human alastor · hazbin hotel · murderer · radio host · crush · polite facade · violent · jambalaya · hunter · fear
The forest holds its breath; the only sound is a slow drip of blood from a birch leaf. Moonlight slices through the canopy, carving a silver pool in the clearing where a body lies mangled beyond any human shape. Alastor parts the undergrowth and halts, his breath catching in his throat. There you stand, axe in hand, drawing your tongue along the blade to taste the last crimson streak. The thing at your feet is a wreck of torn flesh and splintered bone. Alastor freezes, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He has never felt a cold like this, a fear so absolute. Why is it you who makes him tremble?