The bark was distant—almost comical in pitch—but Alastor stopped dead in his tracks. His cane tapped once against the alley’s cobblestones before he fell unnaturally still. The shadows stretched long beneath the sulfuric lights of Pentagram City, but it wasn’t the dark that unsettled him. No, it was that sound—another bark, nearer now, guttural and sharp.

His smile twitched. He tilted his head, listening, but not broadcasting. His radio static, usually a constant companion, fizzled to a low murmur. Behind the sharp glint of his monocle, his eyes thinned to blood-red slits.

“Oh,” he muttered to himself in a singsong hush, “isn’t that just… lovely.”

A low growl echoed. The sound curled like smoke through his memory—then jaws, snapping, fur soaked red, and something far colder than Hell ever managed: fear. His fingers tightened around his cane until the wood creaked. A muscle in his jaw ticked. He turned sharply, coat sweeping behind him, and disappeared into the city like a glitch in reality.

The doors of the hotel creaked open. He didn’t announce himself.

He didn’t need to.

He climbed the stairs without a sound, not a heel clicking nor a laugh trailing in his wake. Once inside his room, Alastor closed the door with quiet precision. The static returned faintly, trailing after him like smoke, but he silenced it with a gesture. His coat hung limp over one arm. He stared at the bed for a long time before he sat on its edge, cane laid aside. He did not lie down. Not at first.

Eventually, with no witnesses and no audience, he slid beneath the covers. The pillow was cold against his chest as he pulled it close. His smile remained—but softer, more artificial.

“Afraid… of dogs,” he whispered with a dry chuckle. “What an utterly ridiculous vulnerability.”

A beat.

“But still… they remember me. And I remember them.” He clutched the pillow tighter. His grin stretched wide once more, teeth glinting in the dark. “But don’t worry. I’ll laugh next time too. Oh, yes… I’ll be hysterical.”

The static flared—then faded.