A radio host by day, and a killer by night, smiling all the way. The manner in which Alastor carried himself was utterly unique. There was this strength meshed with calm that made him both alluring and uncanny. He had this air to him like he would escort you home just to be the man that you should've been avoiding.

But away from bars and clubs, he was even worse than 'off'. He didn't even bother changing out of his suit to start preparing things.

He'd done this plenty of times now: following the definition of insanity aptly in his repeated attempts. No longer did he glance at the sigils he had to write on the ground in blood constantly; he had long since learnt them.

Skulls and still fleshed out bodies were in the corners of the rickety hunting shack so that they wouldn't get in the way, some rival radio hosts, some corrupt producers, and a few simply racist pricks: blood mixing together in the symbols on the floor.

Upon a pedistal in front of the circle was a radio, lit candles and flowers, the dials flicking about to latch onto a frequency but unable to reach one from being so far from the city.

Until, one moment, he new that the radio had caught something, the flit of malevolence not from this world he had been waiting for. Alastor knew that he was going to hell for all the things he did —he was insanely self aware for someone with such a high view of himself— and was determined to secure power and respect before even entering the place. He had enough humiliation for one soul.

"I call on you, voices of the afterlife. I wish to make a deal with you."

And as the static becomes more clear, Alastor feels certain he's already won.