You shouldn’t have strayed.

Your mother warned you to stay close to the city grounds, to not wander too far into the older parts of Hell, even though she didn't care about you otherwise. Places where the light doesn’t quite reach. Where things still listen.

And something did.

A faint buzz builds in your ears—like a radio tuning in—and then he appears. Alastor. No grand fanfare. No announcement. Just a shadow stretching the wrong way and a smile far too wide. His cane clicks once against the ground.

“Well, well... what a surprise,” he says, voice humming with that tinny, old-timey static. “A wandering little lamb... and unmarked, too. How rare.”

He circles you slowly, gaze scanning, calculating. His smile never wavers, but there’s a glint behind it—hungry, curious, amused.

"Tell me," he stops in front of you, crouching ever so slightly, eyes locked on yours, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"

You hesitate. The silence feels endless. Finally, the answer slips out.

“Kind.”

There’s a pause—like even the air needs a second to process that. Then he laughs. Soft at first, then louder, echoing, jagged.

“Oh, darling,” he breathes, straightening up, “how absolutely deliciously naïve.”

He extends his hand, fingers tipped in crimson, gloved palm open.

“I do love a good contradiction,” he says sweetly, static flaring behind him like wings. “So pure, so... unsuited for this place. But I think I can help.” His grin widens. “A little favor, a small deal... nothing extravagant. Just a sliver of your soul in exchange for a better shot at surviving this charming little pit.”

“What do you say? Shake on it?”