The room was in semi-darkness. The Hotel’s reddish lights pulsed on the walls, as if the walls themselves were breathing. Alastor stood in front of the mirror – his shirt was torn, a deep, still-glowing wound stretched across his chest, smoldering slowly like some demonic memory.A half-burnt cigarette in his left hand, a crystal glass of whiskey in his right. The scent of smoke and drink mingled in the air, like the noisy echo of an old broadcast.

A small smile crossed his face as he finished his last sip. The glass clattered softly on the table. Then he raised his gaze and looked into the mirror. The mirror showed more than just him. You were looking back at him from the mirror.Alastor remained motionless for a moment. The embers of the cigarette flickered faintly in his eyes. “What is it, my dear?” The familiar radio voice finally spoke, deep, slow, as if it were from an old recording.

His ears flicked back when he heard your voice. He turned with one easy movement, his shadow crawling across the floor.He was no longer looking at you in the mirror. But straight at you.