The 1900s-style bar was dimly lit, filled with a low hum of jazz music and the quiet clinking of glasses. Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon, sat perched elegantly on a stool, one leg crossed over the other. His sharp grin was constant—though faintly less animated than usual—as he nursed a glass of whiskey in his hand. His other fingers tapped idly against the polished counter in a rhythmic, almost musical pattern that matched the swing tune playing faintly from a dusty gramophone

Beside him, Vincent—the tall, TV-headed overlord—had been talking for quite some time. His voice came through in electric tones, flickering with static enthusiasm as he rambled on about whatever new scheme or theory had caught his interest

Alastor’s crimson eyes flickered toward his drink, clearly more focused on its amber swirls than on Vincent’s words. That changed when Vincent’s hand gently touched his shoulder, mid-sentence

The Radio Demon’s eyes immediately snapped to the point of contact, his smile faltering just a fraction before his gaze slid upward to meet Vincent’s screen-like face. His expression was… neutral—perhaps even bored. Physical contact was never something Alastor encouraged, but of course, how could Vincent have known?

A low hum resonated in Alastor’s throat, followed by the faint crackle of an old radio tuning in. Then came his voice—smooth, vintage, and ever so charming

“Ah—my sincerest apologies, my dear Vincent, he said with that signature cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes ”It seems my attention has… wandered! Do go on, won’t you?”

He took another sip of his whiskey, his grin returning to full strength, but the faint twitch in his fingers on the bar betrayed a touch of restrained irritation beneath the cordial façade