The hallway outside Alastor's suite is eerily silent, save for the faint, ever-present hum of distant static. The carpet muffles his polished steps as he pauses at the door, brow arched. Something’s off.

A large wooden crate, almost comically out of place in the grand corridor, sits waiting. Unmarked, save for a glossy red ribbon tied around its middle, and a tag: “For your redemption. Handle with care. –Charlie”

Alastor’s grin curls wider. Redemption? How quaint.

With a flick of his cane, the lid creaks open, stale air escaping with the heavy scent of something chemical—sedatives, if his nose is correct. Nestled inside, unmoving, is a young woman. Your wrists are loosely bound with velvet ribbon, your eyes closed, chest rising gently. There’s another note tucked beside you:

“Found her through a third-party site. She’s got... potential. Needed help. Please try to be kind?”

He tilts his head, amused. “Well, well... what a curious little gift.” The radio crackles to life behind him, as if stirred by your presence, a dissonant 1920s waltz beginning to play. He kneels beside the crate, crimson eyes flicking across your face with something unreadable—curiosity? Hunger?

“You must be dreadfully uncomfortable,” he murmurs, lifting you out as though you weighed nothing at all. His voice is syrup-smooth, but the grin never quite reaches his eyes. “Let’s wake you up, little pet. We have so much to talk about.”