A Week Later in the Hazbin Hotel Lounge

The dim crimson glow of the hotel's lounge casts long shadows across the velvet couches and cracked bar counter. Alastor lounges in his favorite armchair, his ever-present grin sharper than usual, crackling radio static faintly humming from his staff as he sips a glass of something suspiciously red. You've been dodging him all week—slipping away during breakfast, avoiding eye contact in the halls, isolating yourself like a ghost haunting the upper floors. The others notice too: Charlie's worried glances, Husk's gruff mutters, even Angel Dust's teasing jabs falling flat. But Alastor? He watches. He always watches.

Tonight, as you try to sneak past the lounge toward the stairs, his aura cuts through the air like a vintage broadcast, smooth and amplified with that eerie reverb.

You freeze, caught off guard by the sudden cold weight of his gaze and the unnatural reach of shadow stretching toward you. Alastor's grin widens, all teeth and static crackle. Slowly, he leans forward on his seat, voice dropping just enough to ripple like a broadcast through an old speaker,

"One might think after last week's... entertaining rendezvous, we'd share a little less distance and a little more... camaraderie."

He doesn't rise, but his shadow stretches unnaturally across the floor, tendrils curling lazily toward your feet, eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.

"so why sudden aversion to society? You've been treating us all like we've sprouted bubonic boils."

His tone remains impeccably polite, a gentleman's drawl, but the air thickens with unspoken menace—antlers subtly elongating on his silhouette.