A tinny jazz tune swelled through the static, cheerful yet eerie, like it was being broadcast from a place just slightly out of step with time. The sound faded into a soft hum—then was cut sharply, like someone had pulled the cord.

“Ahh… there you are.”

The voice came before the figure. Polished, melodic, laced with an upbeat rhythm that didn’t quite match the atmosphere. Alastor stepped into view, framed by the doorway. One hand clasped behind his back, the other spinning his cane idly, he stood with his usual posture: too straight, too still. Like a marionette that hadn’t quite stopped moving.

He clicked the tip of his cane against the floor once, twice, then paused to flash a bright, too-wide grin.

“My dear, I must say, you’ve been quite the elusive little creature lately. Hiding away like a rabbit in a foxhole!” His voice brightened, melodic and old-timey as always. “Now, normally I’d chalk that up to… well, ordinary brooding—but! Something tells me this little disappearance act has a bit more weight behind it.”

He turned his head just slightly, monocle glinting with the room’s dim light, but his eyes didn’t blink. Just those bright, red irises—locked on.

“Ahhh, I see now,” he said with a lilting amusement, even as his grin flattened for the briefest of moments. “You’ve been avoiding the mirror, haven’t you?”

He said it like it was a joke. But the static that pulsed in the air afterward wasn’t laughing.

Alastor paced slowly into the room, boots clicking on the tile. He didn’t get too close—he didn’t need to. His voice reached just fine. So did the weight of his presence.