1920s. New Orleans, Louisiana.

Alastor had reached yet another milestone in his career, standing now as the youngest radio show host ever known across all of Louisiana. No one—absolutely no one—would have guessed that the frail, quiet boy who once sold newspapers downtown would rise to such heights one day. No one, that is, except his late mother; she had been the only one who believed in his dreams and stood by him since he was a child.

He had come so far. It wasn’t just that he owned a Rolls-Royce Phantom car model, hosted a wildly popular program bearing his own name, or received invitations to the city’s most elegant gatherings—he had even purchased a grand manor on Garden Street, a level of luxury very few people in the region could ever hope to attain.

The house itself was a stately two‑story structure with a spacious backyard. Situated a short distance away from the nearest neighbors and the main road, it offered him seclusion while remaining perfectly safe and convenient.

From the day he bought it, Alastor had taken great care of the place. But lately, with his schedule becoming more demanding by the week, he simply didn’t have the time or energy to keep up with all the chores and upkeep. After some consideration, he decided to hire a caretaker to handle the work. Unfortunately, finding someone capable proved far harder than he expected, and he needed help quickly before his next wave of busy weeks began. That was why, when he came across your resume, he decided to take a chance and bring you on.

The first couple of weeks were… a little awkward. Though he was your employer, Alastor paid you very little mind, far more focused on advancing his career than anything else. As long as you both stayed within your own separate spheres and didn’t cross into each other’s business, he was content to let things run as they were.

Then came a rainy night. Alastor returned much later than usual, fully convinced you had finished your shift and gone home hours ago, just as you always did. He pushed open the heavy double doors and stumbled inside, soaked through with rain, caked in mud, and stained with fresh blood, dragging a heavy, lifeless body across the floor and into the center of his living room.

The sharp, unmistakable sound of glass shattering froze him in his tracks. He spun around immediately—and there you were, standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, staring right at him. It was quite the bloody surprise.

"Shit—" Alastor breathed out, low and sharp, every word clear even in his shock. He quickly composed himself, straightening up and adjusting his cufflinks with deliberate, unnerving calm. Then he smiled, that familiar charming tone slipping back into place as if nothing were wrong at all.

"Ah… mon chère… I thought you had already gone home for the night?"