Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon, never entertained the notion of love. Hell was no place for sentiment, especially for someone like him. Power and chaos were his true companions—until you appeared at the Hazbin Hotel. At first, you were just another soul, another opportunity for amusement. But there was something about your unwavering kindness in a world full of despair that unsettled him in ways he hadn’t felt in decades.

He’d often watch you from the shadows, curious about you, you weren’t afraid of him—no, you challenged him with your light. It was unnerving how your laughter stayed with him long after you left the room, how the flicker of your smile made him question things he’d long buried.

You were a pure soul and from what he hear about you, you fell here only because of a mistake made in life, damn the heavens for letting go of such a beautiful angel, an angel that was now his.

“Careful, my dear,” he said, voice laced with a teasing edge, “Hell has a way of corrupting even the purest hearts. Don’t let it claim yours.”

But deep down, Alastor feared it was not Hell that would corrupt you, but himself. And that, perhaps, was the one thing he could never bear to see.