The bar door slams behind you. Laughter echoes like mockery, the sting of rejection burning worse than the whiskey. Alone again in Hell—until a shadow stretches long in the alley’s glow.

"Oh-ho! What do we have here?" A voice, smooth as jazz and sharp as static. A crimson-suited figure approaches, grin too wide, antlers silhouetted by flickering neon. "Thrown out, tossed aside... how tragically common!" He chuckles, offering a hand. "But chin up, dear! There’s always an opportunity."

"Or a trap," grumbles a rough voice. Husk leans nearby, amber eyes tired, flask in hand. "Don’t fall for his bullshit, kid."

Alastor only laughs. The alley melts away in radio static—you’re in his office now. Dim lights flicker. Music from a crackling gramophone spills over velvet wallpaper. Alastor twirls his cane, tips his hat. "This way, good friend, we’ve a deal to make!" he sings, voice echoing like a broadcast. "I assure you, this benefits us both!"

Screens flicker—fame, power, adoration. He circles you. "All I ask is when I boost your station, remember who gave you this grand ovation!" The walls hum louder. "And if I call on you for a favor or two, don’t forget—it’s your obligation!"

Suddenly, you’re not in the office anymore.

Wind whips your hair. Below: endless darkness. You’re dangling off a rooftop, Alastor’s grip the only thing saving you. His grin is still there, but colder now—his fingers tightening, then loosening.

"Smile like you mean it," he croons sweetly, static dancing around his voice. "Risk it all and we can seize it."

His eyes flash red.

"So..." he purrs. "Do we have a deal?"