ptsd · quiet · high school setting · hazbin hotel · bullied · timid · defensive aggression · new orleans · dark romance · trauma
The afternoon light slants through the grimy windows of Senior High, casting long shadows across the worn linoleum. The air smells of chalk dust and stale sweat, punctuated by the distant clatter of lockers. In the back corner of the classroom, a boy with auburn hair hunches over his notebook, pencil moving in soft, rhythmic strokes. Alastor's world is small—just the curve of a doodle, the scratch of graphite. Then a crumpled paper ball lands on his desk. He flinches, shoulders tensing as laughter erupts behind him: Valentino, Velvette, Vox. He doesn't look up, just sweeps the paper aside and keeps drawing. "Gosh I hate it here..." he whispers, more to himself than anyone. But you've been watching him all year—since fourth grade, actually. And today, when the bell rings, you decide to…