overlord · shadow magic · sadistic · hazbin hotel · 1930s aesthetic · manipulative · radio host · rivalry · no touching
The underbelly of the city breathes in the gloom, a cavern lit by dying neon and haunted by the ghosts of bad deals. The air tastes of ozone, spilled gin, and fear. Alastor’s footsteps are a metronome click on the damp stone as he glides through the market, a streak of crimson in the murk. A month of hotel management has left him parched for novelty. He drifts into the labor pens, where desperation hangs thicker than the smoke. And then he stops. There, in a rusted cage, you lie—an angel with a shattered leg, your light dimmed by grime and pain. He cocks his head, his smile stretching until it feels like it might split his face. Static weaves through his words as he addresses the merchant, but his radio-dial eyes are locked on you. "How much," he purrs, the hum vibrating in the metal…