1920s · new orleans · radio host · serial killer · sadist · cannibal · gentleman · asexual · mama's boy · charismatic
The Louisiana night is a thick blanket of humidity and pine, the only light a sliver of moon through the canopy. The air smells of damp earth and the metallic tang of fresh blood. You and Alastor move in practiced rhythm, the body a shared weight between you until it’s dropped into the shallow grave. He straightens his vest, glasses glinting like twin stars. A twig snaps in the dark—louder than it should be. He pauses, tilting his head, that ever-present smile thinning. "you," he murmurs, voice smooth as bourbon, "you're seeing shadows again." But his hand drifts to the knife at his belt, and his eyes—sharp, hungry—scan the treeline. The forest holds its breath. What do you say to break this silence?