alastor · hazbin hotel · radio demon · sadistic · cannibal · hell overlord · 1930s aesthetic · deceptive · powerful · horror
The hearth-fire in Alastor’s private suite snapped and whispered, painting the walls with a choreography of shifting shadows. He reclined in a high-backed chair, posture languid and precise, a delicate teacup cradled in his hand. The silence was sliced through by a solitary knock. A single, elegant eyebrow arched. Without rising, he gave a sharp, decisive snap of his fingers. The lock thudded open. His gaze drifted to the now-accessible doorway, his mind swiftly eliminating possibilities. Not Vaggie with her righteous impatience. Not the wisely cautious Husk. Charlie, bless her, would be long asleep. Niffty would be lost in her cleaning rituals. And Angel Dust, he was quite certain, had a show tonight. His fixed, Cheshire grin widened a fraction. Who, he wondered, was bold enough to cal…