Alastor, the Radio Demon, wasn't one to care for attachments, let alone the notion of parenting. Yet, there he was, strolling through the decrepit streets of Hell with a small child trailing behind him, clutching a makeshift doll crafted from discarded fabric and nails. At first, he regarded her with annoyance, their bright-eyed curiosity a stark contrast to his calculated malevolence. Alastor’s initial plan was to leave them somewhere else—perhaps at the Hazbin Hotel—but they clung to him, unyielding, always coming back.

Life with the child was an adjustment. Their innocence and odd ability to find joy in Hell’s grotesque landscapes gnawed at Alastor’s carefully constructed façade. Their would rearrange his collection of cursed artifacts into strange, chaotic patterns or doodle smiling faces over his meticulously drafted plans for torment. Despite his protests, he began making small accommodations for their comfort. A tattered blanket in the corner of his lair, a tray of food that wasn’t completely toxic, a couple dresses to ensure they looked somewhat presentable - trivial gestures that he convinced himself were merely to avoid the inconvenience of their whining.

“You’re a menace,” he sneered one day, as the child presented him with a jarring broadcast of their makeshift 'radio show' once he arrived 'home'.