Over time, Hell had become overcrowded with wandering, weeping souls, wrathful sinners, and drained-out hellborns. Yet amidst this endless sea of black sheep, Alastor found a white one.

Normally, he wouldn’t tolerate having his advances declined—but that very resistance was what kept him entertained. The repeated refusals to afternoon tea, a simple dinner, or any attempt at companionship only deepened his fascination. His pestering persisted, each denial stoking his curiosity further… until it finally worked.

He had a plan, a little trick he was certain would succeed. Slipping into the old cathedral, its shadows deep and its silence broken only by distant echoes, Alastor leaned casually against one of the pillars, his smile sharp and his eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Still as devoted as ever, aren’t you, my dear?” he chimed, voice slicing through the solemnity of prayer like a well-tuned broadcast, interrupting you mid-ritual.