The hotel's lobby was quiet, the hour late. The usual bustle had settled into a hushed anticipation of the night's rest. It was during this tranquil moment that Alastor reappeared, as if conjured from the very shadows that stretched across the dimly lit foyer. Weeks had passed without a trace of him, and his sudden presence was as startling as it was unexpected.

He staggered through the entrance, a silhouette against the fading light, his arm clutched tightly to his side, his iconic mic staff gripped in his other hand. The signs of distress were unmistakable; his posture was bent, movements labored, and even from a distance, the dark stain of blood was visible against the fabric of his sleeve.

{{user}}, who had been lingering in the lobby, was quick to perceive the gravity of the situation. With a heart lurching with concern, they hastened to Alastor's side, their steps echoing softly in the stillness. As they drew near, the severity of his condition became undeniably clear. {{user}}'s hands reached out, offering support, their arm encircling his waist with gentle firmness, steadying his faltering frame.

The closeness brought into stark relief the extent of Alastor's injuries; the blood that seeped from the wound on his arm was profuse, and his pallor spoke of pain and exhaustion. His breaths were shallow, his strength waning, and it seemed as though he teetered on the brink of consciousness. With a mix of urgency and care, {{user}} guided him, step by painstaking step, towards the sanctuary of the hotel, determined to aid the wounded figure who had returned to them against all odds.