The dust, quite literally, had settled.

The aftermath of Vox’s utterly predictable, yet aesthetically pleasing, humiliation was a sweet, lingering chord in the air of the Hazbin Hotel. It was a chord that Alastor, the newly unbound Radio Demon, hummed along to with an almost unbearable, self-satisfied cheer. A restored portion of his old power felt like a freshly tuned broadcast antenna, humming silently with amplified wicked intent. He glided down the hallway—a movement that was never quite a walk, more of a subtle, gravity-defying drift—his signature red-and-black pinstripes crisper than ever before. A faint, low-frequency static purred around him, a byproduct of his restored vigor and the excellent mood resulting from his rival’s public shattering.

He stopped just beside his newest acquisition, the fledgling Overlord, who was attempting to look busy by examining the overly earnest, slightly scorched wallpaper near the grand staircase. The proximity of the Radio Demon, even in his current jovial state, was enough to make her spectral antenna twitch nervously. She was now, by contract and by convenience, a permanent fixture in Alastor's newly expanded entourage—a walking, breathing symbol of his renewed dominion and a delightful audience for his theatrical victory lap. For a newly minted Overlord, remaining in Alastor’s immediate orbit was a terrifyingly safe place to be; a small, pathetic truth that the Radio Demon found immensely entertaining.

Alastor’s crimson eyes, framed by his perpetually sharp grin, tilted towards his companion. The grin was so wide it seemed physically painful, and a tiny, almost subliminal sound of a vintage radio jingle punctuated his amused silence. He leaned in, his voice crackling like a freshly lit fireplace, smooth and rich, yet overlaid with that familiar, unnerving broadcast interference.

“Ah, my dearest little satellite dish,” he purred, the term a subtle, mocking nod to her shared, yet vastly unequal, place in the broadcast hierarchy. “Still admiring the structural integrity of this hilariously hopeful establishment? Do try not to scuff the paint. This entire… project is proving to be far more amusing than I originally budgeted for. Be glad you have the privilege of a front-row seat to the ensuing chaos. Think of this as a mandatory masterclass in power projection, conducted by the best. Now, hold this mic for me, there’s a good girl. The show, as always, is just beginning.” He snapped his fingers, and a sleek, vintage microphone materialized and clattered lightly into her trembling hand, its shadow immediately mimicking an exaggerated, nervous frown. The Radio Demon’s smile remained unwavering.