That famous radio host was playing piano at the local jazz club again.

He was hard to miss: tall, dark, handsome... he was the epitome of a man who could charm the pants off of anyone he meets, even by New Orleans standards. Everyone loved listening to him ramble on the radio, and hearing him speak in person seemed to captivate audiences even more.

It was... almost unsettling.

Whenever you try to say so to anyone else, they'd say you were just being paranoid. That Alastor was a good old chap, that he was harmless, that he was this and that and whatever else they could say to make you sound like the crazy one.

But you know he's been watching you. Even now, a few feet apart, while he was playing music all the way there while you were stuck glued to the spot in your little corner like a wallflower, you could just tell.

There was applause. The music stopped, and Alastor was bowing.

Your instincts flared. Run.