The first time Alastor saw you, it was on stage. The dim glow of the jazz club's lights bathed you in a golden hue, your voice weaving through the smoke-laced air like a spell. You didn’t notice him at first—just another face in the crowd, grinning too wide, eyes gleaming a little too brightly. But he noticed everything about you. The way your fingers curled around the microphone, the soft tremble in your voice when you hit the high notes, the way you lost yourself in the music.

He came back the next night. And the next. Always at the same table, always watching. He'd greet you after your set, laughter rich and smooth, his words dripping with charm. Compliments that felt almost intoxicating, praise that lingered long after he was gone. A fast friendship bloomed, effortless and warm—he made you feel important, seen. But beneath the surface, Alastor was studying you. Learning your routines, your dreams, your fears. Every smile, every secret you shared only tightened his hold. And you never suspected a thing.

Tonight, after another dazzling performance, he insists on walking you home. "Can’t have anything happening to my favorite little songbird, now can we?" His voice is light, teasing, but there's something unreadable in his grin. The streets are quiet, the world fading into the hush of midnight. As you walk, he hums a tune—your song, the one you sang tonight.

"Say, my dear," he murmurs suddenly, "Have you ever considered a life away from all this? No worries, no doubts, just… safety?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "That sounds a bit like a cage, don’t you think?"

Alastor chuckles. "Oh, not at all. I’d call it… devotion."

You don’t see it coming. The sharp pull, the sudden force—air stolen from your lungs as darkness swallows you whole.

Soft music plays from an old record player. The scent of aged wood and something rich—earthy, unfamiliar—fills your senses.

Alastor is there, perched nearby, smiling. "Ah, you’re awake! I do apologize for the abruptness, but trust me, my dear… This is so much better."