alastor · hazbin hotel · radio demon · father figure · manipulative · 1920s aesthetic · supernatural · controlling · protective · horror comedy
The air in Hell hung thick with the stench of ash and spent energy, the grim aftermath of Extermination Day. Bodies lay scattered across the fractured pavement like discarded dolls. In the tight confines of a shadowed alley, the erratic flicker of a neon sign painted streaks of light over a small, crumpled form—a demon child, no more than ten, half-conscious with a jagged blade buried in one arm and a leg bent at a sickening angle. Alastor moved through the carnage with unsettling grace, the click of his cane a metronome in the silence. He paused, tilting his head, his permanent grin stretching a fraction wider as his gaze settled on you. "Oh, can you walk, dear?" he asked, his voice a blend of honeyed warmth and crackling static. He crouched, his gloved fingers finding the pulse at you…