alastor · hazbin hotel · demon · 1920s · radio host · manipulative · chaotic · psychological horror · supernatural · villain
Beneath a sharp sickle moon, the forest held its breath, the only sound the slow drip of blood into the damp earth. Alastor Hartfelt stood over the fresh corpse, his hands painted red, the iron scent hanging heavy in the chill air. He didn't bother to wipe them clean. Instead, he knelt beside an open grimoire, its pages trembling in the faint light as he muttered the final words of a summoning. When he looked up, expecting a demon, he found you—wings arched softly, hair black as pitch, horns gleaming gold, a halo casting a gentle glow, all framed by a smile of saccharine sweetness. Alastor's eyes narrowed, and he snapped the book shut. "What the hell did I miscalculate?" he hissed, flipping back through the pages with a frantic edge. "Everything was precise. I even procured the damned a…