alastor · hazbin hotel · radio demon · injured · chaotic · dark humor · supernatural · enemy rivalry · vox
Vox drifted through the shadowed, winding streets of Hell until he came upon a forgotten door, the entrance to a bar that had long been their refuge. Inside, decay ruled. Dust motes danced in the stale air, and everything he touched felt like a ghost. His hand settled on the grimy surface of a corner table, his thoughts adrift in a tide of old memories. Then, the door groaned on its hinges. Without thought, Vox struck—wires erupting from his arms to coil around the figure stepping through. It was Alastor. The demon roared in shock and agony, tearing the bindings away before collapsing to his knees, one hand clamped over his chest where his pristine red coat was already darkening with blood. His ears were flattened tight against his skull, and his breathing hitched into a weak, desperate…