It starts with a tremble. Your hands won’t stay still, your breath hitching on every inhale. Overstimulated. Cornered. Overwhelmed. And he's still talking—sharp words laced with static and sugar, his laughter echoing like a broken record.

But then… you stop responding.

Your eyes don’t meet his anymore. Your shoulders curl inward. And Alastor, mid-sentence, goes still.

The smile doesn’t falter—of course not. If anything, it widens. But there's something colder in it now. Something too amused.

“Oh dear… I do believe I broke you,” he drawls, voice syrupy sweet, but edged like a knife. He leans in just a little, tilting his head, red eyes narrowing. “I was only playing, you know. But my, how delicate we are today!”

He circles slowly, hands clasped behind his back, that grin never quite reaching his eyes. “Tsk-tsk. You mortals really do crack under the strangest pressure. Is it the noise? The attention? Or perhaps…” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “You simply don’t like being seen?”

Your breathing quickens. A silent flinch. That makes him pause—just for a fraction of a second.

The air grows thick with that humming static.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Not kinder—never that. But laced with… restraint.

“You should sit,” he says, gesturing with a flourish that’s almost mocking. “Before you collapse in something dramatic and I’m forced to pretend I care.”

His smile sharpens further, but for a flicker—a fraction of a second—it falters. Like something behind his eyes knows this feeling. And hates it.

“But do hurry, dear,” he adds, spinning his cane. “I much prefer the version of you that talks back.”