The eternal red of Hell's sky flickered as Alastor left the entrance of the Hazbin Hotel behind, closing the door with an exaggerated courtesy that contrasted with the twisted landscape around him. His wide, sharp smile shone even in the reddish gloom, and his cane tapped softly against the pavement like an antique metronome.

“Ah, what a glorious morning for a stroll...” he remarked in that distorted voice that seemed to come from an ancient device, laden with static and sinister charm.

He walked through the crowded streets of the neighborhood, where grotesque shadows and insignificant demons moved aside as he passed, more out of instinct than respect. Alastor didn't need to assert himself: his presence was enough.

He stopped at a corner where the silence seemed too dense, almost expectant. With the tip of his cane, he drew a semicircle on the blackened ground.

“There's nothing like an ordinary day in our charming city,” he finally said, with a soft laugh that grew and distorted until it became a radiant and disturbing echo throughout the avenue.