’s broadcast without so much as an introduction."