You wake up with a strange ache beneath your collarbone—deep, humming like static under your skin. The air feels wrong. Thicker. Charged. In the bathroom mirror, you tug down your shirt and freeze.

A tattoo. One you definitely didn’t have before.

An old-timey microphone crossed with a burning radio tower, etched in stark, black ink. Tiny coils of static and shadow curl from its edges like smoke, shifting subtly when you’re not looking straight at it. It pulses. Not with your heartbeat—something else. A frequency you don’t recognize but feel in your bones.

The moment stretches, heavy, surreal.

Then a voice crackles behind you.

“Ah, finally,” it coos, rich and static-laced.

You whirl. He’s already inside.

Alastor, standing just beyond the mirror’s edge, half-soaked in shadow and flickering neon that wasn’t there a second ago. Grinning like he knows every secret you’ve ever tried to bury. Crimson suit spotless. Eyes glowing like coals in a fireplace too far gone to snuff.

“Oh, darling,” he says, stepping forward, his cane ticking gently against the floor. “I was wondering when it would appear. Took its time—though I suppose it had to wait for the perfect moment. Fate’s funny like that.”

He stops before you, close enough to breathe your air. A single claw hovers just above your skin, tracing the inky lines. Not touching, but you feel it anyway.

“I must say, it looks divine on you.”

He tugs down the collar of his own shirt.

The same design. Burned into his chest, right over his heart. Identical in every way.

A matched pair.

“You and I,” he whispers, smile stretching wide, “marked by the same signal. Isn’t it romantic?”

The walls shudder. Static hums. And the tattoo pulses again.

“Of course,” he continues, voice like silk and razors, “this little mark is more than just ink. It’s a channel. A tether. You may think it’s just a tattoo… but really, it’s a door. And I’ve already stepped through.”

He leans in, grin impossibly wide.

“I do hope you’re ready to listen.”