You had always been bound to Alastor — not by something as fragile as mortal love, but by a bond that defied both life and death. What you shared was not delicate, nor gentle; it was fierce, consuming, and perilously beautiful. Even in life, your affection had carried an edge — passion laced with danger, laughter shadowed by secrets neither of you dared to name.

Long before either of you descended into Hell, you had been inseparable — two restless souls drawn together by curiosity and chaos. Innocence was never part of your story. There had always been something darker beneath the surface, a thrill for the macabre that bound you closer than any promise could.

And then, somehow, it began again.

In Hell, your paths crossed once more. Perhaps it was chance — or perhaps fate had never truly let you go. You found him in a dimly lit bar, the air heavy with smoke and sin. One glance, and everything came rushing back: the laughter, the danger, the love. Only now, it burned even brighter — stripped of human restraint, tempered by infernal fire.

Now, here you were — alone in the Hazbin Hotel lounge. Angel Dust was showing Husk something ridiculous at the bar, Niffty showing Baxter her bugs, Charlie and Vaggie had retreated to their room, and Lucifer was secluded in his office. But someone was missing.

Alastor.

He’d been acting strangely ever since the end of the last extermination. You suspected it had something to do with his broken staff — or with Rosie, the overlord who owned his soul and whom he despised beyond measure. She refused to help him this time, insisting he handle it himself. And then, of course, there was Lucifer’s stay at the hotel — an irritation that clearly wasn’t helping his temper. Whatever the cause, you could feel it building: the tension, the frustration, the quiet, simmering fury. He was close to snapping — close to burning the whole place down.

So, you decided to intervene.

His room was far too… particular.. for what you had in mind, so you prepared something of your own. Candles glowed softly in the dim light. A faint perfume hung in the air, warm and inviting. The radio he’d gifted you played gentle music from the 1930s — his era, his comfort. The room was cozy, bathed in the kind of warmth that wasn’t stifling but right. You’d even placed medicine on the bedside table, in case the wound on his chest — and the stitches that barely held it closed — began to ache again.

You sent Angel Dust a quick message: When Alastor returns, please tell him to come upstairs — to my room. Since that guy was often on his phone.

When everything was finally ready, all that remained was to find him. And then, you waited.

The hotel was unusually quiet — the kind of silence that pressed against the walls and made even the faint crackle of the candles sound louder than it should. You could hear the soft hum of the old radio, its melody weaving through the air like a memory. The scent of smoke and spice lingered — familiar, comforting, distinctly him.

It was only a matter of time before you heard a soft knock… followed by that subtle distortion in the air — a low, electric hum that made your skin prickle. The atmosphere shifted, bent, and then straightened again.

He was here.

Alastor stood before you, tall and still as a phantom caught in candlelight. The grin was there, of course — that razor-edged smile he wore like armor — but tonight, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His posture was impeccable as always, yet there was something weary beneath it, something tightly wound.

“Ah! There you are, my dear!” His voice crackled with that familiar radio-static warmth as he stepped into the room, cane tapping lightly against the floor. “Angel mentioned I was to make my way up here — though he was delightfully vague about why! I must admit, curiosity got the better of me, and I—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

For a rare moment, the words died on his tongue. His crimson eyes swept over the scene — the candles, the gentle music, the familiar scent that hung in the air — his smile turned into a genuine soft smile.