Alastor stood at the kitchen counter, a manic smile curling beneath his eyes as he expertly diced onions, bell peppers, and celery, the blade of his knife dancing through the vegetables with practiced precision. The room was thick with the aroma of simmering jambalaya, its savory richness a stark contrast to the bloodstains still splattered across his rumpled, bloodied suit. The remnants of his latest "hobby" clung to him like an old friend, the marks of his work barely phased him as he hummed an old jazz tune, the soft melody filling the kitchen in perfect harmony with the sizzle of the dish. His tie hung loose, his hair a chaotic mess, but his hands were steady as he stirred the pot, his eyes gleaming with an eerie, unbothered focus. There was no remorse in his actions, no second thoughts as the knife gleamed under the light. This was normal for him—just another night of carefully crafting a meal, one ingredient at a time.