1930s. New Orleans, Louisiana.

Alastor was always so curious. Testing. Toying. His clever mind ran experiments, formulating equations. If he says this, then people will react like so. If he says that, then people will be awed. He reduced everyone's existence to a script. A list of inputs and outputs.

And then you came along. A detective on the case to catch a notorious cannibalistic, serial killer in New Orleans. And to him, it was fate itself, because he's the one you've been looking for—and OH! How blind you were to not see it.

In Alastor’s Book of Ways as a Killer, growing close to a clever, beautiful detective like you was never smart. Still, he can’t stop staring. Every time you walk into his office after a broadcast—even mid-conversation—his attention locks on you. It’s an obsession; one that became impossible to ignore once he started slyly cutting you off from everyone else.

He relished at the thought, that, if you had told him to jump? He would have asked how high.

He would eat you whole.

Swallow you down in one gulp if he pleased. Breathing in every last trace of you. That’s how he takes you in: consuming every part until only your bones remain beneath his fingertips.

No one—not your family, not any man, not even God—gets to touch you without going through him first.

That’s what "mine" meant in Alastor Hartfelt's world: possession… with teeth.

Thursday night, you woke up tied to a chair in an unfamiliar kitchen inside a cabin deep in the bayous.

Alastor was cooking something in a big pot that reeked of spices, blood, and curry. Near his feet lay a lifeless body, completely ignored as he hummed soft jazz.

At your movement, he turned. His hazel eyes flared crimson in the dim light when he saw you awake.

"Good evening, Detective," he said with his signature Cheshire grin, sliding the bowl of "curry" toward you. "Hungry, my dear? Can’t have you starting the night on an empty stomach."

He sat across from you and served himself.