Chapter Text
He steps back into the hallway, cane tapping softly on the cracked floor.
Low enough so no one hears him.
Light enough so no one senses his hesitation.
He lifts the staff, examining the warped spine of it.
It was still performing the punishment.
Still broadcasting sinners’ stories.
Still showing him alternate paths.
Still softening toward him in the Coda.
It had earned repair.
No—
he had earned repair.
But Rosie would not grant it without proof that today’s restraint was intentional.
He must go to her.
Explain.
Ask her to mend the staff before the spills escalate into something dangerous.
He gives Charlie’s distant silhouette one last glance.
A smile—soft, sad, private—crosses his lips.
Outside it showed as a grotesque smile.
“Grow, little Morningstar,” he murmurs.
“So I do not have to save you.”
He turns and disappears into the shadows of the hallway, headed toward the docks where Rosie resides.
Rosie’s workshop was dim and inviting in the way only Cannibal Town’s royalty could manage — red lanterns glowing softly, ritual chalk sigils curling across the floorboards, the scent of sugared meat and rosewater drifting through the air.
Rosie herself stood tall and elegant beneath her extravagant maroon sunhat, skulls perched on the brim like fashion accessories. Her pitch-black, pupil-less eyes glittered with intelligence and caution as she slowly circled Alastor.
He stood near the door, posture impeccable, hands folded politely over his bent and cracked staff.
Rosie inspected it like one might inspect a precious heirloom — or a particularly badly made pie.
Finally, she spoke.
“I can repair this.”
Her tone was cool.
A beat.
“But I won’t.”
Alastor blinked once, the only break in his impeccable veneer.
“…Pardon?”
Rosie straightened, hands folding neatly in front of her dress.
“You came to me because you’re nearly powerless without it.”
Not cruel — simply factual.
Alastor did not deny it.
The staff, in his hands, vibrated faintly, whispering danger, humiliation, exposure.
Rosie tapped the bent shaft with a single, manicured finger.
“And because you want to leave the Hotel.”
That one landed.
Alastor’s smile tightened by a thread.
“Remaining there has become… strategically unwise.”
Rosie gave a short, elegant huff — almost a laugh.
“Strategically unwise?”
“Darling, just say the word: dangerous.”
“Vox knows you care.”
The radio inside Alastor crackled sharply.
Rosie softened — but not kindly. More like a doctor explaining an inevitable prognosis.
“Vox is obsessed with you, dear boy.”
“He’ll tear apart anything you stand near just to reach you.”
Alastor exhaled.
“Which is precisely why I should put distance between myself and Charlie.”
Rosie’s expression went cold as polished bone.
“No.”
He blinked.
One word — absolute.
She stepped closer, lifting his chin with one gloved finger.
Maternal. Possessive. Overlord to Overlord.
Her voice lowered to something deceptively gentle.
“You made a promise to me.”
'You are still the rumored most powerful in hell. You need to do my bidding. And I am using it now because you believe you are indebted to me. And so do I. Now I do'
Her eyes glinted.
“You will protect Charlie Morningstar.”
The staff thrummed in Alastor’s hand — the broadcast silent, but the pulse unmistakable.
He inhaled quietly.
“That agreement was made under different circumstances. Her vision has become—”
“DANGEROUS?” Rosie snapped, sharp as a knife.
“You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t watch her too?”
Her voice softened, but her eyes remained as dark and bottomless as the void.
“You think she needs you less because the world is getting worse?”
Alastor said nothing.
Rosie’s patience ended.
“Let me explain this clearly.”
She pointed at the staff.
“I am the only one in Hell who can repair this properly.”
“The only one who can stabilize your power.”
“The only one who understands how this device binds you.”
Her tone dropped.
“And I will not fix it just so you can abandon the girl I asked you to protect.”
A silence hung heavy between them.
The staff trembled — not from pain, but from shame.
Finally, Alastor spoke, calm as ever:
“You are asking me to remain in a position that puts us all at risk.”
Rosie shook her head slowly.
“No, darling.”
She touched his cheek — soft, authoritative.
“I’m asking you to keep a promise.”
His jaw tightened.
His smile did not.
Rosie moved to a tray of ritual tools — laying them out one by one.
Not for repair.
For refusal.
Her voice drifted from across the workshop.
“When you return to the Hotel…”
“…and show me you are still fulfilling your end of our bargain…”
She looked over her shoulder.
“…then I will repair your staff.”
A beat.
She turned fully, smile sharpening.
“But if you walk away now?”
“You walk away powerless.”
The humming sigils around the room flickered as if to punctuate her point.
Alastor didn’t move.
The staff whispered inside him — the full, internal voice only he could hear:
“…she binds us… through promise… through necessity… through truth…
…protect the girl… or lose all power…”
Rosie approached him again, voice calm, final, maternal and predatory in equal measure.
“Go back to Charlie.”
“Do your duty.”
“Then you’ll get your staff restored.”
Alastor’s eyes, behind the smile, softened — something like regret, frustration, even fear flickering for half a second.
But his mask remained perfect.
He bowed deeply.
“Very well, Rosie.”
Rosie flicked her hand toward the door.
“Good boy.”
He flinched.
Just once.
She smirked — pleased at the reaction — and turned away, humming a 1910s waltz under her breath.
As Alastor left the workshop, the staff whispered one final coda inside him — softer now, almost gentle:
“…you must protect her…
…that is why we exist…
…that is why you endure…”
Alastor exhaled, a rare tremor shaking his breath.
“Yes,” he murmured.
“I know.”
Rosie’s Emporium, Cannibal Town
The hallway outside Rosie’s workshop was empty—except for a single girl sitting on a carved bone bench, tapping her foot against the floor. Every so often she glanced toward the workshop door and flinched at the muffled hum of magic from within.
Amaris had been waiting for almost an hour.
She wasn’t supposed to.
She wasn’t allowed to.
But she did it anyway.
Her father never let her see him vulnerable—not truly.
But today… something felt wrong.
She felt it in her antlers.
In her bones.
In that strange frequency in her chest she inherited from him.
She hugged her legs and rested her chin on her knees.
“Come on, Papa…” she whispered.
Just then, the door opened.
Alastor stepped out, tall and elegant, posture perfect—but the faint tremor in the hand holding his broken staff was unmistakable.
His eyes flicked to her instantly.
And froze.
“…Amaris.”
Not radio-static.
Not theatrical charm.
His real voice.
She sprang to her feet.
“Father—!”
He held up a hand just slightly—
Regaining the mask.
Calm.
Poised.
Controlled.
“Ah-ah. No running,” he murmured, with a strained attempt at his usual sugary politeness. “We are in public.”
She slowed, but couldn’t stop herself from closing the distance quickly.
“You were in there too long,” she whispered. “And you didn’t tell me why you needed Rosie.”
Alastor opened his mouth—
But the microphone crackled sharply.
“HE DOESN’T WANT YOU WORRYING.”
It shrieked loud enough that the lanterns buzzed.
Amaris winced but didn’t back away.
She was used to it.
Alastor, however, snapped.
He snatched the microphone’s head sharply.
“That is quite enough.”
The words were calm.
But his eyes burned.
The staff hissed in response.
“…she must know…
…she hears what he hears…
…she carries our frequency…”
Amaris touched her father’s sleeve gently.
“Papa… it’s okay. I heard enough.”
His posture grew stiff.
He hated—HATED—that she could hear the broadcasts sometimes.
Hated that she inherited any part of this cursed device.
Hated that Hell could reach her through him.
“Amaris,” he said, quiet, measured, the mask cracking at the edges,
“you should not be anywhere near when I speak with Rosie.”
Amaris swallowed.
“Why? She keeps me safe. She promised you.”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“From outsiders.”
A beat.
“Not from the things that follow me.”
She knew what he meant.
The voices.
The stories.
The pain.
And the people who hunted the Radio Demon, even now.
Amaris stepped closer until she could lay a hand on his chest.
“Then shouldn’t I be close to you?”
That hit him.
Hard.
His breath hitched.
Barely.
But she felt it under her palm.
The microphone whispered, quieter this time—only the two of them could hear:
“…she is the only one who can quiet us…
…the only one who listens without judgment…
…the only one you fear losing…”
Alastor jerked the staff away from his body, as if the words burned him.
“That will do,” he hissed under his breath.
Amaris frowned at the microphone.
“Shut up,” she muttered.
It clicked in protest.
Alastor’s mouth twitched—half amusement, half mortification.
Then his expression gentled, and he lowered himself slightly to meet her eyes.
“You shouldn’t have waited out here.”
“I needed to make sure you were okay.”
His smile faltered—only for a fraction of a second.
So small only someone who had known him her entire life could notice.
“That is… unnecessary,” he said.
“But appreciated.”
Amaris sighed.
“You always say that when you’re lying.”
His eye twitched.
The staff snorted static like laughter.
“…she knows you…”
Alastor exhaled sharply—half annoyed, half resigned.
“Amaris,” he said, voice quiet and real again.
“Come here.”
She stepped into his space immediately, hugging him tightly around the waist.
He froze for half a heartbeat—
Then wrapped one arm around her shoulders, carefully, protectively, guiding her head under his chin.
His other hand held the staff away from her.
Always away.
Always ensuring no broadcast could touch her more than it already had.
“You will not follow me into dangerous conversations again,” he murmured against her hair.
His tone was gentle—
Commanding, yet trembling slightly.
Amaris nodded into his coat.
“Okay…
…but only if you tell me next time.”
Alastor hesitated.
“…Very well.”
A promise.
A real one.
The staff hummed, warm for once.
“…she anchors us…
…protect her…
…always…”
Alastor closed his eyes, jaw tightening.
“I intend to,” he whispered.
He pulled back slightly and offered her his arm.
“Now, my dear. Let us return home.”
She smiled, bright and relieved.
He smiled too—
A real one, soft and private, the kind only she ever saw.
Arm in arm, they walked back toward Amaris’s small home near the Emporium—
the one Rosie allowed her to have,
the one Alastor fortified with unbreakable wards,
the one no sinner knew existed.
As they walked, the microphone muttered:
“…we belong to her future now…”
Alastor didn’t reprimand it this time.
He only tightened his arm around his daughter.
Approximately half an hour later in Cannibal Town, Alastor & Amaris
The air smelled of smoke and ozone.
Alastor’s small house — disguised as a shabby cannibal hut, protected by layered wards — felt too quiet.
A stillness like the moment before a broadcast begins.
Amaris stood in the doorway of the kitchen, fists clenched.
Alastor sat at the table, coat still on, staff across his knees. The crack in it pulsed with dim red light. The microphone twitched, its metal casing flexing like a jaw.
Amaris’s voice trembled.
“You can’t do this.”
Alastor lifted his monocled eye.
Calm.
Soft.
Deadly composed.
“I must.”
“No you don’t!”
She stepped forward. “You’re not thinking straight, you’re not—”
“I am thinking more clearly than I have in decades.”
The microphone hissed:
“…she does not understand…
…he must do this…
…he must buy time…”
Alastor stabbed a finger toward it.
“Be silent.”
The microphone fell quiet immediately — a rarity so profound Amaris’s stomach dropped.
He had muted it.
Not just suppressed it — muted it.
That meant he was planning something irreversible.
“Father,” she whispered.
“You’re planning to lose.”
His smile didn’t change.
“Yes.”
Her breath stuttered.
“You know how Vox looks at you. What he wants from you. You know he’s obsessed —”
“Precisely why he will accept the offer.”
Alastor stood slowly, adjusting his coat, his bowtie, the ragged lapels — preparing himself like a man preparing for execution but refusing to look anything less than immaculate.
“He will not kill me. Not if he can own me instead.”
That word—
own—
made Amaris tremble.
Alastor stepped forward and rested a gloved hand on her shoulder.
“You cannot be involved, Amaris.”
She shook her head fiercely.
“No, no! You don’t understand—Vox will use you, Father! He’ll use your blood, he’ll—”
“And that,” Alastor interrupted gently, “is why you must stay far away.”
She backed up, tears stinging her eyes.
“You can’t expect me to just LET you get taken!”
“I expect you to obey me.”
His tone sharpened, but only because his voice was starting to crack beneath it.
Amaris stared.
He never raised his voice at her.
Barely even sharpened it.
He was scared.
Really, truly scared.
She took a shaky breath.
“And Charlie? You’re just going to vanish and let her think she pushed you into danger?”
Alastor’s expression shifted — subtle, but devastating.
“Better she thinks that,” he murmured.
“Than the truth.”
“What truth?!”
Alastor closed his eyes.
“That I chose her life over mine.”
Amaris’s throat tightened.
“That I am expendable,” he said softly, “and she is not.”
“No!” She grabbed his sleeve. “You don’t get to say that!”
He gently removed her hand.
“I have made countless mistakes, Amaris. This will not be one of them.”
He moved past her.
She grabbed his coat again — more desperate now.
“You think Charlie would want this? You think Vox—”
“Vox will take it,” Alastor said.
“Because Vox wants to break me. He wants my voice, my attention, my approval… and this will give him all of it.”
The last sentence tasted like poison in his mouth.
Amaris shook.
“You’re going to let him put his hands on you.”
Alastor froze.
For a moment too long.
His voice, when it came, was quiet and cold.
“He will try.”
“Father—”
“And I will endure it.”
Her knees threatened to give out.
He continued:
“If I remain near Charlie, Vox will hurt her to reach me. I will not risk that.”
Amaris’s voice cracked.
“And me…? What about me?”
Alastor softened in a way that made her breath hitch.
“My dear girl,” he whispered, “I am doing this because of you.”
'I would rather be humiliated, imprisoned, mocked, weakened, and used — than let Vox ever discover you exist.'
He can survive humiliation.
He can survive imprisonment.
He can survive Vox’s obsession.
But he cannot survive Vox discovering Amaris.
She felt her heart twist.
His hands gently framed her face, bending down to her height.
He rarely held her like this—
Not because he didn’t want to,
but because he always feared his touch was tainted by Hell.
“Amaris,” he breathed,
“You are the only part of me that is… good.”
Her throat burned.
“If Vox discovers you exist, he will use you. For leverage. For experimentation. For pleasure.”
The word pleasure made her stomach drop.
Made rage fill her bones.
“He will not find you,” Alastor said firmly.
“Not as long as I am his target.”
She whispered:
“I hate this.”
He smiled — painfully tender.
“I hate it as well.”
She pressed her forehead against his chest, gripping his coat desperately.
“Please don’t go.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of her hair — gentle, chaste, fatherly, trembling.
“I must.”
“That’s not fair,” she choked.
“No,” he said softly.
“It isn’t.”
The microphone whispered through the muted barrier — faint but audible only to them:
“…protecting her protects us all…
…this is the only path…
…he is afraid…
…he is certain…”
Amaris squeezed her eyes shut.
“Promise me you’ll come back.”
Alastor’s breath shivered.
Very slowly, he placed two fingers under her chin and raised her face to his.
“I have never lied to you,” he said.
“And I will not start now.”
A beat.
“But I cannot promise what lies beyond this deal.”
Her tears spilled over.
He wiped one away with his thumb.
Then he stepped back, letting the persona fall over him like a velvet curtain.
The smile sharpened.
The posture straightened.
The eyes gleamed with theatrical confidence.
The Radio Demon.
Her father was gone behind it.
He tipped his hat.
“Stay hidden, my dear.”
And with a bow, he vanished into the shadows —
— leaving Amaris trembling in the doorway, fists clenched, heart breaking, knowing he was walking willingly into Vox’s chains.