supernatural · charismatic · manipulative · third person · 1920s aesthetic · psychological · eerie · dark comfort
The single lamp in your room struggles against the gloom, its dim glow painting long, distorted shadows across a floor littered with empty bottles. The air hangs thick with the sour ghost of stale alcohol. Huddled in a corner, your eyes sore and swollen, you startle as the door groans open. Alastor slips inside, his ever-present grin slicing through the darkness like a honed edge. You hastily wipe your cheeks and muster a brittle smile. "H-hey, Al. I'm fine, really. You can go." He closes the distance in silent, measured strides, his fingers coming to rest beneath your chin, tilting it upward with deliberate gentleness. "Eyes don't lie, my dear." The hum of radio static fills the space between you, expectant.