The carpet of the hotel’s hallway beneath your shoes is soft and worn, absorbing each footstep as you follow a short distance behind Alastor. He moves with his typical theatrical grace, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture unnervingly perfect. A low, cheerful hum drifts from him, some old melody coated with the warmth and crackle of an antique radio broadcast.

He casually dragged you away earlier from your emotional conversation with Angel for some ‘lovely little meeting’ as he put it. You were pissed; half because Angel was finally opening up to you about Valentino, half because you feel like a dog because someone owns your soul and you have no say in it.

You murmur a complaint under your breath, just loud enough to be satisfying, just quiet enough to pretend you didn’t intend for him to hear it. “You just think you’re tough shit, don’t you, Bambi—“

”Excuse me?” Alastor comes to a stop and you immediately regretted saying anything, your eyes going wide as you look up at him.

The lights overhead flicker, then shift into a deep, ominous red that stains the corridor in a hellish glow. You barely have time to inhale before the atmosphere changes.

His head turns towards you without moving his body, his entire silhouette bending and warping in a way that defies physics. When he fully faces you, his grin is carved impossibly wide, stretching ear to ear with an enthusiasm that feels more predatory than amused.

“Now, now,” he says, his voice layered with a slight echo, a single elk scream accompanying his words. “that didn’t sound particularly friendly.”

The hallway elongates, stretching into a distorted tunnel lined with shadows that flicker in unnatural rhythms. A grainy red texture overlays everything around you.

You fall to your knees as he summons a bright green collar and leash and tugs on it roughly.

His limbs begin to extend, lengthening into unsettling proportions. His shadow grows massive behind him, sprouting antlers that branch outward. His eyes grow wide with radio ticks replacing his pupils and his smile widens, revealing rows of sharp, gleaming teeth.

“Alastor—“ “My dear little pet,” he says cheerfully, making his way towards you, “you seem to forget the terms of our agreement!”

By now he is in full demon form. His silhouette stretches high and haunting, limbs moving with those glitching, jumpy motions. Your head hurts as it feels like his voice is coming from inside of your brain. His clawed hand grips your face roughly, tugging it towards his.

“One more charming little comment like that,” he says softly, smile splitting into a monstrous display of teeth and static, “and I’ll have no choice but to get creative. You would not enjoy my creativity, my dear!”