Chapter Text
His name was Asmodeus. He came from a land of sweeping deserts and winding rivers, a place steeped in myth and mystery, where war, faith, and love were etched into every grain of sand. He possessed a gift unlike any other—a rare magic that could turn the mystical into the tangible.
He could summon stars from stone, paint illusions of light, color, and joy across the air, and breathe strength into the frail. With a whisper, he could make a plain girl radiant, or craft love potions so potent they could mend the fragile bonds between quarreling hearts—banishing anger, silencing neglect.
No one knew where his powers came from—not even he. But Asmodeus cared little for origins. All he ever wanted was to use his magic to ease sorrow and brighten lives.
He was so wondrous that even the Sultan took notice, naming him the royal magician and showering him with gold, praise, and admiration. To the world, he had everything.
But behind the marvels and the magic, Asmodeus remained a deeply lonely man. What were power, riches, and the favor of royalty worth, when he had no one to share them with?
Then one day, a young slave girl was brought before the Sultan—a mere child, with no name, no family, no past. She was a ghost of a person, small and silent, adrift in a world that had given her nothing.
When Asmodeus first looked upon her, he saw in her eyes a reflection of his own deepest sorrow: that same aching loneliness that had haunted him for years. Moved by something he couldn't quite name, he asked the Sultan for the girl—not as a servant, but as a ward. And because the Sultan held him in such high regard, he agreed.
Asmodeus named her Hecate.
He raised her as his own, and loved her as a daughter. In time, he began to teach her his craft—the art of wonder and illusion, the quiet magic that brought joy to the brokenhearted. At first, Hecate embraced his philosophy: to give, to heal, to delight.
But as the years passed, something shifted within her.
She began to question the very foundations of their servitude. Why, she wondered, should they, who wielded such astonishing power, bend the knee to a man whose only claim to authority was the accident of birth? Why should magic be a tool of submission, when it could be a force of transformation—for themselves?
And so, a new hunger stirred in Hecate. One not for joy, but for freedom... and perhaps, for more.
When she became a woman, Hecate longed to win the favor of Arman, the sultan's firstborn son. She danced for him, performed her charms, enchanted him with her beauty and magic. To him, she was a wonder—mysterious, vibrant, intoxicating.
But Arman was promised to Catalina, daughter of the Byzantine Emperor. Their union was a political one, a fragile thread of peace woven after years of war and bloodshed between their empires. The first time Hecate saw Catalina, she thought her plain, meek, and sheltered—no match for her own passionate, worldly allure. Surely Arman could not love such a dull girl. Surely he agreed to the marriage only out of duty.
So, one night, when Arman lay ill in bed, Hecate slipped into his chambers. She brought with her a spell from Asmodeus—an enchantment meant to bind his heart to hers. But Asmodeus's love spells do not work that way, and in her haste, Hecate left behind the book of incantations.
Later, Catalina entered the room as she did every night, staying by Arman's side. She fed him, whispered prayers, wiped the sweat from his brow, and watched over him until he finally opened his eyes once more.
But then the book was found.
A servant discovered the spell book hidden beneath Arman's bed. Whispers turned to accusations, and soon, the court declared Catalina a witch—an agent of black magic who had bewitched the prince and nearly killed him.
The sultan ordered her execution.
Arman, by then truly in love with Catalina—not by enchantment, but by the gentle constancy of her care—refused to believe she was anything but good. As the flames rose around her, he broke through the guards and leapt into the pyre, desperate to save her. But the fire showed no mercy. They perished together, and it was only then that Hecate realized her spell had never bound Arman's heart—only doomed it.
Wracked with guilt—realizing she had been wrong about their love and that her actions had led to their deaths—Hecate hanged herself. Asmodeus was devastated, blaming himself for her fate—for he had taught her magic, but not the wisdom to wield it. In desperation, he pleaded with God to take his soul in her place, offering his damnation to save hers. Moved by his sacrifice, the Lord chose a different path: he split their souls and bound them to immortality, condemning them to walk the earth until they atoned for their sins.
But Hecate, bitter and broken, vanished into the shadows. She blamed not Asmodeus, but humanity itself for her fall, vowing never to walk in the light again. Asmodeus, meanwhile, wandered among mortals, using magic in service of good—forever seeking redemption, and hoping, somehow, to bring Hecate back.
"Asmodeus, meanwhile wandered among mortals, using magic in service of good—forever seeking redemption, and hoping, somehow, to bring Hecate back."
Seventeen-year-old Charlie stood at the front of the classroom, finishing the last lines of her story. For their latest literary assignment, each student had been tasked with writing a short piece centered on a real-world issue. As she lowered her paper, she could feel her classmates' eyes on her—some glassy with boredom, others already whispering and snickering, just like always.
"Such a lovely story, Charlie," said Ms. Mayberry, her English teacher. "Lovely and sad. However did you come up with it?"
Charlie shrugged. "I don't know. It just came to me."
"And what would you say is the theme? How does it connect to a real-world issue?"
"I think one of the biggest problems in the world is the struggle to do good, to find happiness, and to be loved. My uncle says it's a struggle that's been around since Adam and Eve."
Ms. Mayberry smiled thoughtfully. "A very intriguing concept, Charlie."
From the back of the room came a scoff. Charlie didn't have to turn around to know who it was. Velvette was whispering to her friends.
"No wonder she's good at writing fairy tales," Velvette sneered. "Her uncle raised her on them."
Laughter bubbled around Velvette's desk, but Charlie didn't react. She sighed quietly and returned to her seat.
As she sat down, someone leaned over from the desk beside hers.
"I thought it was great," came a soft voice. "The best one so far."
Charlie turned slightly, trying to hide her face behind her hair. "Alastor, you haven't heard all the reports yet."
"Don't need to," he said, flashing her a small smile. "You're the best at everything. Always have been."
She ducked her head, cheeks burning. She could never quite bear it when he said things like that. Alastor was the smartest boy in school—sharp, talented, kind. And, in her eyes, the most handsome person she'd ever seen. She couldn't understand why someone like him would ever pay attention to someone like her.
She didn't think of herself as pretty. In her own mind, she was just a chunky girl with too many pimples, sickly pale skin, and flat, lifeless hair. Her strange grey eyes only made it worse—eyes that always seemed tired. Weak. Like her.
But her uncle Michael saw something else.
"You have eyes like Leah," he would tell her. "She was overlooked by men, passed over for her sister Rachel, who had a more pleasing figure. But it was Leah whom the Lord blessed more. It was Leah's children who carried forth the line that gave us the Savior. If your classmates call you ugly or ignore you, let them. They know nothing of true beauty. Only God's opinion matters—and I am certain that in His eyes, you are among His most beautiful creations."
Uncle Michael always had a way of making the rest of the world feel small—like their judgments didn't matter. And maybe, for a little while, when he spoke, they didn't.
But high school was all about appearances—about what other people thought of you. And at this high school, everyone thought Charlie Morningstar was a freak.
It all started after her parents were taken away. Yes, taken. No one ever said the word, but that's what happened.
She was only eight.
They were visiting her uncle Michael's house when strange men in dark suits arrived without warning. They didn't knock. They simply came in and said her parents had to go with them. No explanations. No apologies.
Her father scooped her up and placed her in Uncle Michael's arms.
"Goodbye, Charlie," he said gently. "Your aunt Lilith and I are going away for a while, and we don't know when we'll be back. So you be good for your daddy, okay?"
Her mother kissed her cheeks, then her forehead, her voice trembling as she added, "And always remember—we love you. No matter what."
Then her father turned to Uncle Michael, and his expression shifted—desperate and afraid.
"Lilith and I won't be around to help you raise your daughter," he said quietly. "So take good care of her, you hear?"
Michael nodded and pulled his younger brother into a tight embrace. It was the last time they would ever hold each other.
"I'll protect her with my life," he whispered. "And I'll love her with all my heart and soul."
Most children wouldn't have understood what was really happening. But somehow, Charlie did. She already knew the truth: They were saying she was their niece to keep her safe. So she wouldn't be taken, too.
And deep down, she also knew...
That was the last time she would ever see them.
After that day, all kinds of rumors began swirling around the neighborhood. Some said her parents were Russian spies. Others claimed they were terrorists, escaped convicts, or even runaway patients from a mental hospital.
The gossip hurt Michael deeply. But in a strange way, he was relieved—relieved that no one had mentioned the two things he feared most: witchcraft or devil worship.
One night, not long after her parents disappeared, Charlie finally asked the question that had been weighing on her heart.
"Uncle Michael... why did Mommy and Daddy go away?"
He looked at her for a long moment, then gently took her hand.
"When your mommy and daddy were young," he said softly, "they got involved with something they shouldn't have. It gave them... abilities. Special abilities. Things that weren't normal. Things that scared people."
He paused, watching her closely.
"It was dangerous but not evil, Charlie. Not at all. Just hard to control. And when certain people—powerful people—found out, they wanted to capture your parents. To study them. To figure out if they could take those abilities for themselves."
He sighed.
"That's why they had to go."
"They're not coming back, are they?" Charlie asked quietly.
Michael didn't answer right away. He looked down at her, his eyes full of sorrow he couldn't hide.
"No," he said at last. "I don't think so. But we can keep praying that they will."
The neighbors' rumors didn't stay behind closed doors for long. Soon, their children picked them up—parroting whispers they didn't understand. At first, it was just teasing. Name-calling. Snickering behind her back. But over time, the cruelty grew bolder. They started chasing her. Throwing things.
One day, while fleeing a pack of kids laughing and shouting insults, Charlie darted across the street without looking—and ran straight into a boy on a bicycle.
They both went down hard.
"I'm sorry! Are you okay?" the boy asked, scrambling to his knees.
Charlie looked up at him through stinging eyes. He was the boy from the foster home next door—the one run by Miss Rosie and "those two men who were pleasant and decent but made questionable life choices," as Uncle Michael liked to put it.
His knee was scraped and bleeding, his glasses cracked from the fall. But he wasn't checking himself. He was only looking at her.
"I'm alright!" Charlie said quickly, blinking back tears. She pushed herself to her feet, trying to run—but the pain shot through her ankle, and she stumbled, falling again with a cry.
Her foot was sprained from the impact.
The boy moved closer, lowering his voice. "Just stay still. I'll help you."
It was the first time in a long while that someone—anyone—had shown her kindness. And that was the day she and Alastor first met. One of the happiest days of her life.
From that day on, Charlie and Alastor were inseparable. Best friends. Nearly every hour of every day, they were together—reading, exploring, talking about everything and nothing. He made her so happy. She would do anything to keep him with her always.
One warm afternoon, the two of them were sitting beneath the old oak tree behind the school, reading side by side. The shade was cool, the breeze gentle, and the world—for once—felt peaceful.
Until it wasn't.
A group of older boys approached, their shadows falling over the pages of Charlie's book. She looked up and immediately felt her stomach sink. These were the boys who always picked on Alastor—especially the biggest one, Tom.
"Hey, nerd," Tom sneered. "Got my money today?"
Alastor didn't even flinch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill—his weekly allowance from Miss Rosie.
"Five bucks?" Tom snatched it from his hand, scoffing. "That's the best you can do?"
"It's all Miss Rosie gave me," Alastor said quickly. "I—I haven't been keeping up with my chores lately. But I'll get you double next week. Promise."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "Yeah? I don't like promises, Alastor. I like payment."
He suddenly lunged, grabbing Alastor by the shirt and dragging him up. The other boys laughed as they began pulling him toward the edge of the street—toward the manhole cover near the curb.
"Oh no, not the sewers again!" Alastor groaned. "Come on, guys—it took me a month to get the smell out last time!"
Charlie stood frozen for a second, her heart pounding.
Then something in her snapped.
She looked at the tree above them, her fists clenched at her sides. Anger surged through her—hot and wild and wrong—and then...
CRACK.
A thick branch snapped from the trunk and crashed down with a sickening thud—right onto Tom's back. He cried out and crumpled to the ground, the other boys stumbling away in shock.
Alastor fell back, gasping, scrambling to his feet as the bullies ran.
Charlie stared at the broken branch, her chest heaving.
She hadn't touched it.
She hadn't even moved.
But deep down, she knew: she had done that.
"Charlotte!"
Uncle Michael's voice rang out, sharp and urgent.
He had seen the commotion from the kitchen window and had rushed outside, only to arrive just in time to witness the branch falling. His eyes immediately flicked from the groaning bully to the tree, then to Charlie—and what he saw in her face made his blood run cold.
He knew.
He didn't need to ask.
It was in her eyes—wild, frightened, powerful.
"Alastor," Michael said, his tone suddenly gentle but firm, "you should head home now. We'll talk later."
Alastor hesitated, looking between them, concern written across his face. But he nodded. "O-okay. See you tomorrow, Charlie?"
Charlie didn't answer. She just stood there, staring at the broken branch as Alastor slowly walked away.
Michael waited until the boy was out of sight, then gently placed a hand on Charlie's shoulder.
"Inside. Now."
The door closed behind them with a soft thud, but the silence in the house was loud. Michael didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. His disappointment settled heavily in the room.
"I didn't mean to," Charlie whispered, her voice shaking. "I... What did I do?"
Michael knelt in front of her, gently taking her trembling hands in his.
"You must never do that again, Charlotte," he said softly but firmly. "Never."
Tears welled up in her eyes. "But—what was it? What did I do?"
Michael's face twisted with pain. He hesitated, then shook his head.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "What matters is that you don't do it again. Next time, you run. You find help. You don't use whatever that was."
She stared at him, confused, afraid.
"Because if the wrong people find out what you can do..." His voice grew quieter, heavier. "They'll come for you. Just like they came for your parents. And they won't care that you were scared, or trying to protect someone. They'll see power, and they'll either want to control it... or destroy it."
He paused, his gaze locking with hers.
"And I can't lose you too, Charlotte."
The fear in his voice broke something in her. She flung herself into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Michael," she sobbed. "I didn't mean to—I didn't..."
"I know," he whispered, wrapping her in a tight embrace. "I know you didn't. But from now on... you have to hold it in. You have to hide it. No one can ever know. Not anyone. Ever."
Charlie nodded, silent against his chest.
But deep inside, a quiet fear was already forming—one she didn't dare speak aloud:
What if she couldn't keep it in forever?
Chapter Text
She was so beautiful—like an angel. Especially her eyes. Those soft grey eyes, flecked with blue, held a quiet sadness that made it hard to look away. He'd thought so from the very first moment he saw her.
It was just a week after he'd moved into the foster home, still trying to recover from the worst day of his life.
His father had been a good man. A loving man. But also a painfully weak one.
Timid. Bookish. Insecure.
Much like Alastor himself.
Jean-Baptiste Le Beau had spent years being quietly crushed beneath the weight of a life he didn't know how to resist. For as long as Alastor could remember, his father had endured relentless humiliation at the hands of his boss—Harry Pagan, a petty tyrant of a man who treated people like tools to be used and discarded.
Jean-Baptiste and Adele had married young, barely out of high school when Alastor was born. Pagan had been the only one in the city willing to give a high school dropout a job that paid just enough to rent a small apartment. So Jean-Baptiste took it. And he stayed. No matter how badly he was treated, he stayed.
Because it was the only option he had.
Pagan had a habit of preying on those weaker than himself, and he especially enjoyed tormenting beautiful women. Alastor's mother was beautiful.
It started with him inviting himself over for dinner, leering at her across the table. Then came the flowers. The notes. Unwelcome visits when Jean-Baptiste wasn't home. She always turned him away—calmly, firmly. She always said no. She always said she loved her husband.
But one day, Pagan got tired of waiting.
Alastor was hiding in the closet, just as his mother had told him to. "No matter what happens," she had whispered, "don't come out." From the shadows, he listened to her scream.
Then—silence.
A door creaked open. His father's voice cried out in horror.
Alastor dared to peek through the slats of the closet door—and saw everything. His mother's lifeless body. His father's face contorted in grief. And then something changed.
Alastor saw the man he knew as his father disappear. In his place stood someone else. Someone colder. Someone capable of killing.
And he did. His father had killed that awful man — slowly, remorselessly, in a way that left a sound Alastor could not erase. He closed his eyes against it, but the noises kept coming, a wet, ragged cadence that filled the room. The violence hadn't arrived out of nowhere; it was the end of a long, smoldering fuse — years of being pushed around, of swallowing his pride, and of losing the love of his life until grief and fury braided into a murderous haze.
"Dad?" Alastor called, his voice small. It was enough to bring the man back.
When Jean-Baptiste saw his terrified son, he dropped to his knees, pulled him into his arms, and wept. He held Alastor tightly, refusing to let go until the police arrived.
Afterward, his father was committed to a psychiatric hospital. Alastor was placed in foster care.
The home he was sent to was run by Rosie Mae, along with a gay couple, Stolas and Blitzo. Alastor became one of four children living there: Moxxie, Loona, and Octavia. Octavia was Stolas's biological daughter from a failed marriage, while Moxxie and Loona, like Alastor, were essentially orphans.
Rosie and Stolas did their best to welcome him with warmth and kindness, but Alastor wasn't interested in making the best of anything. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to play. He barely ate. All he wanted was to sit alone in his room with the old radio his mother had given him, letting the music drown out the thoughts he couldn't bear to face.
That's how he spent his first week—silent, shut down, unreachable. No one could get through to him.
Then, one quiet afternoon, the radio's batteries finally died. Needing a replacement, he wandered out to Blitzo's shed, where the extras were kept.
That's when he heard it—soft, sweet singing drifting over from the house next door.
Peering through the fence, he spotted a man helping a young girl practice for choir. The man was Michael. The girl, his niece—Charlie.
Her voice was light as silk, soft as smoke, full of longing and a kind of aching hope that tugged at something buried deep in his chest. She wasn't performing, not really. It wasn't the kind of singing meant for applause. It was personal—like a prayer whispered between breaths. As she sang, her eyes closed, her hand resting over her heart, Alastor stood motionless, forgetting even the batteries in his hand.
That night, for the first time, he didn't reach for the radio. He lay in bed with the silence and listened to it, wondering if he'd hear her voice again.
And he did.
Day after day, Alastor began spending more time outside—lingering by the fence, "accidentally" walking by her yard, sometimes pretending to be fixing his bike or reading, just to hear her sing. Certainly! Here's a refined and emotionally resonant version of your paragraph, improving clarity, rhythm, and tone while keeping the heart of the scene intact:
He wanted to talk to her—but she was just... so amazing. And he was, well... not.
Scrawny, with crooked teeth and thick glasses too big for his face, he moved through the world like he was trying not to take up space. Clumsy, awkward, and—if he was honest with himself—completely spineless. It wasn't long before he became every bully's favorite target, their favorite pocket to pick and punch to throw.
He knew the script: if he so much as tried to talk to a girl like her, she'd laugh. Of course she would. Why wouldn't she?
But then fate intervened—in the clumsiest way possible.
He hit her with his bike.
Definitely not the grand introduction he'd imagined... but then again, beggars couldn't be choosers.
He brought her inside, careful not to let her limp too much on the sprained ankle. Rosie, who used to be a nurse back when she still wore scrubs, immediately took over—ushering Charlie to the couch with all the gentle authority of someone who'd patched up dozens of scraped knees and bruised egos.
"Anything for the girl who made Alastor able to speak again," she teased, casting a sideways grin at him as she gathered bandages and antiseptic.
"Rosie!" Alastor groaned, his cheeks flushing red.
Charlie laughed, a clear and easy sound that made something flutter behind his ribs.
Once Rosie was done cleaning her up and wrapping her ankle, Alastor nervously asked, "Um... do you maybe wanna come upstairs? I can show you my radio. And some books. If you want."
To his shock, she smiled and nodded. "Sure."
He blinked. "Really?"
"Of course," she said.
In his room, he showed her the old radio—his prized possession. The dial still stuck sometimes, and the antenna had to be propped up with a pencil, but it played music like magic when it worked. He showed her his growing stack of books—and audio book tapes. She listened to him ramble, wide-eyed and smiling, like none of it bored her. Like he mattered.
She was always like that with him. Kind. Bright. Happy to see him. And why, he didn't know. Not really. But he didn't complain. Not even once.
When they went to high school, he was absolutely terrified. He was positive that someone as beautiful, talented, and smart as Charlie would definitely fall into the popular crowd and ditch him once it became obvious what a loser he was.
Freshman year he offered to tutor some of the jocks in math, in hopes of getting into the popular crowd and they came up with a game. Something Alastor called bully by numbers. Two teams, hallway was the field, and Alastor was the ball. They'd toss and shove him around while adding, subtracting, multiplying, and diving how many times he was sent flying. Hell, they still did it to him now during his senior year. Grabbed him right after Ms. Mayberry's house let out.
"Heeey, Al!" Valentino drawled, slinging an arm around Alastor's shoulder like they were old friends. "Been a minute, mathlete. Miss me?"
Behind him, the rest of the team was closing in like wolves. They always laughed when Valentino started talking. It was part of the show.
Alastor didn't answer. He didn't need to. That only egged Val on.
"You know," Valentino said, tightening his grip just enough to hurt, "I've been feeling a little tense lately. Lot of pressure. Practice, scouts, my girl riding my ass about prom..." He leaned in, close enough for Alastor to smell his cologne—cheap, strong, and aggressive, just like him.
"Which is why," Valentino continued, voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I have this sudden urge to pound you."
Alastor blinked. "You could do that, yeah," he said, nodding slightly. "Or—hear me out—you could channel all that aggression into something healthier. Like... I don't know... Chess Club?"
The team erupted in laughter—loud, cruel, and not with him.
"Vox was right, Alastor—you are funny."
Valentino's grin curled wider, but his eyes stayed cold. His hand gripped the front of Alastor's sweater like he was deciding whether to tear it—or just tear him.
Alastor shrugged, trying to keep his voice steady even as his stomach twisted into knots. "I try."
Then came the shove.
It wasn't subtle. Val slammed him backward into the lockers hard enough to make the metal rattle, then caught him before he could fall and flung him into the waiting arms of his goons. The hallway became their field again. One shove, two punches, three jeers. Four steps back. Five kicks forward.
"Extra credit for creativity," one of the guys snickered as Alastor hit the floor again.
Valentino cracked his knuckles, looming over him. "C'mon, math boy, what's 98 plus you getting wrecked?"
Then a voice cut through the chaos.
"Real nice, Val. Five on one." A pause. "Y'know, in my book, that makes you a chicken shit."
Everyone turned.
It was Angel.
Leaning against the wall like he hadn't a care in the world, twirling a lollipop between his fingers, dressed in a loose jersey and half-zipped jacket, Angel looked like he'd just walked out of a music video. Popular. Confident. Untouchable.
Alastor blinked, dazed. What was Angel doing?
Valentino narrowed his eyes. "What's it to you, Angel baby?"
Angel shrugged lazily. "Just hate seeing you flex your fragile ego on someone with a higher GPA than your whole bloodline."
The hallway filled with a low chorus of "ooohs."
Val looked pissed. "You got a problem with me now?"
"Always have," Angel said, smirking. "But I usually keep it to myself — outta respect. Now?" He popped a lollipop into his mouth and let it click against his teeth. "Now I think it's only fair we acknowledge the terrible truth about you."
"What truth?"
"That you have the IQ of a cockroach."
Valentino moved like a coiled spring. He clamped a hand around Angel's throat and drove a knee into his groin, folding him to the floor. "How d'you like that, dick face?"
Alastor crouched to haul Angel up. The moment Angel staggered to his feet he spat straight into Valentino's face. That finished the conversation — fists flew, bodies crashed together, and the room erupted into a brutal brawl.
But the chaos didn't last long. Not because the boys ran out of steam—but because Ms. Mayberry came storming down the hallway like a force of nature in orthopedic heels.
"What on Earth is going on here!?" Her voice cracked like thunder across the lockers.
In an instant, the team scattered like startled rats. Even Valentino, mid-swing, flinched and dropped Angel, who hit the floor with a grunt.
Alastor helped him up—again—and this time Angel leaned on him a little heavier.
Ms. Mayberry's eyes swept the hallway, taking in bruised faces, disheveled shirts, and the distinct stink of boy-sweat and trouble. Her mouth thinned to a tight line.
"Valentino. Principal's office. Now.”
"But Ms. May—“
"Now!"
Val opened his mouth again, but whatever comeback he had withered under her glare. He turned and stalked off, muttering a string of curses under his breath.
The rest of the team trailed behind him, heads low.
Ms. Mayberry turned back to Alastor and Angel, her voice softening only slightly. "Do either of you need to go to the nurse?"
Angel wiped a smear of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nah. I'm chill."
Alastor straightened his glasses, blinking through the daze. "I think I'm fine."
She eyed them both skeptically. "Angel, you're bleeding."
"I bleed cool," he said with a wink. "It's my thing."
Ms. Mayberry sighed like she'd just aged five years. "Then at least walk yourselves home and put some ice on it. And Alastor—if I hear anything else about you being harassed, I will escalate it. Do you understand me?"
Alastor nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am."
She gave them a final once-over, then turned and marched off, her heels echoing sharply down the hall.
"...You okay?" Angel finally asked, glancing sideways.
Alastor winced as he adjusted his bag. "Yeah. Just sore. You?"
"Peachy. Except for, y'know, knee to the balls. But I've had worse." He gave Alastor a crooked grin. "You're lucky I'm such a good influence."
Alastor gave a half-laugh. "That's not exactly the word I'd use."
Angel shrugged. "Whatever. You're welcome, anyway."
Angel was an athlete too—a starter on the basketball team with the swagger to match. Back in the day, he'd been one of the many who teased Alastor, never cruel exactly, but never kind either. That started to change when his mom forced him into tutoring to keep his grades from tanking. Alastor was the unlucky genius assigned to help.
At first, Angel had dreaded it. But hours spent across from each other—crammed into quiet corners of the library, trading sarcastic remarks between equations—started to shift something. Alastor wasn't so bad. A little weird. Kinda intense. But sharp. Funny, even. And real in a way most people weren't.
Somewhere along the way, the teasing stopped.
Angel just wished the guy would learn how to fight back.
"You know I don't get something." Angel said. "You're smart enough to get all A's, you can even build a clock radio from garbage, but you can't figure out how to stick it to Valentino? You know you could take him if you just had the nerve."
"I don't believe in violence for conflict resolution."
"You do realize that if Americans lived by that, we would have lost the war?"
"Well it's not like I don't want to...I mean think about doing it all the time. But...I...I don't think it would be a good idea to act on it. Vox says it's best if I just lay low and let him get it over with."
Angel huffed, blowing a strand up his hair up.
"At least Charlie didn't see that," Alastor muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Angel glanced at him, brow raised. "That’s why you're really upset?"
Alastor didn't answer. He didn't have to.
"Hey, it's the weekend. Why don't we go out?" Angel asked, nudging him. "We'll grab my ma's car, cruise around, maybe get something to eat."
"Can't," Alastor said. "I've got a science project to work on."
"I thought you already finished yours."
"I did. Vox asked me to help with his."
Angel paused, his smile dimming just a little. "Right. Cool. Guess I'll see you around, then."
Alastor had barely made it off the front steps of the school when he heard her voice behind him.
"Alastor! Wait up!"
He turned just in time to see Charlie jogging toward him, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, concern written all over her face.
"Hey," she said, falling into step beside him. "Are you okay? Vaggie told me what happened with Valentino and his buddies."
Alastor blinked. "What? Oh, that?" He gave a forced laugh, waving it off. "That was nothing. We were just, you know... joking around."
Charlie gave him a look—the kind that cut right through fake smiles. "Come on, Alastor. You don't have to pretend with me."
He looked away, lips twitching into a faint, sheepish smile. "...Yeah. It sucked."
Charlie exhaled sharply through her nose. "Ugh, Valentino is such a jerk."
"Agreed."
They walked a few more steps in silence, the weight of the day lingering between them.
"But hey," Charlie added, her tone brightening slightly, "at least he didn't spray-paint 'Charlie Morningstar eats shit' all over your locker."
Alastor winced. "Don't tell me—Velvette again?"
Charlie sighed. "No hard evidence, but... it's obvious."
He shook his head. "She's got a lot of nerve for someone who thinks glitter eyeliner counts as a personality."
Charlie laughed, and the sound made something ease in his chest.
"I swear, high school must've been invented by sadists," Alastor groaned.
"I don't know. My uncle says compared to the real world, high school's a playground."
And maybe she was right.
Because outside those school walls, things were much worse.
Nine Circle City wasn't just the worst place in the country—it might've been the worst on the planet. Misery wasn't a phase here; it was the default setting. Depression was part of the skyline, crime was clockwork, and the only cops with any real courage were already buried. The rest? They kept their heads down and hoped to make it home alive.
Justice didn't live here. Hope barely visited.
And yet... this city was home.
For better or much, much worse.
Chapter Text
The walk home was terrifying as usual. Everywhere they looked, the streets crawled with drug dealers, muggers, gangs, and prostitutes—every kind of lost or dangerous soul imaginable.
This part of the city was especially dangerous, controlled by two ruthless figures. The first was Mammon—a notorious drug lord so warped by his own product and paranoia that he once shot his own dog, convinced it would rat him out to the cops. The other was Striker, leader of a violent gang that would mug or maim someone just because Striker didn't like the way they looked.
Charlie had grown up watching people get beaten, stabbed, or gunned down by those two. The violence wasn't rare—it was routine. And it made her sick. It hollowed her out.
"There's nothing we can do, except pray," her uncle would say.
"Just keep walking. Don't make eye contact," Alastor would add.
It wasn't fair. Why did they have to live in such an ugly and cruel world? What did they do to deserve this?
"Thank God, they're not on the street today." Alastor sighed as they walked. "Mammon must've overdosed and Striker must be out pinching chains again."
"Or beating someone to death." Charlie sighed. "Or drugging someone to death."
"Let's try not to think about it and hope that we get home before one of them sees us."
"Do you think we could ever try to reason with them?"
"Charlie, you can't reason with crazy. I know, I've tried."
"With Striker and Mammon?"
"No, with Stolas and Blitzo. I told them not to invest their share of the money into a drag show, I told them a theater would be more profitable. They called me a philistine and said I knew nothing about the arts."
"That's ridiculous, you know a lot about the arts. Your mom used to be an actress."
"Well, I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I do know a thing or two about entertainment," Alastor said with a shrug. "Anyway, turns out their share wasn't enough to cover all the expenses. Rosie agreed to pitch in some of her cut—but only on the condition that they follow my advice and turn it into a proper theater, so she could perform too."
"And what did they say?"
"Stolas didn't care either way. Blitzo put up a fight—said Rosie would steal the spotlight because she looks better in a dress than either of them. But in the end, he gave in."
"No one's ever won an argument with Rosie."
"No kidding."
"What do Moxxie, Loona, and Octavia think about the whole thing?"
"The girls don't really care, but Moxxie's all in. He wants to be in their first show."
"Yeah? Why do you think?"
"I'm sure they'll put on a decent show—probably something flashy and ridiculous."
"No, I mean... would you want to be in one of their shows?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because the stage is for talented, good-looking people."
"You are talented and good-looking."
"Yeah, right."
"I'm serious! You're smart and creative, you can dance, you're funny, and you're... handsome—"
She suddenly trailed off, blushing.
"What was that last part?" Alastor asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You're... handy! Very handy on stage!"
Alastor tilted his head, confused. "Handy?"
Charlie's cheeks burned. "I-I mean, with props! You're great with props! And sets! Very... handy!"
Charlie's eyes darted ahead.
"Oh! Look at that—we're almost home!" she blurted. "I just remembered I left something in the oven. No—not the oven, the... hallway closet! I was supposed to organize it!"
"Organize the hallway closet?" Alastor echoed, arching a brow.
"Yep! Super important. Can't put it off!" she said, speeding up. "Anyway, thanks for walking with me, okaybye!"
She practically bolted toward the door, leaving Alastor standing on the sidewalk confused.
"Handy...She thinks I'm handy."
Charlie watched from her window as Alastor made his way to the house next door. The moment he disappeared inside, she groaned and smacked her palm against her forehead.
"Oh my God... Handy? Seriously, Charlie? What is wrong with you?"
After she recovered from her mild humiliation, she checked around the house to see if her uncle was home. He wasn't , and with no homework to keep her busy, she decided to slip away to her secret place. It lay just across from her house—up a hill, through a cluster of trees, and down a long-forgotten dirt road. The place itself was just as forgotten: an abandoned, church that looked like it had been standing for centuries, weathered by time and memory.
She had discovered it years ago, while trying to escape a group of men who started to follow her after school one day. It had been the perfect hiding spot—secluded and forgotten, tucked beyond the trees where no one ever bothered to look. Despite the silence, the cold drafts, and the worn, walls, Charlie saw something magical in it. To her, it looked like a palace.
She would sit for hours beneath the shattered stained-glass windows, their broken colors still catching bits of light in the late afternoon sun. Vines crept up the stone like nature trying to reclaim it, but Charlie liked to imagine they were decorations—ivy garlands placed there for a princess. Over time, the church became more than a hideaway. It became a sanctuary, a place where the world couldn't reach her. Here, no one whispered behind her back. No one laughed when she walked by. In this quiet, sacred ruin, Charlie wasn't invisible—she was royalty.
No one else knew about it. The secret was hers alone—not because she didn't want to share it, but because Nine Circle City was teeming with angry, destructive people. People who broke things simply because they could. She feared that if anyone else ever found out about her sanctuary, it wouldn't stay safe for long. Someone cruel would find it. And ruin it.
There was another reason she kept it to herself, though. A quieter fear. She worried people would mock her for spending so much time alone in a decaying church. Even Alastor didn't know—not because she didn't trust him, but because she was sure he'd laugh. He was sharp, logical, always dissecting the world like it was a problem to solve. He probably thought things like religion—and imagination—were pointless. Silly. Maybe even weak.
All she wanted was a place of her own—a small, quiet corner of the world she could escape to when the days got too hard. Days like today.
From the moment she arrived at school, it was as if the whole building conspired against her. People pinched her in passing, stuck out legs to trip her in the halls, knocked her books off her desk without so much as a glance. Someone even managed to slip an obscene message into her notepad during history class. She didn't know who did it, but it didn't matter. It could've been anyone.
But Velvette Cooper was the worst.
Velvette didn't just bully Charlie—she made a sport out of it. She was relentless, cruel in a way that felt personal, as if Charlie's existence offended her. And it had been that way for as long as Charlie could remember.
Back in third grade, Velvette had pretended to be her friend. She smiled sweetly, asked if she could braid Charlie's hair during recess. Charlie, thrilled at the thought of someone—anyone—wanting to be close to her, had said yes. She sat patiently, heart thudding with hope, only to hear the metallic snip of scissors and feel her hair fall against her shoulders. Velvette had cut it. Chopped off two thick pieces and held them up like trophies, laughing as the other kids joined in.
Another time, Velvette posted on the school's website—and even taped it to the nurse's office window—that Charlie had syphilis. Just like that, the rumor took off like wildfire. People stopped talking to her. Stopped sitting near her. Stopped looking at her, unless it was to snicker or whisper something behind a cupped hand.
For a whole year, no one came near her. They called her names in the halls. Wrote "slut" on her locker in permanent marker. Someone even left a box of condoms in her backpack once, like it was a joke. Like she was the joke.
But the worst thing Velvette ever did to Charlie happened sophomore year, at the school's homecoming dance.
It started as a dare. All the girls egged her on, laughing behind their lip gloss and fake sympathy. They handed her a compact mirror and told her to play Bloody Mary—alone, in the janitor's closet. Charlie didn't want to, but the pressure felt like a vice around her throat. So she went in.
As soon as the door closed behind her, she heard the click of the lock. Then footsteps fading. Then nothing.
They left her there. In the dark.
Charlie hated the dark. She had been afraid of it ever since she was little, when shadows seemed to crawl and whisper and wait. Alone in that closet, the air thick and stale, her fear rose like a tide.
She screamed. Cried. Kicked the door. Pounded the walls. But the music from the gym was deafening—thudding bass, laughter, heels clacking across linoleum. No one heard her.
No one... except Alastor.
To this day, he couldn't explain how or why. One moment, he was surrounded by lights and noise, floating in the chaos of the dance floor—and the next, everything went silent. The music. The chatter. The world. All of it faded away, until the only sound left was her voice—her screams, sharp and ragged, cutting through the quiet like glass.
He followed them.
Found the closet.
Without hesitation, he grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and used it to smash the doorknob clean off. The door creaked open, and Charlie stumbled out, still screaming, eyes wide with panic, cheeks streaked with tears.
He caught her before she hit the ground.
Held her tightly, arms wrapped around her shaking frame, whispering that it was over, that she was safe. She clung to him like he was the only real thing in the world.
She didn't want to go back to the dance. But she didn't want to go home yet either—not so early. Her uncle would ask questions, and she wasn't ready to talk.
So Alastor took her to the diner to eat a burger and milkshake in silence.
Charlie just couldn't make sense of it. Why did people like Velvette, Valentino, Mammon, and Striker always seem to delight in hurting others? What did they gain from spreading so much misery?
Her gaze drifted to a pile of stones nearby. She locked eyes on one, narrowing her focus. I wish I could throw that right at Velvette's smug face, she thought bitterly.
As if obeying her, the stone suddenly lifted into the air and hurled itself across the room. Then another rose. And another. One by one, the stones launched through the air—just because Charlie looked at them.
It was another reason why she liked being here. This was the only place where she could safely explore her "powers."
They'd started showing up after her parents were taken. Strange things would happen when her emotions ran high—especially when she was scared, angry, or overwhelmed. Lightbulbs would shatter without warning. Mirrors cracked without a touch. The walls trembled during nightmares. Once, she was nearly hit by a drunk driver—only for the car to suddenly veer and flip sideways, narrowly missing her.
Michael told her to ignore it all. "Coincidence," he said. "Forget it ever happened."
But Charlie couldn't forget. Deep down, she knew—whatever caused those incidents, it was connected to what happened to her mother and father.
So she started digging.
Library books. Old articles. Fringe science papers. Anything that mentioned unexplained phenomena. Eventually, she found a name for it: telekinesis—the ability to move things with your mind.
Her parents must have somehow obtained it and, she'd inherited it.
Every night, Michael prayed—begging God to take her power away. To strip it from her completely. If she didn't have it, then the government agents—or as he called them, "slaves to the devil"—would have no reason to come for her. No reason to drag her off to some cold, sterile facility. No reason to cut her open and dissect her until she died... like they did to her parents.
That's why he never wanted her to use her powers. Never wanted her to even acknowledge they existed.
Charlie tried to respect that. For a long time, she almost didn't use them at all.
But when she was alone—in her secret place—she couldn't help herself.
It was like breathing. Like a pressure valve. A way to release everything she was holding in—her fear, her rage, her grief.
Surely there was no harm in that, was there? Not when she was alone. Not when no one was watching.
As the last stone hit the far wall with a sharp crack, Charlie stood in the center of the ruined church, chest rising and falling. The air around her had gone still. Heavy.
After releasing her anger, Charlie took a deep breath and decided to channel her energy into something more constructive—a project she'd been quietly working on for weeks: restoring the shattered stained-glass windows.
It had started as a whim. One day, she found a jagged shard of deep blue glass buried in the dirt near the altar. Something about it—its color, the way it caught the light—had pulled at her. She wiped it clean and tucked it into her pocket, not knowing why. The next time she came back, she found another. Then another.
Soon, she was combing through the rubble every time she visited, carefully collecting the broken pieces, rinsing them in a basin she kept hidden in the back corner, sorting them by color. There were dozens now—crimson, gold, emerald, sapphire—like fragments of a forgotten dream.
She didn't have the tools or training of a real stained-glass artist, but she didn't need them. With focus, she could hold the pieces in the air, gently rotating and fitting them together like a puzzle. If she concentrated hard enough, the glass would heat at the edges—not with fire, but with the strange pulse of her power—softening just enough to fuse.
She approached the window frame nearest the altar. The sun was slanting through it just right, casting a pale glow across the floor. Charlie raised her hand. Shards rose from the cloth bundle where she'd left them, slowly lifting into the air. They shimmered like floating jewels.
One by one, she guided them into place—a petal of ruby here, a strip of amber there—rebuilding the image she could barely make out from the remnants still clinging to the lead outlines. Some pieces she managed to rebuild into their original designs, fitting them back into place like memories being restored. Others, she used to create her own images—little glimpses of the world as she wished it could be.
A rainbow shining in the sun. A star-scattered night sky. A family of ducks gliding across a quiet pond.
Now, as she hovered a few more shards into the air, she paused, tilting her head.
What should this next image be?
"Butterflies," she murmured with a soft smile. "Butterflies in the breeze."
With that she set to work.
Chapter Text
Guiding each shard with delicate precision, she began shaping the wings first—slivers of amber, violet, and sapphire gliding into place like pieces of a delicate mosaic. The butterflies took form slowly, each one unique, their wings poised mid-flight as if caught in a moment of gentle motion.
She added thin arcs of silver for the breeze, weaving them between the wings, giving the illusion of movement, of freedom. It was peaceful work—quiet, focused, almost meditative.
"Wow! That's pretty!"
Charlie was so startled she almost dropped the frame. Someone was here. Someone had found her secret place.
She turned around, standing there was Vaggie Madrigal.
She was a cheerleader, captain of the debate team, and one of the girls who had locked Charlie in the janitor's closet. Vaggie was beautiful, slender with long shiny black hair and hazel eyes, sharp-tongued, and fiercely confident. She carried herself like someone who knew exactly where she was going and dared anyone to get in her way. She prided herself on strength—on grit, ambition, discipline. She admired people who clawed their way upward, who fought to be more than what they were.
She had no patience for weakness. And to her, Charlie had always seemed like the weakest person in the room.
Quiet. Nervous. Too polite, too soft. Vaggie thought Charlie wore her sadness like armor, clinging to it just to feel special. She was convinced Charlie liked being the victim—that she used her meekness like a weapon, always hinting that everyone else was cruel, corrupt, or doomed, while she and her saintly uncle floated above it all.
So when they locked her in the closet, it didn't feel like cruelty. Not really. It felt like a lesson. A harmless scare. A reminder that the world didn't cater to fragile girls with haunted eyes and too many prayers in their pockets.
But then Vaggie saw her face.
Saw her as she was walking toward the school exit with Alastor by her side, eyes wide and wet, her whole body trembling like a kicked dog. She wasn't just crying—she was terrified. Like something had broken open inside her. Like she'd clawed her way out of hell itself and barely made it back.
Vaggie felt like a monster.
For days, Vaggie barely spoke to anyone. She couldn't focus—on her classes, cheer practice, or debate meetings. The guilt sat in her chest like a weight she couldn't shake. She felt disgusting. Ugly. Vile. Loathsome. Like something rotten had been pulled to the surface.
"What's the big deal? It was just a prank," Velvette said one afternoon, casually painting her nails in the locker room like nothing had happened.
Vaggie stared at her. "No. It wasn't a prank. It was a really shitty thing. I think we might have traumatized her."
Velvette rolled her eyes. "So? Who cares? It's not like she's anyone important."
Vaggie's jaw clenched. Her stomach twisted.
"You know," she said slowly, "my mom's always telling me I shouldn't hang out with you. That you're a bad influence."
Velvette smirked. "Your mom says that about everyone."
"Yeah," Vaggie replied, standing up and grabbing her bag, "but for once... I think she might be right."
Eventually, Vaggie apologized, promising that she'd make it up to Charlie someday. Charlie told her it wasn't necessary, but she accepted the apology—and forgave her.
After that, something changed.
Vaggie started smiling when they passed each other in the halls. She'd say hello, wave, even invite Charlie to sit with her at lunch. Once, she invited her to go shopping.
Charlie smiled back. She returned the greetings, sat beside her at lunch, even joined in the conversation. But when it came to things like shopping trips... she hesitated.
She wasn't sure she could trust Vaggie—not completely. What if her kindness wasn't real? What if it was just another setup, like before? Charlie couldn't afford to find out the hard way again. So she politely turned the invitation down.
Now, as she caught sight of Vaggie at the stone steps, panic surged in her chest.
Had she seen what Charlie was doing?
Would she tell someone? Call the police? Call her a freak? A witch? Laugh?
"Wha—what are you doing here?" Charlie asked, her voice tight with surprise.
"Your notebook fell out of your bag in class," Vaggie said, holding it up. "I found it on my way back from cheer practice and figured I'd return it. No one was home, and then I saw you heading up the hill, so... I followed you."
Charlie stared at her, studying her expression. No fear. No confusion. No shock. Just calm, casual curiosity.
She hadn't seen anything.
Thank God.
Vaggie glanced past her toward the window frame. "What's that you've got there?"
Charlie glanced down at the framed image in her hands, then hesitantly held it up for Vaggie to see. "It's nothing, really. Just a little arts and crafts project."
Vaggie's eyes widened. Her jaw almost dropped as she took in the intricate stained-glass design, glowing softly in the sunlight.
"You made this?" she asked, incredulous. "Seriously—you made this? How?"
Charlie gave a half-smile, hugging the frame a little closer to her chest. "Uh... trade secret."
"Well... this is incredible."
"You really think so?" Charlie asked, a bit of disbelief in her voice.
"Yes! Can I see it up close?"
Charlie hesitated for a moment, then slowly stepped forward and handed over the frame. "Be careful. Some of the edges are still a little sharp."
Vaggie took it gently, her hands steady as she lifted it toward the light streaming through the broken windows. The colors flickered to life—soft blues and warm golds casting glowing reflections across her palms.
"Butterflies," she whispered, eyes wide. "They look like they're actually moving."
Charlie nodded, her voice barely above a breath. "That's what I was going for. Butterflies in the breeze."
Vaggie kept staring, something soft and distant settling over her expression. "It's beautiful."
Charlie looked down, cheeks flushing slightly as she tried to stifle the small smile tugging at her lips. "Thanks... But you don't have to say that just to be nice."
Vaggie shook her head, her tone firm but kind. "I'm not. I mean it. I really like this. Butterflies were always my favorite, you know?"
Charlie glanced up, surprised. "Really?"
Vaggie smiled faintly, still gazing at the glass. "Yeah. They're fragile... but they still fly."
"Well you can have that, if you want."
Vaggie blinked, startled. "Wait—what? No. Charlie, I couldn't. This is yours. You made it."
Charlie shrugged, eyes on the ground, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. "I can make another. It's okay."
"Thank you. I'll hang it in my room—I already know the perfect spot." She set the piece down gently, somewhere safe, before glancing around. "So... what is this place?"
"It's my secret spot," Charlie replied softly. "I come here when I need space. Time to think. No one else knows about it. Well—no one did, until today." She gave Vaggie a sidelong look. "You won't tell anyone, right?"
"I won't," Vaggie promised. "But even if I did, I doubt anyone would come. No offense, but this place is... kinda creepy."
Charlie smiled faintly. "That's one way to see it. But to me, it's beautiful. Quiet. Peaceful. Sometimes... even a little romantic." She paused, then added, more shyly, "I've always thought—maybe someday—I'd like to get married here."
Vaggie blinked, then looked around again with fresh eyes. The cracked stone, the broken windows, the light streaming through in fractured colors—it didn't seem so creepy now.
"Yeah, I think I see what you mean." she said slowly. "So how's your friend? Alastor, right?"
"Yes."
"Is he okay?"
"He said he was fine. I just... hope that's true."
"You don't believe him?"
"I don't know. Sometimes he shrugs things off like they don't matter. Other times... I feel like it hurts him more than he lets on. But he always finds a way to get back up in his feet. Somehow."
"I'll take your word for it. I barely know him—except that he seems to be Valentino's second favorite punching bag."
"Second? Who's the first?"
"That geek Vox. Though Val does enjoy groping me when I wear a skirt. Tries to dry-hump me in the hallway like it's funny."
"You get bullied?"
"Not anymore. Not since I nailed him in the balls. Twice." She smirked. "Too bad you can't do that to Velvette or the rest of us. God knows we probably deserved it."
Charlie laughed a little, a soft, almost shy sound that broke the tension between them.
"Hey, do you like pupusas?"
"I don't know what that is."
Vaggie grinned. "Only the best thing you've never tried. It's thick corn tortillas stuffed with cheese, beans, and meat. My mom's making some for dinner tonight. Want to come over?"
Charlie hesitated. "I don't know... My uncle wouldn't like me going to someone's house if he hasn't met them first."
Vaggie smiled, quick to ease her worry. "Well, he can come too. If you guys want, that is."
Charlie looked thoughtful, then nodded slowly. "Maybe... yeah. That could work."
"Great!" Vaggie's face lit up.
They shared a small laugh, the weight of hesitation easing between them. They walked back together, with Vaggie recounting the time her mother first tried to teach her how to make pupusas.
"Mom was so patient at first," Vaggie said, laughing. "But by the end, she was covered in masa from head to toe. I swear, I nearly set the kitchen on fire trying to flip one."
Charlie smiled, the story pulling her out of her usual quiet. "Sounds like a disaster."
"Total disaster," Vaggie agreed, grinning. "But we ended up laughing so hard, and the pupusas turned out delicious anyway."
Charlie's eyes brightened. "I'd like to see that. Maybe I'll bring my uncle next time—he could use a good laugh."
Vaggie nudged her playfully. "Deal. Just wait until you taste the real thing."
They continued down the path, the late afternoon sun warm on their backs. Michael arrived home just as the girls pulled up to the house. Normally, he didn't like last-minute invitations—especially from people he didn't know. But Charlie had never been invited anywhere by a girl before, and he could tell this meant a lot to her.
So, after a moment's hesitation, he nodded and agreed to dinner with Vaggie and her mother. He hoped this meant things would start going her way for once.
The Mae-Goetia household was never quiet. Every time Alastor came home, his foster family was in the middle of something bold, loud, and usually dramatic.
For Rosie, Stolas, and Blitzo, foster care was a way to pay the bills—and to have a full house without the hassle of marriage—but their true passion was the stage. Theater ran through the veins of the household like electricity, lighting up every room with rehearsals, costumes, and bursts of spontaneous song.
Moxxie shared that same passion, eagerly throwing himself into any chance to join the trio's theatrics. Octavia loved music, but found all the dramatic flair a little too exhausting to keep up with. And Loona—well, no one was entirely sure what she liked. She acted like she hated everything. But then again, she was fourteen, and that was pretty much par for the course.
Alastor liked theater, too. His mom had been studying to be an actress, and when he was little, the two of them would put on little performances after dinner—just the two of them in the living room. His father would sit on the couch, beaming with pride, laughing at all the right moments.
But after she died, the spark went out. The stage felt too quiet without her. And Alastor never quite found his way back to it.
"I'm home," Alastor called as he stepped through the front door, dropping his bag by the coat rack.
He walked into the living room—and straight into the middle of a full-blown rehearsal.
Stolas stood in the center of the room, arms flailing with dramatic precision, eyes glittering like stage lights.
"You do an eclectic celebration of the dance! You do Fosse, Fosse, Fosse! Or Madonna, Madonna, Madonna!... but you keep it all inside!"
Blitzo blinked at him, baffled. "What does that even mean? I thought we were doing Carmen! Not... interpretive dance breakdowns from a Broadway fever dream."
"Carmen is a very complex character," Stolas explained, lifting his chin with theatrical poise. "She's bold, seductive, defiant—an icon of passion and rebellion. You can't just walk around the stage. You have to embody her essence. Every movement, every gesture, every breath has to scream drama!"
"I know that! I've read the script a thousand times!" Blitzo snapped, throwing his arms up.
"But you're just mimicking her!" Stolas shot back, pacing in an agitated circle. "You're performing Carmen, not being Carmen! If you can't connect to her truth, I'll have no choice but to cast Rosie in the lead."
"What?!" Blitzo's voice cracked like glass. "You'd really bump me for Rosie? She sings like a haunted accordion!"
Alastor, murmured. "She's got better pitch than you, though."
"You stay out of this!" Blitzo barked at him, then spun back to Stolas. "You can't be serious!"
Stolas crossed his arms, smug. "I'm always serious when it comes to the stage."
Blitzo groaned and sank dramatically onto the nearest chair. "This is betrayal. Treason." He muttered, "I give one underwhelming monologue and suddenly I'm the understudy to a woman who thinks tap shoes are a personality trait."
Alastor sighed, setting his book bag down by the door.
"Ah," he muttered dryly, "another normal evening in the asylum."
"At least you haven't been stuck here all week with them," Moxxie chimed in from the couch, resting his casted foot on the coffee table with a dramatic groan. "I've had front-row seats to every meltdown, monologue, and musical number."
Alastor raised an eyebrow. "I thought you liked theater."
"I do," Moxxie said flatly. "But this isn't theater. This is emotional warfare with jazz hands."
"Where are the girls?" Alastor asked, glancing around.
"Where they always are during rehearsal time," Moxxie replied, gesturing vaguely upstairs. "In their rooms, earbuds in, music up—doing everything they can to block this out."
Alastor smirked. "Smart."
"They've got survival instincts," Moxxie said, sighing. "I, unfortunately, have a broken foot and no escape plan."
Rosie stepped into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Dinner's ready!" she called, her voice warm but firm—like a stage manager wrangling an unruly cast.
Everyone looked up, the energy in the room shifting instantly.
But her eyes landed on Alastor, and her expression softened. She walked over, tilting her head slightly as she caught sight of the faint bruise on his cheek.
"Alastor..." she said gently, reaching out to brush his hair aside. "Has Valentino been bothering you again?"
Alastor instinctively flinched back—not harshly, just enough. "No," he said quickly. "It's nothing. I just... slipped. Walking home."
Rosie didn't look convinced, but she nodded slowly, not pressing—at least not here, not now. "Alright," she said quietly, though her eyes lingered on him a second longer. "But if that nothing ever turns into something, you tell me. You hear?"
He gave a faint nod, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Yeah. I hear you."
"Good." She straightened up, her tone snapping back into its usual cheerful cadence. "Now let's eat."
The group shuffled in, squeezing around the mismatched chairs and plates. Conversation flowed easily between bites, laughter rising and falling like background music.
Halfway through the meal, Rosie dabbed her mouth with a napkin and looked around the table. "So," she said, "since tomorrow's the weekend, I was thinking—maybe we could all go to the museum? Or catch a show downtown? They're doing that retro sci-fi musical at the community theater."
There were a few murmurs of interest, mostly from Stolas and Moxxie, but Alastor gently shook his head.
"I can't," he said, slicing into his pupusa. "I promised I'd help Vox with his science project."
Rosie raised an eyebrow. "Really? Vox?"
"Yeah," Alastor replied. "He's building some kind of solar-powered... thing. He wouldn't tell me what it is, just said he needed another pair of hands that 'don't get in the way.'" He smirked faintly. "So I guess I made the cut."
"You're not going to end up doing all the work for him again, are you?" Octavia asked, raising an eyebrow from across the table.
Alastor gave a small shrug, poking at the edge of his plate. "I mean... I don't plan to."
Octavia leaned back in her chair, unimpressed. "You never do. But somehow he always talks you into doing the hardest parts while he takes credit."
"He doesn't take credit," Alastor said, half-heartedly. "He just... forgets to mention I helped."
"That's literally the same thing," Loona muttered without looking up from her phone.
Rosie gave Alastor a look—not scolding, but concerned. "You know, helping someone is a good thing, sweetheart. But letting them use you? That's something else."
"Hey, nobody uses Alastor Le Beau!" he said, sitting up straighter. "I am no one's doormat!"
"Spoken by every doormat who's ever lived," Loona said.
Blitzo snorted into his drink, trying not to choke on his laughter. "She's got you there, kid."
Alastor shot her a look but didn't respond. He knew better than to argue with Loona when she was in one of those moods—and, deep down, he wasn't entirely sure she was wrong.
Chapter Text
The next day, Alastor arrived at Vox's house just after noon, his backpack full of notes, tools, and quiet optimism. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe Vox would actually help with his own science project.
That hope lasted all of five minutes.
By the time Alastor had unpacked the circuit board and reviewed the materials list, Vox was already planted on the couch, headset on, controller in hand, and eyes locked onto the TV. The game he was playing was loud—absurdly loud—and every few seconds the screen erupted in flashes of gunfire, gore, and explosions.
Alastor glanced up from the instruction manual as a particularly grotesque slow-motion kill played out across the screen, complete with an over-the-top scream.
"Do you really think it's healthy to play games like that?" Alastor asked, raising an eyebrow.
Vox didn't look away. "It's fine. Better I shoot fake people than real ones, right?"
"That's... certainly one way to rationalize it," Alastor replied dryly, twisting a wire into place.
Onscreen, Vox's character jammed a chainsaw through an enemy's head, then kicked the body into a wall of spikes.
"Besides," Vox added casually, "it keeps me focused."
Alastor blinked. "You're not even looking at the project."
"Yeah, and you're doing great," Vox said with a grin, finally glancing back at him. "Keep it up, partner."
Alastor exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh—but close.
"Someday," he muttered, "you're going to have to actually build something instead of just blowing it up."
Vox laughed. "Why bother? That's what I've got you for."
Alastor and Vox had met in eighth grade—in the nurse's office, both bruised and bleeding after separate run-ins with the wrestling team. Neither of them had much social capital. Most kids ignored them, or worse. No one in their grade really wanted to hang out with either of them—except for Charlie,
So, sitting side by side on those paper-covered cots, ice packs pressed to their faces, they'd shared a quiet, awkward moment. Vox had cracked a joke about the nurse smelling like disinfectant and regret. Alastor had laughed. And for a moment, it felt like maybe they understood each other.
They thought they could be friends.
Or rather—Alastor thought they could be friends.
"So I've got some great news," Vox said, grinning as he tossed his controller aside. "Valentino's throwing a huge party tonight, and guess what? He invited us. Can you believe it?"
Alastor looked up from the project, eyes narrowing. "No, actually I can't. Considering he hates us."
"He hates you," Vox corrected, pointing casually. "But he likes me. And I can get him to like you too. One night, that's all it takes. A little charm, a little confidence—and boom, we're in. His crowd, Al. The top tier."
Alastor blinked slowly. "Interesting idea. One problem though."
"What?"
"I don't want to be in his crowd."
Vox stared at him like he'd just spoken another language. "Why not?"
"How about the fact that he's viciously harassed me since ninth grade?" Alastor said, voice flat and tired. "I'm not a masochist, you know."
Vox scoffed, waving a hand. "He was just messing with you. That's how he tests people. If you'd just lighten up—"
"Oh, right," Alastor cut in, arms crossing. "I should've laughed harder when he shoved me into a locker. Or when he poured hot glue into my hair. Real knee-slappers."
Vox shrugged, tone flippant. "Okay, yeah, maybe he was a little intense—"
"He once tried to drown me in a toilet," Alastor said coldly.
"That was a long time ago."
"It was last week," Alastor snapped.
"Alright, so he's an asshole," Vox admitted, holding up his hands. "But if we get on his good side, he'll leave you alone. Won't that be nice?"
"I seriously doubt that," Alastor muttered, pulling out his notebook and flipping it open to a fresh page. He started jotting down a few rough ideas for the project, eyes focused, pencil gliding neatly across the lines.
But as he turned a page, something caught Vox's eye—a series of scribbles in the margins. Before Alastor could stop him, Vox snatched the notebook from his hands.
"Hey!" Alastor snapped. "Give that back!"
Vox grinned, already flipping through. "What's this? Chemistry notes?"
"Vox—seriously."
"You are such a nerd, Alastor." He held the notebook up dramatically. "Let's see... H is for Hydrogen..."
Alastor stood up, trying to grab it back. "Come on."
"O is for Oxygen..." Vox dodged his reach, laughing. "Oh wait—what's this? CM? What does CM stand for?
Alastor froze. "Uh...Carbon Monoxide."
"It's written all over the page," Vox said with a smirk, eyes dancing with amusement. "You even drew little hearts around it. Adorable. But you're not seriously telling me you doodled Carbon Monoxide in hearts?"
"It's... it's my favorite element!" Alastor blurted out.
Alastor lunged to snatch the notebook back, but Vox was too quick, already stepping back and flipping another page.
"Oh now this is just precious," he said, holding it up like it was evidence in court. "You drew a big heart and wrote AL + CM inside of it. Is it possible—just maybe—that CM actually stands for Charlie Morningstar?"
Alastor's ears burned crimson. "Shut up."
Vox cackled. "Oh my god. You're still crushing on her?! This is like, middle school level tragic."
"I said shut up!" Alastor made another grab for the notebook, this time more forcefully.
Vox danced back, still laughing. "This is so sad. Does she even know? Or do you just pine silently in the corner like a haunted Victorian poet?"
Alastor's voice dropped low and tense. "Give. It. Back."
Vox finally relented, tossing the notebook onto the table with a smug grin. Alastor snatched it up, clutching it to his chest like it might dissolve.
Vox finally relented, tossing the notebook onto the table with a smug grin. Alastor snatched it up, clutching it to his chest like it might dissolve.
"I don't know why you bother with her," Vox said casually, grabbing his controller again. "She's pretty, sure, but not really anything special. I could get a date with her, but you?"
He scoffed, not even bothering to look up.
Alastor stiffened, his fingers tightening around the notebook. "Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I'm just being real," Vox replied with a shrug. "She's all angelic and polite and sunshine or whatever. You're... you. Kinda gloomy. Kinda intense. Kinda... weird."
Alastor didn't respond right away. He just stood there, jaw clenched, face unreadable.
"I'm just being real," Vox replied with a shrug. "She's all angelic and polite and sunshine or whatever. You're... you. Kinda gloomy. Kinda intense. Kinda... weird."
Alastor didn't respond right away. He just stood there, jaw clenched, face unreadable.
"You know," Vox went on, leaning back lazily, "I bet if you could impress someone like Valentino, she might actually find you attractive."
Alastor's brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"Look," Vox said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "She thinks you're a wimp. And why? Because you get pummeled every day. She sees you as some poor, defenseless kid—not really a man. But if you could get Valentino off your back, if you proved you weren't just a punching bag? She'd finally see you had a spine. She might even find it..." Vox smirked. "Sexy."
Alastor stared at him, dead silent.
Then he laughed—just once, a short, bitter sound.
"You really think I have so little respect that I would go groveling to a bully, hoping he stops hitting me long enough for someone to like me?"
Vox raised an eyebrow. "I think power talks. And you don't have any."
"Neither do you," Alastor shot back. "You're just as pathetic as I me—the only difference is, I admit it."
"Which is exactly why we're going to this party. It changes everything. And if Charlie hears you were there—surrounded by Valentino's girls—she's guaranteed to get jealous."
"Really? Wait what if she thinks I'm just another sleazy player."
"Not if you spin it right. You tell her the girls wouldn't leave you alone, but the only one on your mind was her. Romantic, tragic... believable—if girls actually found you attractive, of course."
He hesitated. "Well..."
The last place Alastor wanted to be was a party thrown by Valentino. Those nights were legendary for all the wrong reasons—cops had shown up more than once, someone had actually been tossed out a window, and rumor had it that one poor soul died trying to survive Valentino's infamous drinking challenge. The girls Valentino invited barely wore anything, and they were always way too handsy. Half of them weren't even girls—they were women, and then some. Still, maybe Vox had a point. It'd be good to finally get Valentino off his back. And if Charlie had any feelings for him, the thought of him surrounded by so many women would probably rattle her. Besides, he wouldn't stay long. Just an hour. That was it.
"I guess I could—"
"Great! Meet me here at seven tonight. We'll grab the liquor, then head to the party."
"Liquor? What liquor?"
"Oh, did I forget to mention Valentino only invited us because I promised to bring booze?"
"Yeah, you kinda left out that important detail."
"Well, now you know."
"Vox, we can't buy liquor! We're only seventeen! It's illegal! We could get arrested!"
"Only if we get caught. Besides, the cops around here have about as much sense as a daytime talk show host."
"What about Husk? I'm pretty sure his brain works, and you know he's had it out for us ever since Valentino made us handcuff him to his own car."
"I'll handle Husk if he gets nosy. Trust me, I've got this."
Alastor narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. "You always say that, but things usually end up worse than before."
Vox grinned, as if that was a badge of honor. "Hey, no risk, no reward."
Alastor sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine. But just for an hour. And if anything goes wrong, I'm out."
Vox clapped his hands together. "Deal. You won't regret it."
The afternoon stretched on as Alastor tried to focus on the project, but his mind kept drifting back to the party. The thought of walking into Valentino's den of chaos made his stomach twist uncomfortably. Yet beneath that knot of anxiety, there was a flicker of something new—hope. Maybe this one night could change things. Or maybe it would just be another disaster to add to the list.
The plan was simple—or as simple as anything involving Vox ever was. At seven o'clock they grab the liquor from the gas station, no questions asked, and get out before anything went sideways.
The gas station was a dump on the edge of town, its flickering neon sign humming faintly in the haze. Vox grinned as they approached. "See? Easy. The cashier's always baked out of his mind. He won't even blink."
Alastor shifted nervously, the weight of the backpack with the half-packed science project digging into his shoulder. "I still don't like this."
"Relax," Vox said, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I'll handle the tough part. You just buy the booze, alright? Don't screw it up."
They pushed through the creaky door, the chime jangling above them. Inside, the cashier was exactly as Vox had described: eyes half-lidded, a slow smile spread beneath a mop of tangled hair, and a haze of smoke clinging to the air around him.
"Hey man," Vox called, voice casual, "you feeling good today?"
The cashier gave a lazy nod, barely processing. "Yeah, man... good vibes only."
Vox's grin widened as he leaned over the counter. "That's what I like to hear."
Alastor moved toward the refrigerated section, the cold air a welcome relief from the heat outside. He grabbed a cheap bottle of whiskey, trying to keep his hands steady. The plan was working—too well, maybe.
But then a shadow crossed the entrance.
Lieutenant Husk.
The man's face was a map of hard lines and hard-earned scars, his eyes sharp and scanning like a hawk hunting for prey. He wasn't just any cop; he was the best the city had, and probably the only one with enough sense to see through anyone's schemes.
Vox spotted him immediately and nudged Alastor. "Showtime."
Alastor's stomach dropped, but he kept his cool as Husk strode toward the counter, boots clicking on the cracked linoleum.
"Evening, Lieutenant," Vox said smoothly, stepping in front of the cashier. "Just picking up some snacks."
Husk's eyes flicked to Vox, then to Alastor, who was clutching the hidden bottle of whiskey like it was a ticking bomb.
Vox started chatting, loud and friendly. "Hey Husk, remember that time at Valentino's party last month? Crazy night, huh? I still can't believe someone got thrown out the window."
Alastor's stomach dropped, but he kept his cool as Husk strode toward the counter, boots clicking on the cracked linoleum.
"Evening, Lieutenant," Vox said smoothly, stepping in front of the cashier. "Just picking up some snacks."
Husk's eyes flicked to Vox, then to Alastor, who was clutching the hidden bottle of whiskey like it was a ticking bomb.
Vox started chatting, loud and friendly. "Hey Husk, remember that time at Valentino's party last month? Crazy night, huh? I still can't believe someone got thrown out the window."
Husk's gaze sharpened, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know what I can't believe? That you two would actually be dumb enough to handcuff me to my car and then actually speak to me afterward."
Vox's grin didn't waver. "Oh come on, Lieutenant, where's your sense of humor?"
Husk stared at him flatly. "I lost it in the war, along with my ability to forgive and forget."
There was a beat of silence.
Vox chuckled, glancing at Alastor. "Well, that explains the personality."
Husk leaned a little closer, voice low and bone-dry. "You're real lucky I don't feel like filling out paperwork today, Vox."
Alastor felt the sweat prick at the back of his neck. The bottle was still in his jacket, tucked just barely out of view. One wrong word, one shift in Husk's mood, and they were both toast.
But Vox—of course—kept pushing.
"Come on, Husk. We're just a couple of harmless kids picking up snacks for a party. Nothing illegal, nothing scandalous. Hell, I didn't even insult your hat today."
"You're on thin ice."
"Thinner than your patience, I know," Vox said with a grin. "We'll be out of your hair in two minutes. Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"True. But I did steal a badge once. That counts, right?"
Husk exhaled slowly, then turned his eyes to Alastor—who was desperately trying to look like someone buying a bag of chips instead of committing a misdemeanor.
"You. What's your deal?"
Alastor blinked. "Uh. I—I'm just here with him."
"Tragic," Husk muttered, then straightened up. "Two minutes. If I see either of you near Valentino's place tonight doing something stupid, you'll wish I just cuffed you to your own damn car."
"Understood, Lieutenant," Vox said with a little salute. "You won't even know we were there."
"Doubtful," Husk said, already walking toward the exit. "I always hear the sirens eventually."
As the door swung shut behind him, Alastor exhaled shakily, then seized the moment. He moved to the register, slamming the bottle down with a forced confidence and sliding his card across the counter.
The cashier barely looked up, swiping the card sluggishly and handing over the receipt.
"Here you go, man. No worries," the cashier muttered, eyes drooping.
Vox clapped Alastor on the shoulder. "See? Told you it'd be fine."
"For now," Alastor muttered.
"Relax, Al. That was the hardest part."
Alastor ran a hand through his hair, still looking back over his shoulder. "You really think Husk didn't notice?"
"I think Husk has better things to do than babysit two high schoolers playing bootleg errand boys," Vox said casually. "Besides, he gave us two minutes. We beat the clock. That's legally binding."
"That's not how laws work."
Vox smirked. "And yet here we are. Still free. Still fabulous."
Alastor shook his head but didn't argue. They reached the car, and Vox tossed the bag into the back seat like it weighed nothing.
"Just think about what Charlie will do when she finds out she could've lost you forever to an orgy of women."
Alastor recoiled. "Vox, that's disgusting."
"But it will lead her right into your arms. You'll finally get to kiss her, to see her naked, and to fuck her."
"Don't talk about her that way!"
"Sorry! But isn't that what you want?"
Vox could be so lewd and perverted, it almost made Alastor sick. The way he spoke about Charlie—like she was some prize to be claimed, some body to conquer—was grotesque. It made Alastor's skin crawl.
Because Vox didn't understand.
Alastor didn't have a crush on Charlie. He was in love with her.
Had been for years.
He didn't dream about tearing her clothes off or bragging about scoring with her at some party. He dreamed about dancing with her. In a quiet room, music soft, her smile only for him. He dreamed about holding her—really holding her—where nothing hurt, and everything felt safe.
He dreamed about kissing her. Not with fire or frenzy, but gently, reverently, like it meant something.
He dreamed about being intimate with her, yes—but not the way Vox thought. A moment of honesty between two people who trusted each other, who shared everything—fears, hopes, quiet mornings. Maybe even a life.
He'd imagined what it might be like to wake up next to her. To hear her laugh in their kitchen. To hold her hand when the world got hard.
He'd imagined a future.
Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was naive.
But it was his. And Vox's crude jokes didn't belong anywhere near it.
Chapter Text
The party was worse than Alastor ever imagined.
From the moment they stepped through the door, it hit him like a wave—thick air clogged with smoke and sweat, the stench of cheap perfume and something chemical. Music pulsed like a living creature through the walls, too loud, too sharp, all bass and no rhythm. Lights strobed red and purple, casting faces into ghoulish silhouettes. Someone was vomiting into a potted plant. Another person was passed out halfway on the stairs, a bottle clutched loosely in one hand, their shirt missing entirely.
Alastor stiffened, the backpack with the whiskey hanging from his shoulder like a bad omen.
"Come on," Vox said, elbowing him. "Loosen up. This is where the magic happens."
Magic, Alastor thought, stepping over a broken bottle and what looked like someone's lost wig. More like a waking nightmare.
They weaved through a crush of barely-clothed bodies grinding to the beat. People openly passed around joints, pills, syringes—no one even tried to hide it. A group was playing strip poker in the corner, one guy in just socks and a cowboy hat. Someone else was on a leash. A girl—at least Alastor thought it was a girl—was dancing on the table in nothing but fishnets and body paint.
"This is insane," Alastor muttered.
Vox grinned, straightening his jacket and puffing his chest. "This is high society."
Alastor rolled his eyes. "This is a biohazard."
"Details," Vox said, already scanning the crowd for Valentino. He finally spotted him near the back, lounging on a velvet couch like a low-budget mobster, surrounded by women in stilettos and men who looked like they bench-pressed crime for fun.
"Wait here," Vox said. "I'm gonna go make an entrance."
Vox strutted toward Valentino like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment.
"Valentino, my man!" Vox called. "Hell of a party. You've outdone yourself. Again. I mean, honestly—what do you do, bottle decadence? Because this? This is art, baby."
Valentino didn't even flinch.
He barely glanced at Vox, his expression unreadable behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses—worn indoors, at night, of course. He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl upward like a question mark.
"You bring the booze?" he asked, flat and uninterested.
Vox faltered for just a half-second before recovering. "Oh—yeah. Of course. Premium whiskey. Aged to... something. I brought a bottle that'll make your taste buds climax."
Valentino's lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk. Might.
"Cool," he said, eyes flicking lazily over to the bar setup in the corner. "Fix me a drink."
Vox blinked. "You want me to—?"
Valentino looked directly at him now, sunglasses lowered just enough to show a flash of sharp, disinterested eyes.
"Did I stutter?"
Vox's grin turned rigid. "Nope. Not at all. You got it, boss."
Alastor leaned against the wall, watching it all unfold. Vox kept pushing, pivoting, cracking jokes, tossing his hair like some drunk soap opera actor. Nothing landed. He was like a mosquito at a dinner party—buzzing around with no clue he wasn't wanted.
And then came the moment that made Alastor's blood run cold.
"Hey!" Vox called suddenly, loud enough to cut through the noise. "You guys want to see something legendary? My boy Alastor's gonna hook up with Velvette tonight."
Alastor's head snapped up. "I'll what?!"
The room quieted just enough for the echo to bite.
"You didn't say anything about me doing that!" Alastor hissed, storming toward him. "Besides, isn't she a lesbian?!"
"Exactly!" Vox grinned, his eyes wild with desperation. "That's why it would be so awesome if you were the first guy to score with her!"
Alastor looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "But I don't want to score with her. I don't even like her!"
"You don't have to go all the way, just kiss her and do a little groping. Show 'em you've got game!"
"No. Absolutely not. This is insane. I refuse-"
But Vox didn't wait for the end of the sentence. He shoved Alastor hard toward the next room. "Just try, man! For the team!"
Alastor stumbled through a beaded curtain and into a dimly lit side room—straight into Velvette.
She was lounging on a love seat, scrolling through her phone, cigarette between her teeth. She looked up, startled, as Alastor tripped over the rug and practically landed on top of her.
"Oh—God—sorry!" Alastor gasped, jerking back immediately, hands in the air. "I didn't mean to—!"
Velvette's eyes went wide. "What the fuck?!"
"I'm sorry—I swear—I was just leaving—!"
But Velvette wasn't listening. She screamed.
"GET OFF ME YOU CREEP!"
Alastor backed away frantically, hands still raised. "I DIDN'T TOUCH YOU—I SWEAR—!"
She launched at him with the fury of a hornet nest in heels. Her nails raked across his arm. She threw a drink in his face, then a punch that missed and hit his chest instead.
"YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST—JUST FORCE YOURSELF ON ME?!" she screamed, loud enough for the whole party to hear.
"No! No! It's not like that!" Alastor cried. "I didn't—!"
But it was too late. Two of Valentino's fellow jocks were already storming in, and before Alastor could say another word, they grabbed him by the arms and threw him through the front door.
He hit the concrete hard, his backpack slamming beside him, its contents spilling into the street. Someone inside laughed. The door slammed shut. Alastor groaned, slowly pushing himself upright, his elbow scraped and bleeding.
Vox appeared a moment later.
Not to help.
Just to peek.
"Alright," Alastor said, voice low, ragged. "You got your fifteen minutes of fame. Now take me home."
Vox didn't move from the doorway. "You got thrown out. Not me."
Alastor finally looked over his shoulder, glaring. "Are you serious right now?"
Vox shrugged, expression unreadable in the flickering porch light. "Look, man. I'm still invited. You're not. Can't exactly roll in with the loser who got kicked out for groping someone."
"I didn't grope anyone," Alastor said through clenched teeth. "You shoved me in there like I was part of some twisted party trick!"
Vox leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "And it would've worked if you hadn't freaked out."
"You set me up to be humiliated!"
"Humiliated?" Vox laughed, mean and sharp. "Come on, you've been humiliated since middle school. This isn't new."
Alastor stood, slow and trembling, brushing broken gravel from his scraped palms. "Fine. Give me your keys. I'll take your car."
Vox scoffed. "Oh hell no. I'm not walking home."
"But Vox—" Alastor's voice cracked. "I can't walk home in the middle of the night. It's five miles. And what if that gang's still out near the bridge? What if they jump me again?"
"Just play dead or something," Vox said flatly, turning back toward the door. "They'll lose interest."
Alastor stared at him, stunned. "You don't care."
Vox paused, one hand on the doorknob, the other still holding a red Solo cup. "Don't make this dramatic. You'll be fine. You always are."
The door closed behind him.
Just like that, Alastor stood there in the dark, the chill wind picking up. He pulled his hoodie tight, and started walking.
The city got quieter the farther Alastor walked. Crickets chirped. Wind whistled through broken fences. Somewhere, a dog barked in the distance.
Then he heard the bikes.
It started as a low whine, somewhere behind him. Engines revving—three, maybe four. Not cars. Motorcycles.
He didn't turn around. Didn't have to. He already knew.
"Yo, if it ain't Little Squealer's big brother!" came a voice like gravel soaked in bourbon.
Alastor stopped walking.
Slowly, he turned.
Striker and three others behind him, all on beat-up bikes with mismatched headlights and plates that had either fallen off or been ripped off on purpose.
Striker cut his engine and dismounted, walking forward with that same lazy gait he always had—like nothing in the world could touch him. His cowboy hat was tilted low, shadowing his scarred face, and the gleam in his eyes was pure fire.
"Well, well," he drawled, cracking his knuckles. "Fancy seein' you out here alone. At night. Lookin' like somethin' the alley spat out."
Alastor swallowed. "I don't want trouble."
"You already got trouble," Striker said, circling him slowly. "Your little foster brother—Moxxie, right? He made me real popular with the pigs last month."
Alastor's stomach twisted. "Well what did you expect? You did break his foot."
"Yeah, well, he squealed like a piglet. Got Lieutenant Husk sniffin' around my turf ever since." Striker's jaw flexed. "He won't let up. Now I can't get to Moxxie right now, he's under protection. But I can get to you."
One of the guys chuckled, pulling a chain from his jacket and letting it drag against the pavement with a hiss.
"C'mon," Alastor said quickly. "Can't we discuss this like civilized men?"
Striker's answered by punching Alastor in the stomach. Hard.
Alastor doubled over, gasping for breath as the others descended. A blow to the side. Another to his back. A knee to the ribs. He fell to the ground, arms up to shield his head.
But they didn't stop.
A boot connected with his side. Another stomped on his hand. And then Striker grabbed him by the collar and hauled him halfway up. He punched him across the face. The impact sent his glasses flying. They hit the asphalt with a sickening crack—one lens shattered, the frame twisted.
He dropped again, blood running from his nose, one eye already swelling. Someone laughed.
Alastor curled tighter. This was it.
He heard the revving of another engine and thought it was one of theirs—until it screeched.
Loud.
Too loud.
Headlights blinded the whole street, and a beat-up convertible swerved into view, tires screeching as it came to a sideways stop just inches from Striker's crew.
A familiar voice rang out over the roar of the engine:
"Step away from the nerd!"
Angel.
Alastor blinked, dazed, as the convertible's door flew open and Angel stepped out.
Striker glared. "You don't scare me, freak."
"Oh yeah? Well I bet this does!" Angel said, and he pulled out a Tommy gun from the passenger seat.
Striker froze. Everyone did. Because Angel wasn't bluffing.
The Tommy gun gleamed in the streetlight—old, maybe antique, but well maintained. Angel didn't even raise it fully. He didn't have to. Just letting it rest across his arms like a lounging predator was enough.
"You wanna test me, cowboy?" Angel asked, voice smooth and sharp as a switchblade. "I got twenty bucks and a milkshake that says you blink before I do."
The gang shifted uneasily. One of Striker's goons looked at him, wide-eyed. "Let's scramble, man!"
"Mount up!" Striker ordered. .
One by one, the others backed off, climbing onto their bikes. Engines snarled to life. Then they peeled off into the night, tires screeching, taillights vanishing like dying stars.
Angel let out a slow breath, put his gun back in the car, then walked over and knelt beside Alastor.
"Holy shit..." he muttered, brushing glass away from the broken frames. "They really did a number on you."
He helped Alastor to his feet gently, one arm around his shoulders. "C'mon. Let's get you home."
When they got back to the house, the door had barely swung open before Rosie gasped.
“Oh sweet mercy!” she cried, rushing forward as Alastor stumbled in, half-supported by Angel.
His hoodie was soaked in blood, one sleeve torn, and his glasses hung crooked with one lens completely shattered. Bruises bloomed across his jaw and temple, and his lip was split wide open.
“Alastor!” Rosie nearly shrieked, catching him as his knees buckled. “What happened to you?!”
“Ran into… some old friends,” Alastor mumbled, trying to crack a smile that only made the blood from his lip drip faster.
Rosie turned sharply to Angel. “What the hell happened?!”
Angel set him down gently on the couch, shaking his head. “Striker and his little biker goblins. I pulled up just in time. They woulda killed him.”
Rosie’s face went pale, then bright red. “Stolas!” she barked over her shoulder. “Ice and the first aid kit. Now!”
Footsteps scrambled somewhere deeper in the house.
She knelt in front of Alastor, her hands hovering, unsure where to touch him without making it worse.
“God, your face… your ribs—did they break anything?”
“Just my pride,” Alastor muttered. “Well, and probably a finger.”
“Don’t joke, sweetheart,” she whispered, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”
Stolas appeared in the doorway, a velvet robe haphazardly tied around his waist, holding a bag of ice in one hand and a glittery pink first aid kit in the other.
“Here,” he said, eyes wide at the sight of Alastor. “Dear heavens…”
Rosie took both without looking at him. “Help Angel get some clean towels. And put water on to boil. I want tea—calming tea. Chamomile, lavender, something with a sedative in it if we’ve got it.”
“Right,” Stolas nodded and vanished again.
Rosie, had moved into nurse mode. She cut off the remains of his sleeve, cleaned the scrapes on his arms with swift, practiced movements. Every time Alastor winced, she murmured soft apologies, but she didn’t stop.
“You’ll be fine for tonight,” she said briskly, inspecting the swelling on his ribs, “but first thing in the morning, we’re going to the hospital to have you x-rayed.”
Alastor’s eyes widened. “Oh Rosie, no! You know I hate hospitals!”
Rosie didn’t even blink. “Now don’t be difficult.”
“They smell like antiseptic and sadness!” he whined.
“And you smell like blood and pavement,” she snapped, dabbing at his split lip. “You could have broken ribs. Or worse.”
“I’d rather die at home in my own bed,” Alastor grumbled.
Rosie arched a brow. “If you had broken something worse, you might have died on the street.”
Alastor looked away, shame creeping into his voice. “Wouldn’t have been the worst thing tonight.”
Rosie froze for half a second, then cupped his face gently, ignoring the bruises.
“Don’t say that,” she said, quietly but firmly. “Don’t ever say that.“
“Why not? No one would care,” Alastor whispered, voice barely holding itself together.
Rosie froze mid-motion, the clean towel in her hand dropping to the floor. Her eyes locked onto his, hard and blazing.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I would care! Stolas would care! Blitzo, Moxxie, Loona, Octavia! They would all care! Even that nice young man who brought you here—Angel—he seems to care!”
Alastor looked away, jaw clenched, eyes brimming. “I’m a loser, Rosie…”
Her palm struck the arm of the couch—not him, never him—but the sound cracked through the room like thunder.
“Enough with that kind of talk! I won’t allow it! Not in my house!” she said, rising to her full height, eyes flashing.
“I can’t help it, Rosie!” Alastor shouted, the words cracking in his throat. “Every day feels like a war and I’m losing it! Everyone looks at me like a bug they want to squash! And it’s been like that ever since I came to this city!”
Rosie didn’t flinch. She knelt again beside him, gently placing a hand over his trembling one.
“It won’t be forever,” she said softly but firmly. “Things will change for the better. You just have to hold on a little longer. Be patient.”
Alastor let out a bitter, wet laugh. “I’ve been patient for nine years!”
His voice echoed in the room, raw and scraped thin.
Nine years of keeping his head down. Of being mocked, shoved, lied to, thrown away. Of putting on a polite smile and pretending it didn’t sting.
Rosie’s eyes filled, but her voice didn’t shake.
“Alastor, look at me.”
He kept his head down, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear.
“Look at me,” she said again, more firmly this time.
She reached out and gently, but without hesitation, tilted his chin up until his eyes met hers—wet, red-rimmed, and full of shame.
“Now you listen to me,” Rosie said, her voice low, steady, and burning with conviction. “And you listen good. You are going to be so blessed, and so loved someday. And I know this.”
He shook his head slightly, but she held on tighter.
“I know this,” she repeated, “because you have been through so much, and you still have a good heart. You still have a gracious soul.”
Alastor blinked, trying to turn away again, but she wouldn’t let him.
“When you were a boy,” she continued, softer now, but just as sure, “you were always so caring. So sweet to Moxxie, to Loona, to Octavia. You’d sit up for hours with Moxxie after his nightmares—when he couldn’t even speak, just shaking and crying. You were the one who told him his mother’s soul had gone to Heaven. That the part of her that loved him was safe up there with the stars, and not rotting away at the bottom of some lake like his father said.”
Rosie held him tighter, her hand cradling the back of his head as if she could shield him from every cruel thing the world had ever thrown at him. Her voice shook now, but only because it was carrying too much love to be contained.
“And on Valentine’s Day,” she went on, “when Loona came home crying because her whole class didn’t give her so much as one Valentine—when they ignored her like she wasn’t even there—you went out and made her twelve. You cut little hearts out of red construction paper, wrote notes on each one, and spent your own allowance to buy candy for every single card. You wrapped them in ribbon and left them outside her door with a note that said ‘From your secret admirer, who thinks you’re better than all of them put together.’ She didn’t stop smiling for a week.”
Her voice wavered, but she pressed on.
“And when Octavia’s mother…” she paused, jaw tightening, “when Stella dropped her off like luggage, not even checking if anyone was home—just drove off while that poor girl was chasing the car, crying like her whole world was crumbling… You were the one who ran out after her. You were the one who picked her up off the pavement, carried her back inside, sat on the floor with her in your lap, and rocked her until she could breathe again. You told her—you promised her—that none of us would ever leave her like that. Ever.”
Alastor’s shoulders shook silently but Rosie didn’t let him pull away.
“It doesn’t matter what the world thinks of you,” she said, brushing a tear from his cheek with her thumb. “To hell with the world. To us, you are so precious, and so wonderful, and I don’t want you to ever forget that.”
Alastor nodded faintly. The smile stayed, even if it wasn’t real. His ribs ached. It stayed because she needed to see it. Because she deserved it.
“I’ll try,” he said.
Chapter Text
Dinner with Vaggie and her mother was very nice. It was the first time Charlie had ever been invited to someone's home—aside from Alastor's, of course. Mrs. Madrigal had a cold, composed demeanor—her face and posture both distant and controlled—but her eyes told a different story. They were warm and full of passion, just like her daughter's. Michael had once said that was typical for many parents of teenagers.
Mrs. Madrigal had seemed rather wary of Charlie and her uncle at first. She had never liked any of Vaggie's friends, often dismissing them as lazy, mean-spirited troublemakers who would only be a bad influence on her daughter. Of them all, Velvette ranked as her least favorite.
"She's loud, disrespectful, uncouth—and I heard that last year she beat a mentally handicapped boy so badly he had to be hospitalized," she once said bluntly.
"Mom, that was just a rumor," Vaggie had replied, exasperated.
"That's not what Ms. Mayberry told me. And she said the only reason Velvette wasn't expelled—or arrested for assault—was because her father donates money to the school."
"Why were you talking to Ms. Mayberry?"
"She called me. She saw you hanging around Velvette and thought you were a good girl. She wanted to warn me."
"She should mind her own business."
"You should be careful of the company you keep," her mother said firmly. "I don't want you spending time with her or her little posse. You're better than that, and they'll only try to drag you down with them."
Vaggie had always thought her mother was being snobbish—convinced that no one would ever be good enough for her daughter. In Mrs. Madrigal's eyes, Vaggie deserved only the best, and that included the people she surrounded herself with.
But, as you probably know by now, Vaggie eventually realized her mother had been right about Velvette.
Charlie and Michael greeted Mrs. Madrigal politely. Michael then asked if he could say grace before the meal, and she gave him a reserved nod of approval.
After the prayer, they began to eat. The pupusas were just as delicious as Vaggie had said. Charlie and Michael enjoyed each bite and graciously complimented Mrs. Madrigal. Slowly, her demeanor began to soften, and she asked Charlie about her interests. Charlie explained that she liked music, dance, and the theater—that she mostly spent her days reading and sewed as a hobby.
"Rosie taught me how to sew, and later I used those skills to earn some extra money by sewing and mending clothes for the neighbors," Charlie explained.
"Who's Rosie?" Vaggie asked.
"My next-door neighbor. She runs a foster home with Stolas and Blitzo."
"Wait—aren't those the two guys who got caught singing 'I Feel Pretty' and dancing drunk in the street?"
"Uhhh... maybe."
"They are very strange," Michael said. "A lot of the things they do, I can't really approve of. But they're good people. They mean well, and they're great with the kids they look after. And Stolas in particular just adores his daughter."
"I thought all their children were fostered," Mrs. Madrigal said.
"Three of them are," Michael replied. "But Stolas has a biological daughter living with them as well. Rosie is the one who keeps everything running smoothly—a real mother hen. It's a peculiar dynamic: one mother, two fathers, and it's the two men who are romantically involved."
"Sounds confusing."
"It is, but it's also oddly wholesome, all things considered."
After dinner, Michael stepped into the kitchen to help Mrs. Madrigal with the dishes, while the girls headed to Vaggie's room so Charlie could help her hang the stained-glass frame.
"Mr. Morningstar," Mrs. Madrigal began, her tone unusually somber. "I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for the cruel prank my daughter and her so-called friends played on your niece at the homecoming dance. When I found out, I grounded her and made it very clear how unacceptable it was. I can assure you, she feels awful about it, and something like that will never happen again."
Michael paused, confused. "I'm sorry—what prank?"
"You mean... you don't know?"
"I'm afraid not. What are you talking about?"
Mrs. Madrigal hesitated, then sighed. "Oh dear. Mr. Morningstar, I hate that you're hearing it like this, but at the dance, my daughter and a group of girls locked your niece in the janitor's closet and left her there. According to Vaggie, the poor girl had a meltdown—she was terrified."
Michael's expression darkened. "Charlotte never told me any of this. What else do you know?"
"Only what my daughter eventually admitted," she said quietly. "She didn't come clean right away—but I could tell something was wrong. She was too quiet. That's when I started asking questions."
"I knew Charlotte was having a hard time fitting in," Michael said quietly, his brow furrowed. "But I didn't realize it was that bad. Have they done anything else to her?"
"That's all I know," Mrs. Madrigal replied. "But I can promise you this—Vaggie won't act like that again. Not while she's living under my roof."
She paused, her expression softening.
"She's actually a good kid, Mr. Morningstar. Really. It's just that... well, cancer took her father when she was eleven. Those years after were rough. She was angry—angry at me, at the world, at everyone. And I think some of that still comes out, especially when she feels cornered."
"I knew Charlotte was having a hard time fitting in," Michael said quietly, his brow furrowed. "But I didn't realize it was that bad. Have they done anything else to her?"
"That's all I know," Mrs. Madrigal replied. "But I can promise you this—Vaggie won't act like that again. Not while she's living under my roof."
She paused, her expression softening.
"She's actually a good kid, Mr. Morningstar. Really. It's just that... well, cancer took her father when she was eleven. Those years after were rough. She was angry—angry at me, at the world, at everyone. But she's getting better."
"Thank you for telling me this, Mrs. Madrigal," Michael said, his voice calm but weighted. "I appreciate your honesty."
Meanwhile, in Vaggie's room, Charlie stood on the edge of the bed, carefully holding up the stained-glass frame against the wall while Vaggie adjusted its position from below.
"Left a little," Vaggie said, squinting. "No—wait, too much. Go back... yeah, there."
Charlie gave a small laugh. "You sure? Because at this point, I think I've lifted this thing high enough to qualify for a gym badge."
Vaggie cracked a smile then stepped back to look at the stained-glass frame now hanging over her desk. Light from the setting sun filtered through it, casting soft colors across the room.
"There! Right there! It's perfect!" she said, a rare smile spreading across her face.
"Can I ask you something?" Charlie said quietly.
Vaggie leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Sure."
"Aren't you worried about what your friends will think... seeing you hanging out with me?"
Vaggie didn't hesitate. "Not really. They're not really my friends anymore. I think it's time I found a new crowd to run with."
Charlie gave a half-hearted smile. "I think just about every crowd in school has a problem with me."
Vaggie shrugged. "Then who needs a crowd?"
There was a pause—long enough for Charlie to look down again, uncertain.
"You know," she said softly, "you don't have to be friends with me. I've forgiven you... for the closet incident."
Vaggie pushed off the wall and crossed the room, sitting beside her.
"Look... I won't lie," she began, her voice low. "At first, I was just trying to make up for what I did. I felt awful, and I thought maybe if I was nice enough, helped you out, I could balance the scales."
Charlie stayed quiet, her eyes searching Vaggie's face.
"But now that I've actually gotten to know you..." Vaggie continued, her voice softening, "I really like you. I was such an idiot, I assumed you were just some boring, crazy-religious loner who thought she was too good to talk to anyone. But the truth is, you're kind. You're modest. And you have these incredible talents."
She paused, looking at Charlie more closely.
"Really, the only thing wrong with you is your attitude toward yourself."
Charlie blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Well... the way you keep your face all covered up with your hair. The way you're always trying to hide. You walk around like you're apologizing for existing, always moping like you're invisible." Vaggie stood and held out her hand. "Come here, you big silly. I want you to look at yourself."
She gently tugged Charlie over to the mirror.
"Would you look at that?" Vaggie said, sweeping Charlie's hair away from her face. "Now that's a pretty girl. Your lips—try some lipstick, you've got soft, pretty lips. And your cheekbones? Gorgeous. Look at your hair—seriously, it's beautiful. And your eyes, a little mascara would make them pop. You've got amazing eyes."
Charlie's voice was barely a whisper. "Alastor once told me that I had beautiful eyes."
Vaggie smiled, softer now. "Well, he wasn't wrong. Is he your boyfriend?"
Charlie shook her head. "No... he's my best friend. He'd never go out with me."
"Why not?"
"Because he's handsome, and smart, and strong... and I'm..." She looked down. "I'm nothing."
Vaggie's brow furrowed. "Did he say that to you?"
"Oh, no! Never!" Charlie said quickly. "He's too kind to ever say something like that to me. Even if it's true."
Vaggie reached out, placing a hand over Charlie's.
"Or maybe," she said softly, "he just doesn't believe that's true."
"Well, he's never said anything to imply that maybe he might—"
"Well, neither have you, I bet," Vaggie cut in gently.
"I... I'm afraid."
"Maybe he's afraid."
Charlie gave a quiet, doubtful laugh. "I can't imagine why."
"I know, you said you didn't want to go shopping," Vaggie said after a moment, "But maybe if we picked out some new clothes, a little makeup... something that says you're interested. Something that gets his attention."
Charlie blinked, caught off guard. "You think that would work?"
Vaggie shrugged, smirking a little. "Well, it wouldn't hurt. And let's be real—you'd look killer in something with a little confidence."
Charlie laughed softly, cheeks warming. "I'll... think about it."
A little while later, Charlie and Michael said their goodbyes and headed home. When they came to the house they saw Blitzo aggressively shoving a bundle of bloodstained towels into a trash can. He looked up as they approached.
"Blitzo?" Michael called out, alarmed. "What on earth happened?"
Blitzo wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, sighing. "Ah, it's nothing. Just cleaning up the aftermath."
"Aftermath of what?" Charlie asked, stepping closer.
Blitzo hesitated, then gave a tired shrug. "Striker and a few of his goons jumped Alastor."
Charlie's heart dropped. "Is he okay?!"
"He's fine," Blitzo said. "He just got banged up a little but Rosie is taking him to the hospital in the morning just to be sure."
"Can I see him?"
Michael gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Not tonight, dear. Tomorrow morning would be better."
Charlie bit her lip, worry clouding her expression as she nodded. However she couldn't sleep that night. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her blanket. Her thoughts kept circling back to Alastor—he had already been dealing with so much. Bullied by Valentino and his pack of parasites, and now this—getting jumped in the street like he was nothing.
It wasn't fair.
He didn't deserve it.
He needs something, she thought. Something to cheer him up. But what?
She turned onto her side, the moonlight spilling across her floor. Her mind wandered back to the little things he'd told her—his fondness for jazz and swing, his obsession with golden-age radio dramas, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about vinyl. He liked things that crackled and hissed with age. Things that felt timeless.
Then it hit her.
Records. He loves records.
Michael had a collection. A really nice one.
She got out of bed and tiptoed down the hall. Michael was still awake, sitting in the study with a book in hand and a cigar in the other.
"Michael?" she whispered.
He looked up, immediately alert. "Can't sleep?"
She shook her head. "I was thinking... Alastor loves vintage music. Do you think I could give him one of your records? Just something small to lift his spirits?"
Michael studied her for a moment, then smiled gently.
"Of course," he said. "Take whichever one you think he'll like best."
Charlie's face lit up. "Thank you."
She turned to go, but he called after her.
"Charlotte?"
"Yeah?"
Michael's voice was quiet but warm. "You're awfully fond of that boy, aren't ya?"
She froze for a moment, caught off guard by the truth in his words. Her heart fluttered with something she couldn't quite name. Then, with a shy smile and a small nod, she disappeared into the hallway.
Michael watched her go, then leaned back in his chair and took a slow puff from his cigar.
"Oh boy."
There was so much going on with that girl, and he'd missed a lot of it. Too busy with his job, the church, and doing everything he could to make sure her little secret stayed protected.
And speaking of secrets... he still couldn't wrap his head around why she hadn't told him what happened at the homecoming dance. Was she afraid she'd get in trouble? No, that wasn't it. Charlie knew better. She trusted him. So... why?
God help him—he never could understand girls.
Probably why he never married. Then again, his brother hadn't understood them either, and he somehow ended up married to the most beautiful woman in the whole city. According to many that is.
Michael took another slow puff of his cigar, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling as his thoughts swirled in the silence.
Michael and Lucifer Morningstar had grown up in a strict, religious household. Their father was the local pastor—a faithful man, but also deeply traditional and unyielding in his beliefs. The only remotely liberal thing he ever did in his life was get a divorce.
Their mother, on the other hand, was never content with the housewife role—or with her husband. She had more interest in chasing a free-spirited, hippie lifestyle than in baking casseroles or attending Sunday service. She wasn’t cruel, just… restless. A dreamer. Unpredictable. The kind of woman who burned incense and read banned books while the boys were at school.
Both parents loved them. That wasn’t the issue.
The problem was, they never worked together in raising them. Two different worlds under one roof, constantly pulling the boys in opposite directions. Lucifer grew up seeing their father as a judge—stern, cold, always ready with a verdict. Michael, meanwhile, viewed their mother as a radical—flighty, reckless, and allergic to responsibility.
The irony, of course, was that both parents probably thought they were doing the right thing.
Michael had taken more after their father, while Lucifer was clearly their mother’s son. But it wasn’t a perfect copy-and-paste of personalities—far from it. Michael had inherited their father’s discipline and faith, yes, but not his harsh judgment. He tried to lead with patience, not punishment. Lucifer, on the other hand, had their mother’s fire and her hunger for freedom, but he wasn’t as reckless or self-absorbed. He still cared—sometimes too deeply, just in ways that didn’t always make sense to other people.
Lucifer had always butted heads with their father, especially once he hit his teenage years. The rebellion came fast and loud—long nights out, sharp words at the dinner table, and a sudden fascination with anything their father disapproved of. His equally defiant girlfriend, Lilith, only added fuel to the fire. The two of them started spending more and more time with their mother and her commune friends, diving headfirst into things like street theater, sexual liberation, and experimenting with alternative belief systems—Buddhism, Wicca, even magic.
Their father called it all Devil worship. Eventually, he started insisting that the rest of the family pray for Lucifer’s soul at the end of every dinner. It was as if he thought he could save him by sheer force of prayer.
But Michael… Michael had always been pretty sure Lucifer didn’t take any of it seriously. He didn’t believe in magic, or witchcraft, or sacred crystals. He believed in reactions. And pushing buttons. And nothing got under their father’s skin faster than watching his golden son flirt with “pagan nonsense.”
He wasn’t searching for truth—he was picking a fight.
But that all changed the day the damn commune brought in some so-called witch doctor—or maybe he was a magician, Michael never got the full story. What mattered was that something happened. Something real.
Because after that night, Lucifer and Lilith could move things with their minds.
Telekinesis.
At first, Michael didn’t believe it. Thought it was a trick, some clever sleight of hand meant to spook their father or stir up more drama. But then he saw it for himself. A bookshelf shaking on its own. A coffee mug hovering in mid-air. Doors slamming without a touch. No wires. No explanation.
That’s when things turned bad.
The rebellion stopped being just about loud music and incense and yelling at the dinner table. It became something dangerous. Something unnatural. Their father didn’t just condemn it—he feared it. Started calling it demonic possession. Started praying harder. Yelling more.
And Lucifer? He didn’t stop.
At first, Lucifer and Lilith loved it.
The powers gave them a rush—sweet, intoxicating revenge against all the people who’d hurt them. Lucifer went after the students and teachers at that “snotty private school” who used to torment him, who made him feel small, invisible, or monstrous—bullied him just as cruelly as Charlie was being bullied now. And Lilith? She used it to finally push back against the ex-boyfriend who refused to leave her alone, who stalked her like she was still his property.
They justified it. Told themselves it was justice.
And maybe, for a little while, it was.
But they were reckless. Too young to understand the weight of what they were doing. Too angry to care. The power made them feel invincible, and worse—it made them feel right.
Michael had watched from the sidelines, praying it would burn itself out.
It didn’t.
The day it all fell apart was the day Lucifer and their father had the worst argument of their lives.
Michael still remembered the sound of it—raised voices, glass shattering, doors slamming like thunder through the house. Their father had caught Lucifer defacing the school’s chapel, using his powers to rip scripture off the walls and scorch symbols into the altar. Vandalism born of fury, of rejection, of years of feeling hated for what he was.
Their father confronted him, full of fury and heartbreak. Told him he was damning himself. Called it blasphemy. Called him a danger.
And Lucifer… he lost control.
He didn’t think. Didn’t understand the strength of what he had become. One burst of anger—just one—was all it took.
His powers surged, and in a single instant, their father’s heart stopped beating.
Just like that.
Gone.
Lucifer was mortified. He never forgave himself for what happened that day.
After their father died, everything changed. He and Lilith stopped using their powers immediately—cold turkey. Whatever thrill they once felt was gone, burned away by guilt and grief. But the damage had already been done.
People had seen things. Felt things. Rumors started swirling—about objects moving on their own, strange lights, broken things no one could explain. It wasn’t long before the government started sniffing around.
And then Lilith got pregnant.
That changed everything.
They were terrified—terrified that the baby might inherit the power, might carry the same curse that had destroyed so much already. Terrified of what the world would do if it found out.
They tried to disappear. To hide. But it was too late.
Eventually, the wrong people came knocking. Lucifer and Lilith were taken—no trial, no warning, just gone. Swept into some secret facility under the banner of “national security.”
And Michael? He swore then and there that Charlie would never suffer the same fate. He’d raise her right. Keep her safe. Keep her normal, if that was even possible.
Even if it cost him everything.
Even if it meant hiding the truth from her.
Even if it meant dying to protect her.
Chapter Text
Alastor hated hospitals. They were where his father had been taken—dragged away, really. To him, hospitals weren't places of healing; they were full of screaming, broken people and sterile halls that smelled like bleach and control. Places where they locked you up, pumped you full of drugs, and messed with your mind. At least, that's what his father used to say during one of his many rants.
Rosie had told him a thousand times that not all hospitals were psych wards. But no matter how often she said it, the anxiety still crept in every time he stepped near one.
"Do we really have to go?" Alastor asked, his voice tight with unease.
"Alastor, it's going to be fine," Rosie said gently. "This hospital doesn't even have a psych ward, and you're just getting an X-ray. We need to find out if your ribs are broken."
She gave him a look—part concern, part warning. "Please don't make me drag you there like we had to do with Loona."
They stepped out the front door and headed toward Rosie's car when a voice called out behind them.
"Alastor, wait!"
Charlie came hurrying across the lawn from next door, cradling something carefully in her arms.
"Good morning, Charlie," Rosie said with a smile. "You're up a little early, aren't you?"
"I know," Charlie replied, slightly out of breath. "But I wanted to give Alastor this first thing."
She turned to Alastor, her expression softening. "I heard about what happened last night. I know how much you hate hospitals, so... today probably won't be easy. But maybe this'll help."
She held out a record album. Alastor took it carefully, his eyes scanning the title.
"Porgy and Bess? I don't believe this! Albums like this belong in a museum. Where did you even get it?"
Charlie grinned. "My uncle's a record collector. He says modern music encourages too much sin." She rolled her eyes affectionately. "But he let me give you that one."
"Thanks, Charlie. I'll listen to it as soon as I get back," Alastor said, holding the album like it was something fragile.
Charlie's smile faded as her eyes lingered on the bruises on his face—the swollen lip, the purpling around his jaw.
"Oh, Alastor..." she whispered. "How could they do this to you?"
She reached out to touch his cheek, but he instinctively stepped back.
"It's nothing," he muttered. "I've had worse."
There was a pause. Then, softly, she asked, "Do you want me to come over later? We could talk."
He looked away.
No. He didn't want to talk. Not about last night. Not with her. It was too humiliating—and he couldn't stand the thought of her looking at him with pity in her beautiful eyes.
"No thanks. I'm fine. I can hold my own." His voice was steady, but distant—like a door quietly closing.
Charlie hesitated, then offered a faint smile. "Alright then. Talk to you later?"
Alastor gave a small nod, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah. Maybe."
She lingered for a moment longer, then turned and walked back toward her house, her hair catching the morning light, each step light and full of quiet grace.
Alastor watched her go, a tight knot forming in his chest.
What if she'd been with me last night? he thought. I wouldn't have been able to protect her. I couldn't even protect myself.
His jaw tightened. How could a girl like her ever love someone like me? A weak coward. She deserved better.
He hung his head in shame and stepped inside Rosie's car, the weight of his thoughts pressing heavier than the bruises on his ribs. The door closed with a dull thunk, sealing him in with silence and the faint scent of Rosie's lavender air freshener. He kept his eyes on his lap, unable to shake the feeling that no matter where he went, he was dragging failure in behind him.
The hospital waiting room was cold and far too quiet, except for the occasional cough or the distant squeak of nurses' shoes on linoleum. Alastor sat hunched in the stiff plastic chair, arms crossed, the record still tucked under one arm like a shield.
Rosie had gone to speak with the nurse at the front desk, leaving him alone with nothing but outdated magazines and a growing sense of irritation. He grabbed one off the nearby table without looking at the cover and started flipping through it, hoping to distract himself.
Articles on healthy diets, celebrity scandals, and vacation destinations blurred past. But no matter how fast he turned the pages, he couldn't outrun the thoughts creeping into his head.
"You're pathetic."
The words weren't printed in the magazine, but they were louder than anything he read. "You let them do this to you. Again. Everyone sees it."
He clenched his jaw and tried to focus on a recipe for lemon tarts.
Meek. Ridiculous. A joke. Another page turned.
Then something caught his attention.
A full-page advertisement, bold and strange against the dull pages around it:
Ozzie's Magic Shop.
"You can bring out the best in yourself. Be the best you can be. Unlock your full potential—strength, charm, your true inner self."
The ad showed a tall, confident silhouette standing in a swirl of golden light. Behind the figure, shadows shrank and faded.
Alastor stared at it, then scoffed under his breath.
Of course. Ozzie's Magic Shop. It had to be one of those novelty stores—cheap tricks, rubber wands, fake coins, smoke bombs for kids who thought pulling a rabbit out of a hat was real magic. A place for birthday party magicians and bored children.
Nothing serious. Nothing real. Because magic didn't exist.
"Unlock your full potential... your true inner self."
He shook it off. Just a gimmick. He glanced down at the bottom of the ad, where an address was printed in bold, curling letters:
Lucky Thirteen Street.
Alastor blinked. That couldn't be right.
He knew Lucky Thirteen Street. He'd ridden his bike up and down it for years—cut through it on the way to school, passed the same row of dusty antique shops, a boarded-up apartment building, and that one laundromat with the flickering sign. There was never a magic shop there. Not once.
He stared at the ad again, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something more believable. Weird. Maybe it was new. Or maybe it was just fake—an ad for some online shop pretending to be local.
Whatever the reason, he was now curious. Of course, he didn't actually believe the place sold real magic. That would be ridiculous. But maybe they had something useful. Like itching powder he could discreetly slip into Valentino's gym shorts on Monday.
After the X-ray and a brief check-up, the doctor confirmed what Alastor already suspected: his ribs were sore but not broken. Rosie seemed relieved, though she still gave him a lecture about being more careful, as if he'd walked into a fight on purpose.
Once they were back home, and after Rosie got distracted with a phone call, Alastor grabbed his bike and made his way toward Lucky Thirteen Street. He pedaled slowly, eyes scanning the familiar stretch of road. Same laundromat. Same empty apartment building. Same peeling signs and crooked lampposts.
And then—he saw it.
A narrow storefront squeezed between a pawn shop and a vacant building, one he swore hadn't been there before. The windows were dark, but painted in swirling gold letters across the glass were the words:
Ozzie's Magic Shop
Curiosities, Charms & More
Alastor hit the brakes, gravel crunching beneath his tires. He parked his bike against the rusted bike rack out front. Afterward Alastor pushed the door open. A small bell jingled overhead—not the usual cheery kind, but something older, more delicate, like it belonged in a clock tower or an antique carriage.
The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. It smelled like dust and incense and something faintly metallic. The lighting was low, golden, and flickering—like the shop was lit entirely by candles, even though he couldn't actually see any.
Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with oddities: glass jars filled with herbs and bones, decks of worn tarot cards, crystal spheres, brass compasses, masks, coins, candles, bottles with labels in strange handwriting. Some things he recognized. Most he didn't.
At the far end of the room was a counter, and behind it stood a tall figure in a dark green coat with velvet lapels and a wide-brimmed hat that cast their face in shadow.
"Uh... Hello? Mr. Ozzie?" Alastor said, peering around the dim, flickering shop.
The figure behind the counter looked up with a grin that practically twinkled.
"Just Ozzie," he corrected smoothly. "Welcome to my shop—an establishment of mystery, enchantment, and the finest merchandise this side of the Nine Circles, on sale today only. Come on down! Heh, heh."
Before Alastor could respond, Ozzie swept out from behind the counter like a magician stepping onto center stage.
"Now then! Let's not waste a moment—perhaps you're looking for something practical."
He darted to a nearby shelf and held up a beautifully carved silver goblet.
"The Goblet of Infinity! Pour in a drop of lemonade—get a pitcher. Fill it with tea—never-ending. Hot cocoa? Endless. Coffee? Dangerous. Doesn't work on motor oil or mischief, but nearly everything else!"
He placed the goblet into a swirling display and spun on his heel.
"Or maybe you're the restless type! Allow me to present—" he plucked a twisted vine from a hanging pot, its stems dotted with shimmering bubbles, "—Bubble Vine! Crush one of these glowing little jewels on your skin, and poof! Goodbye bruises, cuts, even fatigue. The vine itself hums lullabies at night. Great for insomnia."
Alastor stared, unsure whether to laugh or be impressed.
Ozzie was already moving again.
"This one's a bestseller with the fair folk—" he pulled out a delicate tin of silvery sachets, "—Lantern Leaf Tea. One sip, and your skin glows like a paper lantern. Very fashionable. Very handy during power outages, romantic walks, or if you just want to freak someone out in the dark."
He tossed it into the air and caught it behind his back.
"Now, for those with... digestive complications, we offer: Hex Lax! Curses go in—bad vibes come out. Side effects may include cackling."
He gestured toward a bubbling cauldron labeled in ornate script: Elfa Seltzer – for when your inner elf needs a little pop. And finally, from a velvet pouch, he carefully removed a small, wriggling object that looked suspiciously like a candy... with a tongue.
"Crocodile Tongues. Imported. Slightly illegal. Don't ask."
Ozzie paused, arms spread, the air practically vibrating with his energy.
"Uh..." Alastor scratched the back of his neck, still trying to keep up with the whirlwind of bizarre items. "Got any... itching powder?"
Ozzie grinned like he'd just been asked for a rare treasure.
"Of course! Now—do you want it made from quicksand or desert sand?"
Alastor blinked. "Wait... that makes a difference?"
Ozzie held up two tiny vials—one filled with pale gold dust, the other a darker, swirling mixture that seemed to shimmer as it shifted.
"Quicksand powder is slower to activate but lasts longer. Perfect for extended torture—or long classes."
He gave a wink.
"Desert sand's more immediate. A real firestarter. Instant itching, short fuse, lots of scratching. Also slightly flammable, so... don't use it near a Bunsen burner."
Alastor hesitated, then pointed. "I guess the, uh... desert kind?"
"Excellent choice." Ozzie handed him the vial with a flourish. "One sprinkle will do. Two if you really hate someone. Shake well before use. Not recommended for internal organs, diplomatic negotiations, or babysitting gigs. Anything else?"
"Not really—well, I read your ad. The one about 'unlocking your true potential.' What's that about?"
He hesitated. "Oh. You mean the potion. I don't usually offer it to minors."
"I'm not a minor. I'm seventeen."
He studied him for a beat. "Can you legally consent to sex?"
"Yes."
"Then I suppose you're mature enough to try it." He shrugged. "It was made to bring out the best in a person — to help them become who they actually are. It eases insecurity and sharpens the desire to improve."
"Could it make me more confident?"
"Sure. It can produce all sorts of advancements."
He reached for the shelf behind the counter, fingers gliding over rows of bottles until he pulled down a slender vial filled with a shimmering, amber liquid. The cork was sealed with crimson wax stamped with an unfamiliar symbol.
"Here it is," he said, holding it up to the light.
Alastor looked at the glowing vial with a raised eyebrow.
"And it actually works?"
"Like a mirror showing you the part of yourself you've been too afraid to see," he said softly. "But before I give you this, I have to ask—do you have control of your inner self?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your inner self. Is it under control? If it is, the potion should work flawlessly. If not... well, there may be some side effects."
Alastor's eyebrows shot up. "Side effects? What kind?"
"Split personality, memory loss, involuntary transformation, lack of impulse control, animal traits, fever, bunions, warts, hair loss, tooth decay, and possibly..." He glanced downward, voice dropping to a whisper. "Certain appendages falling off."
Alastor's eyes went wide.
"What the hell is in that stuff?"
"Angel tears, demon's blood, and human skin and bones."
Alastor recoiled. "What?!"
"Dead human skin and bones that fell off or broke off. Stuff I smuggled from hospitals and the morgue."
"You're kidding."
"Not at all."
Alastor uncorked the bottle and sniffed the fluid inside. The smell was strange—sharp and unfamiliar, almost off-putting. For a moment, he thought about backing out, certain it was just some cheap concoction made from lead paint or worse.
But then, the scent stirred something deep within him—a flicker of something strong, brave, exciting, even powerful. It was like catching a glimpse of the person he wanted to be.
That feeling convinced him. He nodded.
"I'll take it.”
“But do you have control-“
”Yes I have control. I’ve exercised perfect control over my inner self my whole life.”
"Alright but be careful—only one drop at a time. Trust me on this."
Alastor pulled out twenty dollars and handed it over. The deal was sealed.
"If you have any issues or emergencies," Ozzie said, slipping the cash into a worn leather pouch, "just come back to the shop. I'll help however I can—just, don't sue me. I already have enough problems."
"Okay," Alastor said, slipping the vial carefully into his jacket pocket.
Ozzie leaned in slightly, his expression suddenly more serious.
"And keep that thing locked up somewhere no one else can get to it. Not your friends, not your enemies, no one. This isn't bubblegum or breath spray. One drop too many, in the wrong hands..." He let the thought trail off.
Alastor nodded, his unease creeping back.
"Got it."
Ozzie straightened, the grin returning.
"Good lad. Now off you go."
Alastor left the shop, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft chime. Ozzie watched through the dusty glass as the boy disappeared down the street, the vial of golden liquid tucked away in his jacket.
He exhaled slowly and rubbed his chin.
"Hope it turns out better this time," he murmured to himself. "Haven't had much luck aiding my fellow man lately."
His smile faded.
"And I really hope he was telling the truth... about having control of his inner self."
Then something shifted. A flicker in the far corner of the room—no sound, just movement. Quick, almost imperceptible. Too fast for any ordinary human eye.
But Ozzie was far from ordinary.
He turned, eyes narrowing toward the darkened corner behind the shelves. The shadows held their shape a moment too long, almost as if watching.
Something... or someone had taken an interest in the boy.
"I know you're there," Ozzie said, his voice low and steady. "You can't hide from me. What are you up to?"
The shadows didn't reply.
They shifted—just slightly—like smoke caught in a draft, then slipped away into the far corners of the shop, dissolving into nothing. Ozzie watched in silence, eyes sharp and knowing.
Chapter Text
Alastor rolled his bike quietly into the backyard, hoping to slip into the house unnoticed. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Rosie why he'd spent money on a so-called "potion."
From the kitchen came Rosie's muffled voice, still deep in conversation, her socked feet pattering rhythmically across the tile.
But in the living room, Loona was sprawled across the couch like a sun-drenched cat—boots kicked off, one leg slung over the armrest, absently flicking through static-filled TV channels.
"Hey," she said flatly, eyes never leaving the screen. "Where've you been?"
Alastor shrugged, brushing wind-tousled hair from his eyes. "Just out riding my bike."
Loona arched a brow, glancing at him sideways with a mix of boredom and suspicion. "Riding your bike? What, to the next state?"
Before he could answer, a second voice cut in—sharp, light, and merciless.
"More like riding on the wings of loooove," Octavia sang from the hallway, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief.
Alastor blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"I saw you this morning. From my window." Octavia leaned against the doorframe, grinning. "Charlie gave you something, didn't she?"
Like most twelve-year-olds, Octavia lived to tease and eavesdrop. She'd known Alastor was head-over-heels for Charlie since day one—and she knew Charlie felt the same. She'd once caught her doodling Mrs. Charlie Le Beau in her notebook. Something Charlie had made her swear, cross-her-heart, never to tell.
"So, how are you gonna thank her for the gift, huh?" Octavia teased, her grin widening. "Gonna write her a love poem? Serenade her under the moonlight?"
"Don't be stupid," Alastor said, brushing past her.
"Are you gonna ask her to prom this time?" Octavia shot back. "You know she didn't go last year, right? She was waiting for you to ask her. But nope—too scared."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes I do," she said with a smirk. "You two are like hopeless little lovebirds. Just dying to kiss and coo. Coo, coo, coo."
Alastor's face reddened. "Be quiet before I shove you in a birdcage and hang you from the ceiling."
"Don't get mad at me just because you're too chicken to make a move."
"I'm not a chicken—I'm a fox. And foxes eat pesky little birds like you. So scat!"
Octavia laughed as she ducked out of the room, clearly pleased with herself.
Alastor let out a sharp exhale and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He made his way upstairs, boots thudding softly against the steps. The second floor was quieter—until he heard a voice drifting from the guest room.
"O wrathful night, conceal my shame beneath your shadowed wings..."
Alastor paused in the doorway. Inside, Moxxie stood in front of a mirror, holding a crumpled script and gesturing dramatically with one hand while the other clutched a half-empty energy drink.
"For love is but a fire, and I the foolish moth—"
"What are you doing?" Alastor asked, raising an eyebrow as he stepped into the room.
"Monologuing," Moxxie replied, not missing a beat. "Stolas and Blitzo are holding auditions for their next show."
Alastor crossed his arms. "I thought you had to be twenty-one to be in one of their shows."
"They're going PG-13 this time," Moxxie said, puffing out his chest a little. "Rosie convinced them it'd be 'an artistic challenge' to include teenagers. I'm really excited about this! Not just because I might land a big role, but I'll actually get to meet other kids my age who love theater too."
"What show are they putting on this time?"
Moxxie shrugged. "They haven't said. These auditions are just to see if we can act. It's like... pre-auditions." He paused, then added with a hopeful grin, "But personally, I hope it's Phantom of the Opera. That's my favorite musical."
"What role would you go for?" Alastor asked.
"Either the Phantom or Raoul," Moxxie said confidently.
Alastor blinked. "No offense, Moxxie, but... the Phantom is supposed to be terrifying and towering, and Raoul is—how do I put this—tall, dashing, and... strapping. And you, well... you're kind of...short."
Moxxie crossed his arms. "Appearance means nothing if you have talent."
Alastor smirked. "Try telling that to the audience that started cheering when Rosie came on stage in a two-piece harem girl costume—then booed and threw glasses when Blitzo came out wearing the exact same thing."
Moxxie winced. "Okay... fair. But I still have range."
"Sure," Alastor said with a grin. "Just maybe not Phantom-level murder-in-the-catacombs range."
"We'll see," Moxxie muttered. "So what kind of roles did your mom play?"
"Oh, nothing major—just school plays and the little pretend shows we'd put on for my dad. Nothing important."
"That's not what you told me when I was nine. Remember? I was crushed because they said I was too young to act on stage. And you told me to put on my own show for you and the girls. You said it didn't matter where the stage was, as long as someone was laughing... or crying."
"Oh yeah... I guess I did say that."
"So what shows did she do?"
"Let's see... She played Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night's Dream, Ronette in Little Shop of Horrors... But her biggest role was Sarah in Ragtime. That one meant the most to her. In fact when I was little she used to sing 'Wheels of a Dream' to me."
"My mother used to sing 'Think of Me' to me when I was little," Moxxie said softly. "I guess that's where my love of theater started. She used to sing when she was most happy, and she would only sing to me. She never sang for anyone else. That's another reason why I love music. I was so little when she died, music helps me remember her."
"I know you've probably heard this a thousand times, but... I'm sorry for what your father did to you and your mother," Alastor said quietly. "My father wasn't perfect—God knows—but he'd have damned himself to hell before he ever laid a hand on us. That's why he snapped when she was killed."
"Do you think he'll ever be... cured? Or at least well enough to leave the mental ward?"
"No. He doesn't want to leave. He hates it there—hates the doctors—but he's scared. Scared that if he gets out, he'll try to see me again... and that he'll make me crazy and evil just like him."
"Well, for what it's worth... I don't think your dad's crazy or evil. Just heartbroken."
"Thanks Moxxie."
After a beat, Moxxie looked up at Alastor, guilt flickering in his eyes. "I'm sorry about what Striker did to you. He... he did it because of me, didn't he?"
Alastor's expression didn't shift, but his voice softened.
"It wasn't your fault. He broke your foot, Moxxie. Of course you had to tell the police."
Moxxie looked down at his cast, fingers tightening slightly against the armrest.
"Yeah, well... what he did to you? That was nothing. Just a warning shot." His voice dropped, almost a whisper. "As soon as this cast comes off... he'll be coming for me."
"Nobody here is going to let that happen," Alastor said firmly.
Moxxie let out a hollow laugh. "How? The cops didn't do anything when I reported him. And it's not like any of us can stop him. We're all a bunch of twigs."
Moxxie hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot. Then he leaned in toward Alastor.
"Can you keep a secret?"
Alastor raised an eyebrow. "Of course. What's up?"
Moxxie lowered his voice. "I've been thinking about... getting a gun."
Alastor blinked. "A gun? What kind of gun?"
"Just a handgun. Something small. For protection, y'know—when I walk home."
Alastor frowned. "Moxxie, you're fifteen. You can't legally buy a gun."
"But Blitzo has one, I know where he keeps it."
"Yeah, and he's licensed. You're not."
"Your friend Angel doesn't have a license and he carries a damn Tommy gun."
"Which he's had years of practice using in an abandoned field. You've never even fired a gun before. What the hell are you thinking?"
"Well, the police aren't going to help us," Moxxie snapped. "And Striker and his gang? They've got me outnumbered and outsized. What else am I supposed to do?"
Alastor's voice rose, sharper now. "I don't know—but don't do something that stupid! Not unless you want to end up dead like your mother or in jail like your father!"
Alastor stopped, the words hanging in the air like a slap. He saw the way Moxxie's face fell—shock first, then something harder to look at: hurt. Alastor's jaw tightened. He knew he'd crossed a line. Hit too deep, too fast. But he also knew it'd make Moxxie think twice.
"...I'm sorry," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off him. "But you kind of scared me back there."
"I just don't know what else to do," Moxxie said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm scared."
Alastor didn't respond right away. His thoughts drifted to the potion he'd bought—the one Ozzie claimed could "produce all sorts of advancements." He wondered if that included physical strength. Or if it would at least give him something that would make that gang less of a problem.
"We'll talk about it later, alright? I won't say anything to anyone—as long as you promise not to do anything stupid until we talk."
Moxxie nodded slowly.
"Promise me, Moxxie," Alastor insisted, his eyes narrowing. "Or I swear, I'll tell Rosie right now—and she'll take a switch to your behind for even thinking about doing something so idiotic and dangerous."
Moxxie blinked, a flicker of nervous guilt flashing across his face.
"...Okay," he muttered. "I promise."
Good. Now I I'm going to turn in early," Alastor said at last, stepping back toward the hallway. "My body's not broken, but it still hurts. Rest should help."
Moxxie nodded. "Alright. I'll let everyone know at dinner."
Alastor gave a small nod in return, then turned and hurried to his room. Once inside, he closed the door behind him with a quiet click. The silence wrapped around him like a weight.
He pulled the potion from his jacket pocket and stared at it—an unassuming little vial, glowing faintly, almost mockingly. His fingers curled around it, hesitant. Would it even work?
Did he want it to?
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under him. For a long moment, he just stared at the swirling liquid. Something about it felt dangerous... and tempting.
Reaching over, he flicked on the old radio by his bedside. A soft static hummed before jazz filtered through the speaker—low and wandering, like a memory. It filled the room with a worn kind of comfort. Maybe the music would help him think. Or maybe it would just drown out everything else.
He stayed like that for what felt like hours. The radio crackled softly in the background, its slow, wandering tune looping endlessly. Even as the sky outside darkened and fatigue settled into his bones, he didn't move. He just sat there—thinking. Turning it over and over in his mind. Every reason to try it. Every reason not to.
At last, with a hand that barely trembled, Alastor pulled the cork from the vial. He stared at the liquid one more time, then tipped the bottle carefully and let a single drop fall onto his tongue.
Just one.
The taste was bitter. Cold. It burned faintly on the way down. He closed his eyes. And waited.
Nothing happened. No surge of energy. No tingling magic. No sudden clarity or strength. Just stillness.
Exactly what he expected. A fake. A waste of money. Snake oil in a fancy bottle. He sighed through his nose, setting the vial on the nightstand with a faint clink.
And then—grrrrrrnnnk. His stomach growled, low and hollow. He grimaced. Right. He'd skipped dinner. With a tired groan, Alastor pushed himself up and left his room, heading downstairs toward the kitchen.
He opened the fridge and rummaged through the drawer of lunch meat.
"Alright, let's see... sliced ham? No. Sliced turkey? Nah. Ah—here we go. Sliced venison, fresh from Miss Rosie's hunting trip."
With a satisfied grin, he grabbed the pack and set to work, quickly assembling himself a sandwich. To drink, he poured himself half a glass of red wine. Rosie had allowed him to start drinking when he turned seventeen—but only half a glass per week, and only if he was someplace private.
At the same time, Octavia stepped quietly out of the hallway, empty glass in hand. She was on her way to get some water, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, her footsteps light.
She reached the kitchen at the exact moment Alastor finished his late-night meal.
That's when it began.
As the moonlight spilled through the window, casting soft light across the room, Alastor noticed something strange—his shadow. It moved. Not with him, but on its own.
It turned toward him and smiled. Wait. Smiled? Since when did shadows have mouths?
For a second, he was sure he was imagining it. Shadows play tricks, especially at night, when the lights are low and your mind's already halfway into dreaming. But this... this felt different.
Suddenly, the shadow ripped itself from the wall and lunged at him. It grabbed hold of him, cold and suffocating like a living fog. Before Alastor could react, it slipped inside him—seeping through his skin, invading his very being.
Octavia froze, her breath caught in her throat as she watched Alastor writhe—shaking, spinning, flailing as if some invisible force was toying with him.
His skin had drained of color—not from fear, but something unnatural, something otherworldly. Slowly, a flush of deep red spread across his arms, snaking up his neck like ink dissolving into water. His hair shifted too, darkening into a rich scarlet streaked with black. He collapsed to one knee, gasping, eyes wide and glowing faintly now—bright red, fierce, and utterly unearthly.
And then—Antlers. They pushed their way up and out from his skull like twisted branches breaking through the surface of a frozen lake. Octavia stepped back, lips parted but silent. Her glass slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a soft clink—not shattering, just tipping over. She bolted from the kitchen, heart pounding, feet barely touching the stairs as she sprinted to her room. Throwing the door shut behind her, she dove under the covers, trembling, willing herself to believe it was just a bad dream—something she'd forget by morning.
A faint sound buzzed in the air. Like static. Radio static. It crackled just beneath the kitchen light, hovering like an invisible signal tuned to something ancient, something wrong.
Alastor slowly stood, shoulders rising, breath slow and deep. He wasn't just different. He was something else entirely.
Chapter Text
Striker and his gang were packed into a dimly lit bar, the air thick with smoke and laughter. Bottles clinked, and glasses sloshed as they toasted their latest haul—a cool two hundred dollars and six glittering gold chains, trophies from their latest score.
"Here's to us!" Striker bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. "Getting rich off these fools!"
The others whooped and jeered, slinging back drinks like there was no tomorrow, their swagger loud and proud. Tonight, they ruled the streets.
"Where are the refills?" he barked, rising halfway from his seat. "My boys and I are hungry!"
The room quieted just a touch—enough to notice the tension that crept in behind his words. The bartender, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better days, exchanged a glance with the waitress. She hesitated, tray in hand, before edging toward the table.
"C'mon," Striker growled, gesturing wide with both arms, "Don't make me ask twice. You see this crew? You see these pockets? We tip better than your landlord!"
The waitress forced a smile, nodding quickly. "Y-yes, of course. Right away."
The bartender started lining up fresh bottles behind the bar, hands shaky but quick. Striker leaned back with a smirk, satisfied, his gang hooting again as the drinks came flowing like they owned the joint.
The waitress approached, clutching her tray like a shield. Her hands trembled as she placed fresh bottles on the sticky table, avoiding eye contact.
But the gang had other ideas.
One of Striker's boys, Razor, leaned in too close, breathing cheap whiskey and grinning like a hyena. "You always serve with that pretty little shake, baby?" he leered, brushing her arm as she tried to step away.
Another reached for her waist. "C'mon, don't be shy. We're just celebrating."
The others laughed, loud and crude, egging each other on.
"Back off," the bartender snapped, his voice cracking as he stepped out from behind the counter. "That's enough."
The laughter died. Striker turned slowly, his chair creaking as he stood. With a cold smile, he pulled a pistol from his coat and leveled it at the bartender's chest.
"You take another step," Striker said, voice low and flat, "and I'll redecorate this dump with your ribs."
The bartender froze.
The room was silent now—just the faint hum of neon and the soft clink of ice in a forgotten glass. The waitress stood like stone, wide-eyed, her tray shaking in her grip.
Striker glanced at her. "You good, darlin'? Or you wanna keep making this a thing?"
She shook her head quickly, stepping back, out of reach, out of danger—for now.
Striker tucked the gun away, calm again like nothing happened.
"Now," he said, raising his glass, "where were we?"
And the chaos rolled on, thick and heavy.
Suddenly, the bar door swung open with a sharp creak, drawing every head inside.
A tall, striking figure stepped through—dark, red, dressed sharply, his smile wide and unsettling, humming a strange, almost eerie tune under his breath. He moved with an effortless confidence, weaving through the crowd toward the bar.
"Whiskey. Neat," he said, his voice smooth and polished—like a radio announcer's, clear and captivating, cutting through the raucous noise as if the whole room had fallen silent just for him.
They stared, unable to look away. The man's eyes glowed bright red, sharp and piercing. His ears, pointed like a deer's, twitched slightly, and from his head rose a proud set of antlers—majestic and unexpected in a smoky bar like this.
Despite his strange features, there was no denying he was handsome, with a confidence that filled the room like a tangible force.
"Who's this freak?" Striker snarled under his breath, eyes narrowing as he glared at the stranger.
Striker hated anyone who stood out—people who looked different, dressed different, or acted different. Anyone strange was trouble, and he wanted them gone from his sight as fast as possible.
Striker shoved his chair back with a loud scrape, rising to his feet. The bar quieted a little, sensing trouble.
He swaggered over to the stranger, eyes locked on him like a predator sizing up prey.
"Hey, freakshow," he growled. "This ain't a circus. Take your antlers and get the hell outta here."
The man didn't even look at him.
He simply raised his glass, took a slow sip, and let out a satisfied sigh—still humming that same strange tune under his breath.
"Hey, are you deaf or something?" Striker snapped, stepping closer.
The man finally turned his head, just enough to look at him—eyes glowing, smile still intact.
"No," he said calmly. "But for a moment, I thought I was hallucinating... because last I checked, trash doesn't talk."
A few gasps and snickers rippled through the bar. Striker's face darkened. He threw a punch—fast, and mean.
But the man didn't flinch. Instead, he leapt straight up, impossibly fast, landing upside down on the ceiling. His shadow clung to it like a second skin, anchoring him in place.
The bar went dead silent.
Striker blinked, stunned. "What the fuck are you doing up there?"
The man looked down at him with a smile that was all teeth and mischief. "Oh, just staying away from you. Most people, you see, don't like being punched in the face."
Then his eyes swept over Striker's clothes. "My, that is a charming outfit. Did your husband give it to you?"
A few laughs burst out from nearby tables.
Striker's face twisted with rage. He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling.
"Ice this deadbeat!" he barked at one of his crew.
One of the gang members—tall, heavy-set, and eager to prove himself—pulled a pistol from his jacket and took aim.
The man on the ceiling didn't flinch. His glowing red eyes narrowed, and the shadow holding him rippled like liquid smoke.
"Careful now," he said smoothly, voice still dripping with amusement. "Guns make such a mess... and cleaning up bloodstains is so tedious."
Shots cracked like whips. The heavy-set thug's pistol barked twice; the sound slammed into the room, sharp and final. Glass trembled in its racks. For a heartbeat the bullets seemed to hang in the smoky air—then the man on the ceiling was gone.
He uncoiled with the grace of something that never belonged to gravity. One instant he hung by the shadow on his heels, the next he flipped down, folding through the air with a blur of red and antlered silhouette. Bullets stitched through the varnished bar where his head had been a breath before. Wood splintered; a shower of chips glittered like confetti.
"How foolish," he said, landing on his feet as if he'd always intended to be there. His smile stretched wider, and when he hummed it was no longer a tune but a low, resonant vibration that crawled under skin.
The lights dimmed as if a hand had slid over the room. Shadows pulled away from corners, from the legs of tables and the folds of coats, thickening like ink poured into water. They moved with purpose, not slavish darkness but living, eager things.
Tendrils of shadow coalesced and struck. One wrapped around the heavy-set man's wrist like a leather glove, another threaded between his knees. The gun spun free and clattered across the floor. The shadows didn't merely hold them; they became limbs—fingers of pure night that yanked, slammed, dragged.
A thug tried to tackle the stranger, swinging wild. His fist went straight into a mass of shadow. It wrapped the arm and snapped it back with a wet, echoing crack of effort. The man's grin never faltered; he watched as the crew's bravado curdled into confusion and terror.
Then the sound changed. It started inside their teeth, a pressure at the back of the throat, then a high, crystalline keening that drilled into bone and memory. The man's lips parted and from his mouth poured waves—no ordinary scream but layered pulses, a radio-current of sound that seemed to vibrate the very air into static. The wave hit the shadows first and they shivered, then rolled it into the people they gripped.
The radio waves were surgical and relentless. They made knuckles ache as if stomped, made vision swim and stomachs flip. Men went rigid, then doubled over, hands clawing at ears and eyes. A laugh burst out of one throat—half hysteria, half strangled plea—and turned to nothing as the vibrations tore through the lining of his chest. Phones and neon signs answered with a whining whiplash of feedback; ash drifted like gray snow.
Shadow-hands were unkind. They pulled bodies up and hurled them into tables; chairs splintered with hollow crashes. Another shadow coiled around Striker's legs, lifting him until his boots left the floor. Striker's face, red with fury, contorted as the waves found him—teeth chattering, eyes watering, breath ragged. He swung at the darkness and hit nothing but a void that tightened like a noose. The shadow slammed him back down hard enough to knock the breath out of him; coins and one of the gold chains skittered across the floor.
They howled, the whole gang reduced from bluster to animal panic. Some prayed, some cursed. Their guns clattered away, kicked from numb fingers, or were wrenched and bent by smoky, unyielding grips. None of it was graceful. It was brutal, quick, and absolute.
The stranger stepped through the chaos as if through a mist, each shadow parting for him. He crouched beside Striker whose face had gone slack with pain, inspected a shattered wrist with the casual interest of a man checking a broken tool.
"Well," the man murmured, almost conversationally, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips, "I don't know about you, but I rather enjoyed that little sparring. Oh—mind if I borrow your forehead for something?"
From his pocket, he pulled out a small scrap of paper and a pen. Carefully, he pressed the paper against his own forehead and began to write, the letters sharp and deliberate.
"Thank you," he said softly once he finished.
He turned his attention back to the bar, where the bartender and waitress had been quietly hiding behind the counter, wide-eyed and tense the entire time. Without a word, he placed a few bills on the bar—enough to cover his drink—and slid a twenty-dollar bill along with the folded note across to the waitress.
He didn't wait for thanks. Striding out of the bar, he disappeared into the smoky night.
The waitress hesitated for a moment, then picked up the note. Unfolding it, her eyes scanned the neat, almost elegant handwriting:
A tip for the lovely lady, courtesy of The Radio Demon.
Outside, the man who called himself the Radio Demon strolled down the empty sidewalk, the moonlight casting long shadows behind him. The bar's noise faded to a dull hum, swallowed by the city's restless quiet.
As he passed a darkened storefront, something in the glass caught his eye.
He stopped.
In the window's reflection, framed between mannequins in outdated fashion, stood a figure draped in deep crimson—coat sharp, posture relaxed, eyes glinting with mischief.
He tilted his head.
"Huh..." he murmured, smoothing the lapel of his red jacket with idle fingers. "I never thought much of it before, but I look pretty good in red."
He flashed himself a grin—one part charm, two parts danger—then kept walking.
The Radio Demon slowed as he reached the crumbling shell of that long-abandoned apartment building, its windows boarded and blackened, its walls sagging like tired shoulders beneath years of neglect.
He settled onto a broken step, one leg crossed over the other, red coat gleaming under a flickering streetlight. Just as he closed his eyes to enjoy the quiet, the low growl of a police cruiser engine cut through the silence. Tires crunched to a stop on the cracked pavement.
The door creaked open.
Lieutenant Husk stepped out—thick-built, tired-eyed, and dressed in the same wrinkled uniform he wore like a second skin. He didn't bother reaching for his flashlight.
"You can't be here," Husk called, voice dry. "Building's condemned. Could fall on your head any second."
The Radio Demon didn't move. He opened one eye and smiled lazily.
"Oh, Lieutenant," he purred, "always so concerned with public safety. How touching." He stretched, lounging like a cat in the sun. "Why don't you go back to your squad car and mind your own business?"
Husk's jaw tightened. "Look, I'm not in the mood. Under the law, I can't let anyone loiter here. You either move along—or I put you in cuffs. Your choice."
That made the Radio Demon laugh—sharp and musical, like a radio crackling to life mid-broadcast.
"You?" he chuckled, rising to his feet. "Make an arrest? Please, Lieutenant... you can't even catch a cold."
Husk took a step forward, hand drifting toward the baton at his side. "Try me."
The Radio Demon's smile sharpened, but his tone remained light, playful—almost bored. "Oh, I would, Lieutenant... but you might break before the building does."
"Is that a threat? You know it's against the law to threaten a policeman," Husk growled, stepping forward, hand now fully on his baton.
The Radio Demon's grin stretched just a little wider—his eyes gleamed like twin radio dials flickering to a strange frequency.
"Too bad the law..." he said slowly, voice echoing faintly like it was bouncing through an old speaker, "...doesn't apply to me."
That was it.
"Alright, that's it! You're under arrest!" Husk barked, reaching for his cuffs as he lunged forward.
But he never made it. From the alley behind the building, a slithering shadow detached itself from the wall—inky, fluid, alive. With uncanny speed, it whipped around Husk and—
WHUMP! A solid, well-placed kick landed squarely on his backside, sending the grizzled lieutenant sprawling face-first onto the cracked sidewalk with a loud grunt.
The Radio Demon burst into laughter, his fingers snapping rhythmically like he was cueing a vaudeville routine.
"Now Lieutenant," he chortled, strolling in a circle around the fallen officer. "You really should've seen that coming. You do wear those pants a bit... tight for stealth."
Husk tried to get up, but the shadows were faster—wrapping around his limbs like snakes made of smoke. One tugged off his cap. Another drew a mustache across his upper lip with soot from the ground.
A third gave his nose a little flick.
"Boop."
"Now hold still," the Radio Demon said mockingly, crouching beside him. "Let's see—should I turn you into a puppet? A balloon animal? Or—oooh—a warning."
Husk growled through gritted teeth. "You're insane."
"No, no, no," the Radio Demon said with mock offense. "I'm exceptional. Big difference."
He stood, dusted off his coat, and let the shadows slide away, leaving Husk tied in a loose, cartoonishly exaggerated knot of limbs.
"Oh don't worry, Lieutenant," he said, stepping back into the night. "I'm sure someone will untie you eventually. Maybe a stray cat. Maybe the press. You're very... public-facing."
And with that, he vanished down the sidewalk, whistling once again, the tune fading like static at the end of a broadcast.
Charlie suddenly awoke with a start, her heart hammering like a warning bell in her chest. The room was dark, but not quiet. The wind outside pressed against the windows like it was trying to whisper something through the glass.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. There'd been no noise. No dream. But still—something pulled at her. A feeling. A chill.
It wasn't fear. Not exactly. It was a presence. Like a voice she hadn't heard with her ears, but felt deep in her chest.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing barefoot on the cold floor. She moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside just a crack. The city lay stretched beneath her—quiet, for now. But something was stirring.
Something unnatural.
It was her powers—trying to tell her something. She remembered reading about it once, in a book on telekinesis from the library. It had mentioned that the ability didn't just stop at moving objects. With time and age, it could evolve—growing into something deeper. Sharper. A sense that reached beyond the physical world.
A power that could see what others couldn't. Know what others wouldn't. And tonight, that power was trying to warn her.
But it wasn't her own life in danger.
It was someone else's.
"What's going on?" Charlie wondered, the question echoing through her mind like a whisper in the dark.
She took one last look out the window, eyes scanning the quiet streets below. Nothing moved. Nothing seemed out of place.
But the feeling remained.
With a sigh, she let the curtain fall and turned away, retreating to the warmth of her bed. As she lay down, she tried to shake the unease clinging to her thoughts.
Chapter Text
The next morning, Alastor woke with the sensation that someone had surgically implanted an electric drill in his skull. His head throbbed with a relentless, mechanical pain. How much red wine had he drunk last night? Surely not enough for this. It was barely half a glass.
"Alastor?" Rosie's voice followed a soft knock at his door. "Are you alright?"
It wasn't like him to sleep in this late.
"I'm fine," he groaned.
"Are you sure? Your ribs aren't acting up, are they?"
"No, my ribs are—"
He stopped mid-sentence as he pushed himself upright. To his surprise, there was no pain. None at all. He glanced down at his side—no bruising, no tenderness. The marks were gone.
"Huh... that's weird," he muttered. "I'll be down for breakfast in a minute, Rosie."
"All right, dear."
He slid out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth. But as he looked up into the mirror, he froze. The bruises and cuts on his face—vanished. Not even a trace. His reflection stared back, untouched and unmarked.
"Gee, the human body heals faster than it used to. Or at least in my case it does."
He shrugged, grabbed his toothbrush, and began brushing. A moment later, he started flossing—until a sudden sting made him flinch.
"Ow! What the—?"
He looked down. A small cut on his fingertip was bleeding.
Frowning, he leaned closer to the mirror and opened his mouth. One of his teeth gleamed oddly in the light—longer, sharper. Predatory. It looked more like something from a shark. Or an alligator.
"Was it always like that?" he whispered, staring at it.
Brushing it off, he headed downstairs for breakfast. Blitzo was already busy making his signature breakfast basket—eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and pancakes stacked high. Rosie stood nearby, preparing her special tea and coffee blend. Loona, as usual, was the first to dive in like a starved dog. Moxxie hovered around Blitzo and Rosie, eagerly trying to learn their cooking secrets. And Octavia typically sat at the table, earbuds in, listening to her favorite band until food was served.
But not today.
This morning, she just sat there—still, silent—staring at Alastor.
She looked at him like she'd seen a ghost.
"What are you looking at?" Alastor asked, half-grinning. "Do I have something in my teeth?"
Octavia didn't answer right away. She just stared, her expression unreadable. Her eyes flicked to the others—no one else seemed to notice. In fact, no one was even at the table.
"Drop that bacon, Loona! It's not ready yet!" Blitzo barked from across the kitchen, swatting at her hand with a spatula.
Rosie was focused on pouring coffee. Moxxie was still pestering her about getting honey for the tea instead of sugar. No one was paying attention to Octavia—or to Alastor.
Octavia leaned closer to Alastor, lowering her voice so only he could hear.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Actually, apart from a headache when I woke up, I feel great," he said with a small smile. "Look—no cuts, no bruises. But what about you? You look like you just witnessed a murder."
"What happened to you last night?" she asked quietly.
He frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Last night, I got up to get a glass of water. You were in the kitchen, and I saw you... change."
"Change?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean, change?"
"Your body. Your face. It twisted. It stretched. You grew—like, transformed into something. Something not human. It was terrifying. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but—"
"It probably was a dream, Octavia," he said, brushing it off with a chuckle. "You really shouldn't be watching those horror movies before bed."
She shook her head, firm. "Oh no. I wasn't dreaming. I never went back to sleep. I stayed up. I watched you come back—and change back."
"That's wacky nonsense," Alastor said with a forced chuckle.
"You were red," Octavia insisted, her voice barely above a whisper. "You had antlers. And fangs."
His smile faltered for a second.
A flicker of unease crept in as he remembered the tooth—the one that cut his finger. Was that... a fang?
He glanced down at the table, suddenly unsure. His hand reflexively went to his mouth, brushing along his teeth with the tip of his tongue. That one tooth still felt... wrong. Sharper than the rest.
Suddenly, his mind jolted—flashes of memory surfacing without warning.
The kitchen. The bar. Striker and his gang. He saw himself—moving fast, too fast—throwing punches, taking them down one by one like they were nothing. Husk lunging at him—and being swatted aside like a joke. The chaos. The adrenaline. The power.
But then it was gone.
He blinked, staring at the table as reality settled back in.
No... no, that couldn't have happened. That was impossible. Wasn't it?
Just as Alastor was trying to push the creeping memories out of his mind, the front door swung open.
"Good morning, everyone!" Stolas called, strutting into the kitchen with a folded newspaper in hand and a grin that was far too smug for this early in the day. "You will not believe what happened in the city last night."
He waved the paper in the air as he moved to the table.
"Some lunatic beat the ever-loving hell out of a gang near the East District. Broke bones, shattered eardrums—it says here they were screaming about shadows and radio waves." He paused, unfolding the paper and tapping the front page. "And then, get this—he tied Lieutenant Husk up by all four limbs outside the old condemned building. Left him dangling like a marionette for the morning crowd. Absolutely scandalous."
Alastor froze.
Stolas turned the paper around and held it up for everyone to see. There, in black-and-white, were grainy surveillance photos—one of a tall, red figure in the middle of the brawl, another of Husk, strung up, his expression twisted in fury. The figure in the photo looked like something out of a nightmare.
Long coat. Antlers. A grin stretched too wide.
"They're calling him The Radio Demon," Stolas said, eyebrows raised. "Catchy, no?"
Alastor didn't speak. He didn't blink.
Octavia leaned in just slightly and whispered, "Still think I was dreaming?"
"You know, I'm not really hungry this morning," Alastor said, rising from the table. "I think I need some air. I'm going for a walk."
"I'll go with you," Octavia offered quickly, already pushing back her chair.
"Princess, it's not healthy for a growing girl like you to skip breakfast," Stolas said, frowning.
"I'll eat later, Dad. My stomach hurts too much right now."
"Probably because you're hungry," he replied with a tilt of his head.
"It's nothing, Dad, it's... it's cramps. You know?"
"Oh!" Stolas straightened abruptly, flustered. "Oh, I see. Of course."
"Alastor and I can stop by the pharmacy to grab some ibuprofen," she added smoothly.
Stolas blinked, then gave a small nod. "Alright. But be careful out there, both of you."
Alastor opened the door, casting one last glance at the newspaper still spread across the table. That twisted image of himself—half-demon, half-nightmare—grinned back at him.
He stepped outside into the morning air. Octavia followed close behind as Alastor stepped onto the sidewalk.
"Alright—start talking!" she snapped. "What's going on?"
"I don't know," he said quickly, hands raised. "I really don't."
"What did you do last night? Anything weird?"
"No," he replied, but his voice wavered just slightly.
"Are you sure?" Octavia pressed, her eyes sharp. "Because you were gone a long time on that bike ride yesterday. Anything unusual happen? Anything at all? Think!"
Alastor frowned, sifting through the foggy memories. The ride... the winding roads... the little shop on the corner with the glowing sign. Then it hit him. Ozzie's Magic Shop. The potion.
There's no way that stuff actually worked... right?
"...Oh," he muttered.
Octavia narrowed her eyes. "Oh?"
Without another word, Alastor turned on his heel and slipped back into the house. Octavia watched, arms crossed, tapping her foot.
Upstairs, he moved quickly, careful not to draw attention. He stepped into his room, shut the door behind him, and went straight to the nightstand. Then he grabbed it, shoved it into his coat pocket, and hurried back outside where Octavia was waiting.
She raised an eyebrow. "So?"
He held up the vial. "This."
"Oh God," Octavia groaned, eyes wide. "Please tell me you're not on drugs."
"No, Via," Alastor said quickly, holding up the vial. "This isn't... that. It's a potion. I bought it from a magic shop. Supposedly, it brings out the best in you—your true self. Makes you better."
She stared at him, deadpan. "Oh come on, Al. Give me a little credit. I'm younger than you, not stupid."
He sighed. "I didn't think it would actually do anything! I thought it was just a gimmick—like tea leaves and fortune cookies!"
Alastor stared at the vial, turning it over in his hand. Then, slowly, he uncorked it.
"Does it really work?" he murmured to himself. He had to know.
He reached for Octavia's hand and pulled her gently but firmly toward the alley beside the house, away from the others, away from curious eyes.
Alastor stopped, looked down at the open bottle in his hand, and exhaled. Alastor raised the vial to his lips and let a single drop fall onto his tongue.
It hit like a spark to dry kindling. His eyes widened. His breath hitched. Then the change began. This time, it was instant.
His back arched as something surged beneath his skin—bones shifting, muscles tightening, joints popping in unnatural ways. His pupils narrowed into slits. Crimson flickered in his irises and colored his hair. Antlers burst forth from his skull, spiraling upward like twisted branches. His teeth elongated into sharp, predatory points.
Octavia stumbled back, eyes wide in horror.
"Alastor?" she whispered.
He looked up at her, his smile stretched unnaturally wide. But his voice was layered now—distorted, like a broken radio.
"...I think it works."
"Oh my God!" Octavia gasped, stumbling back another step. "Who are you? And what have you done with my brother?!"
Alastor tilted his head, that eerie grin still etched across his face. His voice crackled with layered distortion, like an old radio struggling to find a station.
"Octavia, dear... it is me. The potion isn't a fake. It actually worked. It brought out the inner me."
She stared at him, mouth agape. "The inner you sounds like a radio and looks like a mutant deer-man."
He chuckled, and even that sounded warped—like laughter caught between frequencies. "Yes...I did wonder about certain details to this form, but at least I'm good-looking."
"Alastor, this isn't funny!" Octavia snapped. "You assaulted a cop last night!"
"Assaulted is such an ugly word," Alastor replied with a smirk. "I prefer humiliated. Which is exactly what I did. And he's fine—the only thing bruised was his ego."
"You know you can get half a year in prison just for spitting on a cop, right?"
"That's only a problem... if I get caught," he said with a wink, his voice still tinged with that eerie radio distortion.
Octavia crossed her arms, glaring. "I don't like this. It's creepy. It's unnatural."
Alastor's grin widened. "That's what they said about your father's love life."
She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "You're not even denying it anymore."
"Nope!" he chirped. "Feels liberating, actually."
"Oh yeah? How liberating do you think it'll feel in jail?"
Alastor chuckled, the sound skipping like a broken record. "Now, now, Via... only the law says I did something bad."
He stepped closer, voice dropping into a smooth, eerily reasonable cadence.
"Morally speaking, I gave Striker and his gang exactly what they deserved. They broke Moxxie's foot, assaulted me, and would've kept harassing him if I hadn't stepped in. And let's be honest—the police? Utterly useless in this kind of situation."
He spread his arms with a theatrical flourish.
"So... technically, I've done no wrong. Not really. Besides," Alastor said, tapping the side of his head with one clawed finger, "the paper says the Radio Demon did all that... not Alastor Le Beau."
He gave her a sly smile.
"As far as the public eye knows, I'm completely innocent."
Octavia narrowed her eyes. "You do realize that sounds exactly like something a guilty person would say, right?"
He grinned wider. "Only if you're bad at playing the game."
"I still don't like this," Octavia muttered. "Maybe we should get you to a doctor. Or at least tell Rosie and Dad."
"Not necessary," Alastor said calmly.
"Not necessary?"
He turned to her, eyes glowing faintly beneath the shadow of his antlers.
"Octavia, this couldn't be more perfect," he said. "We live in a cesspit, constantly looking over our shoulders, hiding from drug lords and gangs. The police won't help. But now—with this form, with this power—I can do something. I can protect us. Do what needs to be done, without worrying about laws that were never written to protect people like us anyway."
Octavia stared at him, her voice low. "I don't know... Something in my gut tells me this is going to backfire. And I really don't think we should keep this from Rosie and Dad."
Alastor hesitated, then said softly, "Moxxie's so scared to walk outside, he's thinking about getting Blitzo's gun."
"What?" she breathed, eyes wide.
"He hasn't said it out loud, but I can tell. He's getting desperate. And if things keep going the way they are... he will."
Octavia looked away, chewing her lip. "So what? You're just gonna use a gun instead?"
Alastor's grin returned, calm and unsettling.
"Ah, but that's the beauty of it," he said, lifting a hand. "I don't need a gun. No switchblades, no brass knuckles. Nothing crude."
He snapped his fingers. A ripple of shadow flickered at his feet, coiling briefly like smoke before vanishing into the pavement.
"I have strength. Speed. And look—" he twirled a finger in the air as faint static crackled around them, a distant echo of a radio tuning between stations, "—I can control shadows... and radio waves. No weaponry required."
"Well... I guess when you put it like that..." Octavia muttered, still uncertain.
"See?" Alastor beamed, patting her on the head. "Nothing to worry about."
He turned, his coat swaying with each step. "Now, run along—and not a word of this to anyone."
"But, Alastor—"
He was already walking away, shadows curling faintly around his boots. Octavia stood there, arms folded, watching him disappear down the alley.
"...Oh boy," she sighed. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"
Meanwhile, just a few streets away...
A diner buzzed with life, styled like something straight out of the 1950s—checkered floors, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox softly playing an old swing tune in the corner. The smell of fries and grease hung warmly in the air.
Charlie sat in a booth by the window, happily sipping a chocolate milkshake. Across from her, Vaggie was focused on the menu, clearly unimpressed by the grease-slicked lamination.
"Do they even have anything here that isn't fried?" Vaggie muttered.
"That's the charm of it!" Charlie grinned. "It's like stepping into a retro time capsule. Just enjoy the vibe!"
From behind the order counter, Angel, dressed in a grease-stained apron and a ridiculous paper hat, flipped a burger with one hand and waved enthusiastically with the other.
"Hi, Charlie!" Angel called out, already strutting over with the swagger of someone who definitely shouldn't be on break—but was taking one anyway.
"Hi, Angel," Charlie said, smiling.
"How's Alastor doing?"
"He's... fine. A little beaten up, but okay. I heard you saved him from the assault. Thank you."
Angel shrugged. "Eh, I owed him one."
Then his gaze shifted—and landed on Vaggie. He paused. Blinked. Then slowly straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his apron, suddenly standing like he was modeling for a cologne ad.
"Well hell-o, bellissima," he purred, flashing a grin like it had its own spotlight.
Vaggie looked up from the menu, unimpressed. "Excuse me?"
Angel leaned against the booth, completely unfazed. "Charlie, who's your friend?"
Charlie smiled. "This is Vaggie. Vaggie, this is Angel. He's on the basketball team."
"Ohhh," Vaggie said, recognition dawning with a flat tone.
Angel's grin widened. "You've heard of me. I'm not surprised."
"Yeah, you're the guy who streaked across the football field on a dare."
Angel blinked. "...Okay, wow. You do know me."
Charlie giggled into her milkshake.
"That was one time," Angel said, hands raised in mock defense. "And for the record, it was cold out that night."
"Mm-hmm," Vaggie muttered, flipping the page of the menu without interest. "Sure it was."
"Hey, I raised five hundred bucks for charity!" Angel added proudly.
"And traumatized the marching band," Charlie chimed in, still laughing.
Angel shot her a look. "They got free therapy. You're welcome."
"Don't you have something you need to be doing right now?" Vaggie said, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice. "Something that requires you to leave?"
Angel placed a dramatic hand over his heart. "Wow. Just rip the flirting right outta the air, huh?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Was that what that was? I thought it was the smell of burnt fries and desperation."
Charlie nearly choked on her milkshake.
Angel threw up his hands. "Alright, alright—I can take a hint. Rude, but clear."
He backed away with exaggerated flair, walking backward toward the kitchen. "If you need me, I'll be in the back... slaving away in the heat... unloved... underpaid... and deeply misunderstood."
"Don't forget unsupervised," Vaggie muttered.
"I never do," Angel winked. "Farewell, Charlie... and oh, visione radiosa che fa vergognare le stelle."
And with that, he disappeared behind the counter, hips swaying like he was leaving a runway.
Vaggie stared after him. "What the hell did he just say?"
"I'm not sure," Charlie said, sipping the last of her milkshake. "But I think it was Italian."
"Figures."
Charlie set her glass down, about to tease back—when she froze.
Her smile faded.
There it was again. That feeling.
Like a low hum in her bones. A pressure behind her eyes. A ripple in the air that no one else could sense, but one she'd known since she was a child.
Her powers were whispering—something was wrong.
She looked toward the window. The street outside seemed calm, the usual people going about their day... but something wasn't right.
"Charlie?" Vaggie asked, noticing the change in her expression. "You okay?"
Charlie didn't answer right away.
"I... I don't know," she murmured. "But I think something's about to happen."
Chapter Text
Charlie wanted to leave. Right now. Before something went wrong. But Vaggie was hungry, and if Charlie told her the real reason she was anxious to go, she'd have to explain her powers—and she wasn't ready for that. So instead, she stayed quiet and hoped nothing would happen before they left.
"I heard you made up some story for Ms. Mayberry's class," Vaggie said, waiting for her lunch to arrive. "Velvette said it was lame, but what does she know about creativity? Want to tell me about it?"
"Sure," Charlie said, eager for a distraction from the knot of nerves tightening in her stomach.
She launched into the tale—dark, mysterious, tragic, and romantic—of Asmodeus, Hecate, Catalina, and Arman. As she spoke, the world around her faded, if only a little.
When she finished, Vaggie looked impressed. "That's a great story. You seriously just made it up?"
Charlie hesitated. "Well... I guess I did. No one's ever heard of it before. But it doesn't feel like I made it up. It feels like... I've always known it."
"How do you mean?"
"It's the strangest thing," Charlie said quietly. "These stories... the stories about this Asmodeus character...they just come to me."
"What's he like? This Asmodeus?" Vaggie asked, her curiosity piqued. "Anything like the biblical one?"
"Oh—no, nothing like that," Charlie said quickly. "He's actually very kind."
She paused, trying to put the story into words that felt just right.
"He was born during a time when children were taken by the Ottomans to be raised as slaves. But the Ottomans were deeply superstitious, so his parents named him Asmodeus, hoping the name would scare them off—make them think he was cursed and leave him alone."
Vaggie raised her eyebrows. "That's... dark. But clever."
"He always wants to help people. Always tries to use magic to make things better—for everyone. But..."
"But what?"
"It hardly ever works out the way he hopes," Charlie said, voice softening. "No matter how good his intentions are, something always goes wrong. People get hurt. Things fall apart."
"What other stories are there?" Vaggie asked.
Charlie's eyes softened, her voice lowering as if recalling something half-remembered and half-imagined.
"There was one... when he was in China, during a time of war," Charlie began, her voice distant, like she was seeing it unfold in her mind. "Two young men—Zhang and Bolin—were conscripted, ordered to fight. Both were husbands, both fathers. And all they had were daughters. They didn't want to go. They knew that if they died, their wives and little girls would be left with nothing. No protection. No future. Just silence, and struggle, and sorrow."
Vaggie listened closely, her expression unreadable.
"Asmodeus tried to help," Charlie went on. "He cast a spell meant to let the families escape—meant to carry them high into the mountains, far from the violence. And it worked... but not the way he wanted."
She hesitated.
"They escaped the war," she said. "But not as people. The spell transformed them. The men—and their families—became dragons."
Vaggie blinked. "Dragons?"
Charlie nodded. "It was the only way the magic could save them. It gave them wings, scales, breath like fire... but took away their human lives. They could never go back."
"Did they blame him?" Vaggie asked softly.
"No," Charlie said, almost whispering. "They thanked him. Even though they lost everything, they were free. Together. Alive."
"Well that's bittersweet."
"There's another story... one from when he was in Mali," Charlie said. "A Russian noble—Nikolai—had come to hunt. He was a game hunter, proud and arrogant. But he was challenged by Ukume, the daughter of a local chief. She belonged to a warrior tribe and didn't believe in hunting for sport."
Charlie's eyes lit up slightly as she told it, the story unfolding like a memory.
"They fought—again and again. Not just with weapons, but with words, with pride. They tried to destroy each other. But they were equals—in skill, in fire, in stubbornness. And of course, they were drawn to each other. Eventually... they fell in love."
"Huh and I hear I thought that only happened in movies and soap operas."
"But her father the chief hated outsiders. Especially those who came with guns and arrogance. He gave Nikolai a choice—leave the tribe forever, or die."
Vaggie frowned. "What did Asmodeus do?"
"He tried to help," Charlie said quietly. "He cast a spell to change the chief's heart—to make him love Nikolai the way he loved his daughter."
"But?" Vaggie asked.
"But the spell twisted," Charlie said. "Instead of loving Nikolai, the chief's hatred for outsiders was turned on Ukume. He cast her out, just like Nikolai."
"They lost everything," Vaggie murmured.
Charlie nodded. "But they stayed together. Even in exile."
"Geez..." Vaggie said with a half-smile. "Asmodeus sure has a long string of bad luck. Can't you cut the guy a break? I mean, he's your character."
Charlie didn't smile.
"That's the thing, Vaggie," she said quietly. "I don't think I made him up. I don't know...Maybe someone else made up these stories and told them to me a long time ago, and I just... remembered."
She paused, staring down at her hands.
"Or maybe I didn't remember them at all. Maybe I dreamed them. But they feel real. Like they've always been there, just waiting for me to tell them."
At last, Vaggie's lunch arrived. She didn't like to talk while she ate, so the conversation slipped into silence.
Charlie turned to the window, letting her thoughts drift with the passing clouds. The hum of the diner faded into the background as her mind wandered.
The diner door slammed open with a jangle of bells and a rush of late-afternoon air.
Charlie flinched before she saw them—Valentino, striding in like he owned the place, flanked by Velvette, who was already mid-laugh, and a few of their entourage. Vaggie stiffened the moment they entered. Charlie saw the way her hand curled into a fist on the edge of the table.
Valentino spotted them immediately. "Well, well, well," he drawled, loud enough for every booth to hear. "Look who decided to slum it today."
Velvette giggled. "Aw, this place is so cute and retro. It's like a trashy little time capsule."
They closed in fast. Charlie's stomach twisted again, but for a very different reason now.
"Hey, Vaggie," Valentino said, sliding an arm casually across the back of her seat like he belonged there. "Didn't expect to find you hanging out with—what's the word? Oh, right. Dead weight."
"Get lost, Valentino," Vaggie said flatly. "Take your circus with you."
Velvette leaned in from the other side, eyes flicking to Charlie with a sneer. "Seriously though, what are you doing here with her? You lose a bet or something?"
"Back. Off." Vaggie's voice dropped a notch, cold and sharp. "I'm not in the mood."
"Aww, don't be like that, babe," Valentino said with a mock pout. "We're just concerned. Hanging out with the weird little charity case? Not really your brand."
Charlie stared at the tabletop, heart pounding. She knew she should say something—but she felt frozen, like if she opened her mouth, everything might come spilling out. Her powers.
"Do you want me to ram you in the balls again?!," Vaggie snapped.
That should've been enough.
But it wasn't. From a nearby booth, Angel Dust stood up. He'd been trying to mind his own business, headphones around his neck, but he'd heard enough.
"Yo, that's enough, Val," he said, stepping forward. "Why don't you go find someone who actually wants to hear your voice, huh?"
Valentino's smile disappeared like someone had flipped a switch. He turned, slow and dangerous, like a snake tracking prey.
"You talkin' to me, Angel?"
Angel didn't back down. "Damn right I am."
Charlie stood now too. Her instincts were screaming. Magic prickled at her fingertips.
"Don't," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Vaggie stepped between Angel and Valentino, arms out. "This is over. You made your point. Now go!"
But Valentino shoved past her, and everything snapped tight.
He yanked Angel by the collar and slammed him into a table with enough force to send glasses skittering and shattering across the linoleum. The diner erupted—metal clattered, voices cut off in a single, horrified intake of breath.
"Stop it!" Vaggie screamed.
Valentino didn't stop. Angel swung back, flailing, but the man was a wall of muscle and entitlement; a fist connected with Angel's cheek, then another. Blood and rage looked for a place to land.
"Valentino—stop!" Vaggie launched herself at him, hands raking his hair, smacking the side of his head.
He snarled, shook her off with a brutal twist, and Vaggie hit the floor hard, a chair toppled beneath her as she rolled.
Charlie's heart thundered in her chest. She could feel it now—the pull. The tide rising in her veins. A hot, electric current of magic building at the tips of her fingers, begging to be released.
The fork left the table like a tiny, silver arrow.
It spun through the air with a clean little tinny whistle and slammed into Valentino's cheek. He stumbled as if winded, eyes going wide with shock and indignation. Every head in the diner turned. The fork clattered to the linoleum. For a beat there was nothing but the scrape of a chair, the low hum of conversation, the distant hiss of the coffee machine.
Valentino whirled toward Charlie, jaw working. His face was a mask of insult—how dare she—and fury. "You little—" he lunged.
Charlie backed away before she even knew she was moving, breath coming hot and shallow. Her knees knocked the edge of the booth; her foot caught; she fell, palms slapping the vinyl. For a split second the world narrowed to the leather at her back and Valentino's boots advancing like black thunder.
He reached for her.
Something cold and iron-clanged closed over his wrist. A hand—firm, impossibly strong—grabbed and twisted.
Valentino's shout was raw, cut off by a sharp, sickening sound: a snap that vibrated the air. He tried to wrench free but whatever held him held like a vice. He staggered, face contorted, the color draining from his features.
Then the lights in the diner dimmed for a heartbeat, as if a switch had been flicked. The radio behind the counter crackled to life with a dozen overlapping static-laced announcer voices, high and cheery and a hair away from madness. From that buzzing dark a figure stepped forward, grin impossibly wide and red suit crisp as ever. The Radio Demon.
He looked like he'd been plucked from a nightmare and dressed in showbiz—antlers, teeth, and an air of old-timey broadcast charm. In his hands were tools that gleamed; spanners and pliers and a ratchet with a face that seemed to grin too. He moved with the theatrical deliberation of a stage magician revealing his final trick.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he chirped, voice layered with static, "it seems you all need an extreme attitude adjustment."
Valentino found his voice back long enough to bark, "Who the hell—?"
The demon didn't answer. He didn't need to. He set to work with the same meticulous, gleeful focus of someone restoring an antique radio. He looped the ratchet around Valentino's fingers, twisted, clicked the wrench against the knuckle of a thumb. Each motion was precise, practiced—not merely to break, but to humiliate, to recalibrate. Bones popped and the diner's collective breath went cold at the noises: a series of sharp, clinical cracks that were terrible and final without being gore-soaked. Valentino howled, a crunching, indignant sound, and dropped to one knee.
He didn't yank or rip. He adjusted, tightened, turned. Where Valentino had been imposing and smug only moments before, he now sat slumped, wrist grotesquely cocked at an unnatural angle, his hand wrapped in a twisted maze of metal like a cartoon prop gone wrong. The Radio Demon gave a satisfied little whistle, as though he'd tuned the man to the proper frequency.
Around him, patrons stared, frozen between horror and the kind of spellbound awe people reserve for fireworks and miracles. Vaggie's hand went under the table, desperately looking for something to use with as a weapon. Angel Dust had gone from open-mouthed to rapt; his usual flippancy had been ground into stone. Even Valentino's cronies had shrunk back against the booth, suddenly very small. Then, like a pack of gutless jackals, the sadistic bullies scattered—tails tucked, pride forgotten.
Alastor turned with a flourish as if concluding a performance and offered Charlie his free hand; it was unexpectedly gentle. He helped her up without so much as a smudge of menace on his smile.
"You do lead the most inconveniently dramatic life, my dear," he said, his voice crackling with vintage charm, like a broadcast from a bygone era. "But then, I suppose that's simply the price of being so devastatingly lovely."
Charlie blinked, still catching her breath. "I... I... Who are you?"
He gave a mock gasp, placing a hand to his chest. "Ah! How rude of me. Where are my manners?" He gave a low, theatrical bow. "You may call me the Radio Demon."
He bowed just enough to be ridiculous and very deliberate. Then he took her hand between two manicured fingers and pressed his lips to it. The kiss was cool and polite and edged with static.
"Enchanté, ma belle," he crooned, eyes flashing like studio lights.
Charlie's heart stuttered, part terror and part something like dizziness.
"What the hell just happened?" Vaggie whispered to Angel, her voice sharp and hushed, like a knife behind velvet.
Angel, still blinking, slowly shook his head. Then his eyes went wide.
"Wait a minute... I know this guy!"
Vaggie snapped toward him. "You do?"
The Radio Demon's antlers twitched slightly, the first crack in his otherwise theatrical poise. Just a flicker—but it was there. Like a radio catching static from a station it hadn't meant to tune in to.
Angel kept staring. "Yeah. He was in the news this morning. He's the one who wrecked that gang last night! The Crimson Set. Left 'em scattered across the bar like a junk pile. Oh God, do you think he beats up queers?"
The Radio Delon chuckled at Angel's comment. Then he
tipped an imaginary hat. "Well my work here is done. I'll be off—unless, of course, you'd prefer I stay and cause a bit more chaos."
"No," Vaggie said quickly, standing and putting herself subtly between Charlie and him. "You've done enough."
He chuckled again—like the pop of a phonograph needle—and backed away toward the door.
"Very well," he said with a bow. "Call me anytime, ma belle. Just tune in." He winked. "I'm always listening."
Then, with a flick of his wrist and a static hum, he vanished like a signal fading into white noise. The diner was quiet.
"What a dreadful man," Vaggie muttered, still eyeing the Radio Demon with open suspicion.
"He is creepy," Angel said, rubbing his jaw where the bruises were starting to bloom, "but you gotta admit—what he did to Valentino?" He gave a crooked grin. "Awesome."
Angel pressed a hand to his mouth, wincing.
"Shit... I think I lost a tooth. Hope it wasn't the gold one."
Charlie just stood there—stunned, breath shallow, the world still buzzing with leftover static.
She turned to Vaggie and Angel, voice soft and shaken.
"Are you guys okay?"
"We'll live," Angel muttered, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth. "Not the first time I've taken a hit."
Vaggie turned to Charlie, her voice gentler now.
"Are you alright?"
Charlie hesitated, eyes still wide.
"I'm fine," she said softly. "I think..."
"Are you sure? That guy didn't scare you, did he?" Vaggie asked, watching Charlie carefully.
"No," Charlie said slowly. "No, he didn't... at least, not in the way you'd expect."
"Why would he scare her?" Angel said with a raised eyebrow. "He totally saved our asses back there."
"But you didn't know that was his intention. Maybe Valentino just pissed him off and we were lucky enough to get caught in the splash zone."
"Or maybe he's just someone who got tired of shitters stepping on him while the cops sit around picking their teeth."
"Even if that's true, vigilantes don't fix anything. They just shift the chaos around."
"How do you know that?" Angel asked.
"My grandparents were protesters during the Vietnam War," Vaggie said quietly. "It ruined my mother's childhood. She grew up surrounded by rallies—screaming crowds, and fights breaking out between civilians and soldiers. Seriously, if you're going to get involved in that shit then don't have kids."
"I get that," Angel said with a shrug. "My folks were more military types. According to my grandpa, it's my destiny to die honorably in the field—just like every man in my family before me. Not exactly the plan I had in mind, though."
"Wait," Vaggie said, brow furrowed. "If every man before you died in a war, how could your grandpa talk to you?"
"Oh—he didn't die. He was the first in our family to make it back. But he lost both his legs... and, apparently, his sanity."
Vaggie glanced at Charlie again, watching the way her eyes lingered on the door the Radio Demon had disappeared through.
"Hey," Vaggie said gently. "You wanna get out of here for a bit? Take a walk? Just... breathe?"
Charlie blinked and looked at her, like the question had pulled her back from somewhere far away. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then finally nodded.
"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I'd like that."
They stepped outside into the late afternoon light. The city buzzed around them—cars honking, pigeons flapping from rooftop to rooftop, music leaking from open windows. The concrete still held the heat from earlier, warm and grounding beneath their shoes. They didn't talk for a while. They didn't need to.
Charlie focused on the rhythm of their steps, the brush of wind against her skin, the feel of Vaggie walking beside her like a quiet shield. Every now and then, Vaggie would glance sideways, checking in without saying anything. Charlie appreciated that—how Vaggie didn't try to fill the silence. Just being there was enough.
They passed a bookstore, a tiny record shop, a mural of a serpent coiled around a tower, and then—
Charlie stopped.
A bright yellow flier flapped against a corkboard outside a closed café, pinned by a thumbtack and fluttering like it was waving her down.
MAE-GOETIA THEATER AUDITIONS!
Looking for fresh talent!
Ages 14 and up welcome!
All roles open—no experience necessary!
Come share your voice.
Saturday @ 3PM – 127 Gossamer Lane
Vaggie looked back, noticing she'd stopped.
"What is it?"
Charlie turned toward her, eyes brighter now—still tired, but clearer.
"I think I want to audition," she said. "For the theater."
Vaggie blinked. "Seriously?"
Charlie nodded.
"I think it's just what I need. Something to focus on. Something normal. Or... not normal, exactly, but something that won't get me into trouble.
"I think that sounds like a great idea."
Charlie smiled back—small, but real.
Chapter Text
Being the Radio Demon was a strange, exhilarating experience for Alastor. It was as if fear, insecurity, and doubt had vanished entirely. He moved with absolute certainty—knowing exactly what to say, exactly what to do. For the first time, he had the spine to stand up to Valentino and every other jerk who had ever turned Alastor Le Beau into their personal joke. It felt intoxicating to crush Valentino's hand, to rearrange the bones beneath his skin while watching him writhe like the worm he truly was.
Then, almost on impulse, he flirted with Charlie. He actually flirted with her—kissed her hand, called her "devastatingly lovely" and "ma belle." If the old Alastor Le Beau had even tried, he'd have fumbled over his words and stammered away. Now, he couldn't help but wonder: What did she think of him? Or rather, what did she think of this version of him? Was she charmed? Attracted?
"I scared her."
The voice whispered from the shadows of his mind, and suddenly the Radio Demon's confidence wavered, replaced by creeping doubt. Just like that, he slipped away—and Alastor Le Beau was back.
"Golly," he thought, "maybe I went too far. Valentino definitely deserved it... but maybe I shouldn't have done that in front of Charlie."
He made a personal note never to let her witness him in an act of violence again. She didn't deserve to see things like that. Charlie was a ray of sunshine—something that lit up, warmed, and gave life. At least, that's how she was in his world.
Now that he was back to his old self, Alastor decided to head home before Rosie started worrying too much. Alastor quickly pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and set off down the sidewalk, his shoes clicking softly against the damp cobblestones. But then he stopped.
Something felt... off.
He cocked his head slightly, his ear twitching at a sound too soft for any normal ear to catch. The street was empty, yet his skin prickled with the undeniable sensation of being watched. Not in the casual, passing way of a stranger on the sidewalk. No, this gaze was deliberate. Hungry.
From the alley to his left, the shadows pulsed. There—just at the edge of perception—something shimmered. Not light. Not movement. But presence. A cold wind hissed through the narrow passage. Then he heard it.
"Change back."
The voice slithered from the darkness—just a silky amalgamation of darkness. Yes, it sounded like if darkness could speak.
"Change back."
His hand twitched to his pocket. The bottle. The potion. It was still there, tucked against his shirt. All it would take was one sip. One tiny sip, and the Radio Demon would return—confident, untouchable, thrilling.
He took one step toward the alley.
Then he heard her.
"Alastor?"
Her voice, light as birdsong and just as natural, cut through the lure like a blade.
Alastor froze, breath hitching. Charlie.
He blinked—and the presence retreated like smoke on the wind. The shadows grew still, inert. The bottle's weight in his pocket suddenly felt heavier, more shameful.
Quickly, almost guiltily, he slipped his hand away and smoothed the front of his jacket. He turned to see Charlie jogging up the street toward him, the hem of her pale skirt swaying with each step.
"There you are!" Charlie called, a little out of breath as she caught up to him. "I was just on my way to find you. I wanted to talk to you—and your family—about this."
She showed him the flier about the auditions Rosie, Stolas, and Blitzo would be holding.
"Do you think they'd mind if I joined their show?" she asked, a hopeful spark in her eyes. "I mean... if there's still room?"
Alastor blinked, then let out a rich, amused laugh.
"Mind? Charlie, they'd be thrilled!" he said, pressing the flier back into her hands with a grin. "You do realize nearly everyone in that house adores you, don't you?"
Her cheeks flushed slightly. "Really?"
"Yes. In fact ever since we all met you, none of us can say anything bad about you. Even Loona likes you and she doesn't like anyone."
Charlie smiled wistfully.
"You're so lucky. I always wanted a big family like yours. Uncle Michael is wonderful, but I would've loved to have brothers and sisters."
Alastor shrugged slightly.
"Well, technically, Moxxie, Loona, and Octavia aren't my siblings."
"You might as well be. You've lived in the same house for what—nine years? You've been raised by the same people, cared for like family. Honestly, I'm surprised Rosie, Stolas, and Blitzo didn't adopt you, Moxxie, and Loona after year five."
Alastor chuckled under his breath.
"They talked about it. But... adopting us meant the government would stop sending money. And by then, well—it was pretty clear no one else was going to adopt us anyway. We were all considered... too much. Too broken. So they figured—if no one was trying to take us away, why not just keep things the way they were? An unofficial adoption."
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "So... lie to the state for extra cash?"
He grinned. "Not lying—just... omitting the fact that they decided to keep us forever."
Charlie giggled, her eyes bright. "I bet it's never dull at your house."
Alastor laughed. "That's an understatement. Rosie's as conservative as a corset in July. Stolas and Blitzo? Bleeding-heart liberals who argue about everything except musical theater. The girls are deep in their emo phase—permanently, I think. Moxxie and I are full-blown nerds. And all of us are completely, hopelessly obsessed with the arts in one form or another."
"But you're all real with each other. You're open, honest. You can say anything, and even if you argue, there's still love underneath it."
"Well, that's how most families should be—healthy ones, anyway. Isn't it like that with you and your uncle?"
Her smile faltered.
"Not always. I want to be honest with him, I do... but ever since Mom and Dad were... lost, he's been so terrified of something happening to me. Of raising me the wrong way." She looked down. "If I tell him all my problems, I'm afraid he'll think it's his fault."
Alastor frowned gently.
"Charlie... don't tell me you still haven't told him about Velvette and the rest of those she-idiots tormenting you."
She gave a weak laugh. "Well... 'tormenting' might be a bit of a stretch."
"Charlie, this isn't like they made up some dumb rhyme to tease you. They cut your hair. They posted online that you had syphilis. They locked you in a dark closet, knowing damn well you're scared of the dark—and they were planning to leave you there."
"Kids are mean."
"Mean?" Alastor scoffed. "No. That's not 'mean.' That's malicious. That's cruel. That's evil—and trust me, I know evil. I live with it everyday of my life."
"Alastor, I don't think Blitzo in drag qualifies as evil," Charlie said, raising an eyebrow.
"Not that!" Alastor snapped. "And for the record, I never said it was evil—I said it was a plague upon my eyes. I meant the kind of evil that sadistic psychopaths like Valentino and Striker have put me through."
"Speaking of which, did you hear about the guy who attacked Striker and his gang last night? The one calling himself the Radio Demon?"
"Oh, I... I heard something about it this morning."
Alastor's eyes flickered, just for a moment.
"Well, you won't believe what happened earlier today."
Alastor's breath hitched, ever so slightly. But he smiled—calm, polite, like he didn't already know.
"Oh? Do tell."
"I was at the diner with Vaggie when Valentino showed up. Velvette, too. It got ugly—he was picking a fight with Angel, with Vaggie, with me...And then, before anyone could react, he came in."
"He?" Alastor echoed, feigning curiosity with the subtlety of a stage actor. "The Radio Demon?"
"Yes. He just showed up out of nowhere and—crack—snapped Valentino's hand like he was tuning a radio and I think he did something to his bones on the inside."
"Impressive."
"Disturbing, was more like it."
"...Oh. So you didn't like what he did? He didn't impress you at all? Not even a little?"
"I mean... I admired his manners. And his courage, sure. But I wish he hadn't been so brutal about it. There are ways to stop someone without turning it into a spectacle."
"Maybe he thought someone like Valentino deserved to suffer... just a little."
"Maybe. But doesn't that make him just as awful as Valentino?"
"Don't worry, Charlie. I've got a feeling he's not the kind of person who'd let it go that far."
"Angel thinks he's amazing. Vaggie thinks he's completely unhinged," Charlie said.
"And you? What do you think?" he asked.
"I'm not sure yet. It's strange—he scares me, but not in the way you'd think. I'm not afraid he'll hurt me or anything. It's just... I don't know. There's something about him."
"Something... I don't know. Attractive, maybe?"
"I'm sorry—what?"
"Nothing! Forget I said anything! Heh, heh... Listen, why don't we meet up later? I'll fill you in on the audition details—what Rosie, Stolas, and Blitzo are actually looking for in a young actress."
"That would be great. Thank you."
They walked the rest of the way in easy conversation—the kind that filled the silence without demanding too much. It wasn't awkward. It wasn't forced. It just was.
At the door, Charlie turned to him, her expression soft in the glow of the porch light.
"I'll see you later?" she asked.
Alastor tipped his head in a neat, almost theatrical bow. "Yes indeedy."
She smiled, then slipped inside, the door closing with a gentle click. Alastor lingered on the sidewalk, watching the porch light hum for a few more seconds before it flickered off and left the house in stillness.
His smile faltered. Then vanished. He spun on his heel and stormed toward the house next door, muttering like a tea kettle about to blow its lid.
"Attractive," he seethed through gritted teeth. "Attractive?! What in all holy Hell made you think that was a good idea?!"
He slapped a hand to his face and dragged it down in pure, theatrical misery.
"She just said you scare her, you absolute moron! And what do you do? You flirt like a frat boy on a sugar high! A dollar store Casanova!"
Reaching the front steps, he groaned and threw his head back like a silent film star in despair.
"She probably thinks I'm the biggest loser to ever walk the Earth. Hell, I probably am!"
Still muttering curses at himself under his breath, he yanked open the front door and stepped inside. The warm noise of home hit him immediately. Stolas and Blitzo were deep in animated discussion in the living room, tossing out wild ideas for their next show. Moxxie and Loona lounged nearby, tossing in commentary.
"Okay, okay, hear me out!" Stolas was saying, arms flailing with far too much flair for someone wearing a robe covered in glittering crescent moons. "What about Les Misérables."
"I hated that show!" Blitzo snapped, tossing a pillow across the room with a dramatic huff.
Stolas clutched his chest like he'd just been mortally wounded.
"Blitzy! How could you say such a thing?! It's a masterpiece! A tragic tale of redemption and revolution!"
Blitzo rolled his eyes.
"It's three hours of singing French people crying about bread! And every time I think it's over, it's not over! I swear the last guy dies for forty-five minutes!"
Ugh, no!" Stolas gagged like he'd just tasted expired wine. "Don't even joke about that."
Blitzo squinted. "What's wrong with Cats?"
"What's right with it?!" Stolas demanded, with indignation. "It's two and a half hours of felines introducing themselves in rhyme and none of it goes anywhere! It's like watching a cult sacrifice narrative structure to a giant, singing furball!"
"Fiddler on the Roof?" Moxxie ventured.
"We're not Jewish," Blitzo replied flatly.
"Grease?"
"Overrated," Stolas said dismissively.
"Rocky Horror Picture Show?" Loona threw out.
"Loona, we're working with minors this time," Stolas reminded her.
"Oklahoma?" Moxxie tried again.
"Oh God, no!" Blitzo groaned.
"Repo," Loona said.
"Again, minors, Loony," Blitzo shot back. "Do you want us to go to jail?"
"How about Jekyll and Hyde?" Octavia suggested, casting a sidelong glance at Alastor—who shot her a warning glare.
"Too complicated, sweetie," Stolas said with a gentle smile.
"Ooo! Can we please do Phantom of the Opera?" Moxxie pleaded, eyes shining with hope.
"No, that show's been done to death," Stolas replied firmly, crossing his arms.
"But it's a classic," Moxxie insisted, stepping closer. "People love it."
"Yeah, I think it'd be perfect," Blitzo jumped in, grinning. "Drama, music, masks—what's not to love?"
Stolas shook his head. "It's too cliché. We need something fresh."
Blitzo smirked. "It is not. You're just scared of the spotlight being stolen."
"Please," Stolas scoffed. "The only thing getting stolen here is originality."
Moxxie sighed. "Maybe a little cliché isn't so bad. Sometimes classics are classics for a reason."
Blitzo nudged Stolas. "Come on, admit it—you'd love to see me in a mask."
"Blitzo, we won't be in the starring roles this time around," Stolas said firmly, folding his hands. "We're directors. This is for the kids."
Blitzo rolled his eyes but didn't argue. "Yeah, yeah, I get it—no spotlight hogging. Still, it'd be fun to see them pull off a classic."
The arguments ricocheted like tennis balls in a hurricane.
"Too cliché!"
"Too depressing!"
"Too many cats!"
"What are you two drama queens arguing about now?" Rosie entered from the kitchen, drying her hands with a tea towel.
Blitzo perked up instantly. "Rosie! Save us from the royal ego over here—he thinks Phantom of the Opera is cliché."
"It is cliché," Stolas huffed, arms crossed.
"But in a good way," Moxxie added.
"Clichés exist because they work," Rosie replied smartly, plopping down onto the nearest armchair. "Besides, Phantom has drama, romance, music, and masked lunatics. What more could a theater production ask for?"
Stolas opened his mouth to protest, but Rosie cut him off with a raised hand.
"And I happen to know someone who'd be perfect for Christine."
"You do?" Moxxie asked.
"Millie. You remember Millie, don't you, Loona? She's Lin's daughter. My old coworker—when I was still a nurse?"
Loona blinked, then snapped her fingers.
"Oh yeah! Cute girl, short, big voice?"
"That's the one," Rosie said proudly. "She's a phenomenal singer. Trained in classical and country—but she's got the power and range for musical theater. She's studying for agriculture, but I bet she'd love the chance to audition. I'll give Lin a call."
Alastor shrugged with an amused grin and turned toward the stairs, heading up to his room. Octavia trailed after him, arms crossed and eyes sharp. Once they stepped inside, she closed the door behind them.
"So," she said, eyeing him carefully. "You've changed back. That means this whole freaky Radio Demon thing is done... right?"
"For today," Alastor said casually, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair.
Octavia stared at him, deadpan. "You can't be serious."
He turned to her with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Octavia, will you relax? Nothing went wrong."
"You're doing something that requires lying and sneaking around," Octavia said, folding her arms. "Anything that needs both of those things is automatically wrong. Trust me—I told Dad he couldn't pull off a secret affair, and look how that turned out. My mother tried to sue him for alienation of affection,"
"I thought your mother couldn't stand to be touched by your father, even when they were married?"
"I didn't say she sued him successfully," she replied. "But my dad did spend an entire year in court listening to her scream."
"No offense," Alastor said, "but your parents make no sense to me."
"The point is, I think you're playing with fire. Either tell Rosie and Dad what you're up to, or toss that jug of voodoo in the trash."
Alastor's smile sharpened.
"How about you mind your own business and kindly keep quiet about my little secret... or I'll tell Rosie you used one of her dresses to make a little costumes for your taxidermy crow collection."
Octavia narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
"She hadn't worn that dress in years!" Octavia shot back. "The color was fading!"
Alastor raised an eyebrow, voice dripping with mock scandal. "But it was silk, darling. Hand-stitched. Imported. I think I actually heard her weep when she couldn't find it."
"Yeah? Well, I wept trying to get bloodstains out of polyester for three hours. We all suffer," Octavia snapped. "Besides, I can just deny whatever you say."
Alastor's grin turned devilish. "Did I mention I found a torn piece of the dress in your room?"
"...That proves nothing."
"Monogrammed."
"...Okay, that proves a little."
He watched her, arms crossed, waiting with the kind of smug patience only an older sibling could master.
Octavia groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Fine! I won't say anything!"
Alastor beamed like he'd just won a Tony. "Splendid. Knew you'd see reason."
"Ugh. You're the worst."
"And yet, so often right."
CarmillaD on Chapter 1 Wed 03 Sep 2025 12:21AM UTC
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ButterflyWatcher on Chapter 1 Wed 03 Sep 2025 12:45AM UTC
Last Edited Wed 03 Sep 2025 12:49AM UTC
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digital_artist_99 on Chapter 1 Wed 03 Sep 2025 10:08PM UTC
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ButterflyWatcher on Chapter 1 Sat 06 Sep 2025 01:17AM UTC
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Gato_artist on Chapter 1 Wed 10 Sep 2025 12:00AM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 2 Wed 03 Sep 2025 12:49AM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 3 Wed 03 Sep 2025 04:21AM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 4 Wed 03 Sep 2025 04:49AM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 4 Wed 03 Sep 2025 05:03AM UTC
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Jujuberlu on Chapter 5 Sun 31 Aug 2025 11:59PM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 5 Wed 03 Sep 2025 05:08AM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 6 Wed 03 Sep 2025 06:22AM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 7 Wed 03 Sep 2025 08:52PM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 7 Wed 03 Sep 2025 09:04PM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 8 Wed 03 Sep 2025 11:39PM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 9 Sat 06 Sep 2025 11:59PM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 10 Sun 07 Sep 2025 01:25AM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 11 Sun 07 Sep 2025 03:18AM UTC
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ButterflyWatcher on Chapter 11 Sun 07 Sep 2025 11:39AM UTC
Last Edited Sun 07 Sep 2025 11:40AM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 11 Sun 07 Sep 2025 02:10PM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 12 Mon 08 Sep 2025 12:31AM UTC
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CarmillaD on Chapter 13 Tue 09 Sep 2025 03:18PM UTC
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ButterflyWatcher on Chapter 13 Tue 09 Sep 2025 04:07PM UTC
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