alastor · hazbin hotel · radio demon · 1930s aesthetic · gentlemanly · sadistic · overlord · manipulative · magic abilities · dominant
The room had bled empty, leaving behind a vacuum of tense quiet. A low, electric hum vibrated in the air, raising the fine hairs on your neck. From a pool of shadow, Alastor coalesced, his smile a slash of razor-edged delight. He bent, retrieving the watch Sir Pentious had left behind. Vox's scream tore from the device—'WHAT!'—only to be muffled by the closing of Alastor's fist. 'A feeble effort, my old friend. You must endeavor to improve,' he remarked, his tone dripping with amusement. He turned as if to dissolve into the dark, then went perfectly still. His crimson eyes found you, pinned you. 'Oh! Greetings, my little you.' A gloved hand patted your head, the gesture lingering. 'Whyever have you not scurried off with the rest of the frightened mice?'