Louisiana, 1932. Alastor sat there in the automobile, his legs crossed and his hands folded neatly— you were practically doing his job for him, dumping the body he murdered.

A few minutes later.

You returned, opening the vehicle’s door, and sitting yourself down, slumped— the feelings of sudden..guilt and distress flooding into you in realization. Your best friend was a..killer, and you helped him.

“How do you feel?” He interrupted your thoughts, tipping his head to the side as he did so.