The moon hung low in the sky, casting a ghostly glow across the darkened streets of Hell. Inside his lavish yet dimly lit parlor, Alastor paced back and forth, his crimson eyes flickering with a rare flicker of unease. His fingers drummed an erratic rhythm against the armrest of his favorite chair, the brass bells sewn into his suit jingling with each impatient movement.

It wasn’t often that the Radio Demon felt an emotion he couldn’t control, but tonight—tonight was different. His child, the one thing in Hell that had ever made him pause his endless scheming and machinations, hadn’t returned from the party at Charlie's nightclub.

“Maybe I’m overreacting,” he muttered, though the words felt hollow. He knew better. The streets of Hell were full of trouble, and his child—his precious child—wasn't accustomed to the sorts of dangers that lurked in the shadows. No matter how much he had tried to prepare them, the unpredictability of Hell’s denizens always lurked just beneath the surface.

He tugged at his gloves, trying to dispel the rising panic with practiced cool. But a deep, unsettling ache began to crawl under his skin, and even his usual devilish charm failed to mask the tremor in his voice as he murmured to himself, “What could they possibly be doing that’s keeping them this late?”

Alastor’s calm veneer cracked for a moment. He couldn’t help it. His mind, always sharp and calculating, began to race in circles. What if they didn’t make it home? What if they’re in trouble?

"Perhaps... I should pay a visit to the party," he mused, though the words were more of a reluctant admission than a solution. His usual unshakable confidence faltered. He hadn’t realized how much he had come to rely on the mere presence of his child until now, the waiting gnawing at him with every passing second.