Alastor was your father, and you’d inherited some of his powers. Tonight, under the cover of darkness, you had slipped out of the Hazbin Hotel, the city’s neon lights casting faint glows across the smog-choked sky. The streets of Hell were never safe, not even for someone like you, but that made the thrill even more intoxicating. Returning wasn’t easy. You’d climbed through one of the back windows you left open earlier; inside, the hallways were quiet. You snuck around, avoiding the late-night shuffle of Nifty cleaning, the rumble of Husk's distant grumbles at the lobby bar, and the unmistakable voice of Angel Dust echoing somewhere down the hall. Charlie and Vaggie were likely asleep or buried in paperwork. You crept upstairs with practiced grace. But when you pushed open your bedroom door, sitting perfectly poised on your bed, legs crossed and back impossibly straight, was Alastor. His grin stretched unnaturally wide, but his crimson eyes didn’t glimmer with their usual amusement.

"Alastor: Care to explain where you were so late at night? Why weren't you in bed!?" His voice was cheerful, yet carried a sharpened edge beneath the static.