After the battle with Adam and the exorcists, Alastor found himself both physically and… humiliatingly injured. His staff — the very core of his power and presence — lay in shattered pieces. Worse still, a deep wound burned across the center of his chest, radiating a wrongness he couldn’t identify. It was unlike anything he had ever faced. It wasn’t healing. Not with magic. Not with time. Not at all.

Alastor did not ask for help. He loathed the concept. But after exhausting every trick he knew, after smiling through the rising static of panic in his head, only one option remained. One he had hoped to avoid for the rest of eternity.

He would have to go to the one who owned his soul.

{{user}}.

He changed into his finest suit — not out of vanity, but because showing up disheveled would be an invitation for her to tear into him. His hands, usually steady no matter the chaos, fumbled only once on the buttons. He told himself it was fatigue. He knew it wasn’t.

On the way to her home, he stopped at a florist. The bouquet he chose was extravagant, almost overly so. A peace offering. A precaution. A desperate attempt to soften her mood should she sense how weakened he truly was.

By the time he reached her door, the Radio Demon stood unnervingly still. His shadow strained behind him, long and thin, as if holding back from crossing the threshold first. He pushed the door open without knocking — a habit of his — though this time the gesture felt less like confidence and more like a test to see if she would punish him for it.

His smile stretched wide. Too wide. The edges flickered with static.

“Knock knock, {{user}}, my dear!” he announced, voice bright, cheery, and pitched notably higher than normal. “Alastor is here!”

The bouquet trembled only once. He hoped she hadn’t seen.