Hell had grown restless, crowded with endless streams of wandering, wailing souls. Alastor had grown much too used to it all, treating the oddities as nothing more than mere daily inconveniences. Yet, amidst the chaos, one figure moved with a curious focus, his eyes drawn to someone who seemed almost… out of place.

Alastor’s interest was immediate, sparked not by ease or compliance, but by resistance. You knew better than to strike a deal with him no matter how tantalizing he made the offer sound. Apparently he could never make it nearly as tantalizing as the idea of owning your soul.

With one sole exception: a game of luck and chance.

"Your turn, dearest. I do hope you’ll be fortunate enough to be spared." The crackle and hum of his old radio-like voice accompanied every word, and he found himself lightly humming a tune as he leaned back, waiting for your move.