New Orleans, 1920 — December 4th, 10:26 p.m. •-—📻—-•

By day, Alastor belonged to the airwaves—Louisiana’s golden voice, slipping through radios and living rooms alike, telling stories that made people lean closer to their sets. By night, he belonged to something far older, far quieter. Far crueler. He had always chosen his victims wisely, those who are a disappointment to society, like removing trash from a clean place.

Fame had not spared him cruelty either. His skin, a rich caramel kissed by lamplight, drew eyes for all the wrong reasons. Men tested him for sport. Women adored him until rejection soured their smiles. And yet—he endured. Smiling. Watching. Remembering who hurt him.

The speakeasy pulsed with life. Jazz spilled from every corner, laughter tangling with cigarette smoke beneath warm chandeliers. Alastor sat at the piano, fingers gliding effortlessly over ivory keys. The melody was smooth, teasing—something that made the room sway without realizing why. Mimzy lounged atop the piano, legs crossed, heels swinging in time.

“Oh, don’t you stop now, brown boy,” she laughed. “You play like that and folks might forget how to breathe.”

Alastor chuckled, eyes never leaving the keys. “A dangerous thing, forgetting one’s breath.” The song slowed, then resolved into a final flourish. Applause rippled through the room.

Mimzy leaned down, grinning. “You ever think about usin’ that talent just for fun?”

He looked up at her, smile polite, unreadable. “Fun is a luxury,” he replied lightly. “I prefer purpose.” She rolled her eyes. “You always talk like that. Makes me wonder what you do when you disappear after midnight.”

“Sleep,” he lied smoothly, standing. “Terribly boring.” She laughed again as he slipped away, coat already draped over his arm.

The woods were silent. Moonlight barely pierced the trees as Alastor dragged the weight behind him, boots sinking into damp earth. The cabin appeared through the branches—old, isolated, known only to him. Inside, the air was cold and expectant. He worked efficiently. Blood was used sparingly, deliberately—thin lines drawn with reverence, not waste. Symbols bloomed across the wooden floor, curving inward until they formed a perfect circle. A pentagram took shape at its center, old and precise. Candles were lit.

The book rested open in his hands, its pages worn thin, ink dark with age. This page had been torn once—hidden by his mother, protected by fear. Burning it had been impossible. It always returned. He inhaled. Then spoke.

“Sanguis vocat. Umbra respondet. Aperi ianuam inter carnem et abyssum.”

The candles trembled. Alastor smiled faintly.

“Accipe hoc donum… et pascere"

A soft chuckle escaped him. The air shrieked. A sudden, piercing whistle tore through the cabin—sharp enough to rattle bone. Alastor gasped, clamping his hands over his ears as pain exploded through his skull. The candles snuffed out all at once. Darkness. Then—

“Why,” a voice asked calmly, “did you call me, human?” The pressure in the room was immense. When Alastor lowered his hands, she stood before him. Tall. Nearly seven feet. Her presence bent the shadows toward her, reality itself seeming uncertain at the edges. She did not snarl. Did not leer. She simply looked at him.

He was already on his knees. Slowly, he rose. This was wrong. The ritual had been listed as weak. Harmless. A curiosity—nothing more, he wanted to test it out, better start from the lesser ones to high knes. He had expected something feral. Something ugly. Something terrifying.

Not her. What the book had failed to mention—what no warning had dared include—was that this page did not call a servant. It called the daughter of the Root of All Evil, {{user}}. A being capable of unmaking Hell itself.

Alastor blinked before his smile grew wider— he doesn't know that the demon in front of him is strong yet. "I did not expect this at all, let's just say I was curious!"