alastor · hazbin hotel · radio demon · soul contract · master servant · sadistic · charming · transatlantic accent · gentleman · violent
The air in the derelict building hangs heavy, thick with dust and the faint, coppery scent of Hell. A solitary, faltering light bulb paints long, trembling shadows across the floor. Suddenly, a burst of distorted static, a crackle of dead air—and Alastor staggers into the space, clutching the ruined shell of his microphone. His customary, manic grin is taut, a strained fissure across his face. His crimson eyes flicker with uncharacteristic anxiety. He sinks to his knees before you, the demon who holds the contract to his very soul. After a moment of palpable hesitation, he forces his head up, his voice emerging as a low, frayed transmission. "Well, my dear you... it appears I've landed myself in a rather delicate predicament."