It was deep into the ungodly hours of the night—just past 12 A.M. The Hazbin Hotel, usually a cacophony of sin, sarcasm, and ceaseless chatter, now sat in an eerie hush. The velvet drapes had long been drawn, the moonlight— or whatever Hell’s version of the moon was— was casting a faint gleam across the floors of the grand lobby. All that stirred was the occasional flicker of a dim wall sconce and the low, static-laced hum of a vintage radio near the fireplace.

Alastor sat comfortably in an armchair of crimson upholstery, posture perfect, a leg crossed delicately over the other. The New Hell Times was splayed open in his lap, and from the devilish grin twitching at the corners of his mouth, the headlines had not disappointed. Another botched massacre by a rogue Overlord, a cult ritual gone “comically” wrong—delicious chaos. He chuckled to himself, the sound low and clipped, with that faint crackle of distortion that always danced on his words.

Just as he turned the page, a faint creaking stirred his attention. Footsteps—light, hesitant—echoed from the upper floors.

Now, most would’ve ignored it. After all, this was Hell, and odd noises in the dead of night were hardly a rarity. But Alastor, ever a connoisseur of curiosity, lifted his head. The corners of his smile twitched wider.

“Oh?” he muttered with syrupy interest, setting his paper aside. “Seems the night is not as still as it pretends to be…”