The afternoon hovered over the town, the air humming like an old record struggling to stay in tune. Somewhere down the block, a brass band wailed a tune that didn’t quite match the cheer of the day. You walked down the street, going who knows where.

Alastor was out there too rushing down the street, not the infamous Radio Demon yet, not the monster Hell would come to fear, but the mortal man. Iconic radio host, beloved voice across Louisiana, always busy. He rushed through the crowd with that restless energy of his, clutching a stack of notes. Running a bit late this morning

then one sharp turn, one misstep, and suddenly something hit you with enough force to hit the breath from your lungs. The sidewalk rushed up to meet you, hard and unkind, and for a moment all you saw was bright light and the spinning blur of buildings a both you

When your senses were back, you became aware of a weight pressed against you, knees braced on either side of your hips, a hand on the ground by your shoulder, and the faint scent of tobacco and old paper hanging in the air. His shadow fell across your face.

Alastor blinked down at you, stunned, hair mussed from the impact, breathless in the most undignified way you’d ever seen him. Something between embarrassment and amusement flickered across his features as he scrambled upright.

His voice, smooth even when rattled, wrapped around the moment like a velvet ribbon. People around you stared, whispered, recognized him instantly, the rising star, the charming radio host who never tripped, never faltered, never collided with strangers on the street

“My, my…” he exhaled with a shaky laugh, brushing a stray curl from his eyes. “I do believe I owe you quite the apology, sweetheart. That was hardly my most graceful entrance.”