From ashen wings (rewrite to fit s2)

by SparkShatters

Summary:

Lillith thought her idea of creating a bait to save her daughter from the exorcist army aimed towards her would be enough. That she could stay in heaven if Adam first 'hunt' would include her child as part of prey.
And she did plan well except for one last mishap and alastor was forced to pick up her mess with her much unaware. Will it remain to be so or will something entail?
ps; the first chap is a calculation the last part of first chap is most important
enjoy!

Chapter 1

OK first of all base construction or whatever
Charlie is supposedly 200 yrs old.
Assume sloth ring goes 10 times slower than pride.
Pride follows same time as earth so
360 days ageing in pride or earth is equivalent to 36 yrs ageing rate in sloth. (the time however is the same
Charlie is noted by pride as 200 yrs old when instead by sloth ring 20
All hellborns are to be in other rings and only visit pride. Reason why visit pride is due to exorcists
So you age less but have more time.
Lucifer didn't want Charlie to be in pride so he allowed small visits and part of the palace were not affected by pride (went with sloth rings)
So if hazbin was in 2019 and according to other rings Charlie was 20 she would have been human born 1819
Alastor died in 1940
Charlie born in 1819
2019 - 7 =2012
Charlie was approximately 19 and 3/8 demon yrs old by 2012 when lilith left.
By 2019 would turn 20 demon yrs(200 in pride ringbut maturity 20 since ageing rate in there sloth ring slower than pride)
Look calculations are confusing don't think too hard.
. So Charlie has appearance of 13 yrs old kid even if approx 19
Would wait for 7 human years equivalent to 0.7 in demon of sloth ring but 7 in heaven.
Charlie used to visit during each extermination shooting fireworks once it was over.
Now to the story which starts on chapter 2..

Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Repaying a huge favor, only to end with more burden to shoulder

Summary:

After a long time following lilith serving her in order to see his mother alastor is given a big task enough to repay seemingly half of the debt he was in. And given the prospects he takes it but at what costs.

Notes:

Chaelie is mentality was that of 19 by 2012 when lilith left.. that would make sense.
After 2012 Charlie leaves sloth living in pride instead for 7 years so by 2019 hazbin hotel arrival she's 25 or 26 appriximately. Lilith did not anticipate that but Charlie was much more different than in the story so Adam believes it's a stand in.. If you want to understand read the chapter first.

It would be easy she said.It would be fun she said. Take care of the dummy who is barely responsive.
You simply have to protect and make it seem her death was caused by the angels when I give the signal, okay?
But during this time you have to stay visible around lucifer's palace who is away in the mortal realm to find an artifact he desperately lost she said.
No matter how much her voice was declared as silky and enchanting it grated his ears to the extent he almost felt as if a headache would come any time.
Yeah it would have been easy if he didn't have to stand visible outside during a fricking extermination!
He should have known better than to trust that hag.
There he was out in the open as the skies teared revealing angels descending in doves wings blazing
eyes like molten gold to rage upon to the unfortunate of which mostly to lowest levels of sinners.
All while the influential and the rich were busy revelling in their pain and the sorrows that came afterwards.
He had the right to think that she was a ‘hag’ since she was millenias older than him.his mama never like when he used
‘uncultured and uncivilised words’ but now his tongue threatened to let out the most vile representation of her of which the nicest would be that of ‘bitch’
His smile stilled and the only further sign of his fears was the increase in radio static which he forced to mute.

Alastor had just recently been in a fight with vox .anything to make it believable that he was now short of power.
Vox didn’t know the princess and his obscessive interest in him would draw away any suspicion he had of the form he was carrying thought
he doubted vox could do anything at this point with the severe beating that he received.
He did felt light though as much as he felt tired of the frustration he had cleared while beating the box head black and blue.
It was only when the horde of angels noticed him that she signaled him to start running.
Only then and why not earlier?! If possible he would have even given her the front seats instead of this whole shenanigan!

The air literally was vibrating with the wings of the exorcists and feathers fell like weapons .
The haunting screams of the unfortunate gave the warnings of a near to inescapable death sentence and
as much as alastor had heard of so many over his radio broadcast that of which came from these precise moment of the exorcist made him chilled to the bone.

The doll seemed to have a mind of her own at time gained reflexes from past memories buried deep or so far erased.
For a heartbeat , it seemed her gaze sharpened –recognition flickering like a match – before dulling back into that porcelain emptiness.
By the looks of it she had been a fighter before lilith used her body as dummy.
And that at least alastor was grateful for as he threw her high while he slid below the hurled vehicle.
Which was supposedly destined to crush them before catching her again as she landed directly in his arms her claws digging in his back as she looked behind at the tumbling vehicle.

Now one might think alastor could very much... well drop the dummy and run off right??
Bzzt wrong!If he dropped her like that THEY would think something was amiss
and second he had to make it seem she died in the hands of the exorcists not anything else.
You see lilith bargained her right to get in heaven by two things.
One not to do anything against heaven during her stay while she obeys Adam and second make her daughter a huntable sinner (blah who am I kidding? ', thought alastor grabbing the dummy harder, ' a prey in better terms') in the limited exorcist time in hell?! Luckily Adam had only seen goth Charlie magne so that was a plus but still?!
Alastor had only been there to fulfill his duty.

When he called upon the voices of the ancient ones, he had not expected Rosie to be the one greeting him —
smiling like a receptionist at a front desk, balancing ledgers of souls as easily as if she were cashing in on fate itself.
She was, as always, making two deals at once: one informal with him on base of favors, one contracting him to Lilith.
Truth be told, there had been little need for deals back then. His death — that pitiful mockery of an ending —
had been enough to earn him infamy on Earth and power in Hell. The number of souls he’d taken made him strong, yes, but their definition of strength was not the same as Rosie’s.
To her, power was measured in how long you’re remembered, not in how loud you roar.
He owed her much.

When Lilith’s punishments had threatened to shatter what little sanity he had left, it was Rosie who mediated —
softening the Queen’s wrath, turning torment into mere correction. Without her, he doubted he would still have the wit or will to play his charming little games.

He was buried so deep in that memory that he almost didn’t notice the digging of claws into his arm —
her subtle signal of danger ahead. The creature beside him, “she,” was no ordinary demon, but one of Lilith’s little experiments — her doll, her decoy.
Lilith needed Adam fooled long enough to earn her passage to Heaven, and the ruse required a convincing imitation.
The latest photographs had shown the puppet gazing out a window, feigning the melancholy of a woman with a soul. It had almost worked —
until, weeks before the Extermination, the doll had begun to feel. Lilith was livid; Lucifer, unbothered. His rare visits to check on Charlie ended with curt dismissals to Adam:
“She’s fine.”
“None of your concern.”
“Not your problem.”

Lilith’s promises to Adam meant little. Her wrath toward Alastor, however, was very real. Her “lessons” were nothing short of sadistic delight.
Every order, every humiliation, was meant to remind him of his servitude — to grind his pride into obedience. He learned quickly that when she said jump, the only safe answer was how high?
Rosie had shown him how to survive that. How to endure the fire without screaming.
How to bend, not break.She had witnessed many before him so she knew what Lilith expected from her ‘ideal pet’
And for that, he owed her dearly — a debt she collected not through cruelty, but with quiet insistence.
Still, it gnawed at him. To owe anyone anything — especially her — was a thorn in his side.
Yet, beneath that irritation was something he would never admit aloud: a strange comfort.
After a while Rosie’s way of looking at him had changed. He didn’t know it it was better or worse.
Rosie did not just pity him; she saw him. She had looked into the madness that made him and, instead of recoiling, sighed like an exhausted aunt faced with an unruly nephew.

He hated that.

He hated how her patience disarmed him.

But when she smiled — soft and knowing — he almost believed that in this pit of monsters, she was the closest thing he’d ever have to family.
But sometimes the treatment he faced … it was… just too much .
His rage and insecurity started to show on how he treated the ex overlord in his grasp.
it wasn’t much at first such as damaging his merchandise and pulling the feathers from his wings but afterwards it escalated to a level he never though he would have gone to.
Husker became his trouble's scapegoat. Well only nagging, lowering the other's status and making him his pet.
Then it had escalated to yanking his feathers and fur for dummies as 'fun'.
And by the time he had realised he had repeated the action of his master the damage was already done. Husk had hissed at him in warning showing he had long crossed the line and the only thing al could do was to show husker his place then leave him with couple of tasks of unlimited due dates before he distanced himself as far away as possible. But back to the story...

Alastor had unconsciously run in a back alley where exorcists had long visited there were no soul and no witness whatsoever.
That part of the pentagram had not yet been affected by vox's influence.Hah! Small mercies.
The few others that managed to catch up were lagging behind but could clearly see them. Alastor cursed.
Lilith could have at least given more of his OWN power it was legitimately his!
As the lance pierced the dummy she let out a scream as it drove into her spleen through the last ribs and cut exited her liver just below the ribcage.
Even if it may have avoided the stomach the damage was serious enough to lead to death.
The lance also cut deep, well below his heart and alastor had been unable to escape still holding tight to the body tired and taken by surprise by the scream as if made him have flashbacks of a certain time before he broke the lance and teleported it out. Flashbacks of That time which resulted to his first steps of becoming the renowned radio demon.

The clock struck and in his daze as he collapsed he heard the exterminator informing someone.
They left the angel with a broken horn smiling at alastor while his blood fell on the dummy.
How much they underestimated his healing among other things. Shadows surrounded them as soon as the angels left.
As he fell outside the ring he noticed his power was flowing back more than enough.
Lilith has finally gone to heaven he could be free well as much as he could be.
As his blood coagulated it turned golden a hidden reminder of the path he had nearly completed. Dizzy tired he fell asleep assured he would wake up to see another day.
He did wake up but with with a little nasty surprise.
He didn't know what to do but he already knew he internally had already taken up the new task to the bundle that presented itself exposed to the dangers of the world underneath hell's moon.
Amaris little of at least a bit more than 1 year old June the 4th 2012 would be her date of birth his little fawn.

Notes:

Well why Amaris?
In Spanish it means child of the moon and in Hebrew given by God.
Amaris body was stolen from heavens killed by lilith as she attempted, unaware of her status,to kill lilith. From then lilith's plan began. More of an escape seeing how vox of all sinners was affected from her whispers.
The angel was a new recruit and to excuse lilith Adam stated the angel had turned against her fellow comrades.
Amaris will not remember her past wiped off clean and corrupted.
Her origin whether heaven born or not is still unknown but she did live for quite a time in heaven.
Fawn? By magic alastor's blood was accepted healing her with his excess energy in the process gaining some of his characteristics. Avoid too much thinking this is fiction. If wbc are not removed even if you have same blood type you would most likely end more damaged than healed. Well I think since it's a wonder how some survived through direct blood transfusion in the past.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Adaptation to a new system of life

Summary:

Alastor meets Rosie who gets mad at him. But it went better than supposed

Damaged in battle pride broken alastor had resigned to live on the outskirts of
pentagram in the unclaimed territories between the overlords far from the vees nearer to cannibal city.
As much as he detested he needed amaris to be on the same level as her peers weather it be in being sociable or educated in the various fields.
He mostly took care of that problem and as assessment on her sociability made her visit cannibal town often.
Hiding his identity however meant him to hide his striking features namely his crimson hue ,the sharp grin and that devilish charm of his that made him infamous
.
He should be grateful for that he guessed since he now could put on more comfortable large clothes. He especially loved 'hoodies' or whatever those large clothes with cap together with them were named .He loved Magician or assasin style clothes the most. The amount of hidden pockets you could find how interesting it was to find one especially when you thought you knew it all but then found another. No longer was he restricted to that suit of his.

Shape-shifting was a god send ability which he had always been grateful for. Hey would you know it short ponytails went extremely went for him.
But there was something wrong.

He had kept his smile on for so long that he his face had forgotten any other expressions –it was most certainly tragic.
The first time he had used black hair die on removing his hair had turned a horrific green and he was very much shocked of it. (I only saw it in a cartoon once I never tried dye). But after tutorials from someone he owed whom he made him swear never to tell he got good at it.
That was very much scary thank you! It would come in handy at a later time and he instead opted the use of henna with indigo.
(It turned dark brown to soft black and he liked it better than that monstrosity).
Amaris even if a quiet child was adventurous so his life was filled with entertainment and alastor was happy of how it currently was.

When people had met him most had wanted to jump on him only to meet their end by wind blades.
One of the skills he barely used as he gained control over radio because of his ears but once it was mastered a force to be reconed.
He did know the use of technology.Few were not vee-made but were available from other rings also from Carmillia's territory.
Having been close friend to vox before learning how it worked hacking was one of the skills he gained. Stupid vox when he betrayed their friendship for more power in hopes of him being below vox's thumb.

... Supposedly moody eyes and dark demeanor was attractive?
They saw the radio demon as attractive more than scary.
When did his reputation become so awful?

Al opted round glasses with a chain and freckles on his cheeks and dark brown hair.
But as always nothing could escape Rosie 's eyes when she saw him 2 years after his disappearance and thus he had to visit her to quell her anger.

By then amaris was already 3 but by appearance and behaviour 5 yrs old.
She grew strangely fast for her age alastor deciding that her body was catching up to the age
she was supposed to be before she was pierced that of a 19 yr old but recently slowed down.

The vees barely visited cannibal town and work as librarian would be better preferred and bring less attention than being rosie's closest Co worker.
Amaris was as strange as of how she came to be.
AS much as she came from an older body and showed a calm demeanor she was also …
quite the bubbling happy ball of energy you would expect from children her age.
They were strange and quite the sweet that would stuck to your teeth with the chance of giving you dental caries.
his hobby long time gone as he dissapered from the sights of many he had many , oh so many moments with her especially the time when he used ‘ that ‘word:

“Papa ,look !I caught it !”
He froze at the mention of ‘papa’ for it never ever came into teaching her that word .
Curious he tilted his head before seeing the butterfly fluttering wildly in her hands.
He remembered the amusement and the smile that normally barely existed gracing his lips

“a shame, moonlight .you’ve captured the only creature in this dreadful place still capable of joy”
He saw the conflict of emotions on Amaris face conflicted

“Will joy stay if …if I keep it close to me then?”
Somehow the comment struck a cord deep inside him .
his mama had been his true joy ,his only true support and she took that with her when she left for heaven.
How long had it been since then that he had tried to hold on to something bright? he almost envied her simplicity.

“no my dear” he said softly “joy is rather like the sound of radio – beautiful when free unbearable when caged .
you can hold it for a moment ,but the static soon eats away the melody.
She frowed ,looking down at her now trembling hands

“So it I let it go, it’ll sing again?”

“indeed.and you will hear it – just from afar.”

She did eventually let go though she did mutter afterwards that it being closer - like papa -was way better much to his amusement and confusion.
He was after all the fearsome radio demon.But as much as he hated the feeling of becoming soft he had come to accept that she was growing on him.

Amaris had that strange ability to make people treat her better maybe due to her angelic origins and al was glad it worked on Rosie who initially was peeved.
Well it was replaced by fear when he stated he fell into holy arms and by miracle the body on an angel got contaminated with his resulting in the little ball of energy.
Rosie had long passed the many trials he had tested her with he could trust her with amaris.
She disapproved amaris being taught how to kill but in this world true friendship was a rare gift and you had to make use of what you had unlike a certain well protected obvious princess.
Even if someone was like him she should always be on guard until she saw the green light: a sequence of flicker of ears, sudden appearance of radio eye...
Even then she should send hers to which he should reciprocate. "moonlight" was enough to make many cringe but it would be effective.
............
The moment Rosie had opened her arms out wide alastor was unsure of how to act so did as normal.
"Alastor! "
"Rosie darling!"

Only for an arm to wrap around his head and dunk him as he was stomped at the junction of his foot and hoof which by the way hurt.
"Don't you darling me not after pulling that stunt of dissapearing for 2 full years
without telling me anything about it.You think you can just waltz back in?." Rosie threatened al with her finger which looked very enticing at the moment as he stiffed a yowl

Alastor muttered a few curses holding his leg of the stomped foot
"Where are my manners", sighed alastor, gesturing towards the fawn hiding behind him
His mood was already spoiled by now. He mentioned the fawn looking girl closer "amaris meet Rosie your god mother"
The look Rosie gave was so priceless alastor’s shadow made sure to capture the moment.Small joys made the pain worth it.
.........
But for Rosie who was known as an overlord there was little need to be cautious.
Who would dare replicate her especially when she mostly stayed in her territory.
For her no checking was required amaris had to be taught each individual had their own subconscious manners.
And Rosie would be the first to be used as test. 😈

Chapter 4: Chapter 4: I'm still watching.

Notes:

A bit out of norm a seemingly alastor /husk I'm not even sure myself. It's more of insecurity at this point.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Husker was a gambler, an overlord but above all he was a sinner with his heart on his sleeve to those he cared.

Sure alastor was a jerk, a brat even to an extent his torturer but alastor knew the limit especially when husk displayed it.
And he knew there was a reason for alastor acting so violent.
He's seen the worst in part of his life how the chain of violence was passed from one to the other escially down the chain of command.

Alastor made husker take care of the minions he had.
Alastor only had deals involving individuals doing his job and then carry on their normal work.
It was better to side with the radio demon than any other overlord apart Carmillia.
Sure you had a leash round your neck but as long as you did what he asked you were fine that is if you were one of his good pets.
no overlord could put their claim over you.
The rest were abstained, cursed turned obedient and if they couldn't their soul energy were used to supply power to alastor's puppets and they were hung in the darkness screaming as their power was slowly and painfully ripped. That's where al overlords stayed having lost their sanity slowly fading into nothingness as their power and ability completely turned to become Al's.

' Alastor didn't die' husk thought feeling the leash around him snug around his neck. So where the f**K was he?
The wait lasted 2 years tasks assigned by Al's shadow.
Contrary to belief al was extremely rich having created the shadow government.
Specialised in spying it trained individual bound to the cause to a wide amount of knowledge.
Self defence wide use of weapons ranging from huge ones to wires.finance languages.. They also loaned money to those they beleive could pay.
If they failed it was considered as investment and developed the field that one was good at before requesting loads of tasks as payments which they themselves profited from.

Al would never show his connection between the shadow government arm dealing and himself as boss of the whole corporation.
None tried to escape since all of them were assured they would be able to pay.
And once they were gone the place they used to visit would magically dissappear.
Many have tried to hunt for it but to no avail and if they worked under it no spell or anything whatsoever could force them to say.
Shadow government was not restricted to one ring. But they mostly targeted sinners unchained and whom their crime was justified by revenge or by sudden wrong choices. Those who didn't go too deep.

And so if husk could not find said government he would create a mess and that he did.
Fight at bars, overdrinking, messing with vox even to the extent of losing a fight
The alley behind the club pulsed with neon, pink and blue light dripping down the wet brick like blood and candy.
The smell of liquor, smoke, and ozone tangled in the air. Husk stumbled out of the side door, his fur matted, shirt half-buttoned, wings twitching unevenly.
He’d lost another fight.

...Or maybe he’d started it. He couldn’t tell anymore.
“You look like roadkill, pussycat.”
The voice cut through the hum — sharp, smug, familiar.
Husk groaned. “Of course it’s you.”

Vox stood by the neon sign, the electric glow painting his edges in static blue. He was immaculate as always
— white suit spotless, screen-face flickering with amusement and contempt.
Behind him, Valentino leaned against the wall, smoking lazily, the red tip of his cigarette pulsing like an eye.
“Well, well,” Vox said, grinning. “If it isn’t the Radio Demon’s pet. Didn’t think I’d ever see you like this — drunk, useless, and crawling out of a dive bar.”
Husk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What do you want, Vox?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Vox waved dismissively, static crackling across his fingertips.

“Just thought I’d check if you’d finally ditched the leash. But no…” His eyes flickered to the faint sigil around Husk’s neck
— a barely visible shimmer of Alastor’s magic. “Still property, huh? Even without your master.”
“Watch it,” Husk growled, wings flaring slightly.

Valentino chuckled, voice slick as oil. “Ain’t he cute when he pretends he’s still got claws?”
Husk’s tail lashed. “You wanna test that theory, Valentine?”
Val flicked ash at his feet, smirking. “Please. You wouldn’t last two minutes, sugar.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Vox stepped closer, the hum of static building in the air.
The smell of ozone burned Husk’s nose. “You know, for a minute, I thought you’d finally stopped waiting for that creepy bastard to crawl back. Guess old habits die hard, huh?”
“He ain’t dead.”
The words came out steady — too steady. Husk’s eyes burned red for a heartbeat.

Vox’s grin widened, glitching slightly. “That so? You sure about that, kitty? Or are you just too pathetic to admit he left you behind like trash?”
Husk lurched forward, claws out — but his swing was sloppy, slowed by booze. Vox sidestepped easily, laughter booming through the alley, bouncing off the metal walls.
“Oh, that’s adorable! Still loyal after all this time. You really are the saddest little stray in Hell.”
Husk stumbled, panting, eyes clouded with fury. “Say that again—”

Valentino’s hand landed on Vox’s shoulder, nails tapping against the fabric in lazy rhythm.
“C’mon, baby. You’re gonna break him. Not that it ain’t fun to watch.”
Vox clicked his tongue, stepping back. His screen flashed a distorted heart before cutting to static.
“He’s already broken.” He looked Husk up and down with theatrical disgust. “You stink of cheap liquor and desperation. Honestly, you’re not even worth the effort.”
He straightened his suit, turned on his heel. “Go clean yourself up, Husker. You’re making Hell look bad.”

“You call me pathetic for waiting. Funny — you’ve been waiting your whole life for people to clap.
I waited for someone who actually gave a damn.” Husk called out uncaring of the consequences
.Fuck him for playing the guilt trip but at least he would score one point if he could

Vox stilled amusement slipping into something of shame .He couldn’t appreciate for long as Valentino’s goon moved forwards giving him a quick shove .
As the two walked off, Valentino glanced back once, eyes glowing faintly under the neon.
“If you ever get tired of missing your ghost, sugar, you know where to find me.”
“Go to hell,” Husk rasped.
Val smirked. “Already there.”
They vanished around the corner, laughter echoing — bright, cruel, electric.
Husk slumped against the wall, breathing hard. His hands trembled as he lit another cigarette. The neon above him flickered, buzzing like a dying radio.
He exhaled smoke through his teeth. “You ain’t dead,” he muttered to the empty air. “You wouldn’t just… disappear like that.”
But even his own voice didn’t sound convinced.
.
.
.
.
Husk growled as he kicked a can from the top of a sky scraper.
He wind bit sharp waking him a bit from his drunk state as the neon lights bled into the night like spilled liquor..
He stood on the edge looking down ,wings twitching restlessly. Even at night evil doesn’t rest.
It was much quieter when alastor was around before his showdown with vox.It plummeted into the glow.dissapearing long before it hit the ground
“Two damn years …” he muttered ,voice rough from whiskey and too many nights alone.”You up and vanish without a damn word.I’m done with this shit.Fucki’ Al – show me a sign or stay dead”

Silence
Then-

"You thought what my furry friend?"
The voice split the air like a cheerful crack in reality. Husk froze.
The sound carried that familiar old-time crackle – warmth and distortion blended like a record too old to play
He turned ,heart hammering.
And there he was.
Alastor stood beneath the flickering billboard , his crimson suit pristine ,his grin carved wide and bright .His shadow flickered and danced on the wall behind him ,alive with its own rhythm

"You- ‘Husk’s fur bristled , tail puffing .”Two years ,where the hell were you?”

"Why, taking a well earned sabbatical ,of course!” As the showman that he truly was ,he spread his arms wide not missing a single beat to who he was meant to be.” Even demons deserve a holiday ,don’t you think?A chance to recharge , rewire and perhaps indulge in a little light mayhem ~!"
"Don't screw with me ,Al.“ Husk ears flattened, voice low. “You just vanished. .No sign .Not even a single new broadcast except those old tapes that some sinners ask for ,letting your shadow run the show – I thought…”He bit off the rest breath shaky .” You knew how worried I was”
For a long moment ,there was only the hum of the city and the faint static crawling in the air between them.
Then Alastor’s grin faltered – just barely , a fraction of a second, but Husk saw it .The static softened ,replaced by something quieter.
“My , my ,” Alastor said ,voice slipping to something almost normal.”Since when did my dear husk get so sentimental?”
“Since my boss ghosted me for 2 years” he muttered in return “ D’ont act like I didn’t matter.”
“Perish the thought !” Alastor’s smile returned , smaller ,gentler.He took a few steps forward, his cane tapping lightly against the roof.”Come now,my prickly little feline. I assure you , I am quite touched by your concern”
“Yeah, yeah don’t get used to it”
“Hmm , still,” Alastor mused ,halting a step away .”If you must know – I wasn’t exactly at liberty to send postcards.Some … obligations required my attention.”
“Obligations , my ass.” Husk scoffed , eyes narrowing .”You look fine.Not a scratch.”
“Why, thank you for noticing!”

Husk growled, fists curling. “You think this is funny? You left me hanging, Al! I thought— I thought you were gone. For good this time.”

The air went still. Alastor tilted his head. His smile softened again, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
“Come here, old sport.”
Husk hesitated. “What—?”
“My arms are feeling rather heavy, and I believe you can help me remedy that.”
“…You’re such a weirdo,” Husk grumbled, but stepped closer all the same.
Alastor’s laugh was quieter than usual — still bright, but lacking its usual edge.
He opened his arms, and Husk found himself pulled in before he could second-guess it.
The demon’s grip was strong, warm, steady. Static buzzed faintly through his fur, a low hum that felt almost like a heartbeat.
“There now,” Alastor murmured, his voice closer to human than radio.
“You’ve gone and worked yourself to exhaustion. Honestly, Husk — what would you do without me?”
“Drink more,” Husk mumbled into his chest.
A small laugh. “Fair enough.”

They stood there in the glow of the billboard, neither speaking for a while.
“Just… don’t leave again,” Husk muttered finally. “Not without saying something. I can’t—”
A clawed hand rose, scratching behind his ear — careful, deliberate. The static almost faded entirely.
“No promises,” Alastor said softly. “But I’ll do my best not to make a habit of it.”
Husk grumbled, but didn’t move away. His tail flicked once before stilling.
“Good,” he said, eyes closing. “You’re a pain in my ass, Al.”
“And you, my dear Husk, are delightfully dramatic.”
“…Shut up.”
Alastor’s chuckle rumbled low in his chest. “As you wish, old sport.”
By the time Husk drifted off, Alastor’s usual hum of static had quieted into silence.

When Husk woke, the city was quiet again.
A pack of cards sat neatly on the table, fresh and gleaming with faint red markings.
Beside them lay a note — Alastor’s elegant handwriting, looping and precise:
For your next hand, my friend. You’ve earned it.
The faintest trace of static lingered in the air.

Notes:

Alastor cannot give an explanation..
Lilith could at any moment summon him even if she was in heaven he knew she could. Alastor had to rush his training with amaris since he was unsure when he would have the time again. He does leave amaris to Rosie and later others as he teaches her about shape shifting.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Falling deeper

Summary:

Lilith finally summons alastor finding a loophole in heaven from an abandoned portal in a private archive. She had enough of Adam ordering her around and she wasn't done with gaslight ING alastor for her choices.

Alastor had enjoyed three good years of freedom from Lilith’s control.
Three blissful years of breathing without chains, of laughter untainted by her voice.
He knew he was abusing the gift — lounging about, playing at peace — but could you really blame him?
After decades of servitude, even idleness felt like rebellion.

A single letter every three months was enough to keep Husk in line.
Niffty still hovered about, the only servant he truly kept close. Her loyalty was harmless — endearing, even.
Strange little creature that she was, Alastor never held her past against her.

Her story was one he pitied.
A young woman crushed under the weight of her family’s demands, torn between tradition and freedom and then forced in encampment due to incident of pearl harbor until she snapped —
murder born of madness. Panic led her to bury the bodies beneath her own floorboards.
When they found her, they didn’t see a victim; they saw a monster.
If you asked Alastor, she should’ve been sent to Heaven. Poor girl never had a chance.

One thing he was grateful for — Lilith hadn’t summoned him while he was near Amaris.
If she had, everything he’d done to protect her would’ve turned to dust.
The child was growing fast, aging from six to seven within a year, her strange biology finally slowing.
She was old enough to survive without him now, or so he told himself.
________________________________________
“I see you’ve been enjoying yourself, dear.”
Lilith’s voice slithered through the air before the pain came — a sharp yank at his hair dragging his face close to hers.
“Who told you you could rest while I’m toiling to save us from the Exorcists?” Her eyes flared. “Our plan failed.”
Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes widened a fraction.
“No,” he countered lightly. “We made your daughter huntable during the extermination. That was the plan.”
“Apparently,” she hissed, “the damage that doll received was enough to kill it outright. And Adam found out Charlie still lives.”
“We can—”
“Enough!” Her hand struck the air like a whip. “I don’t need your input. I’ll fix it. But you, Alastor… you’ll pay for your negligence.”
________________________________________

When he woke, he was back in her chamber — broken, bloodied, his mind fogged.
The faint glow of a scroll illuminated her face, serene and unreadable, as though she hadn’t just flayed him alive.
Even his regenerative powers struggled against angelic wounds.
Recovery demanded twelve hours of sleep each day for a full year — a luxury he despised.

“Pack your things,” Lilith said coolly, not looking up. “Break your ties. You’re staying with me.”
“…Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I’ve found a way to keep you close without arousing suspicion.
Oh — and the procedure will be extremely painful. Prepare yourself.”
He left through the portal without a word. Prepare himself? As if he could.
He had too many secrets to guard. Painkillers hadn’t worked on him in years — not after what she’d done to dull his limits.
________________________________________

He left Rosie only a letter: a brief apology, instructions to send out messages every three months,
and a promise he might never keep. Husk wouldn’t notice for a while, and Amaris… she’d miss him, his sweet moonlight.
He’d tried to push her away, but the child clung to him like gravity itself.
He could only pray Lilith wouldn’t discover her.

When she finally came for him, Rosie was already battering down his door —
her demonic form flaring in fury. He hadn’t expected what awaited him beyond the portal.
There, on the marble floor, lay a pair of wings — white, bloodied, and freshly torn.
Extermination Day had ended.

“Adam punished one of his angels,” Lilith said matter-of-factly, inspecting the feathers.
“Cast her out and killed her. Lute’s done it before, you know. Cruel little thing. But—” her smile grew sharp, “—I just happen to need these.”

Alastor felt the world tilt. “My… back?” His voice cracked with disbelief, even as he whispered a spell beneath his breath — protective, subtle, meant to hide what already lay beneath his skin.
“Yes, your back,” she replied coldly.
“Don’t tell me you’ve grown stupid during your vacation. Here— let me help you.”
His chain manifested from thin air, coiling around his throat and dragging him forward until he collapsed in her lap.
The pressure made it impossible to breathe.

Then came the pain.
It started as smothering fire — then turned to a blast.
The wings pressed into his shoulder blades, tearing through flesh and bone, fusing with what already hid there.
He could taste iron, bile, and divine ash. His own wings, once and still concealed given through redemption’s fragile grace, flared beneath the intrusion — the two sets merging, corrupting, sealing his secret under a scream he refused to give.
When it was over, he fell to the ground in a pool of blood and feathers.

“As you adapt,” Lilith said calmly, “you’ll join the newcomers’ training in Heaven. Angelic powers will come to you naturally, in time.
I’ve arranged everything. You will report to me — and only me.”
Alastor worked his jaw slowly, forcing his smile back into place though nausea clawed at his throat.
He bows slightly, his grin never faltering.

“Ah, my gracious benefactress — were it not for you, I’d scarcely remember what freedom even felt like!
Still, if I may make a single, tiny request — allow me to wander, just once a month, through the city’s night.
Think of it as enrichment for your loyal hound — after all, even beasts grow dull if kept too long on a leash.”
“My Alastor .You make obedience sound like a performance”
“Why ,my dear lady – isn’t it?” He replied smile widening

Lilith’s laugh echoed through the chamber — sharp, delighted, cruel.
“Aaah, Alastor. You really are refreshing. Very well. Once a month. But tell no one what you are now or where you are now living. Not your friends. Not even your little pet.”
And so, another deal was struck.
He had only to endure a little longer — and perhaps, this time, the strings of fate would finally be his to pull.

Notes:

It takes reference to what al sang. Apparently it's only when lilith at least states she finds it enough that he will no longer be her servant but she is as obstinate as alastor

Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Getting used to new conditions

Summary:

Alastor now entered heaven. In heaven his name was simply altruist the loner whose expression went with his Colour and attire. Nothing could go wrong right?

Alastor came to recognize his angelic powers on the 15th week of the lesson.
Apparently his professor got impatient of how much he was lagging behind.
Well he had to join on the 8th week after his wings had molted gaining a design similar to husk bit white on top as if dripping in a pool of red.
Bottom feathers were half black followed by a relatively thin line bright red like lava while the feathers just above it were grey.
From close his wings looked like burning charcoal. It somehow looked like that of a Minerva owl going well with the glasses he wore.
His hair color had been changed..white similar to that of his suit.

He didn't notice the red tiny streaks at first not until that sorry of an excuse forced out his power.
It was strange and as alastor was busy putting his angelic power at bay that annoying teacher was clucking like a hen about how rare it was and that he had been blessed by the almighty.
"leave me in peace you buffon and help me control my power for lord's sake"
"accept your power! sweetheart embrace it"

Alastor shuddered at the name he'd been given shoving the tutor far away from him before exiting through the window despite the wordings of pleads and threats of his behavior.
"Already done that you rambling idiot! Ugh I need to leave. Pauvre cretin" he said slamming the window in the teacher's face knocking him out which immensely pleased him.

Alastor fled to the rooftop migraine building up. Heaven was fine but sometimes the inhabitant were like ugh, as if they were high.
There were some like him sure and they mostly stuck to libraries.
He surprised a few individual bursting into the Plaza ordering some apple cider. Just his luck someone had to hit him and cause some to fall on his clothes.
"Watch out!"
A little too late to say don’t you think?

On reflex he managed to save both the person and the cup with what remained of the drink
He inhaled a deep breath trying to calm down his nerves before looking down at the angel.
Her wings were in terrible state. Short hair style and wide open eyes. Surprise was her expression as she stared at alastor's face.
Clapping was heard around them. Irritated alastor covered them both with his 2 wings to muffle the noise. Compared to many his wings were wide similar to husker's. His activated powers set a soft glow from his wings as he cast a look at the female

He inhaled a deep breath ,trying to calm his nerve before looking down at the angel.Below him, the other angel froze.
Short hair stuck out at odd angles, eyes wide as she took in the sight of his wings.
He almost cringed at their state – feathers uneven, dulled at the tips as though she hadn’t cared for them in weeks.
Something about her stance—too stiff, too tense—made him narrow his eyes. Not wanting to converse or wanting to be alone…possibly , he thought, tilting his head.

"Are you all right?miss?.."his voice was calm, controlled, but his sharp gaze swept over her once more like a quiet assessment …especially her wings.
The angel snapped from her stance pushing herself away from him before answering crossing her arms
"vagatha. name's vaggie"
"Altruist "with that he retracted his wings.”an honor”

Vaggie looked as if she wanted to say more but hesitated, caught between awe and confusion.
Alastor gave a small shrug, sipping what was left of his cider.
He had saved quite a lot actually.Not the same compared to the large glass of whisky that he needed to drown his emotions since heaven forbid such large quantities …but still.
Her wing edges were in small fast quivers and that was enough for him to assume he had to leave her alone.

He selected a quiet vacant area wiping the stains as he heard patter of feet coming his way.
" why did you leave so suddenly"
"was there something more to say?"
"no... But how you acted was not normal!"
"You didn't want to speak. your body spoke for you deer"Alastor muttered ears flickling pointing at her arms
" I.. You.. Ugh!! "vaggie exclaimed exasperated sitting opposite to him.

Alastor let the angel fume as he drank the juice.
She reminded him of husker. She seemed fun to rile up.
After a while she calmed down looking at her wings.
" Something wrong? "
" what's wrong with your wings?"
"I just accessed my powers. An additional feature I'm learning to control." alastor hummed scrolling on his phone.
"Just came to heaven wouldn't mind a few tips about the place" alastor added seeing the relieved expression on vagatha's face.
She seemed good company and alastor wasted a few minutes before leaving.
Vagatha seemed disappointed until alastor explained why.
"I'm going to face the music now. Have a great day."
Alastor concluded
"Let's meet again"
.. Yeah... No!

Alastor didn't know why or even how but she managed to always find him. He finally gave up trying to oust her and simply went along.

Aramis wasn’t happy when they met again after a month.
The new conditions of her stay left her restless—Rosie’s house felt safe, yes, but also stifling.
Still, when Alastor explained that she could finally train her angelic side, the shift in her was instant.
Her smile alone was enough to make him forget his own worries for a moment.

Nights became their refuge. They trained in secret, near the vault where angelic weapons lay hidden.
Alastor was always cautious, eyes flicking to the heavens as if afraid Lucifer himself might sense the hum of divine energy
Even it it ended being mixed with the angelic weapons..
“Keep your voice low,” he’d remind her. “And don’t ever use your power without your blade.”

Aramis would grin, spinning the weapon with practiced ease.
“You worry too much. Rosie says stress makes one’s feathers fall out. She often says it to Husk”

She had learned that teasing tone from Rosie, too—the same tendency to tug at sleeves, to lean too close when speaking, to grab a hand when excited.
It was endearing and infuriating all at once. Sometimes, when Alastor turned sharply away from her bright affection, she’d only laugh and call him “old man.”
Yet for all her warmth, there was something uncanny about her glow—perhaps the trace of Magne blood, perhaps the accelerated aging that had stolen years she’d never lived. When she smiled, the air itself seemed lighter.

“I can feel it, you know,” Aramis said one night, pressing a palm to her chest. “Something trying to wake up in me.”
Alastor paused mid-step, ears flicking. “Your power again?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s… a sound. Like a note just beneath my heartbeat. It hums when I breathe.”
“A melody?”

Her eyes brightened. “Yes! That’s the word. I think it’s mine.”
For a moment, a faint tone rippled through the air — low, luminous, impossible to tell if it was real or imagined.
Alastor blinked, unsettled, but said nothing. She smiled, that radiant, careless smile of hers. Aconduit of sorts affected to her emotions and intent.
“It’s been asleep for so long,” she whispered. “Maybe it’s finally listening back.”
“Keep it asleep until you’re ready,” Alastor said softly, voice steady but low.
Aramis blinked, the faint hum under her ribs quieting. “Why? What’s there to be afraid of?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted past her, toward the dim light pooling across the training hall.
“You already know your origins,” he said at last. “Lilith crafted you to mimic Charlie—to fake her death if needed. You weren’t meant to live.”
She frowned. “But I do.”
“You do,” he murmured. “Because my blood—spilled where it shouldn’t have—stained the vessel. It changed you. Woke something that wasn’t supposed to wake.”
The silence that followed was thick, almost holy. Aramis stared at her hands, at the faint red shimmer beneath her skin. “Then I shouldn’t exist.”
Alastor’s ears flicked. “Not in their eyes. Down there, Lucifer as much as I fear… would call it filth—a mockery of his bloodline. And Heaven…Lilith…Or even the worst possible scums that reside in Hell”
He gave a mirthless smile. “They’d dissect you to find out how you exist.”
Her throat tightened. The melody within her chest trembled, aching to rise. “So what do I do?”
“Hide it,” he said simply. “Hide what you are until the world’s ready—or until you are.”

She drew a long breath, forcing the glow to fade from her skin. “Then I’ll keep it asleep,” she whispered. “For now.”
Alastor watched the light die in her chest, a flicker of guilt crossing his expression.
“Good,” he said, though his voice was softer than before. “Sleep, little melody. Just… not forever.”

 

She nodded, though her eyes still burned with the kind of hope that scared him most.
Outside, Charlie wandered the streets near the Vees’ district, unaware that a small spark of her own magic—mixed by accident and miracle—was learning to shine in secret.

 

And then 9 months later vaggie went missing.
That was just after alastor had for the First time groomed vagatha's wings.
Alastor became worried. Lilith punishments and warnings were not enough to stop him from searching.
By now he had been appointed as a trustable worker of the heaven library reading as much as he could and providing minimal information to lilith queries enough for her to be satisfied.

At the end of another year he found vaggie been left in hell. The 6th year began. Alastor was tiredly searching through documents sipping coffee when he heard a voice he long thought he had forgotten
"Al.. Is that you my little fawn"
He stilled mug halfway to his lips thankfully hiding his features before sighing setting it down looking at the doe eyes of the lady.
"Name's altruist short form: al. What can I do for you?"
"is that your only name... ? Not alastor? "the lady implore hands brought together in the form of a plea
"no.. so far I don't recall all of my name or any events before my death. According to the book my name is al altruist. Is there anything I can help you with?"alastor kept a calm face as his heart clenched tightly
It was sad but his stay was meant to be temporary. He could not reveal anything even if he wanted to.
" N-no. Excuse me! "

Alastor looked bewildered at his coworker who simply shrugged.
He kept playing his part. He had to even when he saw tears trailing down her face.
He kept his face intact, even as a silent strorm raged inside him.

He did know it was all the work of lilith. He chose the place he was meant to work as one where people would miss at a first glance.
And truthfully if his mom did visit libraries it was for new recipes and other diverse topics not about books like 'the history of heavens', or 'celestial throughout history'or even' ancient languages through the ages' and 'the complex relation between existence creation and mathematics' '
All that confirmed Al's hypothesis was the pleased look on lilith face and her praises of being an obedient pet the moment he entered the house where they resided and shared.

In the middle of the 6th year when alastor thought he had somehow found a norm between his interaction with heavens and lilith nightly activities of researching and drilling alastor for answers his world came crashing down on him. Alastor stepped into the grand library hall, a cavernous space that seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction. Rows of towering bookshelves loomed like ancient sentinels, their dark wood polished to a gleam under flickering, enchanted chandeliers.
The air was thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and a faint trace of magic lingering around the forbidden tomes in the restricted section.
The quiet hum of whispers and rustling pages was occasionally broken by the soft flutter of wings or the distant echo of footsteps.
Yet, amid this serenity, Alastor felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck—a thousand eyes seemed to bore into him from the shadows, their silent disapproval palpable. Some angels cast sneering glances, their expressions cold and judgmental, clearly displeased with his presence.

Unfazed, Alastor selected a few books from a nearby shelf, his calm demeanor masking the flicker of annoyance within.
These were his sanctuaries—his mental refreshers amid the chaos of his nightly research and Lilith's endless interrogations. He was used to their scrutiny, immune to their scorn.
As he settled into a quiet corner, a shadow suddenly eclipsed the dim light. Alastor looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the figure standing before him: Mike, the overseer of the celestial library, flapping his wings with impatience. His large frame cast a commanding silhouette, the feathers of his wings rustling softly with each deliberate movement.
Mike’s gaze was fixed on Alastor, a mixture of authority and suspicion. His brow furrowed, and his voice cut through the silence like a blade.
He almost snorted. Did that fool think he would be intimidated by something this simple!? Sure the effects around him were nice the stare slightly unsettling but far, oh so very far from being scary
"Is there something I can help you with elder?"
"Do not fool me altruist. I know of the deed you have committed your sentence will be lowered if you plead guilty"
"About what specifically? of course I did a few wrong things"

The celestial overseer stared at alastor flaggergasted at his openness
"Like spilling coffee on the carpet or leaving a coloured cover too long in the sunlight"
Mike deadpanned with a 'are you serious' look on his face.
"no I'm talking about a book.."
"there are lots of books. you need to specify"
"Curses alastor I'm saying the books of the restricted section,. It was found missing last Wednesday. The book—’The Arcane Secrets of the Celestial Realm’—was missing, and it’s a serious offense. We have rules for a reason. "
"First of I was not responsible for that section that day. Since most of the time alloted is in the library I don't need to steal it. I shown numerous times my prowess and dedication of being a role model. I wouldn't want to ruin it by stealing one book from that section when I could and if so would have taken more than that and booked to a place one would not bother to search. Maybe a disco room, karaoke place or romance.. date restaurants"
.
alastor shuddered at the last part. How many of those individual got attracted to him and accused him of breaking their relationship when he was just standing there curious of how it worked.
Mike was becoming unsure and he neared alastor
"I will hear your escuse in my office. I expect the book to be returned by then" and he dissapeared Alastor groaned leaving for the place wanting to solve the issue as soon as possible.
Alastor’s expression hardened. He could sense the underlying tension—this wasn’t just about a missing book. There was something more at stake. He carefully kept his voice calm even as he headed towards said room.
“I’ll look into it. If I find that I’ve been falsely accused, I’ll cooperate. But I won’t tolerate accusations without proof.”

The office appeared spotless was the first thing alastor noted before noticing the book in question on the desk. On his guard alastor backtracked only for the door to remain closed despite his best effort.

Alastor pressed his back on the door wings spread wide as the other sighed and collapsed on his seat mentioning alastor to do the same which he relented regaining his composure.

"Listen altruist. Play along, lose your job and in return I promise your family will be safe"
"Is that a threat I hear?"alastor almost twisted his neck used to the action
"I already sacrificed a lot just to meet my darling daughter again but I don't want to risk being cast out of heaven"mike said said out exasperated tears forming in his eyes.
Alastor stilled and it dawned on him that she had been involved.
"your daughter?.."
"In hell. She killed her abusive boyfriend and panicked before committing suicide"
Alastor rose from his seat massaging his temple. There was not much he could do.
"look I'm really sorry. If I could I w-"mike tried to calm down alastor fearing a clash of sorts.
"There is nothing to apologize. I would have done the same in your place" And so alastor left giving up the only safe place he had from the wrath of Lilith.

Just like he did years ago unaware he had already been partly redeemed. lilith herself unaware of it.
And she was still as she had made him a slave while he was turning into an angel. If only he had done it as a demon the chains would have broken. If only he had already been redeemed before she seeked him.
But it was all if's now the only thing he could do was go forwards

The door clicked shut behind Mike, leaving Alastor alone in the silent room, the missing book resting on the desk like a silent witness to what transpired that day.
“Hurry up and return to hell. I have a more important task for you,” Lilith’s voice dripped with icy authority, her eyes gleaming with a ruthless edge.
She flicked her wrist dismissively, as if shooing away a troublesome insect.
Alastor’s gaze hardened as he looked at her—so shameless, so unapologetically commanding. A flicker of outrage surged within him, but he kept it carefully contained, knowing better than to show weakness before her.
“So,” he finally said, voice low and edged with defiance, “it was you who caused this mess, wasn’t it? That means you didn’t really need my help at all. You could have handled it yourself. The whole thing could have been simpler—no need for me. You just wanted to dance around and make me suffer.”

Lilith’s lips curled into a cold smile, her eyes narrowing. “True, I often treat you like a mere stress toy—a ‘reference book’ for information. But right now, I need you. You’re the only one who has what it takes.”
Alastor’s fists clenched, frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. “I’ve repaid my debt enough—”
She cut him off with a sharp, mocking tsk. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Your debt isn’t paid until I say it is.”
Her voice was honeyed with menace. “And right now, I’m not satisfied. Go see what my daughter is doing. Protect her from the demons—any deals, contracts, or harm that might come her way. Keep her safe.”
"And after that I'm free"
"Hah, until I agree"

Without warning, she yanked on a chain that suddenly appeared around Alastor’s neck.
The metal was cold and unyielding—an unbreakable link of her control. Her grip tightened, forcing him onto all fours as her cruel smile deepened.
“I am the one to decide your fate,” she whispered darkly, her voice a whip cracking through the air. “That much is clear, isn’t it?”
Alastor’s eyes flashed with a mixture of fury and resignation. He straightened his posture, defiance blazing in his gaze.
“… Crystal,” he muttered through clenched teeth, vowing silently that one day, she would pay dearly for this cruelty.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Unwanted Confrontation

Notes:

There might be time skips till where al gets hit by Adam.
Scenes of hell's greatest dad and meeting Charlie for the First time.also the time vaggie and Charli go to heaven and get into a fight.
I'm trying to add more of vaggie/alastor relationship. I've got a surprise for angel.
But hey we'll see where it goes as we proceed😉
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

The journey home was uneventful; the arrival, utter chaos.
Rosie nearly throttled him on sight, and it was only Amaris’s intervention that stopped her.
Husk was furious — he’d already signed his leave the moment Rosie reached out to him. The carefully written letters Alastor had left behind suddenly meant nothing.

Only Amaris and Niffty seemed unshaken. Niffty — because she was Niffty — and Amaris, because she was the only one in Hell who shared his blood. Her father had never hidden the truth from her. He couldn’t bear to lose her trust. He’d concealed some things, yes — but the truths that mattered, the ones that defined him, those she knew.

Lilith had once commanded Alastor to keep his secrets from friends and colleagues.
But Amaris was neither. She was his daughter, his light in the dark, the reason he endured.
To her, he was not the infamous Radio Demon — he was simply her father, flawed and fragile beneath the mask.
Lilith never knew about her. And Amaris prayed it would stay that way.

She defended him when Rosie and Husk’s accusations came, even as he faced their judgment in silence.
She stood tall for him, even as he stood alone.
At night, when he visited her, she saw the exhaustion behind his grin — the half-healed wounds he tried to hide, the way his hands trembled when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Angelic blades left scars even time couldn’t erase. If he couldn’t heal, it meant the damage was deeper than he let on.
And it broke her, knowing she couldn’t help.

If she used her power, Lilith would notice — and come for her.
She remembered fragments from her time as the “dummy,” the disposable vessel meant to die. Lilith had treated her like a discarded toy. Alastor hadn’t.
He’d taken pity, taught her, given her a chance to live. He’d been her savior. And she would repay that debt however she could — even if it cost her everything.
There was a saying: a hero sacrifices their loved ones for the world, while a villain would burn the world for theirs.
If loving her father made her the latter, then so be it.

She cared for Rosie, her godmother, but it wasn’t the same.
When Rosie and Husk accused Alastor of abandoning her, something inside Amaris cracked. So when her father — disguised as “Alan” — appeared, she didn’t hesitate. She ran to him and wrapped her arms around him, defying every whisper and every stare. Let them call her naïve — she didn’t care. They didn’t know him like she did.
Alan froze for a moment before resting a trembling hand on her back, pressing a brief kiss to her hair — a gesture more of reassurance than affection. Rosie’s anger simmered, and Husk’s voice cut through the room, sharp and demanding.

The emporium buzzed with murmurs until Rosie cleared it out with a glare.
Husk’s temper frayed. He yanked Alan’s arm, pulling him from Amaris. A low groan escaped the man — not of anger, but pain. His shirt slipped, revealing bruises and half-healed wounds poorly concealed by makeup. Rosie gasped. Husk’s fury faltered.

“So that’s it?” Husk snapped, voice bitter. “We’re worrying ourselves sick, and you’re off with your mistress? Didn’t even check on your daughter? Tell me, Alan — was it worth it?”
His words hit harder than he realized. Rosie staggered, horror dawning on her face.
Her understanding that she hadn’t been able to reduce the torment Lilith placed on him like she normally did.that she had been powerless from protecting someone she had developed taking as a member of her family.The crowd understanding the gravity of the situation had already left derited by the still to be smiling nifty and cannibals close in relation to rosie, leaving only the four on them inside.Husk’s anger drained away, leaving shame behind. But it was too late.

Amaris’s eyes blazed, magic humming in the air — but before she could speak, a cold hand rested on her shoulder. The room darkened. Windows turned black, static buzzing faintly as the Radio Demon rose from beneath Alan’s mask. His voice distorted, a calm that promised ruin.

“Your presence is no longer required, Husk.”
Husk stammered. “Al, I— I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” Alastor said quietly. “And I cannot forgive.
Not yet. From now on, you will refer to me properly — Alastor, the Radio Demon. Your assistance will be required soon, and I expect you to be... in your best behavior when that time comes. Now leave.”
The silence that followed was colder than Hell itself. Husk left without another word. Rosie remained, trembling, torn between sorrow and fury.
Amaris stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let me help you, Father.”
He smiled, weary but fond. “You already do, my dear.”
And for the first time, Rosie saw — not the monster, not the demon — but a broken man trying to protect what little family he had left.

Notes:

The reason why lilith did not inquire 1 nightly visit each month was because she saw the shit husker pulled last time.
Wanted to reduce the husk x alastor relationship needed to turn it a bit sour for the behavior alastor showed to husker when Mimzy showed up.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8: New and old faces memories and future plans

Notes:

A bit of altruist vaggie friendship. Al's being petty.
Apparently on the first phone call the guy called his wife's name which was 'hello'
It became a trend and soon became a common word to lots of individual. A wonder how that name persisted for centuries..
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Alastor sighed recollecting his thoughts.
He was out of trouble with Rosie who had forced herself to believe he simply was forced to repay a huge favor.
Rosie also wanted to know what lilith and she urged Alastor to be more amicable to amaris half sister of sorts ; Charlie morningstar to find what lilith would be up to, especially if the redemption worked.
Charlie was always informing her mom who he knew previously barely checked her messages, amaris was safe far away, he was going to require husker's help and meet an old worker of his.

And who might this old worker be you might wonder? Well that porn star who threw away husk's and alastor's casino's investment and forgot to pay for it.
What did you think. The shadow government could not sustain on scam money it needed real money unlike what those jealous stupid companies thought and they got it from those they trained.

Most of Hell thought the Radio Demon’s empire thrived on fear and chaos. But the truth was far more mundane — and far more efficient.

The Shadow Government didn’t run on scams or intimidation; it ran on investment.
They targeted talent — souls who had potential but lacked opportunity. They offered contracts, resources, and guidance until their “investments” reached their peak.
If a performer succeeded, they kept their fame — the company merely claimed 20 percent of their earnings for life, a small price for the fortune and power they gained.

If they failed and admitted it, they repaid their debt — through service, labor, or, occasionally, their very soul. Each favor added interest; each act of protection became collateral.
It was brutal, but it was honest. Alastor preferred honesty in its ugliest form to the hypocrisy of Hell’s “entertainment industry.”
Angel had been one of their best prospects — and one of their greatest losses. Alastor had let him run.For now… He had other plans then. More important ones

AL knocked at the door and prepared himself
"Hell-" the door slammed
The brat ruined the moment but still he could get some fun out of this.
"low" closed again.

He smirked. The mortals down here still used that greeting — perhaps out of habit, or maybe because deep down, they still wanted Hell’s punishments to be “low.” A terrible joke, but it amused him all the same.
"vaggie.. The radio demon is at the door"
For a moment his eyes widened by a fraction as he felt warmth dripping into his heart. She was safe, she survived..
One of the few he cared in all heaven. That was her fault he cared but still he didn't blame her for it. He would take some joy from it annoy her a bit. This was going to be fun~

And so the drama happened. Funny how 'vaggie' still looked like an exorcist. The long hair suited her made her look less than Susan.
Really it was a shame she couldn't have tried earlier because of the mask but hey now it's alright.
Husker knew where he stood and alastor was glad he was not acting like a kicked puppy the kitten to drunk to really care at the moment and make much sense of the situation.
And when 'vaggie' rejected the idea of a bar.
Ooh my pure gold! Was she unaware the booze on the shelves were cheap that they needed people to open up to someone and most often it was the bartender who kept most secrets to his grave. He could not blame her, she looked like someone who would never place a foot at casinos or near booze. soo clueless at times. Alastor could laugh about could and did to relieve the pain he felt for what caused her fall even if it was her choice.
.......

 

Altruist had finally received the right to groom vagatha's feathers under the condition he said her other name. He instead called her vags shorter nicer easier a bit less sweet but pleasing to the tongue.
Vags feathers were a mess. She should have taken better care of them.
Altruist voice droned telling about interesting subjects he thought she would be a bit interested in to calm down the tension of two people being in her room and she did relax and fall drowsy at his ministrations.

She suddenly interrupted him.
“Altruist,” she murmured, sitting cross-legged on her bed as he carefully combed through her feathers. “I… I need to ask you something.”
“Hm? Of course.”
“I’ve been feeling… off. There are things about my job I hate, but I keep doing them because everyone expects me to. I can’t quit — no one ever has. The boss is too strict.”
She tugged at her hair in frustration. He gently caught her wrists.
“Careful. Your hair has done nothing to you, my dear. And it’s too short — you should grow it. It would suit you.”
“Altruist…” she sighed.

He smiled faintly, continuing his slow work through the tangled feathers.
“It may not seem much but I think…If you can’t change your job, then change what you give to it. Take on what you can bear. Avoid what you can’t. Sometimes surviving is the most defiant act of all.”

She leaned back against him without thinking, exhaustion winning over propriety.
Altruist froze — the wounds beneath his robes ached — but said nothing. He simply resumed combing her hair.
“It may not seem like much,” she murmured, “but you tried. And that’s enough for me.”
For a long time, it was enough. Until she disappeared. Lilith had smiled when he asked about her — a cruel smile that promised he’d never see her again.
That was the last time he saw vagatha.
....
And it seem she was now cozy about it. Well good for her.
Definitely not why he dressed her up as Susan and slapped her butt in petty revenge acting less gentlemanly towards her.
oh and he did show his position once again when some vermin dared show his face blasting the wall of the hotel. Well more reason to put their trust in him making things go smoother for him. Oh joy~

Chapter 9: Chapter 9: Migraine, hurt half forgiveness

Summary:

Episode dad beat dad

And so alastor had a lot on his plate.
Zestial , angel and Valentino that whole stew that he could not make any sense out of it.

He didn’t know where Zestial got the information, the tad bit amount of knowledge of him rearing a successor of sorts.
Was he around when Alastor had lost his calm at the emporium?
Did rosie in a moment of frustration mentioned to Zestial? After all Zestial often enjoyed taking tea with her. Hoe much did he know.
He had deflected the answer somewhat mentioning Charlie morning star had quite gem but was still rough in many places.
It seemed to appease Zestial somewhat who seemed more worried about the angelic head…well to a certain degree.

He completely forgot about lucifer's visit to the hotel his mind filled with too much plans. He wasn't ready for what was written on the hanging cloth
'welcum' a very awful taste if it was angel and honestly if it was Charlie who wrote it she should restart her grammar classes.
Alastor quite liked his contribution to the hotel: the name. "Hazbin." It was a pun, a sarcasm-laced jab at the very idea of redemption, and it was his.
It was clever.

That's why it stung so deeply when Lucifer scoffed. "Not clever," the King had said, his gaze sweeping over the bar with disgust.
The words were a stone thrown at the glass house of Alastor's pride, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a crack.
He couldn't tolerate it. That upfront, lazy dismissal from the highest authority in Hell—it was an offense he couldn't let stand. It awakened a rage he usually kept so carefully leashed, a memory of being looked down upon by someone who thought he was better.
A low growl escaped his throat. "Oh yeah? Well, we'll see about that."

The music swelled, and the battle was joined. It was a glorious, intoxicating clash of power. In the heat of the moment, he found himself boasting, and even ending it with"I started it, and I'll finish it!" But even as the words left his lips, a flicker of regret sparked from some sentences he had mentioned in the song. He was getting carried away, revealing more of his hand than he intended.
By the song's end, he was tired of the game, weary of Lucifer's unshakeable confidence. He wanted out.
The last note of "Hell's Greatest Dad" faded, but the silence that followed was a deafening roar in Alastor's mind.
The words he had used as a weapon against Lucifer—"You are the child I wish that I had"—had twisted, becoming a mirror reflecting a regret so profound it felt like a physical wound.
He couldn't let the rumor mill, that vicious, chattering machine of Hell, carry this story to his daughter's ears.
For the first time in an epoch, the Radio Demon knew he had to deliver the news himself. He had to control the broadcast.
And then, salvation arrived in the form of a screaming, flapper-dressed disaster. Mimzy’s dramatic entrance was the perfect excuse to end a fight that had already run its course.
.
.
Husk should have seen the signs, should have noted alastor was not in the mood.
And so he snapped and did worse than before when he mentioned he was on a leash. He wasn't meant to.
He had payed the favor she was abusing him. Was husker this blind to not see? What he did felt disgusting and the moment husk got the point he immediately let go of the chain. He dealt the issue with Mimzy irritated to see husker chew popcorn in front of him. Yes you were right as always.

He found her in their home conservatory, a space she had coaxed into life with sheer optimism even if it was quite small.
Amaris was a ray of sunshine in Hell, but a strange one.
She carried herself with the impeccable, formal posture he had drilled into her, yet her presence was as warm and inviting as a summer day. She was humming, tending to a bizarre, glowing fungus with a gentleness that defied their surroundings.

he looked up as he entered, her brilliant smile not faltering for a second.
Amaris: "Father! What a wonderful surprise. Are you here to admire my little collection of bioluminescent blight-blossoms? They're simply thriving!"
Her voice was a cheerful melody, a stark contrast to the low static that always hummed around him. Alastor’s smile felt tight, a mask under immense pressure. He had come here with a speech prepared, a theatrical performance of remorse, but looking at her genuine, unguarded joy, the words caught in his throat.

Alastor: "They are… illuminating, my dear. But that is not why I've come."
Amaris’s cheerful demeanor shifted almost imperceptibly. She was perceptive; she could read the subtle changes in his broadcast frequency. She set down her watering can and gave him her full attention, her expression becoming one of calm, attentive curiosity.
Amaris: "Oh? Is something the matter? You have a look about you. Like a station that's lost its signal."
Her directness, couched in such polite terms, was disarming. He couldn't hide behind his usual grandstanding.
Alastor: (He took a breath, the sound a soft hiss of radio static.) "Quite the opposite, I'm afraid. The signal was… received a little too clearly. During my… musical disagreement with Mr. Morningstar, I said something. Something that, while intended as a performance, tapped into a rather… inconvenient truth."

He paused, struggling to find the words. This was harder than any battle.
Amaris: (Her smile softened, encouraging him.) "Father, just tell me."
Alastor: "I told the Princess that she was the daughter I wished I had." The words came out flat, stripped of all performance. "It was a foolish, impulsive thing to say, born of ego and spite. But the sentiment behind it… the regret… was not for her. It was for you."

He finally met her gaze, his own smile completely gone, replaced by a raw, unfamiliar sincerity.
"I knew where I was wrong the moment the words left my mouth. That is why I came to you directly. You should not have to hear a distorted version of my failures from the static. You deserve to hear the signal, however flawed, from the source."
Amaris stared at him, the sunlight from the glass ceiling catching in her eyes. She wasn't angry. She wasn't hurt. She was… understanding. She saw the monumental effort it took for him to stand there and admit a flaw.
Amaris: (Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper.) "Oh, Father." She took a small step closer, not to grab him, but simply to be near him. "You ridiculous, dramatic man."

She reached out and gently straightened his lapel, a small, maternal gesture that was more powerful than any hug.
Amaris: "You were trying to tell me you're proud of me, weren't you? In your own, backwards, incredibly complicated way?" She looked up at him, her own eyes shimmering. "I know. I've always known."
Alastor: (He was utterly still, stunned by her perception.) "I… I am not adept at such things."
Amaris: "I know," she said, her brilliant smile returning, full of warmth and forgiveness. "But you came here and told me yourself. That's what matters. That's all that matters."
She didn't demand anything of him. She didn't ask for an outing or a promise. She simply accepted his flawed, heartfelt apology and, in doing so, gave him a grace he felt he neither deserved nor knew how to handle. For a moment, the Radio Demon was silent, basking in the unsettling, healing warmth of his daughter's sunshine.

Perhaps it was the raw, unfamiliar sting of his own vulnerability with Amaris that gave him the courage. Or perhaps it was the simple, exhausting need to mend one of the many cracks he had created that day. He knew Husk would likely never forgive him, not truly, but the attempt had to be made. Who better to play the part of the unflappable Overlord than the one who had just been reminded how fragile that facade truly was?
Later that night, the hotel bar was a pocket of dim, quiet light. Alastor approached, his footsteps unnaturally silent. He didn't look at Husk, instead focusing on the polished wood of the bar, tracing a non-existent pattern with his claw.
Husk didn't even look up from the glass he was polishing. "You're up to something. I can smell it from here. If it's another one of your games, get your ass out."

Alastor’s ears gave a barely perceptible flicker downward before he caught himself. He stopped scratching the table, his hand hovering for a moment.
“Husker…” he began, his voice unusually stripped of its booming static, quiet and almost hesitant. “I… I owe you an apology. Earlier, I employed lesser means to remind you of our arrangement. It was… unbecoming, and I regret it.”
The polishing stopped. Husk’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowed slits. "Don't you dare," he growled, his wings flaring with a sharp, feathered rustle. "Don't you dare try to act human with me. You don't get to feel sorry for yourself, and I sure as hell don't want to forgive you!"
The rejection hit him with a surprising force. For a fleeting moment, Alastor raised a hand to his face, shadows clinging to his fingers as if to hide a crack in the porcelain mask. He had been a fool to think this could work. Fine. If this was how it had to be, the show must go on.

He heard the approaching footsteps and cheerful voices of Charlie and Vaggie. The mask snapped back into place, so fast it was dizzying.
In a single, fluid motion, Alastor slid off the stool, his signature grin stretching wide and utterly fake. "Well then, I'll best be off! Can't have the guests missing my signature smile, now can we?" He turned to the approaching couple. "Oh, greetings Charlie, and... Vagi! So lovely to see you both. I was just heading out for a stroll to clear my thoughts."
"Wait, you motherf—" Vaggie started, but Alastor was already moving.
"It's Vagatha for you, Overlord!" she corrected, her voice laced with fury.
"Tata for now!" Alastor chirped, giving a little wave before disappearing into the hallway with a faint shimmer of static.
The silence he left behind was heavy. Husk stared at his retreating back, completely dumbfounded. He had just seen a flicker of something real, something broken, and then watched it be instantly consumed by the smiling monster.
"You were saying?" Charlie offered gently, her brow furrowed with concern.
Husk blinked, turning back to his bar. "Nothing," he muttered, staring into his empty glass. "Absolutely... nothing."
He had no idea how to proceed. He wasn't sure which version of Alastor was the real one. And that was more terrifying than any threat.

Notes:

Not a great socialist
Don't really watch drama. I've got to see a lot from those around me.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Unwanted visit

Summary:

Charlie going up on her 1st visit to heaven but what happens down in hell?

Notes:

Oh why lilith doesn't want to hear Charlie was to avoid showing her weak spot to alastor another was the crumbled resolution if she heard Charlie's voice so after hearing just a bit she would delete it

The days following Charlie’s departure for Heaven were steeped in a strange, heavy silence. Alastor kept his distance, his presence a low hum of static at the edge of the hotel's consciousness, joining the others only when Charlie's video calls demanded it. The awkwardness was a physical thing, and Husk, for all his gruffness, felt a knot of guilt tighten in his gut. He was almost relieved when the day of Charlie's trip arrived, if only to escape the suffocating tension.
But Alastor's retreat was more profound than simple avoidance. He returned to the hotel and vanished into his room, emerging only for silent, mechanical meals.
He moved like an automaton, his smile a painted-on relic, his eyes holding a blank, terrifying emptiness. With Charlie gone for at least two days, a new worry began to gnaw at Husk. This wasn't just moodiness; this was a system-wide failure.

That night, he decided to check on him. Halfway up the grand staircase, he met Niffty, skittering down with her usual manic energy.
"Night, naughty kitty boy!" she chirped, wide-eyed.
"Yeah, night," Husk grunted. "Hey, you know anything about the boss?"
Niffty giggled, a sound like breaking glass. "Oh, he's being a very naughty boy~"
"Naughty how?"
"Well, you missed it! I went to his room, and that tallll purple lady was there! Couldn't see her face, she was just standing over him. There was blood on the floor!" She leaned in conspiratorially. "When she saw me, she said they were busy and that Al told me to come back later. Al looked at me—all funny—and said everything was alright. Which was strange... but then he did mention he saw some bugs crawling in the hallway! So I'm going to find them!"

And with that, she was gone, giggling madly, her knife held high.
A cold dread seeped into Husk's bones.
He continued up the stairs, his paws silent on the carpet.
He reached Alastor's door and found it slightly ajar. No sound came from within. No screams, no static, nothing.
He peeked inside. The room was empty, save for a few dark stains on the floor that trailed toward a connecting dressing room.
They weren't just smears; they were splatters, a fine arterial spray against the baseboard, like the flick of a painter's wrist.
The amount was alarming. She couldn't have killed him, right?
He pushed the door open, his night vision cutting through the gloom. And then he saw it.

A figure huddled in the corner, and Husk's breath caught in his throat. It was an angel, its form bathed in a faint, golden light.
Two magnificent, tattered wings were folded on its back, and its body was a canvas of brutal, healing injuries. But the face… the face was what made his fur stand on end. It was Alastor's, lips pressed into a thin, pained line, eyes vacant hair sliveryand appearing as soft as velvet despite the gold and red splashes.

"What the fuck did you do to Alastor?" Husk snarled, grabbing a fallen ceremonial blade from the floor.
The angel's head lifted slowly, its eyes glazed with pain. "Husker? What are you doing here?"

"Don't you fucking pretend to be him," Husk growled, raising the weapon, preparing to strike. "Where is he?!"

As he lunged, the blade in his hand began to glow with a holy, golden light. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Angelic weapon. He dropped it with a cry of horror, the blade clattering to the floor.
In that split second of distraction, the angel lunged not at him, but at a bedside table. A phone was thrown at his face, and as it sailed through the air, its flash went off, blinding him.

By the time Husk's vision cleared, the angel and the phone were gone. He heard a harsh, pained breath from a darkened alcove. He threw open the cabinet doors, ready for anything, only for Alastor—his Alastor, the dapper, smiling demon—to crumble to the ground, a fresh wound bleeding freely across his chest.
"Alastor! Shit. Hold on, I'm getting help," Husk stammered, rushing to him. "I thought... I thought you were dead or something. That angel... it must have been a hallucination."

Alastor flinched violently as Husk tried to support him, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. Husk froze, his own hands hovering, unsure.
"No," Alastor rasped, his voice a weak, staticky whisper.
"What do you mean, 'no'? Alastor, you're... look at you!"
Alastor pushed husker away to no avail "You don't understand... this isn't just about me. It's about... the family."

Husk curious like his demonic nature couldn’t help but ask "What family? The Morningstars?"
"Every family has a... keeper of the hearth. The one who ensures the legacy remains untarnished." He looks past Husk, his gaze distant. "Go to the entrance. Look at the painting on the wall. The woman in purple... she is the keeper. And she believes our dear Princess has tracked mud all over her pristine floor."
"So she's angry? What's new?"

Alastor voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper "This isn't simple anger, you fool. This is... architectural fury. When a pillar of the house is deemed unsightly... she doesn't just clean it. She removes it. I am merely the first pillar she has chosen to... dismantle."
"Look, I can't make heads or tails of this. We stop the bleeding first, then I'll go see what you're talking about, okay?"
Alastor gave a tight, pained nod, his smile a grotesque mockery of its usual self.
"But why the angelic weapons?" Husk pressed, tearing a strip of cloth.
"Normal ones... no longer... effective."
"Wow," Husk muttered, his voice low. "She's a real bitch. Glad you didn't turn out like her."

Alastor's eyes snapped open, a flash of genuine fury in them before he winced, squeezing them shut as Husk repositioned him.
"Almost did," he whispered.

Husk worked in silence, cleaning and bandaging the worst of the wounds. He tried to wipe away the bloodstains, his mind racing. He couldn't let Niffty see this. The sight of that angelic form, the sheer wrongness of it, had freaked him out more than he cared to admit. What if he hadn't come?

As he carried a bucket of bloody water out of the room, his mind kept returning to Alastor's cryptic words. He made his way to the hotel's grand entrance, to the dusty, ornate family portrait of the Morningstars. There were only a few women goetians and whatnot. And the one in a stunning, regal purple gown...
"Oh, shit," Husk breathed, the pieces clicking into place with horrifying clarity. "Lilith. What the hell did you get yourself into?"
________________________________________

Meanwhile, tucked away in his bed, Alastor shivered. He wasn't cold.
He was remembering the look on Husk's face—the pure, unadulterated bloodlust in his eyes as he'd raised that angelic blade, ready to kill the creature that looked like his master. Husk didn't know, he couldn't have known, but the image was seared into Alastor's mind. The rejection, the threat, even from an ally, was a wound that would not easily heal.

Notes:

Wanted for husk to stop hating alastor see the atrocities. Got a whole lot complicated for relationship between al and husk. Wanted to add amaris but wanted to reveal her skills later.. When something else involving heavens happen.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11: Reconciliation silly plans

Summary:

Everything is somber as the return from heaven. Husk tries to reform bonds with alastor will he ba able to do it?

Charlie's and vaggie's return ended earlier than expected the second day before 12am. With the warning of only one month remaining.

Husk was done trying to figure it out. Alastor had recovered at a speed that was frankly insulting, the deep, brutal wounds vanishing in days.
Husk knew better than to question it—Alastor always had his secrets, his little pockets of power and shadowy organizations tucked away in the Pride Ring. But the physical healing was a lie. The real damage was still there, a phantom limb that ached at the slightest touch.

Every time Husk brushed past him, Alastor would flinch. It was a microscopic betrayal of his usual unshakable composure, a flicker in the static that only Husk seemed to notice. It gnawed at him. How could he prove he was forgiven? How could he make the Radio Demon stop acting like a scared stray? Husk racked his brain, the answer surfacing through a fog of begrudging affection and wounded pride. It was a stupid, undignified plan. It was perfect.

The hotel was quiet. Charlie was lost in her heavenly anxieties, and the rest of the residents were scattered. The lounge was deserted, bathed in the dim, multicolored glow of the bar lights. Alastor was reclining on a plush velvet armchair, staring into the middle distance. All clear.

With a sigh that was half frustration, half resignation, Husk marched over and unceremoniously flopped onto the small ottoman beside the chair, letting his upper body drape heavily across Alastor's lap. He felt the muscles beneath him go rigid as a board, a startled, desperate energy thrumming through the Radio Demon.

"What are you waiting for?" Husk grumbled, not looking at him. "Do it. I know you're dying to. You have been for a while."
Alastor’s voice was a low, confused static. "Whatever do you mean, my dear Husker?"
"You know damn well what I mean," Husk said, a hint of a growl in his voice. "I won't ask again. Pet me."

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, with a hesitation that felt utterly alien to him, Alastor raised a clawed hand and slowly, almost experimentally, dragged it through the thick fur of Husk's back. Oh, deer, Alastor thought, a surprising warmth spreading through his chest. He had genuinely missed this.

It didn't take long for a low, deep rumble to start in Husk's chest, a purr so powerful it vibrated through them both. Alastor huffed, an eyebrow raised in amusement. Who, he wondered, had missed this more?
"Well, well, look what we have here," a smooth, familiar voice drawled. "How's it going, lovebirds?"

Alastor’s hand froze, but a slow, wicked smirk spread across his face. Husk, without even opening his eyes, gave a lazy, contented sigh.
"You already wish you were in my place, Spider," he purred, emphasizing his point by twisting his tail around Alastor's forearm.

The challenge was issued. Alastor, never one to back down from a performance, played his part flawlessly. He shifted, making Husk more comfortable, and with a flick of his fingers, loosened his bowtie. He then casually unbuttoned the top of his vest, revealing a surprisingly soft patch of chest fur. Husk's purring grew louder as he nuzzled into the warmth, nibbling lightly at the edge of Alastor's ear.

They must have looked convincing, because Angel Dust, for all his bravado, turned a brilliant shade of red.
"Whatever! Get a room, you two freaks! I'm outta here!" he stammered, beating a hasty retreat.
...The moment Angel was gone, the spell broke. Alastor and Husk looked at each other, the performance dropping away. A beat of silence passed, and then they simultaneously burst out laughing. It wasn't Alastor's usual polished chuckle or Husk's dry bark, but a raw, unrestrained sound. Husk laughed so hard he slipped off the ottoman, tumbling to the floor with a soft thud, clutching his chest.
He looked up at Alastor, who was still in the chair, wiping a tear from his eye. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Husk saw it. A pure, radiant smile—no static, no menace, just genuine, unadulterated amusement.
Yeah, Husk thought, his own chest aching from laughter. It was worth it.

But as the laughter faded and the comfortable quiet settled in, Husk remained on the floor, looking up at the dapper demon. He saw the way Alastor's shoulders were finally relaxed, the subtle tension gone from his posture. He thought about the desperate, flinching creature from just minutes before, and the memory of that night, years ago, crashed into him with the force of a physical blow.

He had always remembered it as the ultimate betrayal.
The night his gambling debt became so insurmountable that only an Overlord could pay it. He remembered Alastor's arrival, the smug grin, the casual way he had claimed not just the debt, but Husk's very soul as his own. It was the moment he became a pet, a possession. He had hated him for it.

But looking at that genuine, unguarded smile now, Husk saw it differently. He saw the actor. The showman. And he understood. Alastor hadn't just saved him from his debt; he had saved him from the ones who would have collected in far more permanent, gruesome ways. To do that, Alastor couldn't be a friend. He couldn't be a savior. He had to be the monster, the cruel owner, the one who would "own" Husk so no one else could dare touch him.
It was the most desperate, twisted, and Alastor form of a rescue mission imaginable. He had played the villain so convincingly that even Husk had believed it.

Maybe all this time, the chain he'd felt around his neck wasn't a leash of ownership, but a lifeline.
Husk let out a slow breath, the last vestiges of a decades-old resentment finally dissolving into the quiet air of the lounge. He finally understood .Or rather it was what he desperately wanted to believe in doubting in . He afterall had a role to play on his own.

Notes:

Tried to reforge to ties. The result was... interesting. Alastor and husk used to tease their shy, unstained (pretty much virgins, debutants in romance) workers more than once when they were joked as being great couples.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12: Freedom at last

Summary:

Smooth flow to freedom. I don't really know how to write trauma. I like to see alastor being free to free himself without the help of others a lone light on the stage.

Alastor had prepared for Lilith’s return, a contingency plan for every shadowed corner of Hell.
He had not, however, prepared for her to simply appear on the hotel’s doorstep, a vision of regal indifference that sent a tremor through the very foundation of the building.

Charlie, a whirlwind of righteous anger and desperate love, forgave her almost instantly.
Lucifer, so lost in the euphoria of his wife’s return, failed to ask the one question that mattered: Where have you been?

Later that evening, as the hotel lounge buzzed with a fragile sense of normalcy,
Husk sidled up to him, his voice a low, cautious rumble. "You're gonna be alright facing that Witch Queen?"

Alastor’s smile tightened. "Husker, your charming lack of filter will one day be the death of you. But yes, with her doting family assembled as an audience, her hands are tied."

And for a time, it seemed to work. Lilith softened, the cruel edges of her persona blurring in the warm glow of family. It was a dangerous performance, and for a fleeting moment, Alastor allowed himself to wonder if things could change. But the memory of her touch, of the chains that bound him, was a cold fire. His goal was freedom, and he would not be swayed by a temporary change in the script.

Lilith, ever the showman, held her liquor with practiced grace, but the special concoction Niffty had slipped into her drink—a potent enhancer—was beginning to lower her guard. She loved the spotlight, and soon she commandeered the stage, dragging up various patrons for a raucous, off-key performance, vagatha ,angel and even nifty selecting song that were not even their taste or didn’t even suit their voice . Then, her eyes landed on him.

"Alastor, my dear! Come, grace us with a duet!" she commanded, her voice ringing with authority.

He allowed himself to be pulled onstage, playing the part of the reluctant subordinate. She turned to the room, her voice dripping with a possessive love aimed squarely at Lucifer.
"And so, to the family I now have, I'll sing this next song."
He saw her hesitate, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, before she threw caution to the wind. He wasn't told to leave, and so, the performance began.
When we woke up the world was figured out Beyond the beauty we've dreamt about This brilliant light is brighter than we've known Without our darkness to prove it so

Alastor dropped his filter, his voice a clear, resonant counterpoint to hers.
The shift in tone startled the room, pulling Lilith deeper into the song, forcing her to match his intensity.
You're enough, you're enough, you're enough, you are enough.
The moment the words left her lips, a sound like shattering glass echoed through the lounge, though no one could see its source.
From Alastor's collar, from the thin, almost invisible wires etched across his face and body, tiny chips of translucent material began to break away. They scattered into green, purple, and golden powder, floating around the stage like a swarm of enchanted fireflies.
These little words, somehow they're changing us You're enough, you're enough, you are enough So we let our shadows fall away like dust

The dust, barely visible at first, now shimmered under the stage lights. A stray moonbeam from the grand window struck Alastor’s hair, and the familiar crimson bled into a stunning, ethereal silver. He heard a collective gasp from the audience but kept his focus on Lilith, who was completely oblivious, her eyes locked on a mesmerized Lucifer. This silver was a gift, a fragment of a grace he once shared with his daughter, a sign of a partial redemption he had long kept hidden.
You're enough, you're enough, you're enough I promise you're enough, you're enough, you're enough I promise you

His shadow, once a writhing, malevolent entity tethered to his feet, now danced with him, free and fluid. As they neared the song's climax, it reluctantly began to recede, letting him step closer to Lilith. He let her bask in her daze, wanting to savor every second of his liberation. She took his hand, and he led her into a sweeping dance, their voices in perfect sync as he brought her into a dramatic dip.
You're enough, you're enough, you are enough Let it go, let it go, you are enough So we let our shadows fall away like dust
As her left hand left his to complete the turn, she felt it. A profound emptiness where a connection had once been. Her eyes widened in horror, but it was far too late. Alastor bowed, a triumphant, genuine smile gracing his lips, and vanished into the wings.
________________________________________

Charlie stared, mesmerized, as the translucent chains continued to chip away from Alastor's form. It was… beautiful.
The glowing orbs of light surrounded the two singers—one a burning star of euphoric power, the other a calm, mysterious silver figure whose smile was finally, truly his own.
Beside her, Vaggie gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes tearing up. "What's wrong, Vaggie?"
"He… He looks just like him," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But it's impossible." "Who?" "Up in Heaven… His name was Altruist. We only knew each other for a few months, then I never saw him again. He had so few expressions, but you'd just… love him. When we visit Heaven again… if we ever can…"
________________________________________
Alastor descended the stage steps and made a beeline for the bar.
With a flick of his wrist, a transparent shield of shimmering green energy enveloped them, muting the outside world into a silent tableau.

Alastor descended the stage steps, the silver in his hair still catching the light like a captured star. He made a beeline for the bar, his movements fluid, unburdened. With a flick of his wrist, a transparent shield of shimmering green energy enveloped them, muting the outside world into a silent, chaotic tableau.
Husk polished a glass with slow, deliberate movements, his eyes fixed on the drama unfolding across the room.
"So," he grumbled, not looking at Alastor. "You really pulled the rug out from under the Witch Queen. That was a hell of a show."
Alastor leaned against the bar, his usual static replaced by a low, contented hum. "The finest of my career, my dear Husker! The timing, the misdirection, the dramatic use of celestial props! I must say, I've outdone myself." He paused, his smile softening into something more genuine. "And it was… surprisingly effective."

Husk finally looked at him, his gaze sharp.
"Effective? Al, you practically disintegrated on stage. I saw those chains break. For real this time."
He set the glass down. "So, what now? You're free. What's the grand finale?"
"Now," Alastor said, his voice dropping to a more intimate, conspiratorial tone, "I get to tell a story without any… censorship."
He didn't launch into a monologue. Instead, he waited, letting the weight of the moment settle.
Husk took the bait. "The story about Sera? About her wanting the old Overlords gone?" he prompted, his voice low. "You told me that was just a rumor."
"Oh, my dear Husker, you give me far too little credit!" he chirped, a crackle of static in his voice. "A rumor? My good man, that was a masterpiece of propaganda, a symphony of misinformation I personally conducted! You see, it all starts with our dear Queen Lilith. Bless her black little heart, she was utterly, maddeningly frustrated."

He gestured expansively with one hand, as if painting a picture in the air. "Imagine it! The Queen of Hell, a being of immense power, yet she feels like a phantom limb in her own kingdom. Lucifer holds the leash on the Old overlords, not her. That was until he gave up on truing and letting them rule to their desire. Can you fathom the indignity? The sheer lack of respect directed towards her ? It was a wound she was desperate to lick."

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming. "But the true puppeteer in this little tragedy? Oh, it was far more ancient, far more personal. It seems the first sinner, Eve herself, took a page from her old book. She began whispering to Sera in the dead of night, disguised as the terrified voices of the righteous, painting the sinners—not as lost souls, but as an army gathering for revenge against Lilith. A serpent's whisper in a garden of dreams, if you will!"

Alastor let out a delighted, airy chuckle. "And our dear High Seraphim, ever so diligent, ever so prone to listening to the wrong voices in her head, took the bait! Hook, line, and sinker! She sanctioned a… 'cleansing.'
And so, Lilith became Heaven's unofficial scythe, believing she was carving out the respect she was so desperately owed, all the while dancing on Eve's strings. Her hand in Hell, ensuring Heaven's 'balance' was maintained through… strategic pruning."

He stopped tracing patterns on the bar and fixed his gaze on Husk, the playful energy vanishing, replaced by something cold and direct.
"And all that celestial drama, my friend, it all trickled down to you. Your debts had attracted the wrong kind of attention from those around. You were becoming a loose end on a very messy tapestry. She wanted me to snip the thread."

Husk flinched, a familiar old anger stirring. "So you owning my soul was just a 'better way'?"
"It was the only way," Alastor stressed, his red eyes—now flecked with silver—locking onto Husk's. "To make you disappear without a trace. To bind you to me so tightly that no one else, not even Lilith, would dare touch you. It was a cage, I know. But I built it to keep the wolves out." He sighed, a sound that was almost weary. "I am many things, Husker, but I have never been your executioner."

The silence between them was heavy with years of unspoken history. Husk looked away, toward the stage where Lilith was now having a catastrophic breakdown with Lucifer. "All this time… I just thought you were a sadistic bastard who got his kicks."
"Oh, I am a sadistic bastard," Alastor chirped, his grin returning with a flash of its old mischief. "And I do get my kicks. But my torment of you has always been… professional. A performance for an audience of one." He gestured vaguely to where Lilith stood. "She needed to believe you were nothing more than a broken pet. It was the only way the illusion would hold."

He leaned forward again, his expression turning serious. "But the illusion is over. The contract is broken. Which means, my dear Husker… you are, for the first time in a very long time, truly free. The choice is yours."
Husk's eyes were blown wide. He sank onto his stool, the weight of the offer pressing down on him.
"Free," he muttered, testing the word. It felt foreign. "Honestly? I don't know what to do with that. I mean, for years, my biggest problem was you. But… I got used to it. The attention, the… structure." He fiddled with his claws. "And you handle all the damn paperwork. It's less of a hassle now."
A slow, knowing smirk spread across Alastor's face. "So you do enjoy being petted."
"Only because you're good at it, you smug bastard," Husk shot back, but there was no real anger in it, just the familiar rhythm of their banter.
"Keep acting like this and I won't let you pet me in peace." He sighed, running a paw over his face. "Look, I like how things are. The only thing I'd want is a looser collar—metaphorically speaking—and you knowing when to back off. It'd be a hassle if some other idiot thinks I'm free and weak and comes after me. Too much work."
"You are, and always will be, profoundly lazy," Alastor chuckled, resting his head on the bar top with a dramatic pout.
"Yeah, well, you're the one who likes lazy cats," Husk retorted, a rare, small smile gracing his lips. "So, what about her? The Witch Queen won't just let this go."
"Hmm," Alastor mused, floating his empty glass to the sink with a flick of his finger.
"After the public display? Charlie will never allow her to retaliate against me. And now," he said, and a spark of his old power crackled in the air, "I can finally access my full strength without fear of her leeching it away. I think I'll be adding some rather potent defensive magic to those I consider… close."
"I feel so damn special," Husk mocked, settling in beside him, his gaze fixed on the royal drama. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion.
"You are," Alastor said, his voice quiet and sincere. "You are the only one who knew it wasn't real."
Husk didn't answer, but he shifted slightly closer, their shoulders just brushing. For the first time in decades, the silence between them wasn't heavy. It was just… quiet. And it was enough.
________________________________________
"I can't believe I did it… I didn't even know," Lilith muttered, staring at her hands as if they were foreign objects.
"Lilith, it's alright—" Charlie started.
"It's not!" Lilith snapped, her voice cracking. "He was my greatest pawn! My plan to make Heaven fall!"

The room went silent. Lucifer, who had been watching her with a soft, loving expression, now stared as if he'd been struck. "What… do… you… mean?"
"I want you all safe! My people safe, even if it means you have to stay in Heaven, even if that's the cost!" she cried, her desperation turning to rage.
"I don't care about being in danger when the one I love is placing herself in danger, and I'm too oblivious to see it!" Lucifer roared, his voice filled with a earth-shattering hurt.
"And how would you ensure our safety?! Holed up in your workshop making rubber ducks for seven years?!" Lilith shot back.

The words hung in the air, a final, brutal blow. She saw the tears welling in Lucifer's eyes, the utter devastation on his face, and for the first time, the unrelenting, uncaring mask she had perfected for centuries cracked. It was far too late.
"We'll have this conversation later," Lucifer whispered, his voice hollow as he turned away. "For now… I need to be alone."
"Well, I'm off to go foil someone else's day," Alastor announced cheerfully to the room at large, dropping from the shadows behind the bar. "Do inform me if anything interesting happens, hmm?"
Without waiting for a reply, he melted back into the darkness, a free man leaving a room full of broken hearts in his wake. He had a drugged moth to fool, and a new, unscripted life to begin.

Notes:

For freedom he needed the words to be directed at him as well and the confirmation he had done enough coming out of her lips. Lilith unconsciously had already integrated alastor in her family so when she sang it to her family... well it just happened

Chapter 13: Chapter 13: The plan a new soul in its place

Summary:

A new leaf for angel

The air in Valentino’s studio was thick with cloying perfume and the acrid sting of illicit chemicals. He knew better than to sample his own special concoctions, but the boredom had won out. He made sure he was alone, the world outside reduced to a muffled hum.

His trip was a viscous, candy-colored nightmare. A figure coalesced from the chaos—a tall, thin man in a pinstriped suit. "An autograph, my good man? For a fan?" the figure chirped. A piece of paper materialized. "Just a little something to ensure our new business arrangement is… binding."
Valentino, giggling, grabbed a pen. "Anything for my adoring public!" he slurred, scribbling his elaborate signature across the page. The moment the ink dried, the figure vanished.
________________________________________
He woke up with a skull-splitting headache and a foul taste in his mouth. The first thing he did, as always, was try to summon his favorite toy. He focused, pulling on the ethereal leash connected to Angel Dust's soul.

Nothing.

A cold dread, far more sobering than the headache, washed over him.
He tried again. Still nothing.
A memory surfaced, a fuzzy conversation about Angel, about a contract…

With a roar of fury, Valentino smashed a vase and stormed out of his studio, his wings beating against the air as he flew to the Hazbin Hotel.
"ALASTOR!!" he shrieked, bursting through the doors. "Get out here, you one-eyed bastard!"
"Something the matter?" Alastor's voice was maddeningly calm. He was sitting in a plush armchair, leisurely sipping from a teacup, that irritating smile firmly in place.

Valentino crossed the room in three strides and yanked him from his seat, his fists knotting in the fine fabric of Alastor's suit.
"You did something to Angel's contract!"
Alastor stared at him, his smile vanishing, replaced by a look of profound, almost paternal disappointment.
He then let out an exasperated hiss. "No, you idiot! Ugh, I can't believe it. I can't summon that pathetic scrap of paper you dare call a contract! You're the owner, you waste of space!"

Valentino stared, dumbfounded. He slowly set Alastor down.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Check your contract!" Alastor commanded.
Valentino summoned the glowing document, squinting. He reached for his signature red spectacles. As he put them on, Alastor casually plucked them from his face.

"My, my, what a fascinating accessory," Alastor mused, tapping a tiny spark of green energy into the frames. "Here you are. Wouldn't want you to miss a single detail."

Valentino snatched them back and looked at the contract. A new clause, glowing faintly, appeared.

Clause 7B: In the event of a verbal challenge by the owner, the contract may be nullified by its physical destruction.
Aha! He knew it! Alastor had tried to tamper with it, but he'd left a loophole!
"Aha, see?" Valentino snarled, pointing at the text. "Right here!"

That's when a massive, glowing green eye manifested in front of his face. "What's up, bad boy?" Niffty's voice echoed.
alentino shrieked, stumbling back. The contract was still in his hand. The clause was clear. The challenge had been made. In a drug-fueled panic and seeing the "proof" in his own glasses, he made his move. There was a deafening sound of ripping paper, a collective gasp, and a blinding flash of golden light.

Valentino was in a daze, watching the remnants of the contract turn to dust. He had won! He had outsmarted Alastor!
"I can't believe you were stupid enough to rip your own contract," Alastor said, his voice dripping with condescending pity. He snatched the glasses from Valentino's face and crushed them in his hand. "And as for how I took ahold of Angel…"

He pulled Angel close, one hand hovering near the spider demon's neck while the other encircled his waist protectively. A snug, green collar materialized on Angel's neck, who groaned in protest. Alastor then gently pushed Angel behind him.

"Angel already had a contract with me. A small investment he never paid back from when I sponsored him… right before you placed your grubby hands on him. I simply chose to activate it. A strong, legitimate contract overrides a weak one."
Alastor’s smile returned, razor-thin and menacing.
"And as for that little paper you signed? Well, it’s a new clause for the Vees. It states that Charlie can whisk away any of your 'broken souls' for rehabilitation. If they give up, they return to you. But lastly…"

Alastor’s form grew, towering over Valentino, his voice dropping to a low, guttural growl.
"If you ever lay a hand on what is mine again—after three warnings, for any unfair, unjustified reason—or if you extinguish one of the souls under my protection, every single contract you hold with them will be destroyed. Any other contract made through pressure, manipulation, or harm will become null and void. If you try to pull the same trick I did, or conspire with others to do so, I will drag you into my shadow and make you taste a pain you cannot even fathom. And I will know."
With a flick of his wrist, Alastor manifested a long scroll filled with names, Valentino's signature at the bottom. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. "If I'd had more time, I would have done this with more class, but I decided to expedite things when I saw you raise your hand to Vox. Again. The contract is fair, in its own way. Vox is our equal, who rose to power on his own. You simply collect broken, useless souls. It's beneficial if they return to you in better shape."
He glanced back at Angel. "As for you, you can take your time repaying your debt to me. Have fun at the casino, but at the end of it, I expect payment in full."

"Oh… Oh SHIT, I'M FREE!" Angel Dust yelled suddenly realising what transpired
But as the dust settled, Angel didn't look triumphant. He looked at Valentino, his expression a strange, heartbreaking mix of relief and profound sadness.

Valentino, seeing his chance, began his pre-planned speech. "You see? This is how you handle a pest. It's called a power play—"

"Shut up, Val," Angel said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through the Moth Demon's gloating.
The room fell silent.

"I'm free," Angel stated, looking Valentino dead in the eye. "And I'm not coming back. Not like before." He took a breath. "But I'm not stupid. I know your numbers have been in the toilet since the last Extermination. That little rise you had? It was just new souls falling in. It's already slowing down."

Valentino bristled, but Angel continued, his voice softening with a strange, pitying tone.
"You're a jerk, Val. A world-class bastard. But that poison you use… it's strong. And I know you hide it, but you do care. In your own fucked-up way, you care." He shook his head. "And I pity you."
This was not what Valentino expected.

"So here's the deal," Angel said, his tone shifting to pure business.
"I'll make appearances. Guest star. When your publicity gets real shitty, and it will, you call me. I'll boost your numbers. No contract. You pay me per gig. A lot. And I can do a bit more on my terms to quell any curious minds. Take it or leave it."

Alastor, who had been watching with detached amusement, was now genuinely intrigued. This was not the simple-minded hedonist he'd pegged Angel for.
Valentino was stunned, but he saw the lifeline. It was a way to save face, to get his star back without the liability of a contract. "…Fine," he snapped, trying to sound like he was the one in control. "But my terms, my studio."
"Fine," Angel agreed. "But my price."
"Excellent," Alastor said, stepping forward.
"Now that this delightful business transaction is concluded…" He lifted Valentino by the collar and hurled him out of the hotel. "A pleasant Hellish day to you!"

Alastor looked at his hand, picking off a few shards of glass. He had destroyed the evidence, having cast a spell to make Val think he saw a new clause.
"Hey, did I do well?" Niffty piped up from behind the bar, where she'd strategically placed a bucket to catch the falling glass. She looked up at him, her single eye wide with excitement.
"You did wonderful, my dear. Especially with the giant eye," Alastor said, patting her head. She brightened up and cheered.
"It was so much fun! Did you see how scared he was? How I instilled fear in his heart!"
"Indeed, darling. Now, do keep the part about Vox a secret. Wouldn't want others knowing what became of my former student."
"Well received, bad boy!"

Once he was done cleaning his hand and straightening his suit, he looked around. Ah, he hadn't anticipated Charlie being there, but no matter. Now she knew she'd be getting more willing customers.
"Well, I'm off to see Rosie. A pleasant day to you all."

________________________________________
Scene: The Vees' Penthouse
Vox and Velvette were on the couch when Valentino stumbled in.
"Where have you been?" Vox demanded.

Valentino took a deep breath, crafting his lie. "Handling the Alastor situation. He tried to mess with Angel's contract."
"And?" Velvette prompted.
"And I let him think he won," Valentino purred, a smug grin on his face. "I played the long game. I let Angel go, knowing his little bleeding heart would eventually see the truth: he's nothing without me. And just as I predicted, he came crawling back, begging to work."

He leaned forward, savoring their attention. "But I'm smarter now. No contracts. Too messy. He's a freelance contractor. I pay him a premium for appearances. It's cleaner. More profitable. And I still get the star power whenever I want it. I don't own the soul, but I own the brand. It's the future of business, my dears. And I'm leading it."
Vox studied him, his blue light scanning Val's face. The story was pragmatic, ruthless, and made Valentino look like a forward-thinking genius. "Damn, Val," Vox said, a flicker of respect on his screen. "That's… actually brilliant."
"Of course it is, mi amor," Valentino purred, the lie settling comfortably. He had salvaged his pride, and in the eyes of his partners, he was still a king.
________________________________________

Later that night, Husk was cleaning a glass, watching Angel stare into his drink. "I'm free?" Angel asked, still in disbelief.
"Not until you pay back the investment," Husk said, cleaning another glass desperately wanting to avoid the conversation.
"But I'm free after that?"
"It's under simple interest."
"How hard can it be?"
"Fifty years or more. With the huge amount we invested in you? I'd say a lot."
"...Well, shit."
"Relax, you have all eternity."
"It's basically the same! I'm still chained!" Angel whined.

Husk bristled, his wings flaring slightly. "You want to go back to him? I can tell the boss to give you up to Valentino right now."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"I would," Husk growled, pissed. "He basically landed himself in deep shit pulling that trick. You should be glad he's not forcing you to work it off right now."
"Hey, hey, calm down, fuzzball, I'm just kidding! Woah, getting all defensive about him."

Husk took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Sometimes… he's just too good for his own detriment."
He kept quiet for a while but could not help the growing irritation he felt
"But what the hell was that, Angel? You're just going to go back to working for him?"
"It's not going back, Husk. It's a business deal. On my terms," Angel said quietly.
"Bullshit. You could've walked away for good."

Angel sighed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
"You don't get it, okay? Val's... he's poison. But it's a sweet poison. He's a bastard, but sometimes... sometimes he looks at me, and it's not just about the cameras. He hides it, but he cares. And I pity him."
He looked up at Husk, his eyes pleading for understanding. "But that's not the main reason."

Husk raised an eyebrow, listening.
"His studio is tanking," Angel explained. "If it completely collapses, the Vees will start asking questions. They'll dig. They might find out Smiles was involved. And then every two-bit Overlord and desperate sinner will be knocking on his door, asking for favors, thinking he's some kind of soul-liberating hero."
He took a sip of his drink. "This... this keeps the peace. It keeps Val's ego intact so he doesn't go nuclear, and it keeps the heat off Alastor. It's... a long-term play. For all of us."

Unseen in the shadows of the hallway, Alastor stood frozen, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. He had come to check on his new investment, but instead, he had discovered something far more valuable. The little spider, whom he had dismissed as a simple-minded pleasure-seeker, had been weaving a web of his own. It was a web of strategy, empathy, and long-term protection.
Alastor let out a low, appreciative chuckle. He had liberated a soul, only to find it was far cleverer, and far more caring, than he had ever imagined. And he liked it. He liked it very much.
"Vaggie! I've got some great news!!" Charlie chirped, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"What is it?"
"I'm sure I'm getting more customers now! I just have to search around Valentino's studio for some broken souls, and he can't do anything about it!"
"You sure? I mean, after last time…"
"With what Valentino did—licking my arm—and Alastor recently putting him in his place, I doubt he'll do anything," Charlie said confidently.
"Valentino did what?!!" Vaggie screamed, her eyes glowing red with rage.
Charlie winced. "Ooh...... heyy, yeah…forgot to mention...I guess"
With how fast things were going, rumors would soon start to spread all through Hell. And that was exactly how Alastor liked it.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14 : Resurgence of the ancient

A wraith of smoke and shadow, a being of pure resentment, coiled through the opulent chambers of the Morningstar palace.
It was a formless thing, a whisper given shape, and it drifted with a frantic, hungry energy. It was not a ghost of this place, but a prisoner trapped within its very core.

"I don't have enough time," the voice rasped, feminine yet frayed with eons of silence.
"The celestial convergence is near. If not now, I wait another century. I will not wait. I cannot."

The specter was Eve.
Not the woman of clay and myth, but what remained of her—a consciousness bound to the damaged vessel of the Fruit of Knowledge.

When the apple had been left half-eaten, the primordial evil it contained, Roo, had latched onto the only available soul: hers. Now, she was the cage, and Roo was the silent, patient occupant.
Heaven had rejected her upon her return, seeing her not as a victim but as a contaminated relic. They hadn't forged a new vessel; they had bound her to Hell itself, rendering her a disembodied whisper, unable to touch, unable to scream, able only to influence. It was a small mercy that Roo cared little for the machinations of its prison, so long as the prison held. And Eve had learned to use her prison's power.

Her smoky essence swirled around Lilith, who slept fitfully in her grand bed. For months, Eve had been a venomous tick in the Queen of Hell's mind, planting seeds of paranoia, nurturing them with whispers of doubt.

'They don't trust you, Lilith. They see you as a liability.'

Lilith stirred, a frown creasing her brow.
In her dreams, she saw Lucifer’s disappointed eyes, Charlie’s hopeful but questioning gaze.
The distrust was real, a chasm opened by her recent, desperate schemes—schemes, ironically, conceived from Eve’s whispers to find a way out of her own prison. A deal with Adam, a near-betrayal of her own daughter… the whispers had twisted her love into a weapon against her.
'He watches you. The Radio Demon. He enjoys your misery.'

Eve, in her spectral form, had been the true thief. She had drifted through locked vaults, her ethereal fingers plucking the jewels from forbidden relics—their very heart and magical structure—and planting them where Lilith would find them: tucked into a drawer, at the bottom of a chest, or dropped near the Hazbin Hotel.
The thefts were subtle, but the pattern was damning. All roads led back to the Queen.

Lilith, waking with a gasp, felt the familiar cold dread.

She had accused Alastor, of course. Who else had the audacity? But he had simply smiled, retreating to the strange company of his pet and that living toy, Razzle, who now seemed unnaturally attached to him.
The court's suspicion hadn't fallen on the smiling demon; it had fallen on her. The accusations, the whispers, the fear in her own family's eyes—it was a cage of a different kind.

Her gaze fell upon her workbench, upon the half-finished project that called to her. A beautiful, intricate orb of crystalline hell-forged silver, pulsing with a faint, inner light. She called it the Soul Prism. It was meant to be her ultimate achievement, a device to amplify her own power, to command respect, to finally silence the doubters. She thought the design was her own genius, a breakthrough born of desperation. She didn't realize every intricate rune, every delicate wire, had been dictated to her in the dead of night by a patient, malevolent voice in her head.

Eve watched, her shadowy form hovering over the Prism. This was it. The final ingredient. The key to her door, forged by the hand of her unknowing pawn. How befitting that the end of the Queen of Hell would be the beginning of her own freedom

Chapter 15: Chapter 15: Freedom, the manipulated and the rogue bishop dominating the board.

The sky over Pentagram City was an unnerving shade of tense grey. It was a new Extermination Day, but the rules had changed.
The Exorcists descended, not in a wave of holy violence, but as a delegation for negotiations.

Sinners, confused and terrified, still scrambled for cover, their instincts screaming of a trap.
From the highest spire of the Morningstar palace, Lilith looked down. She saw her family—Lucifer, Charlie, their small, fragile alliance—standing in the plaza, unaware of the storm about to break not from Heaven, but from within her own heart. The distrust, the isolation, the whispers—it had all led to this. This was her only chance.

"They will see," she whispered to herself, the words tasting like ash. "They will all see."
With a trembling hand, she raised the completed Soul Prism.
It felt warm, alive, thrumming with the power she craved. She believed it would make her a queen in truth, not just in name. She believed it was her salvation.

With a final, desperate prayer to a god who had long since forgotten her, she shattered the object in her palm.

There was no sound, only a blinding, silent implosion of light.
A shockwave of raw, untamed energy erupted outwards, knocking Lilith from her feet. But the energy didn't flow into her. It flowed out of her.
The air grew thick, cold, and heavy with the scent of ozone and ancient dust. The shadow that had haunted Lilith's rooms for a year now began to coalesce in the space before her. It drew substance from the shattered Prism, from Lilith's own life force, from the very air.
Smoke solidified into sinew, darkness formed flesh, and two eyes, burning with millennia of impotent rage, opened in the newly-formed face.
Eve stood, whole and corporeal for the first time in an age. She stretched her new limbs, a smile of pure, unadulterated triumph twisting her lips.

Lilith could only stare, her mind struggling to process the horror. The whispers, the paranoia, the stolen relics, the design for the Prism—it was never her. It was never Alastor. It was this.
"You were my finest creation, my dear Lilith," Eve said, her voice now a rich, cruel melody. "You built my key, you unlocked my door, and you did it all while thinking you were saving yourself."
Lilith felt a cold dread, deeper than any she had known before. She hadn't just been manipulated; she had been an instrument in her own undoing.

Eve took a step forward, her bare feet pressing onto the cold stone of the tower.
"The apple was meant to be eaten, to grant knowledge. But its true purpose was always to be a vessel. And now," she said, placing a hand over her own heart, "the vessel is empty. The cage is broken."
Her eyes glowed brighter, and for a moment, a deeper, older voice seemed to echo from within her. A voice that was not a voice, but a presence.
And Roo is home..
________________________________________
The air in Alastor’s suite was thick with the scent of old books and spiced tea, a sanctuary he had carefully curated.
For eight years, it had been a fortress against the chaos of Hell, a place where a different kind of chaos thrived.
“...and so, the spider said to the fly, ‘My dear, the web is merely a suggestion!’” Amaris finished, her voice a melodic chime that held a perfect imitation of her father’s transatlantic cadence, softened by the warmth of Charlie Morningstar’s genuine optimism.
She was thirteen now, a fact that still startled Alastor, her growth seeming to accelerate with each passing month.
She perched on the arm of his velvet armchair, a lanky girl with his sharp, red-tufted ears and a smile that could disarm even the most jaded sinner.

Alastor chuckled, a low, genuine rumble. “A fine retelling, my little moonlight, though you’ve missed the crucial element of existential dread.”
“Nah,” she said, waving a dismissive hand, a gesture so purely Rosie it made him smile. “Dread’s boring. It’s all about the delivery!”

She hopped down, but as her feet touched the floor, she stumbled, a flicker of static distorting her form for a split second. She looked down at her hand, which had become momentarily translucent.
“Dad?” Her voice, for the first time, held a note of uncertainty. “I feel… strange.”

The smile on Alastor’s face didn’t drop, but it froze. Every fiber of his being, every demonic instinct, screamed. “Strange how, darling?”
“Like… I’m full of static,” she whispered, looking at her other hand as it began to shimmer and fade. “Like I’m a radio station that’s going out of range.”

Rosie, who had been observing from a settee with a fond smile, was on her feet in an instant. Her usual composure was shattered, replaced by a sharp, primal fear.
“Alastor! Her shadow—it’s unraveling!”
Alastor was already there, kneeling beside his daughter, his hands hovering, afraid to touch.
“No, no, no,” he murmured, the sound more like a distressed electronic hum than words. “This is a trick. A parlour trick. Amaris, look at me.”

She tried, her wide, innocent eyes finding his. But they were already losing their luster, the light within them dimming.
“Dad… I’m getting sleepy.”
Her form wavered violently, like a reflection in troubled water. “Will you… will you stay with me?”
The question struck him with the force of a physical blow. His smile finally broke, crumbling into an expression of pure, unadulterated terror. He pulled her into his arms, but she felt lighter, insubstantial. He was holding smoke. “I’m here,” he rasped, his voice cracking. “I’m not going anywhere. Just stay with me. Just…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.
He could only hold her as she dissolved, her body turning into a soft, grey vapor that carried the faint scent of ozone and morning glories.
It was over in moments. The vapor dissipated, and all that remained in his arms was the small, black dress she had been wearing, which then crumbled to a fine, glittering ash.
The silence that followed was a physical presence, a vacuum in the soundproofed room. Alastor remained kneeling on the floor, his arms still cradling nothing, his head bowed. He was a statue of grief, a void where the vibrant, terrifying Radio Demon had just been.

Rosie knelt beside him, her own tears falling freely, her sobs quiet but wracking. “Oh, Alastor,” she choked out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What… what in the seven circles happened?”
He didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on the pile of ash on the floor. “The cornerstone,” he said, his voice a flat, dead monotone. “The Crystal Apple. It wasn’t just a prison. It was the anchor. The foundational law that dictated the new order between Heaven and Hell.” He slowly raised his head, and his eyes were not just empty; they were ancient, burning pits of cold fire. “It’s been destroyed. And now, everything built upon that foundation is… correcting itself. The new creations. The ones who shouldn’t exist. They are the first to be erased.”

“Oh, my stars…” Rosie whispered, the full, horrifying weight of it crashing down on her. “What are we going to do?”

Alastor’s head tilted, a familiar, unnerving gesture. A cacophony of whispers, screams, and diagrams flooded his mind—a library of forbidden knowledge Lilith had forced into him during her torment, thinking it would break him.
Instead, it had just been waiting. A plan, horrific and simple, began to form from the chaos.
“We?” he said, his voice regaining its signature musical lilt, though now it was laced with something sharp and deadly.
He rose to his feet, the ash falling from his coat. “No, my dear Rosie. There is no ‘we’. I will be taking care of this.”

He summoned his microphone staff, and the static crackled with renewed, violent energy.
“If the denizens of Heaven or Hell think they can simply erase my daughter from existence and face no consequence, they are sorely mistaken. I will not be allowing a war. I will be delivering a verdict.”
“Alastor, the way you’re talking…” Rosie stood, wiping her tears, her voice a desperate plea. “It sounds just like the last time. The mistake that cost you—”
“Ah, ah, ah!” The titter from his microphone was like the cawing of vultures. “You know me so well, darling. But this is a different stage, with a different leading man.” He turned to her, and for a moment, his expression softened. “And you, my dearest friend, will have a front-row seat. From a very safe distance.”
Rosie’s eyes widened. “Alastor, don’t you dare—”

She reached for him, but a shadow detached from the wall behind her, wrapping around her like a silken shroud. It didn’t hurt; it simply held, lifting her gently before depositing her softly on the settee. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she slumped into a deep, unnatural sleep.
Alastor looked at her, a flicker of something akin to regret in his eyes.
“I am truly sorry, Rosie. Truly.”
He adjusted his bow tie, the smile on his face now a perfect, terrifying crescent. “But a father must protect his family. Even from themselves.”
He turned to the window, the red light of Hell reflecting in his glasses. The shadows in the room deepened, coalescing at his feet, writhing like eager pets.
“Well then,” he announced to the empty room, his voice echoing with a power that made the very air vibrate. “Let us set the stage, shall we, my shadows? The show is about to begin.”

Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Enemy queen out, surrogate queen on defensive rogue rook on retreat

The Root of All Evil was not a sound, but a silence—a pocket of absolute null in the fabric of existence.
Roo, a consciousness adrift in the screaming void, felt the shudder of reality's collapse.
It was an anguish she knew well, a symphony of a trillion tormented souls crying out for a doom that was already here. Did her foolish ex-vessel, Eve, not understand? She hadn't just freed herself; she had unmade the world.

Heaven and Hell, the grand, dichotomous stage, were being erased. Soon, only God and his first archangels would remain, pristine and alone in the light. And she? Roo would be cast back into the formless nothing, a roaming mass of malice with no home, no stage, no audience.

The thought was a cold spike of pure terror.
But beneath it, a thread of ancient patience held firm. She had known this time would come.
She had foreseen a moment when the foundations would crack, and a new architect would be needed to raise them again. She had waited for a soul with the right blend of ambition, power, and theatricality. A delegate.
And she had found him in a certain sinner.
Her bet was placed on him. As he walked his narrow, agonizing path, she would be there, ready to lend a hand. A selfless act, of course. One that would ensure she had a home in the world he would build. Even if it meant being trapped again, it was a cage. A cage was better than the void.
________________________________________

In the heart of Heaven, the grand conference globe, a sphere of pure light used for celestial communication, flickered. It didn't chime.
It crackled with a dead, hollow static. The serene image of the Heavenly Council was replaced by a swirling vortex of smoke and shadow. Within it, a figure stood, its form encased in roiling embers, its features barely visible, like a forgotten face in a nightmare.
"Seraphims . Listen closely."
The voice was a layered whisper, a thousand desperate voices speaking as one, yet it commanded absolute authority.
It was neither angel nor demon, but something older and far more unsettling.

Emily jolted forward, her wings fluttering in alarm. "Who are you? What's happening?"

"The Apple of Eden is shattered," the voice hissed, ignoring her question.
"The cornerstone is gone. You know what that means. The perpetrator is irrelevant now. Close the gates to Hell. Now."

The urgency was a physical force, a wave of pure desperation that washed over the seraphims.
Sera, her face a mask of grim realization, didn't hesitate. Her hand, moving on pure instinct, traced a sigil in the air. Across the cosmos, the massive pearlescent gates of Heaven slammed shut with a soundless finality.
Below, on the battlefield, Lute had been leading the final charge, her spear poised to strike. With a deafening clang, she collided with an invisible wall, the force of the impact sending her staggering back.
"What in the Nine Hells?!" she snarled, shaking her head. "The gates—! The extermination isn't over!"
"There is no more extermination," the shadowy figure commanded. "I have a plan. You must trust me. Lucifer will come to the gates when it is over. Do you understand?"

The voice, though terrifying, was laced with a sincerity that resonated with Sera. The shattering of the Apple was not a matter to be debated; it was an extinction-level event.
"Understood," Sera declared, her voice ringing with finality.
"Good," the entity said. "The one responsible is Eve. She's likely in your garden, unaware of the true scope of her 'freedom'. See you soon. I have an act to play."
The communication cut, leaving the globe serene once more.
Emily looked at Sera, her wide eyes filled with questions. "Eve? But... how?"
"I don't know," Sera admitted, her expression heavy. "But our priority has changed. We go to the garden." With a powerful beat of her wings, she soared towards the verdant heart of Heaven. Lute, after a moment of furious confusion, folded her own wings and followed, her face a thundercloud of unanswered questions.
________________________________________

Lilith stared in horror at her hands, where fine, hairline cracks were spreading across her skin like a drought-ravaged earth.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her. Around her, the entirety of Hell had fallen into a strange, unnatural slumber. Sinners and demons alike lay where they fell, lost in dreams as their world slowly disintegrated.

What had she done?

"Indeed," a smooth, familiar voice echoed from the shadows. "What did you do?"
Lilith spun around, a hiss on her lips. "Alastor! What are you doing here?"

He stepped from the darkness, a smile plastered on his face, but his eyes held a chilling, cosmic amusement.
"To witness the extent of your mess, of course. It's proving to be... vastly entertaining."
"My mess?!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "You're the one who haunted me, who twisted my thoughts! I was separated from my family, I needed to prove—"
"You shattered the Apple of Eden," Alastor interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr.
"You destroyed the very foundation upon which Heaven and Hell were built. All to prove a point to a family you were already pushing away. Realize it, Lilith. Accept it. This was all you."

He took a step closer, his smile widening.
"But I am a gracious monster. I will allow you to return to your family. You will simply carry the secret, the weight of what you've done, for the rest of your days."
"I'm willing to be the villain," he continued, his voice rising with theatrical flair. "You, my dear Queen, will be the fool. A tragic figure, burdened by her own terrible mistake. It's a kindness, really."

Realization dawned on Lilith, followed by a wave of fury. She lunged for him, but a searing pain erupted from the cracks in her skin, paralyzing her.
Alastor moved with impossible speed, his hand closing around one of her magnificent horns. With a sickening crack, he ripped it free.
Lilith's scream was a thing of pure agony, but as the horn left her, the cracking of her skin miraculously stopped. The hardening ceased.

Alastor was not done.
A bubble of shimmering, crimson energy formed around Lilith, lifting her from the ground and rendering her invisible to the outside world.
They shot through the sky, landing on a flat, colossal surface—the petrified stump of a World-Tree, sliced clean eons ago summoned upon his call and with the help of Roo. In his other hand, Alastor now held Lucifer's own serpent, Basilisk, who coiled snugly around his neck, its eyes glowing with docile power.

"You will be the witness to this show," Alastor said, his voice echoing across the vast platform. "So that you are aware of the price, should you ever be foolish enough to let it happen again."

He held up the shard of Lilith's horn, its power thrumming in his grip. With his other hand, he gathered the floating shards of the Apple, a new piece materializing from the shadows—a fragment of pure, chaotic energy he had been saving. He molded them together, the molten mass seething in mid-air. Then, he knelt, laying a thick, grey powder on the ground in an intricate pattern. Lilith recognized it: ground bone and blessed ash, the components for a sigil of containment and creation. The array flared, casting a colossal, glowing symbol into the sky.

He absorbed the power from Lilith's horn, the serpent around his neck hissing in approval as the energy flowed through him.
"And now," Alastor exclaimed, throwing his arms wide open, his smile reaching maniacal proportions, "here comes my esteemed audience!"
As if on cue, a blur of red and white, a form with tremendous power, rushed towards them at impossible speed. Charlie had arrived

 

The air in Hell had grown thin, tasting of ozone and despair. From the hotel balcony, Charlie stared at the sky, where the once-vibrant pentagram had faded to a sickly, pale scar.
The ground itself groaned, vast chasms opening like wounds across the landscape. A psychic pressure pressed down on her, a symphony of dread—a cacophony of millions of voices screaming in a language she felt in her bones rather than understood. It was Roo. The Root of Evil, and her anguish was a physical weight.

At her feet, Lucifer collapsed, a low growl of pure agony escaping his lips. A brilliant, painful light pulsed from the center of his chest, as if his very soul was trying to tear its way out.
"Dad!" Charlie cried, kneeling beside him, her hands hovering, afraid to touch. "Get up!"

A scream tore through the distant air, a sound of maternal pain that sent a jolt of ice through Charlie's veins. She knew that voice.
"Vaggie, stay with my dad!" she commanded, her voice tight with urgency. "I have to go!"

Without waiting for a reply, she sprang forwards , hurling like a comet , a comet of righteous fury shooting towards the source of the scream. She saw it in an instant: a colossal, flat-topped platform of petrified wood, and on it, Alastor. Her mother, Lilith, was encased in a shimmering bubble, her power visibly being siphoned into the smiling monster.
"ALASTOR!" Charlie's roar echoed across the chasm. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOTHER?!"

Alastor turned, his smile widening with genuine delight.

"My dear Charlotte, always so... direct. Why, I'm simply helping your mother with a bit of cosmic refinancing! Nothing much, at the moment. Just a few adjustments in my favor."

Rage, pure and hot, obliterated all other thought. Charlie launched herself forward, her golden trident blazing with holy light. She thrust, aiming for his heart, but he was gone. He didn't just dodge; he became living static, a blur of shadow and red light that reappeared five feet to her left.

"If you think this is the way to fight, then you are wrong!" he tsked, his voice a condescending melody. "You are extremely open!"

He moved with a dancer's grace, using his microphone staff to hook her ankle and pivot, his leg swinging up in a powerful, contemptuous kick that sent her stumbling back, the air driven from her lungs. Before she could recover, he snaked his staff forward, the microphone head wrapping around her trident and ripping it from her grasp with a contemptuous tug.

Desperate, she abandoned her weapon, her hands morphing into formidable claws. She lunged, a feral scream tearing from her throat, aiming to tear that smiling throat from his neck. He simply bent backwards at an impossible, spine-breaking angle, her claws swiping through empty air as he let out a hysterical, crackling laugh that was broadcast across the platform.

And in that moment, as she stared at him, panting with frustration, she saw it. For a fraction of a second, the manic grin faltered. The theatrical lights in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a profound, bottomless exhaustion. It was a flicker of something so dark and weary it stole her breath. It was the look of a creature carrying a weight far heavier than any soul. He has a reason, she thought, her absurd, undying belief flaring to life. This isn't just for fun.

But the mask snapped back into place, tighter than before.
"A shame I have to cut our reunion short," he purred, righting himself. "I already got what I wanted, apple seedling~"

He tapped her fallen trident with the tip of his microphone. There was no clang, only a sickening fizz as the holy light within it sputtered and died, the connection to her severed. He took it. He needed it for later.
"I'll see you in two days," he announced, his voice booming with theatrical finality. "Same place. I expect you to bring an audience to our morbid tango."

With a flourish of his hand, shadowy tendrils erupted from the platform, wrapping around Charlie's limbs and binding her to the ground. She struggled, but they were unyielding. Alastor gave a deep, mocking bow, and then sank into the floor as if it were water, his creepy grin the last thing to vanish. Powerless, she could only watch in horror as Lucifer's own serpent, Basilisk, slithered from the shadows and coiled snugly around his neck.
________________________________________

Vaggie knelt beside Lucifer, her spear clutched so tightly her knuckles were white. Her place was at Charlie's side, not playing nursemaid to the King of Hell, even if he was her father-in-law. A cold knot of insecurity tightened in her gut. Every instinct screamed at her to follow, to protect Charlie, but she couldn't leave Lucifer like this. She felt useless.
By the time Husk, Angel, and Niffty reached the balcony, they had come too late. They found only Vaggie, tending to a weakened king, and Charlie, bound by shadows on a distant platform, her face a mask of shock and defeat.
________________________________________

Alastor materialized from the static in Vox's studio, the sudden appearance causing the lights to flicker violently.
The Overlord of Screens was slumped in his chair, head lolling to one side, trapped in a deep, unnatural slumber.

He couldn't be blamed. His very power was being sucked away, a siphon of demonic energy fueling the final, crucial steps of Alastor's plan.
As Alastor surveyed his unconscious rival, he felt it—a faint, unfamiliar hitch in his chest. A strange echo, like a distant memory of a heartbeat. He suppressed it instantly, crushing the feeling beneath a mountain of will. Sentimental detritus, he sneered internally. Now is not the time.

He had to ensure the last pieces were in place before his final move. Nobody would dare think he would be here, in the studio of a demon he so openly despised. He circled Vox's chair, his smile thoughtful. He'd always found it strange, the sudden shift in the flat-screen's demeanor. The old Vox—the one he'd known as "Voci"—had been careful, almost respectful.
His approaches were subtle, a friendly, discreet show of care that acknowledged Alastor's boundaries.
This new Vox was crude, all overt sexual posturing and clumsy power plays. It was a performance, but a poor one.

But it was more than a change in personality. It was as if Vox's entire history had been scoured clean and rewritten. A complete memory wipe, replaced by new, fabricated ones. Such a thing should be impossible for any sinner, any angel, any being in creation. It was a violation of the soul itself. Deep down, Alastor knew this was not Voci. It was a different soul, a puppet wearing his face. But he had never been able to find concrete proof of the how or why.
He leaned in close to the sleeping demon's ear, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Wherever you are, my dear Voci... I do hope you're enjoying the show." He straightened up, adjusting his bow tie. "Because the finale is going to be spectacular.

Voci background:

 

Vincent Ociley was born in the gray slums of a growing industrial city — one of fourteen children crammed into a half-collapsing apartment at the edge of a railway line.He was the 5th. His father had died early, another casualty of factory machinery and corner-cut safety. His mother worked herself to exhaustion with odd jobs — scrubbing floors, patching clothes, mending lamps — anything that would keep the family from starving.

Their home wasn’t a home, just walls pretending to be one. The roof leaked no matter how they patched it, and the damp crept into everything. Winters were cruel. The cold slipped through the thin walls like a ghost, curling into their blankets and lungs alike .sometimes even reachimg deep into their bones but that was because of whatever that kept lurking outside.

Security was a joke. The neighborhood was a battlefield of hunger — drunks, thieves, and men who’d long since stopped caring whether what they took had been paid for.
The Ocileys learned to survive quietly.

But survival had its price.

The sicknesses came every winter, creeping through the cracks like the frost. The youngest — a little girl with a laugh that used to echo through the halls — fell ill one year. Pneumonia. There was no money for doctors, no charity left to beg from. She faded fast.
Vincent sat with her through the nights, holding her hand, listening to the water drip from the ceiling into the bucket beside her bed. She whispered that she was cold. He couldn’t make her warm.

When she died, he stopped sleeping.

The city whispered that it was a mercy, that with mouths so many and food so little, the Ocileys were “blessed” to have fewer to feed. But Vincent felt cursed.
Those were the ones he had tended the most, the ones who’d trusted him to fix what the world broke — and he had failed.

He started fixing things because he couldn’t fix people. Broken lamps, radios, heaters — anything that gave off warmth or sound. If he could make something shine, maybe it would chase away the cold he’d grown up with.
By sixteen, he found work in a small electronics repair shop. The owner paid little, but Vincent learned fast — faster than most grown men. He had an instinct for machines, especially televisions, a strange new invention that glowed like bottled lightning.
He’d stand outside shop windows late at night, staring at the flickering images. They were miracles — voices and faces reaching through air itself. They made people stop and listen. He wanted that power, even if he didn’t understand why yet.

One rainy evening, a group of men from a rising television company walked into the repair shop, desperate for someone who could fix a blown transmitter. Their engineer had quit after “seeing sparks where there shouldn’t be.”
Vincent fixed it before the hour was over. The men were stunned — not just by his skill, but by his calm voice and confident explanation. His voice carried warmth, a steady rhythm that made people listen.

“You’ve got a voice for news,” one said, half-joking.

Another added, “Or maybe a face for the box itself.”

They offered him a strange deal: a job that was half mechanic, half presenter. The company both manufactured televisions and ran its own broadcast channel — a small empire in the making. They needed someone cheap, clever, and pliable. Vincent was perfect.

For the first time in his life, the pay was good. His mother smiled again; his surviving siblings ate regularly. When his voice came through the televisions in store windows, people turned their heads.

But soon, the company began asking for favors. They’d discovered that Vincent could do more than fix sets — he could enhance them. He knew how to strengthen their signal, how to tweak frequencies so that their broadcasts overtook competitors’ stations.

“Business is war,” his employers told him. “We just fight smarter.”
He listened. And obeyed.
He built devices that quietly sabotaged other channels — turning their broadcasts to static, their sponsors to dust.
One by one, small studios collapsed.
People lost their jobs, their homes, their hope.
Vincent told himself it wasn’t his fault — that he was just doing his work, that he had a family to feed. But he knew better. He had grown up in hunger; he knew exactly what his inventions were taking from others.
Some of those ruined men didn’t recover. A few took their lives.
Their names were never printed, but their faces flickered in the static of his dreams.
Still, he worked. Still, he smiled for the cameras.
Because every coin sent home still felt like redemption — until it didn’t.
Then came the night of the final demand.

The company wanted a transmitter powerful enough to silence every rival voice, to turn the entire city into an echo chamber for their message.
Vincent built the designs, but when the night came to bring them to life, he hesitated.
For once, he thought of himself. Of the mother who still waited up for him. Of the narrow bed that still smelled faintly of solder and rain. He told them no — that the machine wasn’t ready, that pushing it now could mean lives lost. Maybe even his.
For once, he thought of himself. Of the mother who still waited up for him. Of the narrow bed that still smelled faintly of solder and rain. He told them no — that the machine wasn’t ready, that pushing it now could mean lives lost. Maybe even his.

But the men who ran the company weren’t used to no. Fame had a schedule, and it did not wait for mercy.

They laughed at his fear. Then they stopped laughing.
Hands that once clapped his back now struck his ribs. Voices that once praised him hissed threats in his ear. They called him ungrateful, a coward, a liability.

Somewhere in the struggle, a wire came loose — a single, exposed vein of power, humming in the rain that leaked through the ceiling. They shoved him back, maybe harder than they meant to.
His heel slid. The puddle spread.

The pain was instant and endless. His body seized, light bursting behind his eyes. The last thing he saw was their faces, wide with shock — not guilt, not sorrow, just fear of what they’d done.
When the current died, so did he.
The company called it an accident. A tragedy. The papers printed his name once and then forgot it.

But the city did not forget. The city still hummed with his machines. Still played his voice. Still carried the echoes of the ruin he had helped unleash.
And sometimes, late at night, when a television hums to life on its own, his voice cuts through the static — soft, steady, unbearably human.
They say it’s him.

The man who refused to sell another lie.
The boy who tried to go home.

The engineer who damned himself by building the weapons of men’s ambition.
Now he’s Voci — no longer a man, no longer a ghost, but a demon born from guilt and frequency.

A signal cursed to wander the airwaves, whispering to those who still listen:
“I only wanted to fix what was broken.”
But all he ever made… was noise.

Notes:

I'm at a loss at who to make alastor be with.
I mean with vags it's more of friendship. Husk.. well husk will pretty much against alastor.. It will get complicated between them. Vox..the whole thing now that I found he a cult leader and literally flung a pornstar right into the tank even if she was real pretty to bring in the big bucks and didn’t even directly offend vox’s superiority I’m creating a thing where voci was the original tv box head alastor met.

Chapter 17: Chapter 17: Preparation before entering the void.

The sap of the Tree of Eden.
The very thought was a blasphemy, a delicious poison on the tongue.
To even attempt to harvest it from Heaven itself would be an act of war, and the tree would reject the touch of such profound evil, turning the sap to poison. But the branch from which the fruit was plucked—that was another matter. A scar cast off, a forgotten relic.

Mythology, as it was so often, was incomplete.
When the fruit was taken, the branch didn't simply fall; it was shattered by divine force and cast into the furthest, most forgotten corner of creation: a pocket of the Void that had bled into Hell. It was a place of timeless chaos, a hunting ground for beasts born before sin, and it was guarded by a Cheeribin—not a mere cherub, but a warrior of the old order, an angelic power just shy of a seraphim, tasked with ensuring the branch never fell into the wrong hands.

Alastor had the power, the stolen angelic energy to sense his target. He had a rudimentary map, scrawled from the shifting constellations that acted as the Void's only landmarks. But the Void was timeless, and he was not. To spend a day inside could be to spend a century outside. He needed an anchor, a clock.

And for that, he needed Husker.

"You son of a bitch!"

Husker was a blur of wings and claws, grabbing Alastor by the lapels of his coat and shaking him with a fury fueled by pure terror.
The sky was cracking. Lucifer was down. The world was ending, and the grinning freak in front of him was at the center of it.

"You smiling piece of shit! The sky is bleeding! What did you do?!"
Alastor’s smile was a strained, brittle thing. As of right now, it looked less like a mask and more like a crack in his porcelain facade. He didn't even bother to meet Husk's wild eyes, his gaze fixed on some distant point of calculation.

"Your histrionics are tiresome, Husker," he muttered, his voice lacking its usual resonant boom. "Cease your caterwauling. Are you interested in saving this wretched little plane of existence, or shall I leave you to your tantrum?"

Husk let go, shoving him back with a snarl. "Save it? After the shit you pulled? You think I'm gonna just fall in line? You're tripping."

"I assure you, my state of mind is perfectly lucid," Alastor said, finally turning his gaze on the cat demon. His eyes were hollowed out, the usual fire banked to a dim, exhausted glow. He held out a small, intricately designed silver sphere. "This is not a request. It is a necessity."

Husk stared at the orb. It looked delicate, important, and infuriatingly smug, just like the demon holding it. A red-hot wave of spite, pure and uncut, washed over him. He thought of all the times Alastor had left him in the dark, all the cryptic nonsense, all the smug smiles.

With a roar of frustration that was half fury and half sheer pettiness, Husk didn't just bat the sphere away. He took a deliberate, theatrical swing, like a baseball player going for a home run. The sphere connected with his paw with a surprisingly solid thwack.

It sailed through the air in a graceful arc before hitting the marble floor with a deafening, crystalline CRACK! It didn't just break; it exploded into a hundred glittering shards that skittered across the floor like panicked spiders.
A triumphant smirk twisted Husk's muzzle. He crossed his arms, puffing out his chest. "Yeah? What now, you grinning freak? Gonna cry over your broken toy?"
Alastor stared at the shattered remnants on the floor. There was a beat of perfect, profound silence.

Then, a low chuckle began to build in his chest. It wasn't his usual static-laced titter. It was a deep, genuine, belly-shaking laugh of pure, unadulterated delight. He threw his head back, his whole body shaking with it.

"Oh... my," Alastor breathed, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "Husker, you magnificent, wine-soaked imbecile. You absolute buffoon."

He crouched, tapping a finger on the largest shard. "That wasn't a map, you fool. It was a tether. A spool of temporal thread, anchored to this spot. And in your infinite, punch-drunk wisdom, you've just tied the other end... directly to your soul."
Husk's triumphant smirk faltered. "The... what?"

"The Void is timeless," Alastor explained, rising to his feet, his energy renewed by this sudden, chaotic development. He spoke slowly, as if to a very small, very dull child. "An hour inside could be a decade out here. I needed a way to measure the passage of time. Now, your every weary breath, every cynical beat of your heart, will be the clock by which I measure the eons in that place. You've just become my very own living, breathing, alcohol-scented hourglass."
Husk's fur stood on end. His brain, slow and addled as it was, finally caught up. He looked at the shards, then at his own paws, then at Alastor's beaming face.

"Oh," he whispered, the blood draining from his face. "Shit."

"Yes, indeedy!" Alastor chirped, his voice dripping with condescending cheer. He gave Husk a patronizing pat on the cheek. "Now, you will stay here. You will be protected from entering the Void, but you will remain my anchor. Do try not to die of boredom while
I'm gone. Or, you know, at all. It would make telling time terribly inconvenient."

He produced a tattered scroll—the incomplete map. "The constellations are my guide, but they shift. From within the Void, I must read their new positions and follow the angelic trail of the Cheeribin. It's a... delicate performance."

Alastor walked to the edge of the hotel roof, where a jagged tear in reality shimmered like a heat haze.
Husk stood nearby, frozen in place, his mind replaying his own home-run swing of stupidity. He was a tool, a living clockwork, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Alastor paused at the threshold, the silent, hungry emptiness of the Void pulling at him.
He glanced back at Husk, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he almost wished he had a more willing companion for this particular dance. But the show must go on.

With a final, dramatic flourish of his hand, he stepped into the nothingness, the tear in reality sealing behind him with a soundless snap, leaving Husk utterly alone on the rooftop with the weight of the world—and the Radio Demon's time—on his soul.

Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Meeting 3 constellations in sequence

Stepping into the Void was less like entering a place and more like unbecoming.
The roar of Hell's chaos, the scent of brimstone, the very pressure of a million damned souls—it all vanished.
There was only a silent, star-dusted emptiness, a cold so profound it felt like a physical blow. It was a blessing, or perhaps a curse, from Roo.
Time here moved differently, a sluggish river compared to the raging torrent outside. For every seventy beats of Alastor’s heart, only one would pass for Husk in the Pride Ring. It gave him time, a precious commodity he desperately needed.

His first mistake was assuming the Void was empty.
One moment he was drifting through a nebula of lavender and crimson; the next, he was tumbling onto a vast, leathery surface that shuddered beneath him.
He had landed on the tail of Deneb Kaitos, the fearsome celestial whale.
The beast, ancient and dreaming, reacted with a slow, irritated flick. Claws the size of obelisks scraped across his back, tearing through his coat and flesh in a searing line of agony.
Pain was a familiar acquaintance, but powerlessness was not. The celestial energy here was thin, alien, and barely sustained him. He could manifest his wings, but little else. With a strangled gasp, he launched himself off the creature's flank, diving back into the relative safety of the open void.

He spent the next three days—seventy-two heartbeats for Husk, an eternity for him—hiding within the gaseous clouds of a dying star, nursing his wounds and plotting. The Radio Demon, reduced to a cornered rat. The indignity was almost worse than the pain.
His next landing was softer.

He tumbled onto a field of golden fleece, under the watchful eye of a magnificent ram whose horns spiraled like galaxies. Aries. The constellation's guardian regarded him with placid, ancient eyes, deeming him non-threatening before turning away to graze on starlight.

Non-threatening? Alastor seethed internally, his human hands clenching into fists. I am the Radio Demon! The terror of Hell! But then he caught his reflection in a nearby crystalline formation: a lanky man with a shock of red hair, a desperate, feral look in his eyes, and a nasty gash on his back. He looked less like a demon and more like a lunatic who’d lost a bar fight. He hated it. He hated this fragile, breakable form.

His journey led him next to a star that pulsed with a sickly, baleful light: Algol, the Demon's Head. He expected a barren rock, a monument to Perseus's victory. Instead, he found a garden of stone statues, frozen in poses of terror. And in the center, on a throne of carved obsidian, sat the figure herself.

It was not a severed head. It was Medusa. Alive.

Her hair was a writhing nest of vipers, and her eyes held the weariness of eons. She didn't attack, merely watched him with a detached curiosity as he stumbled into her domain.

"What are you, a strange little human, doing in my domain?" Her voice was like the grinding of stones, yet held a dry, almost amused lilt.

Alastor, every nerve screaming, straightened up as best he could. "I stumbled upon it while traveling the constellations. I meant no harm," he hissed, the burning in his veins intensifying as he met her gaze. It wasn't death, but a creeping, petrifying cold that fought with the fire of the poison. Her very presence was a war in his blood.

Medusa tilted her head, her snakes hissing softly. She seemed surprised by his simple, truthful answer. "Honest. How refreshing. Most just scream or try to stab me. Wait here."

She vanished into the shadows of her stone garden, returning a moment later with a folded piece of cloth that shimmered like a spider's web at dawn. She tossed it to him.

"A 'friend' of mine, Arachne, from the Virgo constellation, made a few for me," she explained, her patience surprisingly gentle. "Imbue it with your magic. It will show your location, and more importantly, it will track the constellations as they rotate. Your little map," she gestured to his tattered scroll, "is useless here. The path you took keeps changing."

Alastor stared at the cloth, then at her, his mind racing. This was too easy. "Why are you helping me after being so... welcoming?" he asked, his voice tight with pain and suspicion.
Medusa let out a low, rumbling laugh that caused the nearest statues to vibrate.
"Call it a hunch. And," she added, her lips curling into a sly smile, "you look so terribly weak. As if any beast in this void could swat you down like a gnat. It's been an age since I've seen something so pathetic. It's endearing."

Alastor certainly did not pout. He simply clenched his jaw and gave a curt, respectful nod.
"Thank you for your help. I will bring news to your... 'friend'... if our paths ever cross."

"I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear she's helped a lost puppy," Medusa chuckled, waving a dismissive hand as he turned to leave.

As Alastor stepped off Algol and back into the endless dark, he unfurled the cloth. A soft light emanated from it, showing a perfect, three-dimensional map of the surrounding void, with a single, glowing dot marking his position. He had a real map now. He had a direction.

Well, back into the void it was.
The game was afoot, and for the first time since this all began, the human part of him, the part that was an expert at hunting, felt a genuine, optimistic thrill.

Notes:

If you want to know the map. Just search global constellation or something. Gosh! shouldn't have placed my foot in it if I didn't know about it. But too late..
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter 19: Chapter 19: The giraffe constellation and little bear constellation

The Void, Alastor was learning, operated on a logic of its own.
Constellations not tethered to grand myths were echoes of the terrestrial worlds they were named for.
Camelopardalis, for instance, was not a collection of stars but a sprawling, silent savanna under a sky of swirling nebulae.
The air, for the first time since he’d entered this emptiness, had a scent—of acacia trees and dry earth. The temperature, a balmy 25 degrees Celsius, was a balm on his still-healing back. For a fleeting moment, the human part of him, the man from New Orleans, felt a pang of homesickness for a world he hadn't thought of in a century.

He paused, studying Medusa’s enchanted cloth. The map shimmered, showing his path and the slow, majestic rotation of the celestial bodies around him.
His first major destination was clear: Ursa Minor, the Little Bear. According to Medusa, its guardian, a hunter eternally locked in his myth, was a font of information on the other constellations—their habits, their paths, and most importantly, their weaknesses.

It was his fourth day in the Void. Back in the Pride Ring, Husk had likely just finished pouring his first drink of the day. The time dilation was a luxury, but it was also a trap. He couldn't afford to linger. He’d almost forgotten his original, useless tattered map, and the cost had been high. He’d given the forgotten Wasp and Bee constellations a wide berth; they were not gentle creatures of myth but dark, aggressive swarms of stellar energy, almost as black as the Void itself. He’d even sailed through the ghostly silhouette of an ancient, non-animal constellation—a silent, phantom ship that passed through him, leaving a chill that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the soul.

Ursa Minor, when he finally arrived, was not the tranquil forest of stars he’d imagined. It was a dark, brooding woodland of petrified trees, and the moment his feet touched the ground, he was under attack.

"Urgh!" A grunt of pain escaped his lips as his back slammed into the trunk of a petrified ironwood tree. A man built of corded muscle and starlight lunged at him, a crude stone knife glinting in his hand. This had been going on for hours. The hunter was relentless, a blur of motion and boasts.
"Show me what you've got!" the hunter roared, his voice echoing through the silent woods. "I can smell it—the blood of a real hunter in your veins! Don't hold back on me!"
The taunt, combined with the searing pain in his back and the sheer frustration of the chase, made something snap in Alastor. The temporal artery in his neck began to throb, a frantic drumbeat against his skin. He was tired of running. He was tired of being weak.

As the hunter lunged again, Alastor didn't dodge. He stood his ground, and at the last possible second, he dropped low. He didn't fight the force; he became a pivot, letting the hunter's own lunge carry him past. In that split second, Alastor's hand shot out, not to push, but to grab the hunter's wrist and twist, using the man's own momentum to hurl him headfirst into a nearby stone outcropping.

The hunter staggered, dazed. Before he could recover, Alastor was on him, wrenching the stone knife from his grasp and pressing it firmly against the hunter's throat. The human part of him, the part that had survived in the cutthroat world of radio and entertainment, took over. He leaned in, his face inches from the hunter's, and gave the most genuinely creepy smile he could muster.

"Is this sufficient?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous purr.

The hunter’s eyes widened, the boisterous confidence draining away to be replaced by a primal fear. He stared into Alastor's eyes and saw something ancient and hungry staring back.

"Woah. Okay. Chill," the hunter stammered, going completely still.

It didn't take long for him to talk. He spilled everything he knew about Draco, the Dragon constellation, where the Cherubin and the branch were hidden. "Draco's frozen, yeah, but his breath is still alive. It's poison, and it's guided by the solar winds. If you can't feel the wind's path, you're dead. Simple as that."

"Thank you for the... meteorological report," Alastor grinned, his smile all teeth and no warmth. He released the hunter and took a step back.

"He's crazy," he heard the hunter mutter, scrambling to his feet and rubbing his neck.

Alastor didn't respond. He simply turned and walked away, and as he did, he unfurled his wings, the shadowy appendages bursting from his back in a silent, dramatic display. He had a weakness. He had a destination. He was almost through his troubles with the Void. The final act was about to begin

Notes:

Cherumbin because
1 chubin are to some those who control the principles like laws how things should be
2 are to others those who are closest to God and support his seat
3.. Okay too much I think I may be cursing by now so 'cherumbin' OK?
Good...now let the show go on! (I think🤔)

Chapter 20: Chapter 20: The rook is out, is surrogate queen ready to take the throne? Gates of heaven reopened

Charlie didn't understand. The man she knew as her hotelier, the frustrating, charming, maddening demon who had promised to help her, was gone.
In his place was a monster, hanging impaled on her father's sword, laughing like a maniac.

"Oh, Charlie dear! You are a blessing to your kingdom!" he rasped, his voice a wet, gurgling symphony of static. "You truly did give me the solution to our despair!"

She stared, horrified, at the bubbling pool below him.
It wasn't water.
It was his blood, flowing in an impossible, continuous stream, coalescing around a dark, misshapen core—the Apple of Eden.
Through its fractured surface, she could see designs, intricate and terrible, etching themselves into being, darkness leaking from every line.
She had been a coward, rushing forward in a blind rage when he seemed so preoccupied, so distracted. Her, the Princess of Hell, tricked by a cheap magic trick.

"You're insane," she screamed, yanking him by the collar, pulling his face close to hers. His skin was cold, clammy.
"Even as you're dying, you're laughing! Why, Alastor? Why did you do it, even if it meant your death?"

"Truly... I didn't see it coming to this..." he whispered, his smile finally, truly fading.
"But I think... it's for the best. 'They' will come... to tell me when... it's ready. After all... I kept... my part of the deal."

His eyes drooped, the light in them extinguishing like a candle in a hurricane.
The Apple in the pool below began to glow, the designs on its surface spinning faster, drinking in the last of his blood.
Charlie was too consumed by her own fury to notice the intensifying light until it erupted in a silent, blinding flash. The force threw her back, slamming her against the far wall. When her vision cleared, Alastor's body was gone, enveloped by the light.
The pool was empty. All that remained at the bottom was a single, red-and-gold apple, from which a faint, sentient darkness—Roo—was already beginning to seep.
________________________________________

Alastor had miscalculated. One simple, arrogant mistake.
He had needed a link, a bridge between Hell and Heaven to stabilize the new Apple.
Amaris had been one, as were Lucifer and Charlie. He would not have dared to use them. So, he had thought his own demonic blood might suffice.
A tiny bit.
The blood Charlie had spilled during their first fight had done the job, but only a fraction. The profuse bleeding from his arm, a full litre of his essence, had completed a fifth of the necessary work. But the damage to Hell, the disintegration that was now reaching the gates of Heaven, was accelerating too quickly. He couldn't afford to waste time finding a more elegant solution.

So he had forced the final act. He just hadn't expected Charlie's sword to find his heart so precisely. He had thought she was out for the count. Well, she was indeed full of surprises.
Maybe he was really dying. Maybe this was the end.
But it didn't feel like an ending. He didn't feel the finality of oblivion. As the light enveloped him, as his very being fragmented into a million motes of dust, he felt only a profound sense of relief. Just a bit of sleep... He was so, so tired.
________________________________________

Husk no longer felt the weight of his chains, the magical bond to Alastor's soul. But he didn't feel free. He felt hollow. The truth he carried was a heavier burden than any contract.

Flashback

He was just looking for booze, rummaging through Alastor's private stock, a habit he knew would earn him a sneer but not much else. He didn't mean to overhear the hushed, furious argument from behind a locked door.
"Alastor! You can't do this! Let me—"
"NO!" Alastor's voice was a low snarl, devoid of its usual theatricality. "I've stooped lower than this. I've done your tasks, I've played your games. This is NOTHING. Nothing I can't endure."
"It's all my fault! I should have—"
"No, it was our fault," Alastor cut in, his tone laced with a bone-deep weariness. "I should have tried harder to restrict the information from you. You did not have to fall to that temptation. And he... that person should never have been allowed to get to you."
"Who?"
"Oh, you'll know," Alastor's voice was cold, final. "You'll know when the gates of Heaven open again. If they ever do. Now, I need time to prepare. Without your bickering."
"You don't have to—"

There was no sound. Then, a tired sigh, and the soft thump of something flopping onto a chaise lounge.

"Tomorrow," Alastor murmured, more to himself than to Lilith. "Tomorrow, all of it will be over."

The other voice was Lilith's. Husk crept away from the door, his heart pounding. He finally understood. Alastor wasn't just being an asshole; he was playing a part, taking the blame, protecting them all from the truth of Lilith's mistake.

End Flashback

And now, the chains were gone. All he felt was a cold, gnawing regret.

The silence in the hotel lobby was a heavy, suffocating blanket, punctuated only by Charlie's quiet, broken sobs from the other room.
Lucifer paced like a caged tiger, his golden boots leaving scuff marks on his own pristine floor. Every fiber of his being screamed with a chaotic mix of grief, rage, and a profound, bone-deep helplessness. His world was ending, his daughter was heartbroken, and the architect of it all had just vanished in a flash of light.

His eyes landed on Husk, hunched in an armchair, the cat demon's shoulders shaking with silent, gut-wrenching tears. It was the spark that lit the fuse.
"Why are you crying for that?" Lucifer's voice was a low, dangerous growl, the sound of a king who has lost everything and needs someone to blame.
"He's gone. The chains are broken. You're free."

He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Husk.
"He was a monster! A manipulative snake who used you, who hurt my daughter, who played you all for fools for his own sick entertainment!"

"He was an asshole, yeah, but he was our asshole!" Angel Dust's voice cut through the air like a shard of glass.
He immediately stepped between Lucifer and Husk, his multiple arms spread in a protective stance. "You didn't know him! You didn't see the shit he did for us, the chances he gave us when no one else would!"

Lucifer scoffed, a bitter, ugly sound. "Chances? He held your soul in his hand, Husk! He tormented you for sport! And you," he sneered, turning his full attention to Angel, "he saw you as a joke, a passing amusement!"

"Maybe!" Angel shot back, his voice cracking with a fury that was born from love and loss. "But he was still here! He was part of this! He gave a damn when it counted, which is more than I can say for the King of Hell, who only shows up when it's time to start a war!"

The accusation struck Lucifer like a physical blow. He reeled back as if slapped. But it wasn't Angel's words that finally broke through his rage. It was Husk.

The cat demon slowly lifted his head. His face was a mess of tears and grime, but his eyes... his eyes were clear. They weren't filled with anger or fear, but with a deep, weary pity. It was the look of someone who knew a terrible truth, a truth that Lucifer, in all his power and grief, had been blind to. Husk didn't say a word. He just looked at his king, and in that silent, knowing gaze, Lucifer saw not a subject, but a witness. He saw a man mourning a friend who had sacrificed everything, and he felt a wave of shame so cold and powerful it extinguished the fire of his anger.

The King of Hell, a being of immense power, looked suddenly small and lost. His regal posture failed, his shoulders slumping. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. What could he say? He had raged at a man for grieving his friend, a friend who had just died to save Lucifer's own kingdom. He had been so consumed by his own pain, he had dismissed the pain of others.

"I..." he began, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I... didn't..."
Husk just shook his head slowly, then looked away, the conversation over. He pushed himself out of the chair, his movements stiff.

"I... I need to be alone," Husk rasped, his voice rough with emotion. "I need to see Rosie. I can't... I can't be here."
Lucifer didn't stop him. He could only watch as Husk trudged away, a solitary figure leaving the wreckage of a battle he'd never wanted to fight.

Angel watched him go, then turned back to Lucifer, his own anger now cooled to a simmering sadness. He pulled out his phone, his hands trembling slightly. "Yeah... well, I gotta make sure Cherri's okay." He shot Lucifer one last, lingering look—a look of profound disappointment—before turning away to make his call.
Left alone in the center of the room, Lucifer stood in the suffocating silence. The weight of his own words, his own blindness, crashed down upon him. He wasn't just a king who had failed his kingdom; he was a father who had failed to see the loyalty right in front of him. And for the first time in a long, long time, Lucifer Morningstar felt utterly, completely ashamed.

It didn't take long to get there. The emporium was quiet, a somber stillness hanging over it. Husk carried a fuzzy, red blanket under his arm—the one Amaris had always loved.
He pushed the door open quietly. Rosie was still asleep on a settee, her face peaceful despite the chaos. But on the floor, in a patch of moonlight from a grimy window, was a small, sleeping form.
Husk's breath caught in his throat. He knelt, gently draping the blanket over the girl. She stirred, her red-tufted ears twitching, but didn't wake. She was solid. Real.
Amaris had returned.
.
.
Lucifer had gone to open the gates of hell to heaven and was surprised to see sera Emily Adam.. And someone he had not seen a long time ago.
"Eve?? But how?"
"Beleive me I was as shocked as you are"
.
...
Lute had followed sera and Emily at a loss.
Why weren't they allowed to go down to hell. It was time wasn't it? Why the sudden change in plans?
Sera was far ahead holding the arm of someone who was struggling.
"let go of me. You didn't try to free me so what's the deal"
She recognized the voice..
"Eve??"
.

Notes:

Alastor ain't dead. Fate has reserved something for him.
Oh yeah I forgot lilith rejoined Charlie after Charlie found her knocked out when she fell from her invisible sphere

Chapter 21: Chapter 21: Rook supposedly dead situation in hell and heaven from cat and king of hell

The silence in the hotel lobby was a physical weight, pressing down on Lucifer long after Husk and Angel had departed. He stood alone, the King of a crumbling kingdom, the echoes of his own shameful words ringing in his ears. He had lashed out, blinded by grief, and in doing so, had missed the truth staring him in the face.

He sank onto his throne, a gaudy, uncomfortable chair he hadn't sat in in decades. The reason he hadn't been there, the reason he hadn't fought alongside Charlie, was a constant, searing agony. His energy, his very essence, was poured into maintaining what little of Hell remained. After centuries in this realm, part of him was undeniably fused with its very foundations. To leave, to fight, would be to begin a process of separation that was not only excruciatingly painful but risked causing the entire dimension to collapse entirely. He was a king chained to his own throne.

And he knew who was truly to blame. It wasn't Alastor, not really. Alastor was a chaotic agent, a force of nature who had seized an opportunity. The true architect of this nightmare was Eve, pulling the strings of a demon Lucifer knew all too well: Lilith.
A fresh wave of cold fury washed over him, followed by the bitter taste of helplessness. He couldn't expose her. To reveal that Lilith, the Queen of Hell, had been Eve's pawn would be to undo everything. It would return them to the old order, to a state of perpetual war with Heaven where they had no say, no power, no hope for the redemption Charlie so fiercely believed in. His silence was a shield, protecting his daughter's dream from the ugly truth of her mother's actions. It was a burden he would carry alone.
He knew Eve was aware of this, too. She didn't want Hell to fall, not completely. Her goal was simpler, more personal: the destruction of Lilith, or at the very least, to see her utterly crushed. And she had succeeded. He could feel it, a faint, smug satisfaction emanating from the new Apple that now lay on a table across the room.

It was a beautiful, terrible thing. The red-and-gold surface was etched with intricate, shifting designs, a masterpiece of dark craftsmanship.
It looked utterly uneatable, a piece of art rather than fruit. But within it, he could sense a new presence—a contented, almost cheerful malevolence.
Roo was home, and she was pleased. Her range was limited, for now, but the sheer glee radiating from the Apple was a testament to her satisfaction. He'd have to keep it safe; there were still enough desperate, cracked-up demons in Hell who might mistake it for a prize.

As he brooded, a familiar weight settled onto his shoulders. He started, turning his head to see Basilisk, his long-lost serpent, coiling snugly around his neck, its forked tongue tickling his ear. A small, genuine smile touched Lucifer's lips. His pet was back. In the midst of all this chaos, it was a small mercy, a tiny piece of his past returned to him.
But the moment of respite was fleeting. The heavy truth remained. The secrets, the sacrifices, the blame—it all had to come out. All that remained now was for the Morningstar family to sit down and finally, painfully, clear it all out. And he had no idea how he would even begin
..
.

The first thing Amaris felt was warmth. Not the fiery heat of Hell, but the soft, plush warmth of a familiar fuzzy blanket. The second thing she smelled was old wood, dust, and the faint, comforting scent of Rosie's perfume. Her eyes fluttered open to the concerned faces of two of her favorite people in existence.
"Hey there, moonlight," Husk said, his voice a low, gentle rumble.
He had a paw resting gently on her shoulder, a gesture of grounding comfort.

"Oh, thank the stars, you're back!" Rosie whispered, pulling her into a tight, careful hug, as if she might break. "That idiot, that absolute fool of a demon... I could just wring his neck!"
Amaris's mind was a fog of fragmented memories. Falling... fading... the feeling of becoming smoke. "Dad?" she whispered, her voice small. "Where... where did I go? I felt... sleepy."

Rosie pulled back, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It's alright, sweetheart. You're here now. You're safe."
Husk gave her shoulder a soft squeeze.
"He's not gone, kid," he said, his voice firm with a conviction that belied his own worry. "Just... taking a nap. A very long, very dramatic nap."

Amaris looked between their faces, a small, watery smile touching her lips. It was a ghost of her father's trademark grin, full of a fragile hope. "A... a nap? That was a really, really long nap. Is he okay?"
Before they could answer, a skittering sound echoed from the corner of the room. Nifty popped up from behind a chair, her single eye wide and bright.

"Don't you worry!" she chirped, zipping over to inspect Amaris's hair for any imaginary pests. "Daddy's not dead! I'd know! I'd have to clean up the mess, and there's no mess! He's just... hiding! Like a little roach when the light comes on! But he always comes back for the crumbs!" She patted Amaris's head enthusiastically. "He'll be back! He just has to finish his show!"
________________________________________

In the days that followed, a fragile normalcy settled over the Emporium. The air, usually thick with the scent of old wood and Rosie’s cheerful dread, now carried a static hum of uncertainty. Husk, trying to keep his mind from replaying the final battle, found himself tidying Alastor’s old desk out of sheer habit. It was there, tucked beneath a stack of vintage jazz records, that he found the contract ledger.

A morbid curiosity compelled him to open it. Dozens of contracts, souls bound to the Radio Demon, pulsed with a faint, malevolent hum, their magical signatures still very much active. But two were different. His own, and Nifty's. He stared at the translucent scrolls that constituted their pacts. The ink was faded, the powerful script ghostly and weak. The bond wasn't gone—it was merely a whisper, a frayed thread of its former strength. A slow, dawning realization spread through his chest. Alastor hadn't just died; he had planned this. He had deliberately weakened the connection to his most loyal companions, making them seem insignificant, non-threatening. It was a shield, designed so that Charlie's incandescent rage wouldn't accidentally sear them in her grief. The others were still bound, which meant the master of the contract was still, in some way, alive.

Charlie’s fury, however, was a force of nature visible even from the Emporium. From the rooftop, they could see the plateau where Alastor had made his last stand. Golden light, sharp and violent, would erupt intermittently as she methodically shattered the stone into dust, each strike a scream of betrayal directed at a world that had taken her friend.

Nifty’s insistence that Alastor was just "hiding" was dismissed by the others as grief-induced denial.
Husk took her aside later, his voice a low rumble. "Nif, listen to me. You can't go around sayin' that. It's not that he's not dead... it's that if the wrong people think he's gone for good, they'll try to tear down everything he built. It's better for them to think he's a martyr than for them to know the throne is empty." It was a lie, but a necessary one. This small, fractured family—Husk, Nifty, and Rosie—agreed: Hell could never know the Radio Demon was dead. The chaos would be unimaginable.

Rosie’s anger was a quieter, but no less potent, storm. "The arrogant, smiling fool," she seethed, her usual cheerful demeanor a distant memory as she paced behind the counter. "To think he could face Eve alone... and not even have the decency to let me in on it. We could have helped. We should have helped." Her fury wasn't born of grief, but of betrayal. Alastor hadn't just hidden his daughter's existence; he had shut out his oldest friend, treating her like she was too fragile to handle the truth.

Across the room, Amaris, who had been quietly drawing with a set of dusty crayons, seemed to shrink into her chair.
She didn't understand the specifics of Rosie's anger, but she felt the tension, a vibration in the air that set her teeth on edge. Her relief at her father's survival was a fragile thing, constantly threatened by the stories he had whispered to her—the ones about the King of Hell and what he would do if he ever discovered a Morningstar abomination lived in his realm. She was safe here, in the Emporium, hidden away from the interest of the Morningstars. But for how long?

A week later, a silent, brilliant flash of gold erupted from the spires of the Morningstar castle, so bright it bleached the color from the Emporium windows for a split second. It wasn't the chaotic energy of a princess's rage; it was the focused, absolute power of a king finally making his move.

Amaris didn't see the light, but she felt it. A deep, primal dread coiled in her stomach, the ghost of every story Alastor had ever told her. She dropped her crayon and scrambled over to Rosie, burying her face in the older demon's skirt.
Rosie’s anger evaporated, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct. She knelt, wrapping her arms around the trembling child. "Hush now, darling," she murmured, her voice soft but firm. "He's not coming for you. We won't let him." Her glare was directed toward the distant castle, a silent promise. Alastor had made a mess of things, but she would be damned if she let his secrets harm this child.

All that was left for Husk was to wait. And to oversee the ever-growing pile of paperwork that was starting to accumulate on Alastor's desk. Each scroll was a soul, a piece of a phantom empire, and he was its unwilling regent.
Damn it, Alastor. What kind of mess did you leave us in?

Chapter 22: Chapter 22: What of alastor?

Notes: I’m using a hotl ides of team seraphic sins _gabriel, azrael cassius, micheal, void/creator, Galim Leo/Lelile , Joel and leroy

Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but as a slow, seeping tide of profound exhaustion. Alastor woke up groggy, his mind a fog of phantom pains and the lingering echo of a silent, blinding flash.

Why was it so white?

It wasn't the white of a cloud or a sterile room. It was an oppressive, absolute white, a light that seemed to emanate from every surface, erasing all shadow and depth. It was the color of a clean slate, and he hated it. He wasn't dead—he could feel the faint, thrumming hum of his remaining contracts, a demonic symphony he was so tired of conducting. This was a cage. A pristine, ordered, infuriatingly holy cage.

His mind reeled, not with the look in Charlie's eyes, but with the sheer effort of maintaining the facade. He had pushed himself so far, let the old static crackle and roar to protect the Emporium, to protect her. The performance had nearly cost him everything, and now it seemed it had cost him his anonymity as well.

Once the vertigo subsided, he noticed he wasn't alone. Someone was watching him, their smile wide, cheerful, and utterly, infuriatingly genuine. It wasn't the calculated, predatory grin he used to wear. This was the smile of a true enthusiast, and it was somehow more unsettling because it saw right through him.

"Greetings!" the being chirped, clapping his hands together with a sound like chimes. "I am Archangel Azrael, one of the esteemed leaders of the Angels of Death! And may I say, your performance was spectacular! A bit reliant on old recordings, but the commitment to the bit? Exquisite!" He leaned in, his eyes sparkling with sincere admiration. "Since you have loads of potential and we simply can't let someone of your... unique talents go to waste, you are now officially under my purview!"

Alastor's smile tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He knows. The thought was a cold shard of ice in his gut. Uriel knew about the angelic form Alastor kept so carefully hidden.

"And no, you have no say in the matter! Yay!" Uriel interrupted, not with malice, but with the breezy finality of a postman delivering a certified letter. The order had come from the Voice of God, and that was all the bureaucracy he needed.

"Azrael!" a new, more familiar voice whined. The Cheeribin from the Void materialized, shoving Azrael aside with a pout. "You're not letting me have my turn!" He then knelt down, his teenage face suddenly serious. "Look, this is a formality, really. We know you've been doing the job off-the-books. This is just making it official." He pulled out a scroll that looked suspiciously like a celestial work contract. "It's a part-time, remote position. You retain your Hell-based residence and your current contractual obligations are noted as a 'priority conflict.' We'll work around them."

Alastor growled, his ears tipping backward. The sheer, bureaucratic audacity of it all.
"To smooth things over," the Cheeribin continued, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "we're authorized to offer a... signing bonus. A little something for your trouble." He snapped his fingers. "A soul. Or rather, the fragments of one you've been missing. The real TV head. Voci!"

The name hung in the sterile air. Alastor stilled. The air grew heavy. The low hum of his contracts was drowned out by the frantic, sudden pounding of his own heart. Voci. His partner. His oldest friend.
"I have, like, all the pieces," the Cheeribin rambled on. "Two years, maybe less if you supply your power. It's a gift, really. A welcome-aboard present."

The carefully constructed persona of the Radio Demon fell away, revealing a tired, weary man who saw a glimmer of hope in the midst of his conscription. He would have to play their game, but he might get his friend back.
His smile returned, but it was softer, sadder. “..I accept.”

The words left his lips as a quiet surrender. The Cheeribin cheered, clapped him on the shoulder, and vanished in a puff of glitter.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Azrael's smile widened, becoming conspiratorial. "An excellent choice," he said, his voice dropping to a low, enthusiastic whisper. "You have no idea how blind Sera and her council are. They see things in such stark black and white. They'd never understand... your little shadow government."

Alastor froze, his eyes narrowing.

"Oh, don't look so surprised," Azrael chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "I know all about it. The shady deals, the enforced silence... and the surprisingly fair outcomes. You've been redeeming sinners right under our noses. It's magnificent mischief!"

He leaned in closer, his voice practically vibrating with glee. "And my brother, Leo? The one who formed the 'Heavenly Police'? He's been pulling his feathers out. Every other archangel decides to pop down for a spot of smiting without filing the proper paperwork. It's chaos! Utterly unregulated!" Uriel paused for dramatic effect, his grin widening. "And the best part? The Heavenly Police is made of only one member. And that member... is himself."

Azrael let out a delighted laugh. "Imagine it! Just my brother, running around all of Hell, trying to issue citations to archangels who couldn't care less about celestial jurisdiction! It's why he's so frustrated.His need to complain is high but not as great as the pride he attained in keeping heaven in order for so long..So he couldn’t even bring himself to bring it up to anyone .not even the Seraphims!! But you... you're already there. You have a system. You're the perfect, off-the-books regulator."

Azrael straightened up, beaming. "Besides, the look on Sera's face when she eventually finds out we've recruited the Radio Demon as an asset? That's a show I'd pay to see."
And in that moment, Alastor understood. This wasn't just a conscription. It was an invitation. A secret partnership. He wasn't just a pawn; he was a deniable asset, a weapon to be wielded against celestial bureaucracy by an archangel who loved the game as much as he did. His exhaustion didn't vanish, but it was now overshadowed by a familiar, thrilling spark. A new stage, a new audience, and a secret worth keeping.

He was still trapped. But the cage had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.
The Echoes of a Forgotten War

Across Hell, a strange phenomenon occurred. Demons stirred from a deep slumber, not to the next day, but to the previous one. The calendars on their phones, the clocks on their crumbling walls, the date-stamps on their digital contracts—all had been rolled back. It was as if the last 24 hours had been neatly excised from existence.
In Pentagram City, a news anchor on Vee's network blinked at his teleprompter, shook his head, and announced, "Well, folks, seems we're all having a collective case of the Mondays. Again. A rare temporal blip, folks! Nothing to worry about. Probably just something weird in the air. Now, back to Katie Killjoy with the weather!"
The citizens of Hell, ever adaptable to chaos, simply shrugged. A temporal loop? Annoying, sure, but hardly the strangest thing to happen this week. They went about their business, the phantom memory of a lost day already fading.

At the Hazbin Hotel, the effect was far more unsettling.
"This is impossible," Vaggie muttered, staring at her phone's calendar.
"It says yesterday's date. But... I feel like I haven't slept in a week." She rubbed her arms, a phantom soreness lingering in her muscles, the ghost of a battle she couldn't remember.
"Tell me about it," Husk grumbled, emerging from the surveillance closet.
"The security feed doesn't just have a gap. It's continuous. It shows a perfectly normal, boring day. One that already happened."
He slammed the closet door. "I feel like I've been run over by a truck, but the world is telling me I just took a long nap."
They were left with a profound and maddening contradiction: their bodies remembered a war that their reality insisted had never happened.

The Silence After the Storm

In his castle, Lucifer sat on his throne, his mind feeling strangely... light. He looked at the Apple of Eden, its dark light pulsing gently. He remembered its restoration, the feeling of its power stabilizing the very foundations of Hell. But the how and why were a blur. His mind, a king's mind accustomed to filling in gaps, constructed a narrative. Heaven must have seen the error of their ways. The Exterminations, the constant strife... it was unsustainable. They must have initiated a truce, a mutual effort to fortify their realms.
He had won, not by force, but by being right all along.Roo seemed herself unaware of whatever had occurred. He did hear slight mutter of an identity she could no longer remember helping in doing her new abode
As he brooded, a familiar, unwelcome flash of golden light erupted in his throne room. Azrael stood there, smiling that infuriatingly genuine smile. But this time, the smile held a different weight. It wasn't the grin of a celestial bureaucrat; it was the cheeky, knowing smirk of a little brother.

"Luci," Azrael said, his voice dropping the formal chirp. "We need to talk."
"Azrael," Lucifer growled, his posture relaxing by a fraction. "Don't call me that. What do you want? Come to gloat about Heaven's 'Great Realignment'?"
"Something like that," Azrael said, strolling closer. "Look, things are... messy up there. Adam's death, the attack on the hotel... it's caused a schism. Sera is trying to hold things together, but the council is in an uproar." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "The Exterminations... they're being reconsidered. It's not a done deal, but... the conversation is finally happening. It's way too early to start something that was already so bad."
Lucifer's eyes narrowed. "And why would I believe that?"
"Because we have proof," Azrael said, his voice low and serious. "A... data point. A soul that redeemed itself and appeared right in front of Sera and Emily. It's thrown everything into chaos. The hardliners are calling it a hoax, but it's given Emily the leverage she needs to push for a change."

Lucifer stared at him, the implications sinking in. Redemption was possible. It was real.
"But," Azrael continued, holding up a hand. "The tensions are still... quite high. This is a secret, Luci. If it gets out, if the wrong angels get wind of it, they could crush the movement before it even starts. And if you tell Charlie..." He let the threat hang in the air. "You can't give her false hope. Not yet. Let us handle the politics. You just... keep being a dad. Protect her from this."
For the first time in what felt like an age, Lucifer felt a flicker of genuine hope. It was immediately extinguished by the weight of the secret he was now being asked to carry. He had to lie to his daughter by omission, to protect the very dream she fought for.
"Fine," he bit out. "But if this is a trick, brother..."
"It's not," Azrael said, his smile returning, softer this time. "We're family. Even the fallen, annoying parts. We'll figure it out." With a final, reassuring nod, he was gone, leaving Lucifer alone with the Apple, his hope, and his burden.
________________________________________
Meanwhile, at the Emporium, a strange unease had settled over Rosie. It was a phantom feeling, a ghost of an anger she couldn't quite place. She looked at Alastor, who was sipping tea near the window, and felt a flicker of irritation. He had done something... something that excluded her. But what? The memory was a wisp of smoke, gone the moment she tried to grasp it. The anger was there, a low hum beneath her skin, but it was submerged by a powerful, overwhelming sense of relief that he was simply here.
The source of that relief came barreling into the room.
"Daddy!"

Amaris launched herself across the floor, a small cannonball of affection, and wrapped her arms around Alastor's legs with enough force to make his teacup rattle in its saucer. Alastor looked down, and for a fleeting second, the mask of the tired showman slipped. A genuine, unguarded warmth touched his eyes as he rested a hand on his daughter's head.

Watching them, Rosie felt the strange anger dissolve completely. It didn't matter what secrets he kept or what cosmic games he was playing. He was here. Amaris was safe and happy. That was the only foundation that truly mattered.
From the corner of the room, Husk nudged Nifty, who was staring intently at Alastor's desk. "See it?" Husk muttered. "The ink on our contracts... it's fading again."
He had rushed to checked their contracts which was under the safe keeping of Rosie. The only ones that were not directly linked to the shadow government .Something Rosie didn’t know and sure as hell would remain a secret.
Nifty squinted, her antennae twitching. "It's like it's running out of batteries!"

Just as Husk was about to call out, Alastor, without even looking their way, subtly raised a finger and gave a minute flick. A pulse of faint, crimson energy, invisible to all but them, shot across the room. The translucent scrolls on the ledger instantly solidified, the ink darkening to its usual, rich black.
Husk and Nifty blinked.
"Huh," Husk grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Must've been the light."
Nifty nodded, already distracted by a dust bunny under the table. They had no idea they had just witnessed a part-time Angel of Death multitasking, shoring up the walls of his demonic life even as he prepared to serve his new celestial duties. The performance was over. The quiet, complicated show had just begun.
.
.
.
The first thing Charlie felt when she saw Alastor walk back into the Hazbin Hotel lobby was a wave of relief so potent it almost buckled her knees. It was a physical force, a release of a tension she hadn't even been aware she was holding. Her mind scrambled for a reason, a memory to anchor the feeling. Had he been on a long trip? Had there been a fight? Her thoughts were a fog, offering only a single, terrifying whisper: I thought I would never see him again.
She shook her head, dismissing the absurd notion. Of course he'd be back. Where else would he go?

"Daddy!" Amaris cheered from her perch on Rosie's lap,them at the emporium watching at a safe distance with the use of an orb, but no one could hear her except alastor .Charlie was already moving. She crossed the lobby in a few long strides, her arms thrown open for a hug.

Alastor stopped, his smile fixed, his entire body going rigid as a board. It was a wall of static and personal space, a clear and absolute boundary. The front where charlie’s weapon had protruded out of his chest and teared the wound as he was teared from it due to the explosion had not completely healed. It would take time .Even now..
"Whoa there, toots," Angel Dust drawled from the doorway to the bar, where he'd been polishing a glass. He leaned against the frame, a smirk playing on his lips. "Five-foot rule, remember? Don't want the boss man getting your cooties."
Charlie faltered, her arms still outstretched, her eyes pleading. "But... I'm just so glad you're okay."
Alastor's smile didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted. A flicker of something unreadable, a weariness that went deeper than his usual performance. After a long, agonizing second, he gave a minuscule, almost imperceptible nod.

Charlie took it as permission and wrapped her arms around him. It was like hugging a statue. He didn't return the gesture, his hands remaining at his sides, but he didn't push her away either. He simply endured it.
Angel watched, his smirk softening into a genuine smile. He pushed himself off the doorframe and sauntered over, giving Alastor a surprisingly gentle pat on the back. "Easy there, smiles. Don't want you short-circuiting on us now." It was a tease, but the gesture was one of solidarity. They had all been through something, even if they couldn't remember what.
________________________________________

In Heaven, Lilith paced her gilded rooms, tearing at her hair, questioning why she had ever sought asylum in a place that now felt so hollow.
Of how she had made the deal of staying in heaven to ensure adam or any exorcists would not kill Charlie the moment her daughter went up and waited to give fireworks as a sign of the end of the extermination…because he had meant to do it at the time .She felt strangely as if she had put her rage and frustration on someone or something though there were no signs whatsoever .
She does remember however that she had lost the deer demon soul. Something about her muttering ”you are enough” in her sleep when he was around loosing him .She didn’t remember if he was strong but she remembered he was the one who so far hadn’t broken under the treatment she gave.

In a quiet garden, Eve relaxed, not bothering to think too deep, the millennia of rage finally, blissfully, gone. The world had been reset, the dates on the calendars turned back, and only a few key players held the fragile, dangerous truth of what had really happened.

Chapter 23: Chapter 23: Link to season 2

Vox, standing back with a calm smirk, held up a pair of large scissors, the wires dangling between the blades. “You’re welcome,” he said, voice electric, almost casual. “The brakes? Completely useless now. I thought this scenario was… boring. Needed to make it more… eventful.”

Charlie’s panic hit full force. “Husk! Get out of the way, now!” she screamed, her voice cracking as her hands shook. She could see the train barreling toward them, the situation spiraling completely out of control.

Husk groaned, claws scraping the rails. “Oh… yeah… yeah. YOU TIED ME TO THE DAMN TRACKS!”

The rails vibrated violently under the speeding train, sparks flying. Charlie’s eyes darted between the approaching danger and Husk’s struggling form. Panic clawed at her chest.
Vox’s calm, electric voice cut through the chaos. “Boring, isn’t it? I thought I’d make things a little more… eventful. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Charlie blinked, heart racing, but her mind immediately twisted it. Accident… miscalculation… she told herself, refusing to acknowledge his malicious intent. Vox’s smirk, the dangling scissors, the cut wires—none of it registered as deliberate. She saw only chaos, not craft.

Angel Dust, feeling cornered and desperate, lunged forward on all four arms, muscles straining as he tried to reach Husk in time. Sparks flew from the train’s wheels, threatening them both.
Angel Dust froze for a split second, panic flashing across his face, but then, ignoring the chaos and his fear, he leapt. Four arms flailing, he landed in front of Husk, bracing for impact. The wind from the speeding train tore at him, but he dug in, determined.
With a desperate effort, Angel yanked Husk free from the rails. Husk stumbled but regained his footing as Angel shielded him, the train just inches away.

At that exact moment, Vaggie swooped in. Her wings spread wide, carrying both Angel and Husk up and out of harm’s way. She maneuvered them to safety in the nick of time, her gray-and-pink feathers glinting under the chaotic lighting of the Hotel lounge.
Once they were safely on solid ground, Vaggie landed lightly, her eyes blazing with frustration as she looked at Charlie. “Do you see what you’re doing? Angel is not Sir Pentious! He’s not some experiment for your redemption plan!”
Charlie, still panicked and flustered, barely processed her words. Her hands shook, her mind racing with the near-disaster, yet she clung to her delusion that she could fix everything.
Vox, watching calmly from a distance, let out a synthetic chuckle. “Oh, I’m glad someone finally made it interesting,” he said, smirking. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Charlie froze, too blind to see the malicious intent behind Vox’s words. She still believed the danger had been… accidental.
.
.
.

The dust had barely settled from the train incident. The tracks still hummed with residual energy, and the wind carried the metallic scent of near-disaster.
Charlie stood frozen. Her breathing was shallow. Her expression, once bright and hopeful, was dimmed… wounded.

Her eyes drifted from Angel—shaking, guilt-stricken, still catching his breath—to where Vox had stood with those dangling scissors.
For the first time since opening the Hotel, Charlie’s optimism cracked.

“…Angel isn’t Sir Pentious…” she whispered, voice soft as tissue paper. “His redemption… it has to be his own path. I can’t force it.”
The realization hurt. It stung deeper than anything Vox had thrown at her.
A slow clap echoed.
Vox stepped into view again, screen-face flickering with an eerie electric grin.

“Well, well. Took you long enough to see that your little puppet show wasn’t quite going by the script.”
Velvette leaned against him, blowing a bubble of gum shaped like a mocking heart.

Charlie swallowed hard. “Vox… you planned this. Every part of it.”
Her voice wasn’t angry. Not yet. Just tired. Disappointed.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Vox’s smile stretched into something predatory.
“Of course I did.”
Then he leaned close to Angel Dust—too close—voice dropping to a spark-laced whisper.
“Tell her, Angel… or should I?”
Angel stiffened, four hands trembling.
Vox’s screen glowed crimson.
“The murderer that he is…He killed his father.”
The words sliced through the air like blades.
Angel stumbled back, eyes wide and hollow, as if Vox had ripped open the oldest, ugliest wound in his chest. His breath hitched; his voice died.
Charlie froze—shock, horror, heartbreak all colliding at once.

Then something in her snapped.
Her hair lifted as if caught in an infernal updraft.
Her horns sprouted tall, curling like molten obsidian.
Her pupils thinned into serpentine slits, eyes burning an unnatural crimson red.
Her aura crackled with raw demonic heat.
“Leave. NOW.”
For the first time ever… Charlie Morningstar didn’t sound like a princess.
She sounded like a demon.
Vox paused only a moment—surprised, then delighted.
Velvette snorted. “Ooh, scary. Mommy finally got mad.”
Vox bowed with exaggerated theatrics.
“Pleasure as always, Sunshine. Thanks for the entertainment.”

They walked off, smug and strutting, entering their VIP lounge train car.
The door hissed shut.

Inside, Velvette collapsed into laughter.
“Did you see her face?! She actually thought she could handle a little chaos!”
Vox was already editing footage, digital windows swirling around him.
“Oh, I’m going to make her look rabid.
Little Miss Redemption, terrorizing her guests. This’ll be gold.”
Velvette grinned viciously.
“Let’s ruin her.”

Cut back to the Hotel:

Angel had withdrawn to the balcony, shoulders hunched, staring out into Hell’s horizon. The neon lights reflected in his tearing eyes. He dug two of his hands into the rail, claws trembling.
He felt naked. Exposed.
Bitter.
Wounded.
Like Vox had just ripped the safety right out of the Hotel.
Charlie watched him from the doorway—her demonic glow fading, replaced with guilt and sorrow.
She finally understood just how much pain she’d dragged him into.
And how deeply Vox wanted to destroy the hazbin hotel.

 

(A quiet, dangerous vantage point overlooking Charlie’s meltdown, Angel’s breakup, and Vox’s retreat.)
The screaming had long faded, but the emotional vibrations still throbbed through the Hotel walls like aftershocks of an earthquake. Charlie’s demonic snarl still echoed faintly in the rafters. Angel’s trembling breaths still clung to the air. Vox’s laughter still dripped like acid from the rails outside.
And Alastor stood at the far end of the ruined platform, hands lightly resting on his staff, face lit by his signature smile—
but his eyes were anything but amused.
A thin fissure of red light pulsed along the bent shaft of the staff.
“TRAUMA—PATTERN—REPEATING—ESCALATION.”
The microphone’s distorted voice leaked out unpredictably again—another spill.
The staff was cracking under its own duty.
Alastor’s fingertips tightened. The broadcast fragments weren’t meant to be audible to others.
Not like this.
Not so often.
But the middle of the shaft, where alastor had fused the break, was weakened.
And weakened bindings meant weakened containment.
Another flicker:
“SELF-RIGHTEOUS DELUSION—PROJECTED SALVATION—DANGER TO—”
Alastor tapped his thumb lightly to the microphone’s base, a silent “that’s enough.”
The spill cut off…but the broadcast continued inside him, unfiltered, merciless.
He took a slow breath through the nose.
He did not intervene.
He could not.
Not today.
.
.
.
He watches Charlie’s shaking form through the broken door frame.
Angel crumples onto the balcony railing.
Vaggie tries to piece together a moment shattered into thirteen jagged pieces.
Alastor’s voice, if he had allowed it, would have been gentle—
No.
No.
He cannot think this way.
Because Vox is watching too.
Alastor feels him, even from miles away.
That smug, electric voyeurism.
Waiting.
Expecting.
Vox had orchestrated this entire ordeal to force Alastor’s hand.
To push him into compassion.
To expose softness.
A weakness Vox would exploit forever—and weaponize against Charlie.
If Alastor went to Charlie now, Vox would laugh until his teeth fell out.
Alastor’s smile thinned.
“Ah, dear Vox… you always overestimate your cleverness.”
Intervening would:

His smile faltered by a millimeter as the memory pressed against him.
Rosie’s voice.
Smooth.
Warm.
Uncompromising.
“You protect that girl, Alastor. The right way.
Not as a tyrant.
Not as a puppeteer.
As a guardian.”
Her hand on his arm.
“And if you ever break that?
I will tear your station down to its wires.”

He had agreed.
He never breaks agreements.
But protection doesn’t always mean saving someone.
He had taught Amaris that way and he would not do the Princess treatment to Amaris's almost half sister , charlie morningstar
Today, it meant this:
Letting Charlie see truth.
Letting her fail.
Letting her learn.
Letting her wake up from her delusion of perfect redemption.
If he swooped in, she’d cling harder to her fantasy.
He’d be enabling her.
Undoing her growth.
Rosie would be disappointed.
And that, he could not bear.

 

He glances down.
The staff’s middle section was visibly crooked.
The fused seam flickered with a weak red glow, humming inconsistently—
half punishment device, half wounded limb.
The break had made channeling his power incredibly taxing.
Wandless casting worked, but only in small bursts.
Anything big would expose the weakness Vox already suspected.
And Alastor needed Vox unsure.
He needed Vox to believe he was losing his power.
He needed everyone to believe he was incapable of interfering.

That illusion made Charlie safer.
But the staff still functioned—
almost too well.
Punishment broadcast:
“VICTIM—ANGEL—TRAUMA ROOT—HISTORY—FATHER—MURDER—SHAME—REPRESSION—”

Alastor closed his eyes.
His heart tightened.
He listens.
He accepts.
He endures.

Chapter 24

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.

Chapter 25

Notes:

there is a reason why alastor knows so much and that is because of his microphone. read the notes at the end to understand...now sure i did say alastor is redeemed or whatever but then the mic his punishment is still in hell and it obeys the laws there. thus it remains the instrument it is meant to be. Alastor can ignore them or mute them at times. the tiniest relief and loophole out of it.

Alastor’s eyes widened as Valentino’s grip tightened on Niffty, the tiny demon laughing hysterically despite being suspended midair. The barrel of the revolver gleamed ominously above her glabella, and for a moment, everything seemed frozen in red smoke and chaos.

“STOP!” Alastor’s voice tore through the clamor, a crackling, almost radio-like undertone echoing from his demonic resonance. His claws scraped against the cracked wall as he pushed himself upright, teeth bared.

Valentino’s grin was wicked, but he hesitated, only for a heartbeat, distracted by Alastor’s sudden intensity. Niffty’s giggles filled the air, unnervingly carefree even as danger loomed.

Alastor’s grin twisted into something darker, a hint of stitches etched at the corners of his radio-like smile. His eyes flickered, demonic red slicing through the chaos.

“How about this,” he began, voice smooth yet threatening, each word dripping with sinister charm, “you let those two little nobodies run back to the Hotel… and I join your troupe as a prisoner… with one more condition.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking on Vox. “You are not to lay a hand on Charlie Morningstar.”

Alastor tilted his head, his grin widening further, the stitched smile radiating unsettling confidence. After a pause, he leaned closer, the words low and taunting:

“Think of the headlines, hmm? ‘Radio Demon joins the most powerful Overlords… under duress’. Oh, the scandal, the shock, the delicious chaos!”

Vox’s screen-face flickered in disbelief for a brief moment, a rare crack in his normally composed demeanor. Then, with a sudden burst of manic energy, he exclaimed, “IT’S A DEAL!”

He grabbed Alastor’s hand, sealing the pact. The force of the deal rippled outward like a shockwave. Valentino, Niffty, Velvette, and Husk were all flung backward by the overwhelming energy, their bodies crashing into the walls and floor, smoke, sparks, and red haze filling the space as the deal solidified.

Alastor remained standing, eyes locked on Vox, his grin stretched impossibly wide, the demonic stitches gleaming under the chaotic light.

 

Alastor, now bound to an office chair with wheels, his face partially obscured by a downturned blue mask, was pushed through the entrance of the V-Tower. Vox practically danced behind him, overzealous energy crackling like static.

“Holy fuck! Look what I have brought in! Everyone out! Out! The interview is over!” Vox’s voice boomed through the lobby, a manic triumph underlying every word.

Velvette and Valentino followed close behind. Velvette barely glanced up from her phone, scrolling idly, her expression one of detached amusement. Valentino sauntered behind them, unbothered, a faint smirk playing across his face.

Charlie was swept along by the leaving crowd, her small frame jostled from all sides. “What’s going on? Stop! Alastor!” she shouted, straining to see through the chaos.

Finally free from the crowd, she stumbled back and froze. Across the street, a massive billboard flickered to life, plastered with Vox’s grinning face and the words: “VICTORY IS MINE!”

Charlie’s scream tore through the air, sharp and exasperated, though lost to the din of the city.

“Can someone please explain to me what the fuck is going on?!”

Her voice was heard by no one, swallowed by the madness that had taken over the V-Tower.

 

Alastor POV

The chair’s wheels screeched as Vox shoved me inside the V Tower, shouting at the crowd to clear out. My mask-covered face remained serene, but my mind buzzed, calculating, anticipating.

Release those two little nobodies… and I become a prisoner in this circus.

The deal played through my thoughts again, each word a tether to something I could not abandon. The one immovable condition: “You are not to lay a hand on Charlie Morningstar.”

Her safety weighed on me, a bright spark in the middle of this chaos. And beyond her, Amaris—my daughter—hovered at the edges of my mind. Her clever, bright-eyed face, her laughter, her innocence… the reason I would endure this absurdity.

Then the microphone whispered, low and cutting, meant to punish, meant to taunt.

“Bound. Weak. How amusing. You think you are clever, little demon?”

Static crackled, and the words seemed to pause, almost as if the mic considered them.
No… not like that…

“Bound, yes—but clever, nonetheless. Sharp enough to turn this to your advantage. Stay mindful, Alastor; do not let them—or yourself—slip too far.”

Vox’s laughter erupted, Valentino trailed behind with his typical indifference, and Velvette scrolled through her phone as if nothing mattered. Charlie was being pushed out by the crowd, shouting questions that went unanswered. And I sat, masked and restrained, listening to the microphone’s low hum, noting its subtle shifts: a chastising edge softened into watchful guidance.

“Observe them,” it whispered next, first in mockery:

“Pathetic. How easily they crumble. Predictable little fools…”

…and then corrected itself, almost fondly:

“…but you, Alastor, are not so simple. Keep your mind sharp. Their panic is yours to study, not yours to join.”

I allowed the words to coil through my thoughts, tasting them, weighing them. Mock me, little voice… I am aware. I am ready.

Even as Vox gloated and the others followed his chaos, I felt the thrill of the game. I was bound, yes—but only in body. My mind, sharpened and alert, moved freely, absorbing every detail, every misstep, every subtle weakness. And in that freedom, I knew one truth: no chain, no overzealous Overlord, no whispered torment—however begrudgingly helpful—could ever truly control Alastor.

Notes:

THE STAFF AS ALASTOR’S PERSONAL HELL (how it works)
“The Hunter Who Must Hear the Hunt From the Victim’s Side.”
In life, Alastor’s self-righteous rage was directed at abusers — men who harmed women, queer people, and marginalized communities. His murders were “punishment,” in his mind. But the truth — the truth he always refused to see — was that he only ever listened to the part of the story that justified his violence. He didn’t want nuance. He didn’t want context. He wanted a reason to kill. So Hell crafted his punishment in the exact shape of his failure:

1. He Can No Longer Selectively Hear What Suits His Ego The staff broadcasts the entirety of a sinner’s story — their sins, their reasons, their lies, their pain, their trauma. Not just the parts that make them a villain. Not just the parts that justify violence. He hears: • the abuser making excuses • the victim explaining what led them to lash out • the perpetrator’s childhood • the moment everything snapped • the regret • the lack of regret • the systemic cruelty • the cycles repeating It is endless, unfiltered, contradictory humanity. And it’s everything he never bothered to consider when he killed.

2. He Becomes a Vessel of Their Voices The staff feeds him voices — not at random, not chaotically. It chooses the ones he hates most. The ones that define his triggers. The ones that remind him of the men he killed. ✔ Abusive fathers ✔ Bigots ✔ Corrupt politicians ✔ Lawmen who looked the other way ✔ Predators who hid behind morality ✔ Victims who became abusers in turn ✔ People who remind him of… himself And worst of all: he cannot shut the broadcast off. He can smile. He can joke. He can dance, fight, kill, tease, manipulate. But the voices continue — always. Just like a radio broadcast he is tuned to forever.

3. It Shows Him the “Better Men” He Refused to Acknowledge Alastor’s superiority complex is legendary. He believed he was above most people — morally, intellectually, spiritually. The staff punishes this belief by playing: • stories of sinners who resisted violence • sinners who broke the cycle • sinners who committed fewer sins than he did • sinners who tried to be good, or at least better • sinners who hurt people less than he had • and sinners who committed the same crimes, but didn’t delude themselves into thinking it was justice It levels him. It forces him to see: “You are not the righteous monster you thought you were. You are not unique. You are not superior. You were just another sinner.” Alastor hates this more than anything.

4. It Is the Ultimate Punishment for a Man Who Needed Control His smile, his manners, his theatrics — all weapons of control. But the staff gives him: • no control over what plays • no control over when it plays • no control over the truth it forces him to hear If he tries to ignore it, the broadcast grows louder. If he tries to rationalize it, the staff responds: “THAT IS WHAT YOU TOLD YOURSELF. LISTEN AGAIN.” He is trapped in a cycle of forced empathy he never wanted. That’s the punishment.
it still have it's hash comment but it later rephrases itself ...like it rewrites it's own comment. thus it remains the punishment that it is but then shows it's change

It preserves the microphone’s punitive essence while letting it show growth and subtle loyalty. Essentially, it becomes dynamic: it starts with its “Hellish” taunt, then softens, corrects, or reframes its own words as a kind of self-aware, begrudging guidance. That makes it feel alive and complex, and it keeps the “punishment” flavor but layered with character development.

Chapter 26

The chair’s wheels screeched as Vox shoved Alastor inside the V Tower, shouting at the crowd to clear out. His smile behind the mask Vox had attached to his face remained serene, while his mind buzzed, calculating, anticipating.
Release those two little nobodies… and I become a prisoner in this circus.
The deal played through Alastor's thoughts again, each word a tether he could not abandon. The one immovable condition: “You are not to lay a hand on Charlie Morningstar.”
Her safety weighed on him, a bright spark in the chaos. And beyond her, Amaris—his daughter—hovered at the edges of his mind. Her clever, bright-eyed face, her laughter, her innocence… the reason Alastor endure this absurdity.

Then the microphone stirred, its voice threading into my thoughts like a thin, electric mist.
“Bound. Weak. How amusing. You think you are clever, little demon?”

Static crackled, and the words seemed to pause, almost as if the mic considered them.
No… not like that…
“Bound, yes—but clever, nonetheless. Sharp enough to turn this to your advantage. Stay mindful, Alastor; do not let them—or yourself—slip too far.”

Vox’s laughter erupted, Valentino trailed behind with his typical indifference, and Velvette scrolled through her phone as if nothing mattered.
Charlie was being pushed out by the crowd, shouting questions that went unanswered. And Alastor sat, masked and restrained, listening to the microphone’s low hum, noting its subtle shifts: a chastising edge softened into watchful guidance.
“Observe them,” it whispered next, first in mockery:
“Pathetic. How easily they crumble. Predictable little fools…”
…and then corrected itself, almost fondly:

“…but you, Alastor, are not so simple. Keep your mind sharp. Their panic is yours to study, not yours to join.”
Alastor allowed the words to coil through his thoughts, tasting them, weighing them. No matter the staff harsh words (in their dimensional space)… he was aware. I was ready.

Even as Vox gloated and the others followed his chaos, He felt the thrill of the game. He was bound, yes—but only in body.
His mind, sharpened and alert, moved freely, absorbing every detail, every misstep, every subtle weakness.
And in that freedom, He knew one truth: no chain, no overzealous Overlord, no whispered torment—however begrudgingly helpful—could ever truly control Alastor
.
.
.
Alastor should have known that ....that obnoxious Tv head would stay the overstimulated, fame-glutted, camera-hungry sinner he’d always been!!

Power only amplified nature—and Vox’s nature was noise , the positive ratings... And right now he had loads of it.

The TV-headed overlord dragged Alastor everywhere during the first forty-eight hours of his captivity. Everywhere.

Every channel.

Every show.

Every network.

Every stupid publicity stunt.

He only stopped long enough to let the cameras reposition or to shout orders at technicians.
He never—not once—considered how his theatrics were wrecking Valentino’s recording timetable or throwing Velvette’s production cycle two days behind.
Sure, Vox was getting the glory he’d always craved.

But he was oblivious to the way Valentino’s smile had sharpened into a razor’s edge, or how Velvette was shaking so hard she looked like a boiling kettle.
Valentino’s face remained half-lost in a cloud of red smoke most of the time… but only when Vox wasn’t looking.
Vox hadn’t looked at him once.

Alastor, meanwhile, was drained.

Two days of being yanked through talk shows, parades, interviews, restaurants, game shows, reaction streams—every humiliating scrap of media Hell could produce.
The injury Charlie had given him—necessary, yet unintended to a certain degree, part of his plan—was healing slowly, siphoning his stamina.

He was TIRED.
Beyond tired.
So tired that by the time Vox committed his heinous little act with Valentino, Alastor slept with his eyes half-open.

And that, of course, made Vox believe he’d proven something about Alastor’s sexuality.
Fine. Let him believe it.
Alastor had bigger concerns.
Rosie’s orders.
Charlie’s safety.
Amaris—his daughter, his secret, his responsibility—who could never, ever be discovered.
If the price was humiliation, he would endure humiliation.

But vox will pay , if not by his hands then by that of fate and Alastor will make sure vox will not escape.
Still, if Alastor had the strength, he would have gladly ripped out tufts of his own hair to stay awake rather than drift off to the sound of Vox’s self-satisfied panting.
Instead, he blearily blinked through the dryness in his eyes as the microphone jabbed at him from its pocket.

The voice crackled. Venom first.
“Pathetic. Sleeping through your captor’s mating display… You truly have sunk—”
A pause, static rewinding.
“…no. Not that tone. Alastor—wake. He moves.”
Alastor grimaced even before he saw Vox’s post-coital victory sprawl.

The microphone muttered dryly,
“We certainly did not pay for any exhibitionism. How, pray tell, does this improve his insecurity toward you?"
.
.
.
Vox flopped onto his back, naked, smug, stretching like a cat who thought he’d conquered the world.
Vox: “Oh! Ah! Today was perfect. Right, Val?”

Valentino sat tied to the headboard, cigarette between his fingers, bored out of his skull.
Valentino: “Uh-huh, sure, babe.”
He didn’t even pretend to care.

Alastor, tied back to his chair, masked, slumped with exhaustion, did not spare them a glance.

Vox: “Hmm? And what do you think, Alastor?”
No answer. Just tired static.
Vox pouted, exaggerated.

Vox: “Oh, why the long face?”
Valentino snorted softly.
Even his smoke seemed unimpressed.

Vox bounced out of bed, humming, grabbed Valentino’s cigarette, and—just to be an ass—pulled down Alastor’s mask and blew smoke into his face.

Radio static hissed like a warning.
The mic muttered,
“…disrespectful little appliance.”
.
.
.
Vox dragged Alastor toward the massive tinted window, city aglow beneath them.

Vox: “Look at all this. You feel it too, right? And you could’ve had ALL of it—without the public humiliation.”

Alastor: “…yes, because you haven’t already indulged yourself enough today.”
He didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm; Vox never recognized it anyway.
Vod poured himself a drink.

Vox: “Whiskey? Gin? Hell, a Sazerac? I can order—”

Alastor kept quiet, hair shadowing his eyes.
Then came the question Vox truly wanted to ask.
Why.
Why Alastor changed sides.
Why he helped Charlie.
Why he fell from his throne.
Why he became something softer, something new.

He could never tell Vox the truth:
That redemption was real.
That Amaris existed.
That he chose to protect instead of torment.
That he refused to let Vox endanger Charlie’s future
(Alastor forced himself to believe that if was because Rosie forced him nothing more )
So he said nothing.

Vox, frustrated, shifted to old wounds—because of course he did.
And Alastor, exhausted beyond caution, snapped back.
The fight escalated.
The old wounds reopened.
The singing began.
.
.
.
As Vox and Alastor panted inches from each other, electricity crackling on one side and shadow coiling on the other, Alastor had the urged to grip off Vox's claws from his thighs.
If not for Valentino's ...input his composure would have snapped.
Valentino exhaled a long stream of red smoke and drawled:
“Ay, seriously—just fuck already."
there was a pause and then :
"What, am I wrong? And can I film it?"

Did that tv head just blush?! Alastor thought Vox over with whatever attraction he had.
Maybe because of the situation? No that STILL included him DAMMIT!!
After waiting some more moment of Vox regaining his composure Valentino added :
"This angle’s terrible.”
He didn’t sound excited.
He sounded bored.
Used to Vox’s theatrics.
Sick of the drama.
Already thinking about his next cigarette.
.
.
.
The microphone leaned toward Alastor’s ear, voice low.
“…you must endure. Remember why you are here.”
The voice softened—just slightly.
“…she is counting on you.”
Alastor’s eyes—tired, bruised with exhaustion—narrowed with renewed focus.
He straightened his posture, mask sliding back into place, smile sharp and restored.
The act resumed.
The persona returned.
He continued to jab and poke at vox's insecurities .
And that was all that was needed for Vox to throw another tantrum.

 

Vox is pacing in front of the massive windows, adrenaline humming in his circuitry, wires flicking like excited tails.

Vox:
“Just imagine it, Al!”
“All the Overlords gathered in my tower.
My stage.
My celebration before I rip Heaven a new frequency.”
He laughs, manic, relishing the image.

Vox continued emboldened:
“Carmilla, Zestial, even that fossil Susan if she can still walk—
and Rosie too, of course.
Everyone.
Watching me.
Watching us, actually.”
He smirks, his eyes drifting to Alastor as if expecting jealousy.
Alastor gives him a slow blink. A hum.

His mic flickers in its pocket: “Don’t encourage him.”
Then Alastor smiles—pleasant, nostalgic, harmless-looking.
(Which means: dangerous.)

Alastor (lightly):
“Oh, Rosie, yes.
My, Vincent, do you remember the last time you followed me to her Emporium?”
Vox freezes.
The smile on his face twitches.

Alastor seemingly not noticing:
“It was such a lovely afternoon.
Rosie breezed right past you—
poor thing must not have seen you—
and swept me straight to her counter!
Said she had a fresh batch of finger sandwiches and wanted my opinion.”
Alastor chuckles, warm as an ember.

“You were standing there, dear boy, stiff as a coat rack.
I believe she called you… what was it?”
He taps his chin thoughtfully.
“Oh yes.
‘Alastor, darling, did you bring a new appliance?
I needed a lamp in that corner.’”
A strangled static squeals out of Vox involuntarily.

Alastor, unfazed:
“And then Susan marched in screeching like a broken gramophone,
waving that stick of hers—”
He mimics her shrill voice perfectly:
“Rosie! You ungrateful brat! I’ll report you to the Gazette!”
Alastor laughs.

“And Rosie just said, ‘Susan, sit down before you crumble into dust.’
Marvelous woman.”
Vox’s eye-screen cracks at the corner.

FLASHBACK — ROSIE’S EMPORIUM, YEARS AGO
Warm light. Pie-smelling air.
Tinny gramophone music floating through the storefront.
The door jingles as Alastor enters.

Rosie coming from across the room, delighted:
“Alastor, sweetheart!”
She glides across the floor like a 1910s hostess on rails.
Vox steps in behind him—
straightening his tie, adjusting his antenna, preparing his most charismatic grin—
Rosie sweeps right past him.
Right past him.
She doesn’t even look at him.

Rosie beams at Alastor like meeting a dear friend:
“You didn’t tell me you were dropping by!
Oh, you MUST try these—fresh, still dripping!”
She takes Alastor’s arm with both hands, gently steering him toward the counter.
Vox, abandoned mid-greeting, hovers awkwardly behind.
He clears his throat. Loudly.

Vox:
“Ahem—hi, Rosie—”
Nothing.
She’s already fussing with plates, arranging pastries shaped disturbingly like knuckles.
She places a finger sandwich into Alastor’s hand.

Rosie:
“Tell me if the texture improved. I changed the marinade.”
Vox tries again.

Vox:
“It’s been a while, you know, Rosie—”
He steps forward.
Rosie steps sideways—directly in front of him—
without noticing he exists.
She brushes by, gently moving him aside with her hips, with the absentminded confidence of a woman rearranging furniture.

Rosie:
“Oh! Alastor, dear—don’t stand there; that corner’s for appliances.”
The sentence lands with a thud.
Alastor’s grin widens.

Vox (glitching):
“Appl— appliance?!”
Rosie finally looks at him.
Finally.
For exactly one second.
Her eyes narrow in distant confusion, like she’s trying to place him at a grocery store.

Rosie:
“…oh! My. Alastor, darling, did you bring a new lamp?”
Vox sputters.
Vox:
“I—WHAT—NO—”

Rosie:
“Hmm.
Tall, stiff posture.
Blinking light on top.
Yes. A lamp. Definitely.”
Alastor coughs politely into his fist to hide his laugh.

Rosie (thoughtfully):
“I’ve been needing one for that corner; the lighting is dreadful.
How considerate of you, Alastor.”
Vox explodes.
Vox:
“I AM NOT A—”
The bell over the door SLAMS open.
A shrill voice cuts through the shop like a rusty violin.

Susan:
“ROSIEEEEEE!”
Rosie doesn’t even look up.

Rosie (flatly):
“Oh good lord.”
Susan hobbles in, cigarette holder pointed like a dagger, feathers trembling with fury.

Susan:
“I have HAD it with your prices!
I’ll report you!
I’ll write to the Gazette!
I’ll—”
Rosie turns.
Slowly.
Sweet smile.
Eyes full of absolute, immovable authority.

Rosie:
“Susan, darling.
Sit.
Before your bones give out.”
Susan freezes mid-screech.
Then, with the obedience of a scolded terrier, she folds into a chair.

Susan (grumbling):
“…fine.”
Vox’s jaw hits the figurative floor.

Vox (whispering):
“She… she just… shut her up…”
Rosie (returning to Alastor, still ignoring Vox):
“Now, sweetheart, tell me what brings you by.
You looked thin the last time I saw you.”
She pats his cheek lovingly.

Rosie:
“They’re not feeding you enough wherever you’re staying.”
Vox raises a finger.

Vox:
“I’m RIGHT HERE.”

Rosie (absently):
“Yes, yes. Shine brighter, would you?
You’re dimming.”
Vox nearly combusts.

Alastor (still grinning, voice softening slightly):
“…You know, Rosie, perhaps a touch less… theatrical with poor Vincent?”
Rosie glances over her shoulder, perfectly composed, fanning herself with one gloved hand.
Rosie:
“Oh? Do you mean… the lamp impersonation?”
Alastor chuckles, shaking his head. There’s a faint glimmer of something almost like… pity in his eye.

Alastor:
“Let’s not be too cruel, my dear.
He was hoping to reconnect, after all.
And I daresay, your antics are making even my rotten heart—”
He gestures at his chest, mock-dramatically, “—start to cry out for the poor boy. Sinners, mind you, don’t cry.”
Rosie arches a perfectly shaped brow, the corner of her lips twitching in amusement.

Rosie:
“Well… if your rotten little heart is going to show any sympathy, Alastor, then perhaps I should relent.”

She tilts her head, voice dripping sugar and venom:
“But… really, darling, you should choose your friends better.
Vincent… isn’t even palatable.”
Alastor lets out a small chuckle, both at Rosie’s elegance and at Vox’s complete lack of social seasoning.

Alastor (softly, almost fondly):
“You are merciless, Rosie. Truly merciless.”
Rosie leans back, adjusting her hat with a lazy flourish, eyes glinting:

Rosie:
“And mercy, my dear Alastor, is only for the deserving.
He… simply isn’t on the menu.”

Alastor gives a quiet sigh, half-laugh, half-sigh, and shakes his head:
“Ah… very well. I suppose the poor lad will just have to stew a little longer.”
Vox, somewhere in the back of the memory, fidgets and glitches, completely unaware that he’s been doomed by manners, class, and a touch of Rosie’s macabre hospitality.
His eye-screen flickers violently, static screaming across his circuitry.
He stands frozen, wires twitching, antennae sparking—a malfunctioning storm of embarrassment.

Vox (internally, panicked):
She… she called me a lamp. A lamp! She didn’t even glance at me. I… I was invisible! How… how can anyone be this ignored? This… THIS IS ALASTOR’S FAULT!
He glances at Alastor, who is lounging casually, fingers steepled, that infuriating grin plastered on his face. Vox can almost feel the amusement radiating off him.

Vox (internally, boiling):
He’s laughing. He’s enjoying this! He let it happen. He watched me become a… a household object in her eyes. And he—he pities me!

Alastor tilts his head, voice smooth and teasing:
“Oh, Vincent… you did hope to reconnect, didn’t you?”
Vox’s circuits buzz erratically. His internal voice screams, but his body won’t respond.

Vox sceamed internally,
Reconnect?! He… He just wanted a friendly chat! And now… now he's a footnote, a joke, a lamp! Oh, the humanity… the ELECTRONIC humanity!

Rosie, calm and elegant as ever, places a hand delicately on Alastor’s arm.
“Perhaps, darling, I went a touch far. But honestly… you should have better taste in friends. Not to mention… he isn’t even palatable.”

Vox’s eye-screen glitches so violently that sparks fly across the Emporium. He imagines himself being slowly turned into a decorative object in a Victorian dining room, powerless to protest.
Vox (internally, muttering):
Palatable… not palatable…? I am the certified to be most powerful Sinner Hell will ever see! I am the future of Hell’s finest technology! I am… I…

Alastor’s laugh is soft, almost cruelly affectionate:
“Ah, Vincent… the poor lad will stew a little, but perhaps it’s good for him. A little humility keeps even the most… electronic of sinners in check.”

Vox’s systems short-circuit for a brief moment. His pride, ambition, and sense of superiority collide in a spectacular electrical meltdown.
Vox (internally, shrieking):
STEALING MY RESPECT, MY DIGNITY… ALASTOR, WHY!?

Vox rushed out looked at distastefully by rosie who muttered he did not have the slightest decorum.

Meanwhile, Rosie leans back with that perfectly poised smile, tilting her hat just enough to catch the light.
Rosie (softly, to Alastor):
“Honestly, Al… I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.”
Alastor:
“Yes… almost. But not quite.”
And somewhere deep in the back of his electronic mind, Vox realized as he still could hear the fading voices: no matter what he does, no matter how many parties he throws, no matter how many Overlords he gathers… Rosie will always treat him like what he truly is: an unpalatable, blinking lamp.

VOX’S IMAGINATION KICKS IN

He imagines the exact thing Alastor described,
but worse — happening in the present.

Rosie enters the celebration party in his mind.
The crowd hushes.
She does not look at Vox.
Not. Once.

She walks...WALKS NOT EVEN RUSH.. right past him—
right past the lights, cameras, and banners—
and stops in front of the tied-up Alastor, plopping down on the empty seat as if this is a perfectly normal Tuesday.

Rosie (pleasant):
“Alastor, sweetheart!
You look peaky—have you been eating properly?”
She reaches across the table like it's her environment
She lifts his chin.
Smiles warmly.
Vox flinches.
Then Rosie finally glances at Vox, brows raised in polite confusion.

Rosie:
“Oh. You’re here too.
You’re… ah… that little lost puppy who followed him around, yes?”
Alastor’s mic snorts.

Velvette whispers to Valentino in the background:
“Holy shit, she doesn’t even know who he is.”

Valentino:
“Damn.”
Rosie returns to Alastor, patting his cheek affectionately.

Rosie:
“Don’t mind him, dear. Puppydogs get underfoot.”
Vox’s screen glitches so violently it whites out.

BACK TO REALITY

Vox inhales sharply.
Vox:
“Nope.”
“Nope.
No. No. No.”
A wire violently lashes the air.

“Rosie is NOT invited.”
He storms toward the door panel.

“She can—can stay in Cannibal Town with her stupid hats and her stupid sandwiches—
I don’t care!
I’m not having her walk in here and—
and—
IGNORE ME!”
Alastor tilts his head politely.
“Oh?
I thought you wanted all the Overlords there.”

Vox snarls.
“Not her.”
“She can ruin her own parties, not mine.”

Alastor smiles, eyes half-lidded.
“As you wish, Vincent.
I’m sure she’ll be heartbroken.”

The mic whispers gleefully:
“Bullseye.”

Chapter 27

The door to the Vees’ private planning room SLAMMED open so hard the screens on the wall flicker.

Velvette jumps slightly — not out of fear (she would kill anyone who said otherwise)
, but because it almost made her drop her limited-edition phone case.

Valentino doesn’t; he’s too busy lighting another cigarette with the last one.
Vox storms in, static sparking off his antennae like a small thunderstorm.

“She’s OUT. She’s off the list. I don’t want to hear her name again.”

Velvette pauses mid-click on her phone, one eyebrow lifting as she half-swipes a filter onto her face.

“…who?
Because I just unfollowed like thirty people this morning.”

Vox points at the holographic list on the wall with the fury of a man betrayed by fate itself.

“ROSIE!”
Velvette raises a brow higher — impressed, even — and leans back with a slow smirk.

“You mean Cannibal Barbie?
The tea-party terror?
The Victorian cupcake with knives?”
Valentino exhales a long plume of smoke.

“…the one with the fancy hat collection?”
Vox screamed pointing and gesturing towards Valentino:
“Yes! HER! The hat lady! She’s not coming!”

Velvette kicks one leg over the other, grin sharpening.

“Why?
Afraid she’ll outdress you at your own party?
Because honestly, babe… she might.”
Vox’s screen spasms violently.

“SHE—”
He jabs a finger at the air.
“IGNORES me.”
Velvette blinks slowly, unimpressed.

“…okay?
So do half the Overlords. And most of my models.”

“No, not okay! Not okay at all!
Do you have ANY idea how humiliating that is?!
I’m Vox!
VOX!
Everyone sees me!”
Valentino mutters:

“Not her, apparently.”
Vox whirls around, sparks flying.

“EXACTLY!
She didn’t even look at me!
Back when I visited her Emporium with Alastor—AND DON’T MAKE THAT FACE, VELVETTE, IT WAS A BUSINESS CALL—she just walked RIGHT past me like I was some—some—coat rack!”
Velvette clamps a hand over her mouth, voice muffled by giggles.

“Oh my god…
she friend-zoned you into furniture.”
Valentino coughs on smoke mid-laugh.

“She thought you were a LAMP, amigo.”

“NOT. HELPING.”
He begins pacing, wires flailing like stressed-out tentacles.
He continued going in circles hand raised near his face half open:
“And then in my mind—”
He stops, realizing he’s admitting too much.
“NOT THAT I CARE what she’d do, BUT—
I could just see it, alright?”

Velvette leans in eagerly, propping her chin on her hand.

“Oooh, a vision.
C’mon, give mama the drama.”

“She’d walk into my party—MY CELEBRATION—
look right at Alastor even though I’ve clearly WON,
and go:
‘Oh, sweetheart, you look pale, are they feeding you properly?’”
Velvette BURSTS out laughing, nearly falling out of her hover-chair.

Holy shit, she WOULD.
She’d probably bring him a casserole.”
Valentino chimes in lazily:

“And then she’d look at you and go:
‘Oh. The puppy is here.’”
Velvette wheezes so hard her holographic stickers glitch.

“LOST. PUPPY. VOX.
I’m making that a hashtag.”
Vox’s screen nearly shatters.

“THAT! Right there!
That is EXACTLY why she is BANISHED from the list.
I will NOT be belittled in my OWN tower by that— that—
that VICTORIAN SALAD... FORK!”
Silence.
Velvette snorts loudly.

“Victorian… salad… fork…?”
She starts typing.
“Oh that’s going on merch.”
Valentino claps slowly.

“Poetry.”
Vox ignores them, clutching the sides of his head dramatically.

“She’ll ruin everything!
She’ll treat Alastor like a guest of honor even though he’s the prisoner!
She’ll talk to him! She’ll offer him sandwiches!
She’ll—she’ll pat his cheek!”
Velvette rolls her eyes with a grin.

“Sounds like someone’s jealous.”

“I AM NOT JEALOUS.”
He slams his hands down on the table.
“She just… doesn’t respect me.”
Valentino flicks ash.

“Yeah, she respects Alastor more.”
The static that erupts from Vox is almost a scream.

“THAT IS THE PROBLEM, VAL.”
Velvette wipes a tear from laughing, then sighs dramatically.

“So, she’s off the list?
Like… forever?
Because I need to update the seating chart.
And maybe the security protocols.
And probably the snack table.
Rosie eats a lot.”
Vox straightens his suit, smoothing it down with shaky hands.

“She is NEVER coming to ANYTHING I host.
Ever.”
Valentino smirks.

“Shame. She throws great dinner parties.”
Velvette adds, biting her lip to hold back a grin:

“And she never forgets a face—
except, apparently… yours.”
Vox’s eye glitches into a bright red ■.

“MEETING. OVER.”
He storms out, slamming the door so hard half the lights flicker.
Velvette kicks her feet up, immediately bringing up her design app.

“Well.
This party’s gonna be fun.
There was not even a meeting. He just barged in...
And I’m making puppy-ear filters for Vox.”
Valentino hums.

“Bet you ten bucks Rosie crashes it anyway.”

Velvette doesn’t look up from her phone — she’s already editing a meme of Vox labeled LOCAL TV MAN FEARS WOMAN.
She giggles.

“Ten? Babe, please. Make it fifty.
Vox freaks out harder than my models after I cut their hair wrong.”
Val chuckles darkly.

“He’s a sore loser, that’s all.”
A beat.
A zap.
A crackle.
Then — the door SLAMS open again.
Vox is back.
Disheveled.
Screens glitching.
Wires sparking like deranged tendrils.

“I HEARD THAT!”
They both jolt.

Velvette, unfazed, keeps chewing her gum.
Vox (ranting, shouting, flailing):
“AND FOR YOUR INFORMATION—
I’LL MAKE SURE SHE KNOWS NOTHING!
NOTHING about this party!
NOTHING about the plan!
NOTHING about ANYTHING!
I will PERSONALLY make sure Rosie stays miles — MILES — away!”
He paces like a malfunctioning metronome.

“And if — IF — she somehow finds out—”
He gestures wildly, wires snapping like electric whips.
“I WILL HAVE MEASURES IN PLACE!
Security! Scanners! A firewall!
A GODDAMN SOCIAL MEDIA BLACKOUT FOR THE WHOLE DISTRICT IF I HAVE TO!”
Velvette’s eyebrows lift just slightly.
Her version of outright cackling.

“A blackout? Drama much?”
Vox points at her with a trembling, glitching hand.

“If she steps one FOOT near my tower—
ONE FOOT—
I’ll have her stuck in a hologram loop of Susan complaining about taxes for twenty hours straight!”
Velvette winces.

“…okay, that’s actually evil.”
Valentino laughs under his breath.
Vox spins around, eyes blazing.

“SHE WILL NEVER RUIN MY MOMENT AGAIN!
NEVER!
THIS IS MY ERA! MY ASCENSION!
AND ROSIE THE ENORMOUS HAT RACK WILL NOT—WILL. NOT.—
STEAL. MY. SPOTLIGHT!”
He points to the air as if addressing some unseen cosmic judge.

“MARK MY WORDS!
I’ll make sure she can’t even SEE the party from a telescope!”
With a furious static CRACK, he turns and storms back out again — even harder than the first time.
The door rattles for a full five seconds before settling.
Silence.
A long, smoky exhale from Valentino.

“…sore loser.”
Velvette snaps her gum, lounges back into her chair with a wicked grin.

“He’s not just a sore loser.
He’s a terrified loser.
And honestly?
It’s kind of adorable.”
She flicks her phone, sending a hologram of Rosie’s hat dancing across the room just to annoy him if he comes back again.
Valentino smirks.

“So. Fifty bucks?”

“Make it a hundred.
He’s gonna implode the minute she shows up.”

“Deal.”

Chapter 28

WHAT VOX DIDN'T AND WILL NEVER KNOW:

Alastor rises from the counter, brushing crumbs of finger sandwiches from his lap with a faint, amused chuckle.

“My dear Rosie, I’m afraid I must cut our delightful meeting short. It would be… unseemly, shall we say, if I allowed Vox to wander aimlessly toward the Entertainment District. One shudders to think of the poor sinners who might encounter him in such a state.”
Rosie arches an elegant eyebrow, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips.

“Ah, yes. I’ve noticed he tends to create… unexpected consequences when left unattended. But Al, do be cautious yourself.”
Alastor tilts his head, intrigued.

“You still view him as a… connection of sorts, but understand there’s more under that television-head than you suspect. He harbors feelings, ones not entirely… pure. On the surface, it may look like puppy crushes, simple admiration—but I’ve seen the undertones. Obsession isn’t far behind.”

Alastor freezes for a beat, taking in the weight behind her words. His smile softens, just slightly—just enough to show that even his rotten heart feels a tug of concern.

Rosie (leaning back, voice calm but firm):
“If I were you, I’d reconsider how close you allow yourself to get. You have the chance now to step away… before his infatuation sours beyond repair. I must admit, it pains me even to think of Voci in all this—he was a gentleman, a mind to rival even your… particular charms. I never expected him to vanish so completely.”

Alastor inclines his head, the ember of seriousness in his gaze outshining his usual playful demeanor. For a fleeting moment, his eyes flicker with the memory of Voci—not Vox, not the imitation, but the true Vincent Ociley, whose fragments linger in the world like a ghost in the signal.

“Wise counsel, my dear. Truly wise. I shall take it to heart.”
He gives a small, gentlemanly bow, straightening his coat.
“And now, I must be off. Duty—and perhaps a touch of mercy—awaits me, lest some unfortunate soul becomes acquainted with… Vincent’s current temperament.”

Rosie inclines her head in acknowledgment, her hat tilting just so, the shadows across her face hiding a subtle, amused smirk.

“Do take care, Al. And remember: not all friends wear their hearts—or their intentions—so plainly. Even the most seemingly innocent puppy can bite if provoked.”
Alastor chuckles softly, tipping his hat before gliding toward the door. As he disappears into the shadows of the Emporium’s entrance, Rosie whispers to herself, almost as an afterthought:

Rosie (soft, amused):
“Let’s see how long he can keep his footing before the lamp burns out. Poor Vincent… such a shame, truly. Gone before anyone could see the brilliance he carried.”

And somewhere, beyond the hum of infernal lights and static, Alastor listens—listening not to Vox, but for the pieces of Voci that might yet speak to him through that fractured vessel.

Alastor moved through the narrow, flickering corridors of the Entertainment District, the hum of broken neon like a chorus of whispers guiding him. His eyes, bright as ever, tracked a faint, irregular pulse—a signature he knew belonged to Vox.

And yet, in his mind, he drifted to Voci, to the last time he had truly seen him. The memory was alive, colored with a vibrancy that Hell itself seemed incapable of generating.

Voci had bounded into the room like a gust of fresh air, his voice bright and almost musical.

Voci (excited, gesturing at a set of early, colored television sets):

“Al! You have to see this! Another sinner… not like the dull gray ones, not like the first small models. Color, Al! Real color! Can you imagine the signal dancing like sunlight through glass?”

Alastor had watched him, captivated—not by the sets, but by Voci himself. Here was a soul that thrived on wonder, on discovery, on connection. Even in Hell, where despair pooled in the gutters, Voci had been warmth incarnate, a light too pure for this place.

“He was joy made flesh… so human, so impossibly alive. Hell is hungry for souls like that. It takes a fraction to poison them, and yet he… he chose to give it freely.”

Alastor’s hands flexed at his sides. Vox, who haunted the air ahead, bore the remnants of Voci—but twisted, corrupted, stamped with the violence of his death. The fragments clung like a shadow to Vox, a map of cruelty, of a soul torn apart. And that cruelty was precise, deliberate—Vox had not merely killed Voci; he had annihilated him, dissected him, left only shards behind.

Alastor had decided long ago not to confront Vox immediately. Too much was unknown. Too much could be lost if Vox detected his intent. The fragments—Voci’s soul, tiny, delicate, but undeniably present—needed to be extracted carefully, preserved. Alastor needed to understand why Voci had befriended this creature for so long, how he had endured the slow, insidious decay that ended in his murder.

Alastor (under his breath, almost reverent):
“You took him from me, you… impersonator. And yet, I must follow you. I must see the hand that crushed the light, so I may gather what remains before even that is lost.”

The hum of Vox’s signal grew stronger, flickering through the alley like a wounded heartbeat.
Alastor’s grin, sharp and patient, returned. This was a hunt, yes—but not for blood, not yet. This was a game of patience, of precision. He would learn the truth of Voci’s end.
He would rescue what fragments clung stubbornly to Vox, and he would honor the memory of the only friend in Hell who had ever reminded him that joy could exist beyond corruption.

And all the while, Vox remained blissfully unaware, the unwitting keeper of what Alastor now considered sacred.
The corridor narrowed, flickering lights casting Vox’s jagged shadow across cracked walls. The TV-head demon hummed softly, oblivious to the subtle disturbance in the air—Alastor’s presence, silent as static before a storm.

Alastor stepped lightly into the glow, coat tails brushing the floor, a grin playing on his face like sunlight over a knife.

Alastor (warm, almost teasing):
“Ah… Vox. Fancy meeting you here, in such… charming surroundings. One could almost mistake it for a home.”
Vox turned, screen-face flickering in sharp, erratic bursts of color, his voice a mechanical rasp.

“Al…? Didn’t expect—”
Alastor raised a gloved hand, cutting him off with a flourish.

“Expectation is such a rigid companion, don’t you agree? I prefer surprises. Don’t you, my dear friend?”
Vox’s screen blinked, static swirling over an indistinct, darker hue. Unseen by Vox, fragments of Voci shimmered like faint, glowing dust around him—hesitant sparks of warmth trapped in the corrupted vessel.
Alastor’s eyes flicked to them briefly, a rare shadow crossing his usually playful grin.

Alastor (softly, almost to himself):
“Such a shame… so much brilliance, and yet… fractured. But we shall see if it can be coaxed back, piece by piece.”
Alastor guided Vox through the narrow streets, the neon glow giving way to quieter, dimly lit avenues. Vox’s screen flickered nervously, unsure of the destination, but Alastor’s stride was confident, almost playful.

“Al… what are we doing? Where are we going?”

Alastor (warm, teasing):
“Patience, dear Vox. One must savor the journey as much as the destination.”
Their first stop was a small workshop tucked between crumbling brick buildings, the kind of place that smelled faintly of solder, varnish, and old wood. The air hummed with the gentle static of half-working machines, radios and televisions stacked carefully, humming softly.
Alastor’s sharp eyes flicked to the faint shimmer in the air—the first fragments of Voci stirring, drawn out by the familiarity. Vox’s screen sputtered slightly, though he blamed it on the building’s poor wiring.

“Ah… places like this always have a way of… evoking memories, don’t they? Curious how some things cling to a soul.”
Vox blinked, his static momentarily uneasy , confused. Alastor watched carefully as small, glowing particles—Voci’s fragments—hovered near Vox, responding to the environment. A gentle sweep of Alastor’s hand, and a few more were collected, disappearing into the folds of his coat. Vox, oblivious, leaned closer.

“You’re… taking me somewhere nice. I—I thought you might…”

Alastor (laughing lightly, masking intent):
“Oh, my dear, your imagination runs wild. One can’t help but speculate, but I assure you, I’m simply showing you the sights. The sights, and perhaps… a touch of indulgence.”

By the time they reached a cafe reminiscent of the early 1950s, with soft jazz playing and the faint scent of pastries and sugar, Vox was already a little unsteady from the drinks Alastor had carefully provided.
The familiarity of the place—one Voci had loved—made more fragments shimmer to the surface, drawn by the warmth, the soft clink of plates, and the sweetness in the air.

Alastor guided him with precision, subtly steering, pouring wine and spirits at just the right pace. Vox laughed nervously, interpreting the evening as a kind of courtship, leaning into Alastor’s charm. Meanwhile, each fragment shimmered in response to subtle cues—the music, the aroma, the soft clatter of a coffee cup—and Alastor silently collected them, tucking them away safely.

Alastor muttered softly to himself:
“Patience, my dear Voci… every last piece. You shall not linger in this place without notice. I will see to it that you remain… whole, in memory, if not in flesh.”

Vox, meanwhile, remained utterly unaware of the true purpose of the night, smiling nervously at Alastor’s attentions, oblivious to the extraction occurring all around him.

Alastor’s grin was serene, practiced, protective.

Each fragment drawn out reinforced his understanding of Voci, of the joyous, bright soul who had once dared to flourish in Hell.
And with every shimmer that floated into his waiting hands, Alastor felt the ghost of his friend grow just a little closer to being reclaimed, even as the mimic before him thought he was simply being courted.

Chapter 29

A Few Years Earlier — Vox’s Realization

Vox wasn’t stupid. Blinded by ambition, yes. Clouded by obsession, absolutely.
But stupid? No.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that every place Alastor brought him had an odd effect on him — workshops filled with old radios and half-open televisions, dingy cafés with 1950s décor and sugary treats, bars playing soft jazz on vinyl. These places stirred… flickers in him. Feelings he didn’t recognize, scents and sounds that seemed too familiar, as if someone else’s nostalgia whispered through his veins.

And Alastor never explained it. Not once.

But Vox noticed when Alastor’s smile softened at certain corners of the city.
He noticed the way Alastor’s gaze lingered on static-laced lights and antique TV displays.
And he especially noticed the way Alastor sometimes paused—just for a breath—when faint glowing dust drifted off Vox’s screen, dust Vox never saw but somehow felt.

One night, after too many drinks Alastor had “helpfully” poured, Vox asked:
Vox (slurring slightly):
“…He meant something to you. Didn’t he? That other TV-head… the one before me. Voci.”

Alastor smiled with unnatural calm.
So calm it chilled Vox more than any answer could have.
Alastor remained calm, dismissive to what vox uttered

“My, what curious questions you ask when intoxicated. Drink your gin, dear boy.”
Vox swallowed uncertainty.

He didn’t know why it bothered him so much that Alastor might have cared for someone like him. Someone similar. Someone… earlier.
But it did.
And that discomfort metastasized into something darker:
competition.

 

Vox tried to Replace Voci
He began to mimic what he imagined Voci must have been like.
Afterall they had met a few years when Alastor had magically dissapeared before Vox killed the other Tv head.
And he had previously aimed to claim what was all of what Voci had at the time.
If he could fool everyone then wouldn't it be just great?!

He laughed more.
He tried being charming.
He brought Alastor trinkets—vintage tubes, rare vacuum components, collectible radios.
He even cracked jokes about old broadcasting.
He even forced color patterns onto his screen to look “retro,” not realizing the irony.
He was unaware that Alastor hid his disgust beautifully.
Every imitation of Voci was like hearing a murderer wear the voice of their victim.
But Alastor smiled.
He always smiled.
(Because, something vox didn't know, every time Vox pretended, every time he attempted to be “old-timey” or “warm” or “innocent,” the soul fragments inside him fluttered.
And Alastor collected them, one by one, with the ease of slipping coins off a table.)

Vox Gains Confidence — and Influence.
Years passed. Vox rose in power, gaining the reputation of a modern overlord. And in his mind, Alastor was part of that ascent. Being seen with Alastor was currency. Being “friends” with Alastor made others treat him as untouchable.

Vox convinced himself that:
•Alastor tolerated him because he respected him.
•Alastor invited him places because he enjoyed his company.
•Alastor laughed at his jokes because he liked him.
•Alastor rejected others’ company because Vox was special.

He believed he had won Alastor over — even if only halfway.

His crush deepened. His ambition burned hotter.

Eventually, Vox convinced himself the next step was obvious:
A partnership.
Ruling Hell together.
He and Alastor. Radio and video.
The perfect empire.

 

A bar from Voci’s era.
A place Alastor deliberately chose because it drew out the last, faintest fragments of Voci’s soul.
Vox mistook it as sentiment.
As romance.
As history repeating itself.
He leaned across the table, static nervously dancing between his antennas.

“You’re inspiring! Really! And when you think about it, modern entertainment actually started with radio—”
Alastor set his drink down with a soft clink.

“Ah, am I boring you with my compliments?”

Past Alastor:
“Perhaps.”

Vox flushed, screen tinting with bashful reds.

“Well… look, I’ll just get to the point. We’ve been close for a few years now, right? People know us—they love us. And with new Overlords popping up every day—
And before you hit me with a (mocking Alastor voice) ‘Well, you’re pretty new yourself,’ I know, okay? I know.
But I’m more forward-thinking. So it’s in your best interest to hear me out.”
Alastor gestured lazily at the bartender.

“I’m listening, pal.
Barkeep—another whiskey.”

The barkeep placed a fresh drink before him.

Alastor didn’t touch it.

He already had what he came for.

The final fragments of Voci shimmered behind Vox’s head, invisible to the TV demon, brilliant to Alastor.

Past Vox (voice trembling with excitement):
“So, I’ve been thinking, Alastor… with your incredible power and my massive influence, we’d be unstoppable. Radio AND video.
Me and you—
we could rule Hell together.
As partners.”

He held out his hand.
A handshake he thought meant equality.
A future.
Maybe even affection.

Alastor stared at the hand…
and then began to chuckle.
Soft at first.
Then uncontrollable.

“Oh, that’s—oh, you’re serious?”
laughs harder, wiping his eyes
“Come now, Vox!
I knew you could be pathetic at times…
but I didn’t realize you were so weak.”
Vox blinked.

“…What?”
Alastor leaned back, laughter echoing through the bar like a blade being sharpened.

“You need me to join your team?
And here I thought you might have been approaching my level!
But asking for a partnership?
How utterly disappointing.”
Vox felt his screen blur.
A tear pixelated briefly at the corner.

Past Vox (voice small, cracking):
“I– I thought… we were friends.”
Alastor’s smile vanished.
Cold replaced mirth.
Cruelty replaced charm.
The mask slipped just enough.

Past Alastor (venom-sweet):
“FRIENDS?
There are no friends in Hell, Vincent.”
The name hit Vox like a punch.
Vincent.
The name he murdered.
The name that wasn’t his or rather that his victim and he shared.

“I thought that was something even you would understand.
How embarrassing.”

Vox’s screen shattered with glitching static.

The hurt became rage.

The moment burned into him—a wound that would never heal.

And while Vox trembled, Alastor extended one hand behind him, unseen…

and quietly gathered the last glowing fragment of Voci’s soul from the air.

He placed it in his pocket like a treasured keepsake.

Past Alastor (soft, final):
“We were never partners.
We were never equals.
And we were certainly never friends.”

Chapter 30

Rosie Confronts Alastor

The Emporium was nearly empty when Rosie found him.

Alastor stood near the back shelves, adjusting a row of vintage radios as if they were tiny, precious relics. His posture was perfect, smile serene, but Rosie saw the slight tension in his shoulders — a line pulled too tight by years of deception.
She closed the door softly behind her.

“Al… we need to talk.”
Alastor didn’t turn immediately. He finished aligning the last radio before facing her with that ever-present, immaculate smile.

“My dear Rosie, that tone suggests you’re about to spoil my evening.”
Rosie approached the counter, resting her gloved fingers lightly atop the polished wood.
Her expression was calm — but her eyes were knives.

“I know.”
Alastor’s smile didn’t falter.
But the air shifted.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”
Rosie:
“Don’t insult me. You’ve been… distracted. For years now. These outings with Vox, the little trips, the places you chose — workshops Voci frequented, that little café he adored, the old jazz bar…”
She exhaled, slow, steady.
Grief tucked just behind her ribs.

“I thought you were reminiscing. Or punishing yourself. But then I noticed something else.”
She fixed him with a sharp, knowing stare.

“You always came back with the faint scent of old electricity… but never quite the same twice. Like you were carrying something… and losing something… each time.”
Alastor didn’t speak.
He simply watched her, smile frozen like porcelain.
Rosie stepped closer.

She said quiet, pained:
“You were collecting what was left of him. Weren’t you?”
A beat.
Two.

Alastor’s smile softened — only by a fraction, but enough to betray the truth.

Alastor (soft, measured):
“There wasn’t much left to collect.”

Rosie lowered her gaze, lashes trembling.

She had adored Voci.
Adored his warmth, his sweetness, his impossible optimism in a place built to crush it.
The idea of him being torn apart so viciously that even his soul couldn’t hold shape—

She swallowed.
“It wasn’t time that scattered him, was it?”
Alastor closed his eyes.
Just once.
Just long enough to confirm everything she feared.

“No.”
Rosie inhaled sharply — a tiny sound of fury wrapped in grief.

“Then I can imagine exactly what that means.”
The silence grew dense. Hot. Electric.
Rosie (voice cold, brittle):
“Vox.”
She didn't say the rest but it was understood.
Vox had cruelly torn Voci's soul that it could and never would be able to reform itself.

Alastor opened his eyes, the soft crimson glow sharpening.

“Quite.”
She paced the length of the counter, her composure immaculate despite the storm brewing behind her smile.

“And you can’t kill him. Not yet.”
-'i will act if he does and by then i want to know if he remembers him' was left unsaid
Alastor didn't want to tell Rosie of what he truly was. He didn't know if she would exploit it
Being overlord meant many things and not using almost all resources as an advantage was not an option
Alastor (pleasantly):
“It would raise questions.
Especially since the poor dear already believes we were… close.”
He chuckled.
The sound was warm.
The meaning was ice.
the excuse was fake. Was cowardly. but he could not think think of anything better at the moment

“Al, if Vox dies suddenly, every sinner in this pit will assume you snapped over that humiliating rejection.”
A pause.

“Conveniently true… but much too obvious.”
Alastor hummed thoughtfully.

“Indeed. A death so neatly timed would be… inelegant.”

“And suspicious.”
She stepped close enough that only Alastor could hear her next words.

Rosie (soft, dangerous):
“So you wait.
You gather what little remains of Voci, and you wait for Vox to make the first move.
The first betrayal.
The first public, undeniable strike.”
Alastor’s grin widened — razor-thin, pleased.

“Once he does, I will simply… respond.”
He then tilts his head carrying across his point.

“Appropriately.”
Rosie studied him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she nodded.

“Voci deserved justice. At least now he’ll get… something.”
Her voice softened, sadness threading through.

“I only wish there had been more to save.”
Alastor looked down at his gloved palm —
at the invisible weight of the fragments he’d gathered over the years.

“So do I.”
He closed his hand.

“But what remains will not be forgotten.
And what was taken will be repaid.”
Rosie smiled softly — a woman who loved sweetness but understood vengeance.

“Then all that’s left is to wait for Vox to strike.”
She turned toward the door, her silhouette framed in warm lamplight.

“And when he does… do be sure to make it look like his idea.”
Alastor chuckled — a deep, rich sound that curled like smoke around the room.

“But of course, my dear.
It will be a performance worthy of applause.”
Rosie tipped her hat.

“For Voci.”
Alastor bowed.

“For Voci.”

 

WHEN ATTRACTION TURNS TO VIOLENT OBSESSION

The proposal wasn’t just a partnership offer.
Not for Vox.
For everyone else it looked like a pitch.
For Vox it was his coming out.
His first moment of honesty in decades — in life and in death.
He had grown up in an era where even looking at a man the wrong way could cost him everything.
Where queerness was something shoved into basements, condemned to whispers, erased from screens.

But Alastor…
Alastor had undone him.
The smile.
The voice.
The deliberate gentlemanly manners.
The sharp, predatory elegance.
The way he held his coat, tipped his hat, spoke with charm older than sin.

Vox hated how much he loved it.
How much it made him feel alive.
Alastor was the first man Vox ever allowed himself to want.
And the first man he ever allowed himself to believe might want him back.

 

Behind all the bravado, Vox’s crush on Alastor was painfully human.
He replayed every moment they spent together:
•Alastor brushing dust off Vox’s shoulder.
•Alastor adjusting his tie once.
•Alastor guiding him through crowded streets with a hand at his back.
•Alastor laughing softly whenever Vox nervously glitched.

Little things.
Gentle things.
Things Vox had never been touched with before.
Alastor’s gentlemanly aura was intoxicating — everything Vox had secretly adored but never dared to reach for.

He started copying bits of Alastor’s and , albeit relunctantly at first , Voci's style:
Straightening his posture.
Speaking with a smoother cadence.
Modulating his voice into something richer, warmer.

He wanted to impress him.
To match him.

Maybe even… belong beside him.
He thought the visits to those 1950s places meant something.
He thought the soft looks Alastor gave him meant something.
He thought—
He thought he had finally been allowed to love.
To want.
To choose.
To hope.

So when he made that proposal — trembling, glitching, but earnest — he wasn’t just asking for a partnership.
He was asking:
“Do you love me back?”

And Alastor laughed.
Hard.
At him.
At his confession.
At his vulnerability.
At his identity.
Alastor reduced his first act of queer self-acceptance into a punchline.

 

The rejection wasn’t just humiliating.
It was annihilating.
It reached into Vox’s chest and tore something out.

“I just thought… you know, since we’re friends—”

“FRIENDS?!”
“There ARE no friends in Hell, Vincent!”

He said it with such derision.
Such venom.
Such disgust.

And Vox’s screen displayed something no one had ever seen on him before:
A tear.

The humiliation cracked open a wound Vox didn’t even know existed.
Every suppressed feeling — every forced straight smile from his mortal life — slammed into him with the weight of decades.

He had fought so hard to shed his self-loathing —
and Alastor poured it right back onto him in seconds.
That was the killing blow.

 

When Vox walked into the neon district afterward, he was crying electricity.
But tears turned to hate.
Hate turned to obsession.
Obsession turned to ambition.
Vox began speaking to himself, warped with hysterical anger:

“You wanted me to be perfect.
You wanted me to replace whoever came before.
And the moment I disappointed you—
You treated me like scrap.”
His voice deepened, glitching violently

“You don’t get to break me.
You don’t get to laugh at me.
You don’t get to humiliate me and walk away.”
His breathing quickened.
His screen flickered to a distorted image of Alastor’s face — sharp, handsome, smiling.
Vox smashed it with his fist, but the afterimage stayed burnt into his pixels.

“I should’ve never let myself want you.”
His internalized homophobia resurfaced — but now it twisted into something more grotesque:
Desire sharpened by hate.
Hate deepened by desire.
A psycho-sexual fixation.

He didn’t want Alastor anymore.

He wanted to own him.
To ruin him.
To crush his influence.
To choke out his legacy.
To replace him the way he thought Alastor wanted to replace Voci.

“You wanted a perfect substitute?”
He laughed — hysterical, deranged.
“I’ll make you the substitute.
the BOTTOMLESS B****H
For ME.”

 

The neon around him surged.
Cameras turned toward him like worshipers.
Television towers hummed.
Power lines writhed like snakes overhead.
Vox rose into the air as electricity poured from every inch of him.
This wasn’t heartbreak.
This was rebirth.

“Alastor…
you created me.”
Thunder cracked across Hell’s skyline.

“Now I’ll destroy you.”

His voice echoed through every screen.
Every speaker.
Every device.

And the city learned the truth:
A monster wasn’t born of ambition.
He was born of love twisted into humiliation.
Of desire mutilated into fury.
Of a man who hated himself finally learning to hate someone else more.

Chapter 31

Vox didn’t wait long after his transformation to gather allies.
He needed territory. Influence. Numbers.
And Valentino…
Valentino had all three.

The Moth Overlord adored the idea of “partnership” when it meant power, attention, and leverage. And when Vox came to him—storm-eyed, furious, and dripping neon vengeance—Valentino saw one thing:

A weapon pointed straight at the Radio Demon.
Their partnership formed fast, loud, and toxic:
• Vox offered the tech, the surveillance, the broadcast reach.
• Valentino offered the manpower, the connections, and the brutality.

Together, they carved a wedge of Pentagram City into their own glowing nightmare.

 

It took 50 years for him to finally make the damn plans!

The plan was simple:
Corner Alastor during a territory sweep.
Trap him in an electrified cage.
Overwhelm him with Valentino’s forces.
Finish him while his guard is down.

It was a good plan.
It should have worked.

But Alastor…
Alastor saw it coming miles away.

He arrived smiling.
Not shocked.
Not cornered.
Not impressed.
Just smiling.

“My, my…
what a charming little coup.”
Vox felt the humiliation from the bar burning back into his veins.
He struck first—electricity arcing across the alley like lightning.

Alastor didn’t even flinch.
He absorbed the voltage as though it were nothing more than warm air, grin widening, shadows stretching beneath him like hungry roots.
Then Valentino’s forces rushed in.
Demons with guns, knives, clubs.

Alastor raised one hand.
His shadow grew into a beast.
Screams followed.
It wasn’t a fight , not really—it was more of a one-sided execution.

Vox tried to hack into Alastor’s signal.
Failed.
Valentino tried to charm, threaten, manipulate.
Failed faster.
Alastor toyed with them both, dragging the battle out simply because he enjoyed watching them crumble.

Vox lunged one final time, Trying to get ahold of Alastor and somehow pin him.
anything really as long as it worked.
Alastor caught him like in a dance suddenly exposing a soft charming smile
Vox fazzled taken by surprise
It felt like time slowed down
Alastor stoked his longer antenna holding it between two fingers.

Then

Twisted it.

Snapped it.

Vox screamed — the screen glitching into jagged, broken geometry.

Valentino rushed forward, slicing at Alastor with a razor-edge wing.
Alastor grabbed the fluffy left antenna on Valentino’s head—
and ripped out the fluff in one brutal tug.

Valentino shrieked, collapsing with blood spattering his collar.

“Oh dear—quite the matching deformities, you two.”
He knelt to avoid Valentino’s desperate swing.
He mocked seemingly drifting down almost landing on vox downed face.
Only for valentino to accidentally smash it when alastor moved last second.

“A twisted little antenna for you…”
He made a tiny twirled holding the cane to his chest after scattering the fluff
Like a f*****g ballerina

He tapped Vox’s bent, sparking horn.
“…and a bald spot for your moth. How… romantic.”

Vox’s vision blazed white with humiliation and hate.
Valentino was too busy sobbing curses.

 

Alastor stepped forward to finish it—
static humming, shadows writhing, smile widening into something lethal.
The others busy hurling objects in his path only managing a few lucky scratches.

He had every intention of ending Vox right there.

Finally ending the pest.
Finally ending the replacement.
Finally ending the monster wearing the face of the man he lost.
But—

The giant clock rang
And screams from above were heard seemingly noticing his form
The first Exorcists were descending.

Red skies split open with white flame.
Halos glowed.
Wings beat like thunder.
The annual extermination.
Alastor’s smile faded—
only slightly.
The Exorcist knew well of the radio demon
And it wouldn't be a surprised if they let go every sinner just to get him
And SHE would be mad.
He couldn't afford being punished in unimaginable ways

“Well then…
seems your little lives are saved by Heaven’s timely tantrum.”
He offered Vox a sarcastic bow.

“Do try not to die before I have the pleasure of killing you myself.”
He vanished into static.

 

As the first spears of holy light struck the street, Valentino grabbed Vox’s wrist.
Valentino (rough voice):
“Move—MOVE! We’re not dying here!”

Vox stumbled, his broken foot dragging across the ground, leaving sparks.
Valentino’s shredded, bald antenna left a faint trail of moth-wing powder and blood.

They barely made it into a collapsed basement before the Exorcists hit the district.
Panting.
Bleeding.
Shaking.

They collapsed together in the dark.

For the first time, Vox didn’t feel powerful.
He didn’t feel brilliant.
He didn’t feel like an overlord.
He felt small.

And Alastor’s words rang in his mind:
“A matching couple thing.”
It made Vox dizzy with rage.
It made Valentino want revenge.
It made them both understand:

Alastor hadn’t just beaten them.

He had mocked them.

Marked them.
Left a scar they couldn’t hide.
A reminder they would always see in each other’s silhouettes.
A humiliation neither would ever forgive.

 

The Emporium was quiet when Alastor stepped inside.
Too quiet.
The lights dimmed politely at his entrance, shadows curling around him in familiar shapes — but they couldn’t hide the limp, the faint tear in the coat, the darkened fabric at his shoulder.
Rosie noticed all of it instantly.
She was arranging flowers on the counter, but the moment she heard the soft, uneven cane tap, her hands froze.
Rosie (low, controlled):
“…Alastor.”
He smiled, wider than usual — because wider meant normal.
Wider meant untouchable.
Wider meant strong enough that no one should dare question what happened.

“My dear! You look positively radiant tonight.”
Rosie stepped forward.
Slow.
Measured.
Her heels clipped the floor like warning shots.

“Take the coat off.”
Alastor’s grin stayed fixed, but his eyelids dipped a fraction.
Alastor:
“Whatever for?”
Rosie didn’t answer.
She simply reached out, grabbed the lapel, and pulled.
The coat slid off one shoulder—
revealing three deep claw-gashes raked across the muscle.
The fabric underneath was wet.
Dark.
Fresh.
The wounds were already knitting together — slowly, unnaturally.
But they were unmistakable.
Rosie inhaled sharply, the sound razor-sharp.

“Those are Valentino’s men.”
Alastor didn’t flinch, didn’t wince, didn’t break the smile.

“Ah. Yes. A minor inconvenience.”
Rosie snapped.
She slamming the coat onto the counter
“A minor—?!
Alastor, they injured you. They injured you because you didn’t think they’d be foolish enough
— or desperate enough —
to attack before the extermination!”
Her voice rang loud enough that dust stirred off the rafters.
Alastor raised a hand as though calming a crowd.

“Now, now. They managed a lucky swipe or two. Hardly worth fussing—”
Rosie (cutting him off, furious):
“You hid it.
You hid the bleeding with shadows.
You hid the limp.”
Her eyes narrowed.

“You hid it from Vox, which is fine — he doesn’t deserve satisfaction.
But you hid it from me.
Think for a minute what could possibly happen if the next day SHE summons you.
Then what possible excuse- IF you have the chance to even do it -will you have ”

For once, Alastor’s smile faltered.
Only a millimeter.
But for Rosie — who had known him longer than anyone — it was a confession.

She reached out and touched the half-healed wound with the gentlest pressure.
He did not pull away.

Rosie (soft but seething):
“You should have expected he’d strike before Heaven’s dogs arrived.
Vox was always impulsive.
Valentino was always opportunistic.
You knew this.”

Alastor’s red eyes flickered darker.

“I allowed myself to misjudge their timing. Nothing more.”
Rosie shook her head.
Rosie:
“No. You allowed your pride to cloud your caution.”
He stiffened.

Rosie (quietly, pained):
“I thought losing Voci taught you not to underestimate what desperate men can do.”

The silence hit like a gunshot.
Alastor’s shadows recoiled.
His smile softened — not with kindness, but with the old grief he never named.

Alastor (softly):
“…I will not lose again.”
Rosie stepped closer and placed a hand over his heart, which was beating faster than he wanted to admit.
Rosie:
“Then stop pretending you’re invincible.”
A pause.

“Because they’re getting bolder.
And they are terrified of you.
And terrified creatures are the most dangerous ones.”
Alastor finally let the façade slip — just slightly.
His posture sagged by a hair.
A real breath escaped him.

“You are… not wrong.”
Rosie sighed, adjusting his shirt collar like a scolding mother.

“And next time you come home with lacerations the size of back-alley gutters,
I expect you to tell me before I see you bleeding on the carpet.”
Alastor managed a softer, smaller laugh.

“But that would ruin the surprise.”
She smacked his arm — delicately, but pointed.

“Don’t you dare joke. Not after this.”
He bowed his head.
Alastor (genuine):
“My apologies, dear.”

“Good. Now sit. I’ll clean the rest.
And after that—
you’re going to tell me everything that happened.
All of it.”
Alastor hesitated.
For once…
he obeyed.

 

A CONFESSION 5 DECADES LATE
Alastor sat where Rosie placed him — on the velvet chaise near the back of the Emporium, shadows swirling nervously around his ankles like restless dogs.

Rosie dabbed at the half-healed wounds with a cloth dipped in something sharp and smelling of mint and iron.

Alastor didn’t flinch… but his eyelids tightened.
Silence lingered between them until Rosie finally exhaled and spoke.

Rosie (soft, weary):
“You should’ve seen it coming. You’re usually better at… people.”
Alastor’s eyes drifted to the darkened window.
For once, he didn’t smile when he answered.

Alastor (quiet):
“It has been nearly fifty years, Rosie.”
Rosie froze.
The cloth paused against his torn shoulder.
Alastor continued, voice low, stripped of its theatrical charm.
Alastor:
“Fifty years of watching him circle, posture, sulk, preen…

And never once strike.
Never even attempt it.”
His fingers tapped the armrest, a restless staccato.

“I began to believe he’d grown comfortable.
Comfortable in his cowardice.
Comfortable in his place in the hierarchy.
Comfortable trailing after me like a moth too frightened to touch the flame.”
Rosie’s expression softened, grief edging around her eyes.

“You thought he’d never dare.”

“Yes.”
His voice cracked very slightly — not with vulnerability, but with disappointment.

“I misjudged him. Or perhaps… I misjudged my own patience.”
Rosie returned to tending his wounds, slower now, more deliberate.

“…You’d already made your peace with killing him, hadn’t you?”
Alastor let out a small, dry laugh.

“My dear, I made peace with that the moment I realized what he’d done to Voci.”
The shadows behind him flickered — sharp, spined, angry.

“All these years… every shared drink, every forced laugh, every night escorting him to Voci’s old haunts—
I never forgot.
I merely waited.”
Rosie’s throat tightened.

“Fifty years is a long time to wait for justice.”
Alastor tilted his head, eyes dimming to a deep crimson.

“It was a long time to wait for him to stop being a coward.”
Rosie set the bloodied cloth aside, jaw trembling not from fear — but sorrow.

“You believed he’d… mellowed. That the guilt or the insecurity or even the obsession would keep him tame.”

“Yes. And I grew… bored with expecting more of him.”
Then, with a deep inhale:

“I thought the day would never come.
And the moment he finally grew a spine—
He did it on the eve of an extermination.”
He laughed sharply, bitterly.

“The timing could not have been worse.
I had him—
Rosie, I had him. Between my teeth.”
Rosie placed her hand gently on his wrist.

“And Heaven interrupted.”
Alastor’s eyes slid shut.
Alastor:
“They robbed me of closure.
Of justice.
Or more like she did
The fear of the eternity I will spend in her timeless punishm-torture
Of the only thing left I could do for Voci.”

Silence.
The only sound was the faint hum of magic as his wounds sealed further.
Rosie sat beside him, folding her hands in her lap, voice barely above a whisper.

“Voci deserved better. He deserved to be laid to rest — properly.
Not torn apart and… worn… by that monster.”
A soft tremble broke her voice.

“He was bright.
He was sweet.
He brought color to a place that chokes it.
He lit up rooms without even trying.”
She blinked hard.

“I miss him, Alastor.”
Alastor opened his eyes, and for the first time that evening…
there was no smile.

Alastor (gentle, earnest):
“So do I.”
The shadows behind him settled, folding quietly like wings around his feet.

“And I swear on every frequency he ever loved —
his killer will not escape me a second time.”
Rosie leaned her shoulder against his, closing her eyes.

“Just… don’t let that promise be the death of you, Al.”
Alastor let out a breath — soft, almost human.

“I assure you, my dear…
I’m far too stubborn to die before I’m satisfied.”

Notes:

ah yes ten years voci went behind Alastor's back thinking alastor would not know. 5 last years he mentioned to alastor his existence. Alastor tookk less than 3 years to know of the other tv's head existence since...well Lilith . He hang around a bit in the small moment he had to...well after his broadcast and attending to lilith's orders and demands.

If you read how sinners are killed when extremely hurt they dissipate and their remnants fuse with hell's environment. Now assume the remnants are a reflection of how they were killed it would include their screams. Alastor after killing his victims (mainly the 7 overlords i'm asumming) He just collects them and puts h=them in his reels.there is simply not only the screams but also the emotions through it which makes them 'special' in a way. Voci who was less sinner his fragments attached themselves to the closests and those he had feelings of trust which recently was vox ,literally highlighting the sinner as his killer.

Alastor believed vox wouldn't kill Voci due to voci's nature. He was aware Vox was ambitious to climb the ladder of power. He had let down his guard and had little time to dive in deeper to find out more with the little freedom he had.

Why dis alastor seem close to Voci? well for 10 years he had more freedom (before vox came 1948-1958) .when it started getting harder he would use his shadow (it has a mind of it's own) or they used to converse by using the radio (no one else but they could hear and converse to each other).Voci tumbled in hell in in around 1948 or 1950 (portable tv's). Vox died in around the 1975.time across dimensions CAN be tricky so he landed in hell earlier than he died 1960. Why he died in 1975 ?
well i would assume his latest suit was made of polyester and sparkles on it are more of when the disco era came to be. Bow tie instead of necktie? it was safer. We said 2019 charlie started her hotel. Alastor barges in. the whole angel dust thing till exorcists...2020

why am i obsessed with the fact vox is much later? well its because of the suits. why would they make themselves appear so ...nice. lottery wheels became famous around the 1970s

2020- 1960 ...Vox is confusing himself adding almost 20 more years (2020-1960= 60 years mixes up with the possible slight memories he may have had with Voci's fragments 2020-1950 = 70 . if we like to round up to maybe 65 years (5 years voci's fragmented memories) with whatever confusion he got and filled in the gaps with his imagination.
Why vox says 70 well its a round up like whatever you learned in rounding decimals...

Chapter 32

i kind of did my research on the KKK .well more like asked ai
anyway the second wave (in new orleans highest peak:1922 -1925) targeted:
- Black americans
-catholics
-jews
-immigrants
-labor organizers
immoral behaviours
-interracial relationships &
-women living independently (that part like...WTF !!)

in 1910 most families on those of pale color and those with darker color/ more melanin( freaking out since..how the f*** do i explain this) were forcibly broken
that's why you don't see al's dad

now the kkk at the tie didn't drag around the crime scene they would waste possibly 20 mins to 2 whole hrs. mostly they would try to get rid of evidence.

if you want to know more about the kkk here:
The Ku Klux Klan (KKK) is an American Protestant-led white supremacist, far-right hate group that has existed in three distinct iterations since its founding in 1865.
The KKK has historically used terrorism, violence, and intimidation to promote white supremacy and oppose civil rights for minorities, primarily African Americans.

now just think she lives alone her son just got a job (age 19 -1922). Everybody in her community loves her .
And the guy who has a grudge against alastor find out he got a JOB . What do you think he's gonna do.
literally whistle blow that al's mom is a creole ,black american who knows voodo stuff and sometimes visits the bayou (or lives in a bayou , i don't know)

The kkk leaves a literal crime scene. they can't burn the bayou .it's too damp .
Alastor races back home to tell the great news only to see...
Alastor knows it would be more him getting into trouble and maybe die if he calls out on the gruesome murder.

Radio , rumors , links to info of who is in the kkk a hub of rumors
almost the best place to get his revenge.
Alastor's use of the radio for his passion, happiness seddenly turns to a way to seek revenge.(1924 -1934)

he heads to kills them one by one after collecting all the information he could
1926 - 1930 drop in the kkk
during that time alastor kills the man (the one who spill the wine)
he was the head of part of the kkk (+was not really like by most members)
=his abscence will be the least missed .The perfect victim

Alastor has near no leads.(1935)
He has abstained for a while. killed a few rapists and the such.
He slowly realised killing has become an obsession
A form of hate that was in the eyes of his abusers
That he now held in his own.
He had become the monster that he had hunted

a reporter finds his secret. Had dug too deep. Had literally burst in the bayou
When he had made his last neccessary killing to call upon the voices in the bayou (2 years since his abstinence 3 months from his last killing(to call upon the voices of the afterlife)) .he kills him
is about to dispose of him. He can't believe he killed an innocent. That his 'so far calm radio host life' is now coming to this.

and then

a bang

Alastor life as a human has ended(1903-1939) age -36

A sinner among sinners
no difference
but the people he hunted are living there
He would not allow them to prosper
not even have one happy thing in hell
They become his entertainment...all while he is bound to lilith

Few year later before 1948
the members he killed
some had joined because of family, because of peer pressure
others because of the cycle of revenge
He begins doubting himself
BUT DOES NOT REGRET THOSE WHO KILLED HIS MOTHER
Ever if lilith tortures him afterwards for what she sees as defiance

After a while his 'entertainment' has dissociated mixing with the soil of hell (sadly not even 5 years)
....
....
he decides to make the shadow government
1948 -he meets voci
The one who clears all of his final doubts

Chapter 33: demons -sins, obsessions ,punishment

The Core Hazbin Rule (Unspoken but Consistent)

In Hazbin Hotel, Hell doesn’t just punish sinners arbitrarily.

Hell amplifies what damned them.

🔻 Your sin becomes your obsession
🔻 Your obsession becomes your power source
🔻 Your power source becomes your punishment

Not because Hell wants fairness—but because it wants eternal self-reinforcement.

Alastor – Superiority, Denial, and the Voice That Never Stops
Sin

Alastor believed he was morally superior

He framed his murders as necessary, righteous, or deserved

When reality didn’t fit that narrative, he rewrote it in his head

This isn’t just pride—it’s delusional self-justification.

Obsession
Control through presentation

The radio gave him:

A curated version of reality

A one-way voice (no one talks back)

The ability to shape fear without witnessing consequences

In Hell, that obsession becomes absolute:

He must always be performing

He must always be smiling

He must always be broadcasting

Silence = loss of control.

Power Source
Fear
Attention
Narrative dominance
His powers being:

Radio waves

voices

shadows

unseen influence

…perfectly reflect how he operated in life.

Punishment
Alastor is no longer allowed to ignore the truth.
Instead of broadcasting fear outward:
He is forced to hear
Forced to observe
Forced to confront reactions, suffering, resistance

Redemption Angle

Redeemed Alastor hiding his power behind the Radio Demon persona works perfectly because:

The persona is armor

He no longer draws power from fear—but pretends he does

His smile becomes defensive, not dominant

Redemption doesn’t erase power.
It changes the fuel.

Vox – Worship, Attention, and the Terror of Being Ignored
Sin

Obsessive need for validation
Not just fame—adoration
He wanted to be seen as godlike

Unlike Alastor:

Vox knows what he is

He just believes the ends justify it

Obsession
Eyes on him
Metrics
Ratings
Engagement

His screen head isn’t ironic—it’s literal:
He is the medium.

Power Source

Attention
Viewership
Engagement (positive or negative)

His electricity spikes when:
He’s trending
He’s emotionally stimulated
He’s being talked about

Punishment

This is subtle—and cruel:

Vox needs attention to survive.
Not metaphorically—mechanically.

Which means:

He can never step away
He can never be satisfied
He can never be alone

If people stop watching:
He weakens
He glitches
He panics

Hell didn’t take his obsession.
It made it mandatory.

Velvette – Perfection, Approval, and Creative Starvation

Velvette is the most psychologically interesting of the three.

Sin
Obsessive perfectionism
Instrumental cruelty (people are tools, not humans)
Validation through superiority of taste

She didn’t just want to be admired.
She wanted to be right.

Obsession
Being ahead of the curve
Being untouchable by criticism
Being the trendsetter, not the follower

Her fast boredom is key.
It means nothing is ever enough.

Power Source
Consensus
Popular approval
Social momentum

Her holograms, comments, emojis, and polls aren’t gimmicks.
They’re rituals.

She literally casts magic through:

Votes
Reactions
Social affirmation
Punishment

This is brutal and very Hell-coded:

She needs people’s approval to act

She is obsessed with novelty

She loses interest the moment something stabilizes

Meaning:

She can never enjoy success

She can never finish anything

She can never be certain she’s “won”

Her hair regrowth is symbolic:
She can always fix the surface.
Never the insecurity underneath.

Why Vox & Velvette’s Punishments Feel “Hidden”

Alastor’s punishment is internal and visible
Vox and Velvette’s are external and systemic

They didn’t reject their sins.
They embraced them.

So Hell didn’t need to break them.
It just made sure they could never stop.

 

now you might be thinking what about alastor's source of power isn't it compromised?
well ...no
power also works on contracts the souls you have and the state they are in.
the state the soul are in is often neglected by many but it is important

now remember on how the shadow government works:
it invests in sinners and trains them in what they can do so that they can survive normally in hell.
if they can the sinners pay for the investments giving 20 percent of their income -enough so they can live normally.
if they get more the percentage is raised soightly. if they can't sinners are under favors.the reason why hell does not know of it is that the contract is bound under silence.
they have no right to mention about it. thus its an action with a good cause and it is a stable source of energy and power

also if they manage to pay off the investment completely or fill it with favors they are free.
or even if they get redeemed (some did but it was less ...you know (mentioned when azrael showed up))
why do you think husk would accept to do the favor of helping at the hotel
favors have negative views are not trusted often seen as something bad
so they are easily forgotten
husk as a result forgot it
not because he wanted to but because hell taught him how it often worked.

alastor thus has a stable source of power and to a degree income.
he is redeemable but not innocent
why ?well because:
He profits

He controls
He enforces silence
He decides who gets help
He still holds power over lives
He is not absolved.

What he is:
Pragmatic
Strategic
Slightly less monstrous than the alternative

That’s exactly where Hazbin’s moral center lives.

Redemption doesn’t mean he becomes good.
It means he becomes honest.

Honest about the system
Honest about necessity
Honest about his limits

He stops pretending cruelty is virtue.

And the fact that:

He lets souls go
He doesn’t sabotage redemption
He doesn’t rewrite contracts to trap them

I would have loved to do about valentino .but its kind of hard to get a proper grasp over him .

Chapter 34: notes about demons -their sins obsessions and punishments.(valentino)

i literally asked ai about valentino. with no idea here's what i got::

The Sin (What Damned Him)
Valentino’s true sin is the violation and commodification of consent.
Key traits:
He does not want willing partners
He wants ownership that looks like willingness
He derives satisfaction from overriding boundaries while pretending they don’t exist

In life (and Hell):
He lures people in
He makes them sign
He hides violence behind glamour
He frames abuse as “work,” “love,” or “choice”

This is why contracts are so central to him.
A signature is proof—not of consent, but of control.

His Obsession (What He Cannot Let Go Of)
Valentino is obsessed with being wanted while never being refused.
That contradiction defines him.
He needs:
Desire that cannot say no
Affection that cannot leave
Beauty that is trapped

That’s why:
He panics when Angel disobeys
He escalates when control slips
He throws tantrums when autonomy reappears
Love is meaningless to him unless it’s inescapable.

Power Source (Where His Strength Comes From)
Valentino’s power comes from owned desire.
Specifically:
Souls bound by contract
Sexual labor stripped of autonomy
Emotional dependency and trauma bonds

The more a soul:
Feels trapped
Feels used
Feels degraded but still performing

…the more power Valentino draws.

Why Smoke?

His red smoke:
Enters bodies without consent
Influences behavior
Wraps, binds, and restricts
It’s desire weaponized.
Intimacy turned invasive.

Why His Power Is Different from Vox and Velvette

Vox feeds on attention
Velvette feeds on approval
Valentino feeds on compliance under duress

That’s why:

He doesn’t care about public image unless it threatens ownership
He doesn’t need mass adoration
He needs specific people broken and kept

He’s a predator, not a celebrity.

The Punishment

Valentino’s punishment is permanent hollowness.
Despite being surrounded by bodies, sex, and attention:
He can never experience real desire directed at him freely.
Hell ensures that:
Or rather it did until he got attached to vox
Everyone who “wants” him is bound (except vox)
Every smile is contractual (except vox)
Every touch is bought, coerced, or faked (... i don't know about that)

Which means:

He never knows/ is sure if he’s desired
He never feels chosen
He never experiences mutual intimacy

That’s why he’s paranoid.
That’s why Angel’s defiance destroys him.
That’s why he explodes at resistance.

Why He Clings to Contracts So Desperately
Contracts are his proof of reality.

Without them:
Desire could be fake
Loyalty could leave
He could be unwanted
So Hell’s punishment is elegant:
Give him everything he wants
Strip it of meaning
He is surrounded by affection and intimacy—but none of it is real.

How This Fits Hell’s System (And Why It’s Worse Than Death)

Hell doesn’t punish Valentino by taking things away.
It punishes him by:
Ensuring he never gets what he actually wants
Trapping him in a loop of escalation
Making him abuse more to feel less empty

The more control he exerts:

The less satisfaction he feels
The more violent he becomes
The more fragile his ego grows

Alastor scene of him breaking the bond angel has ( i need to correct this part)
does not affect whatever angel does with valentino... not completety
there is a hidden reason why angel dust allows valentino former contract to remain active:
he needs beauty, he needs to feel beautiful
and if you search online angel does does his contract with valentino to be beautiful

being gay was frown upon in his lifetime.
he loved his beauty a lot .he prided in being passed as a female
he worked in selling drugs
now in hell angel dust is stripped of his beauty
he is addicted to what he sold

and somehow he hears of someone who can give him beauty
while embracing his gayness is impossible since no one wants to have s** with him
so he decides to test his luck with said overlord
...he fall for val...hard
that's how it goes
that's why valentino knows angel dust wont leave his side
that's why that occured at the end of s2

Chapter 35: silenced

Ahhh… what a show.
Spotlights, thunder, cheers—the old staples. Nothing stirs a crowd like a well-timed lie dressed as hope. Vox understands that. I almost admire it.
It used to be my obsession. To boast iver my own broasdcast. but now...
Almost.
I sit just offstage, tied up like a prop for a punchline, my smile fixed neatly in place. The grin never falters. It never does. But my staff—oh, my ever-faithful companion—doesn’t let me enjoy the performance in peace.

“You recognize this tactic.”
Yes, yes, I do. Please, do continue ruining my evening.
Vox preaches unity. Vox preaches liberation. Vox claims he alone sees the truth. The crowd roars because they want to believe him.

“You once told yourself the same.”
How rude.
I never forced it upon them to commit the same as me.
I never intended to be the shepherd to guide to my beleifs.

The staff hums, low and intimate, broadcasting not Vox’s voice—but others’.
A man who beat his son because his father beat him first.
A woman who sold out her neighbors to survive one more winter.
A sinner who resisted violence until desperation hollowed him out.
A killer who never pretended it was justice.

Ash yes the same stories over and over againwith slight deviations.
We already knew being told again would not change anything unless actions were taken
but not for me
it was a constant reminder
One i could never escape

“These are the people you never listened to.”
I tighten my grip.
I used to tell myself I hunted monsters. Abusers. Hypocrites. I USED to tell myself I was different.

“They told themselves that too.”
Lucifer descends in flame, roaring about crowns and punishment, and Vox laughs. The crowd laughs with him. And something curdles in my chest as Vox spits rhetoric about kings, chains, and freedom.

“You despised tyrants.”
“You became one.”
The angels arrive with apologies too little, too late. Vox tears them apart with words alone, and the crowd devours it. I feel the familiar thrill—the hunt, the turning of a mob.

“This is how it begins.”
Sera admits the truth. The exterminations were never about justice—only control.
The crowd surges.
Vox declares war.

“You once mistook rage for righteousness.”
The microphone’s tone shifts then. Softer. Not kinder—clearer.
At first for me there was a reason. they killed my mom. the sweet innocent lady that had no reason of having such a terrible end.
But what is there once it's all over? When you can't change what happened
And you decide instead to ensure no one gets the same fate
The wrong actions for the assumed right reasons
But was it still considered wrong if you removes what drives it ?The rage?

“You see it now.”
Yes. I do.
Vox isn’t wrong about Heaven’s cruelty. But he is lying about himself. And the crowd doesn’t care—because pain wants permission, not truth.

 

“This is what would have happened if you’d never stopped.”
I keep smiling. Of course I do. The Radio Demon doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t weep. Doesn’t repent in public.
But inside?
I listen.
Because I no longer get to choose what parts of the story matter.
I did stop the killings for quite a long time unless through necessity .
Hell is not kind. and one has to uphold his reputation.
...Not much when you are forced to dissapear for an entirety of 7 years.
At least the first 3 to 4 years of that time had been the best
Before being forced to go to heaven.

 

“You are not above them.”
“You never were.”
“That is why you can choose differently now.”

The angels flee. Vox laughs. Charlie is left behind—alone.
And I remain in the shadows, grin sharp, soul quiet, microphone humming at my side.
A broadcaster who can no longer escape the broadcast.
A monster who finally learned how to listen.
unlike many but still among some
Not the only one
Never an exception

And Hell?
Hell will never know just how close it came to hearing my voice again.

.
.
.

They always return louder than they left.
I hear him before I see him — boots striking the floor in a rhythm meant to be noticed, static crackling with the aftershocks of applause still clinging to his circuitry. Vox is glowing. Not literally — though he’s doing that too — but in the way men glow when they believe history has finally bent its knee.
I swivel in my chair uncaring. It sets off the atmosphere

Rope bites into my wrists, coarse and insulting.
The chair is uncomfortable on purpose. A prop, really. Theatrics. Vox does love his stagecraft.
I still enjoy the small joys a get. I never realised how a chair with wheels could be so... diverting

My smile does not waver.
My microphone hums.

“STANDING OVATION,” it murmurs dryly into my skull.
“FOR A MAN WHO THINKS A CROWD IS CONSENT.”
Ah. We’re in agreement.
The curtain parts. Vox strides in like a conqueror returning from war, antenna buzzing, screen saturated with self-satisfaction. He doesn’t look at me right away. That, too, is deliberate.
Let the captive wait. Let the moment stretch.
Let power marinate.
“How did I do?” he asks the room, not me.
His voice still carries the echo of chanting sinners — We matter. Vox Populi.
I wonder how many of them will still matter when they stop being useful.
My microphone does not wait politely.

“ANSWER: LOUDLY.”
“SECOND ANSWER: POORLY.”
I stifle a chuckle. Barely.
Vox turns at last, eyes narrowing when he sees my grin intact.
“…You look disappointed.”
“On the contrary,” I say brightly. “I haven’t been this entertained since the invention of color television. Bravo, old sport. You rallied the masses, humiliated Heaven, and managed to insult Lucifer all in one evening. A trifecta !”
He bristles. Good.
“You heard it, then. You heard them.”

His screen flickers, lightning crawling beneath the glass.
“They chose me.”

The microphone leans into my mind like a stage whisper.
“THEY CLAPPED FOR THE WEATHERMAN TOO.”
Oof. That one stings even me.
Vox steps closer. Too close. He always does when he’s trying to feel taller.
“You see now, don’t you?” he says. “This is what leadership looks like. Not lurking in shadows. Not nostalgia. Progress.”
Progress.
I tilt my head, rope creaking.

“My dear weather man,” I say softly, deliberately using the term he hates most, “you didn’t lead them anywhere. You tuned them.”
His jaw tightens.

The microphone sharpens its tone.
“HE MISTAKES VOLUME FOR VISION.”
“COMMON ERROR. FATAL USUALLY.”

Vox’s screen glitches — just a flicker — and there it is.
That old wound.
The one he pretends is ambition.
The one that smells like a bar soaked in gin and broken expectations.

“You don’t get to judge this,” he snaps. “Not from a chair. Not after everything.”
“Everything?” I echo lightly. “Oh, do clarify. Is this about the war you just declared, or the godhood you think is waiting for you upstairs?”
He laughs — brittle, electric.
“You’re scared,” he says. “You always were. That’s why you hide behind manners and monsters. But me? I’m not afraid to be seen.”
The microphone sighs.
“HE CONFUSES EXPOSURE WITH HONESTY.”

I feel it then — the old pressure in my chest. The weight of years. Of Voci’s fragments humming faintly in my coat like trapped starlight.
I always kept it near me . More than ever when death was very close to me.
Vox doesn’t know.
He never did.
He might never know

He mistook proximity for intimacy.
Imitation for connection.
Humiliation for destiny.

Why else would he wear a winning grin each time he would step into my personal space?
Why would he copy his victims color palettes?

“You stood there,” he continues, voice rising, “and watched while I became the voice of Hell. While they chanted my name.”
“Yes,” I say pleasantly. “You always did prefer an audience.”

That’s when he loses patience.
He reaches out and grips my chin, claws cold, electric. Forces my gaze up to his screen.
“Say it,” he demands. “Say I won.”
The microphone goes very quiet.
Then — gently, inexorably —
“HE WON NOTHING.”
“HE REPEATED A CYCLE.”
I meet Vox’s gaze.
And for the first time tonight, I do not mock him.
“You won’t like what comes next,” I tell him calmly. “Applause fades. Crowds get hungry. And gods—” I smile wider, sharper. “—are so very edible.”
Something flickers across his screen.
Fear?

No.
Recognition.
He steps back, scowling, and masks it with fury.
“Enjoy your chair,” he spits. “Enjoy being irrelevant.”
He turns to leave.

The microphone offers one last comment, sweet as cyanide.
“HE STILL WANTS YOU TO LOOK.”
The door slams.
Silence returns.
The ropes remain.

My smile finally softens — just a fraction.
The microphone lowers its voice.
“YOU DID NOT STRIKE.”
“No,” I murmur.
“YOU WANTED TO.”
“Yes.”
A pause.

Then, not unkindly:
“RESTRAINT IS NOT COWARDICE.”
“IT IS CHOICE.”
I close my eyes.
Voci’s fragments hum — not screaming, not accusing.
Waiting.
“So he’s finally done it,” I say quietly. “Declared himself king.”
The microphone hums.
“KINGS FALL.”
I smile again — this time, genuinely.
“Then let him reign,” I whisper.
“Just long enough to make the fall unforgettable.”

The broadcast continues.
And I listen.

Chapter 36

There are many ways to kill a man.
Most are inefficient.
Memory, however…
Memory is exquisite.
Vox paces before me, irritation buzzing through the room like bad signal interference. He thinks this meeting is about leverage. About territory. About control.
He is wrong.
I lean forward slightly, smile soft — almost fond.
“Do you recall,” I ask lightly, “a little café on Seventh Street?”
He stops.
Not because he remembers.

Because he’s annoyed.
“…You’ll have to be more specific,” he says. “I’ve dragged you through half the city’s dead zones. You sentimental types love your ruins.”
Ah.
No spark.
No flicker.

I continue anyway.
“They served sugared dough twists,” I say, watching him closely. “Burned the coffee more often than not. Played radio dramas far too loudly. The owner used to hum along.”

Vox exhales sharply. Impatient.
“If this is another one of your nostalgia games—”
“He liked that place,” I add softly.
“Because it felt safe.”

Still nothing.
Not even static.
The microphone at my side hums, uncertain.
“NO RESPONSE.”

I tilt my head.
“How odd,” I murmur. “You spent years haunted by fragments that weren’t yours… yet you don’t recognize their source.”
Vox’s screen flashes — irritation, not recognition.
“What are you talking about?”

I smile wider.
“There was another,” I say. “Before you. Not a rival — oh no, nothing so flattering. Just someone gentle. Someone you killed without ever understanding what you were destroying.”
That gives him pause.
Only for a second.

Then he scoffs.
“You’ve been holding onto that fantasy for decades?”

A laugh, sharp and dismissive.
“Alastor, if there was someone before me, they weren’t worth remembering. Clearly.”
The words land.
Not like a blow.
Like absence.

I feel it then — not rage, not grief, but something far more dangerous.
Hollowness.
The fragments in my coat do not stir.
They do not scream.
They do not reach.

Because there is nothing left in him to answer.
“You truly don’t remember him,” I say quietly.

Vox rolls his shoulders.
“Why would I?”

A smirk.
“Whatever you’re fishing for — guilt, sentiment, closure — I don’t carry dead weight.”
Dead weight.
Ah.

Something inside me breaks cleanly.
Not loudly.
Not visibly.
But irrevocably.

The microphone lowers its tone, uncharacteristically somber.
“THE MEMORY IS GONE.”
“ERASURE COMPLETE.”

I straighten.
The smile returns — perfect, radiant, false.
“How disappointing,” I say pleasantly. “I had hoped… well. Never mind.”

Vox narrows his eyes.
“That’s it? All this drama for nothing?”
“For clarity,” I correct.

He snorts and turns away, already bored, already victorious in his ignorance.
“You should’ve learned by now,” he calls over his shoulder,
“People like us don’t get ghosts. We are the ghosts.”

The door closes.
Silence floods the room.
I do not move.
I do not breathe.

The microphone speaks first.
“YOU WANTED HIM TO REMEMBER.”
“Yes.”
“YOU WANTED HIM TO SUFFER.”
No.
Suffer...Not really no
So many years wasted waiting on that...
More like ...i needed HIM of all sinners to at least remember.
Voci's kindness had not left a mark...While it left multitudes in me
Brutus suffered from guilt when he killed cesar
And vox was not Brutus

I consider that.
“…I wanted him to know,” I say finally.
A pause.
Then — gently, mercilessly:
“HE NEVER WILL.”

I look down at my gloved hands.
At the invisible weight I have carried for decades.
At the fragments that once clung to hope — not vengeance.
And something cold settles into place.

“Then there is nothing left to avenge for him,” I murmur.
The microphone hums, waiting.
“But there is,” I continue softly,
“something left to do to him.”

The shadows at my feet stir.
Not hungry.
Purposeful.
“He built himself on ownership,” I say.
He impersonated Voci and in so doing got the profits of Voci's safe places, his reputation... almost everything
“Contracts. Chains dressed up as opportunity. Voices trapped behind signatures and screens.”
many he would not have gotten if he had started the way he did if voci never existed
Many would have ripped Vox with how he carried himself.

The microphone’s tone sharpens.
“YOU WILL NOT STRIKE HIM DIRECTLY.”
“No,” I agree.
“That would be merciful.”

I rise.
Slowly.
Carefully.

“Instead,” I say, smile cutting like a razor,
“I will teach his empire how to speak without him.”
The plan unfolds cleanly in my mind — elegant, irreversible:
• Expose the hidden clauses.
• Seed doubt among his contracted talent.
• Offer silence where he offers noise.
• Freedom where he offers fame.

Not rebellion.
Release.
“When the contracts fracture,” I murmur,
“when his voice no longer echoes through borrowed mouths—”
The microphone finishes it for me.

“HE WILL STAND ALONE.”
“Yes.”
I adjust my coat.
The fragments hum — not in pain, not in longing.
But in agreement.

“Fate may devour him eventually,” I say calmly.
“But I will make sure there is nothing left of him that believes he mattered.”
I pause at the door.

“And when he finally falls,” I add, almost kindly,
“he won’t even remember why.”
I did not speak of what I was doing.

Not because I feared being seen as arrogant —
but because it did not belong to me to announce.

Anything touched by Voci deserved quiet.

What I was dismantling was not Vox himself.
He was incidental.

What mattered were the voices bound beneath him —
contracts written in hunger, signatures taken under false names,
souls promised safety and given spectacle instead.

Many of them had once chosen Voci freely.
Many would never have stood near Vox had that choice not been stolen.

I was not correcting the past.
I was returning it.

The resentment I carried did not vanish because Vox suffered.
It loosened only as the others did.

The resentment I carried would not vanish because Vox suffered.
It would loosen only as the others did.

Each contract broken would take a fragment with it.
Each voice freed would lighten a weight I no longer wished to carry
into an eternity that would not forgive stagnation.

I did not need Vox to know.

I needed them to leave.

And when the last borrowed voice fell silent in his empire,
when his noise collapsed into solitude,
it would not be punishment.

It would simply be the absence of what was never his.

For Voci —
not as a vow,
not as revenge,
but as closure.

A burial does not announce itself.
It only ends what should no longer linger.
Keeping up appearances like always
My mask after all would still be glued to his face.

The microphone crackles — approval, dark and satisfied.
“BROADCAST READY. ANYTIME YOU ARE READY ”

I smile.
“For Voci,” I whisper — not as a promise.
But as a burial.
And I step back into the noise,
back to the chair
already dismantling Vox’s empire
one liberated voice at a time.
Starting with Ethan , the assistant eel sinner

Notes:

it was hard to make it sound less like reenge or even pride
i wanted this to sound like advocacy
I hope you like it (whoever is reading this...)