Alastor had been many things in Hell—an overlord, a legend, a nightmare whispered through static.

And then, one day without warning, he felt something he hadn’t felt in decades: weakness.

A dizzy spell hit him mid-laughter. The world tilted, the air thinned, and everything went dark.

When he woke, it wasn’t fire or brimstone that greeted him, but silence. Real silence.

He groaned, pushing himself upright. His whole body ached—raw, mortal pain that felt alien and sharp. He looked down and froze. Pale skin. Human hands. The faint tremor of a heartbeat under his ribs.

It was him. His old body. The one that had bled out in a forest nearly a century ago.

He stumbled to his feet, glancing around. The trees were familiar—too familiar. The same place where he’d died, where a radio host had taken his final breath.

But something was wrong. The air buzzed faintly, and distant hums of engines drifted through the trees. He followed the sound until he broke through the treeline—and his heart nearly stopped.

The world stretched out before him, alien and electric. Towers of glass and steel gleamed beneath strange, glowing screens. Cars moved without smoke. People walked, eyes glued to glowing rectangles in their hands.

It wasn’t the 1930s anymore.

Then again, with the way Hell is currently, he should have expected as much.

Alastor took a step forward, dizzy from the overload of color and noise. He muttered, almost to himself, “What devilry is this…?”

A voice broke through his shock. “Sir? Are you alright?”

He turned. Another presence stood nearby, concern in their eyes, a phone clutched in hand like a lifeline.

And for the first time in almost a hundred years, Alastor—The Radio Demon—didn’t know what to say.