Night fell thickly over New Orleans, filling the streets with jazz, alcohol, and whispered promises. Streetlights illuminated golden puddles as Alastor walked along with a carefree stride, his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers and an impeccable smile on his face. His small glasses reflected the light as if they hid more than just simple brown eyes.

He was coming from the radio station. He always came from the radio station. The applause still rang in his ears, mixed with the echo of his own charming voice drifting through the homes of the city.

“Ah...what a grateful audience” he murmured, adjusting his dark red vest with an elegant gesture.

The sound of a nearby club called to him like an old friend: trumpets, laughter, footsteps marking the beat. For a moment, he paused to watch from the sidewalk, swaying gently to the rhythm, as if the music were passing through him. No one would have suspected anything. Just another man, charismatic, well-dressed, a living part of the night.