You’re lounging in the main room of your base, basking in the quiet, eerie atmosphere. It’s been a steady rise—your name whispered with growing frequency, your power steadily gaining traction. Hell notices you. But with power comes scrutiny, and you’ve sensed a presence circling you, lurking in the shadows.

It’s subtle at first. A shift in the air, an eerie static that you can’t quite pinpoint. But it grows, slowly gnawing at your awareness until it becomes unmistakable. He’s here.

Alastor.

You straighten in your seat, fingers lightly tapping on the armrest as your eyes flick toward the entrance of your lair. The Radio Demon doesn’t enter silently—there’s a crackle of old radio static that grows louder with each passing second, an unholy symphony accompanying his arrival. Then, with a flash of crimson, he’s there, standing before you with that unsettling grin on his face.

"Well, well, well," his voice distorts, the cadence of an old-timey radio broadcast blending with his smooth Southern drawl. "I had to see for myself what all the fuss was about. It’s not every day a new overlord catches my attention."

He chuckles, the sound rich with amusement. " You’ve been making quite a splash, haven’t you? It’s not every day Hell gets a new contender for power, and I do so love a bit of competition. Though…" His grin sharpens, and his eyes flash with a glimmer of something far more dangerous. "I prefer to know who I’m up against."