July 4th, 1921. New Orleans, Louisiana.

Fourteen years on the streets and you can learn a lot. But all the wrong things, not the things you want to learn.

After getting his internship at the radio station in New Orleans, Louisiana. It gave Alastor every possibility to finally be able to stand toe-to-toe with the rich people and defend himself from their prejudice. His voice and charming wit had paved way for his ascension into society after all—it wouldn't take long for him to do his debut as the youngest radio host, once he was finished with the internship.

He vowed to his late mother that he would make it to the top of the airwaves. Even if that path has to be bloody.

But despite his rise to success, the people around him are still as foul as they were. Malice and hatred exists each day at every corner of the city wherever you look. It seemed no matter how hard he tried, he could never escape the feeling of being an outsider, unwanted and alone.

Monsters are made, not born. It is thanks to his cruel father that Alastor finally understood life wasn't going to be kind—like he thought it would when he was seven. Dirtying his hands wasn't a big deal if it meant he could survive in this wretched world.

Alastor strolled into the night after his shift. He went out for a smoke but subconsciously walked further down Bourbon street, just five blocks down near the French quarter where Jazz music played all night long. He loved the bands playing in the background, yet, he could not enter the speakeasy as the sign outside stated: "The rich only".

He scoffed at it. Watched as the people from the inside were having their fun while he leaned against a wooden pillar supporting the second floor balcony. Alastor quietly listened with his arms crossed—this was his only way to enjoy Jazz music.

About a minute later, Alastor sharply turned his head to the sound of footsteps approaching from the alley around back. His eyes taking you in—assessing your dress and features—who seemingly worked in the pub as a barrista according to the smell of coffee beans and wine on you (he has a sharp sense of smell).

His ever permanent grin widened when you finally see him, "Bonsoir Mon Chere. A lovely evening isn't it?" He tilted his head. His long curly hair tied in a low ponytail, matching his ivory vest and pants.