alastor · hazbin hotel · arranged marriage · cold · calculating · human form · resentment · biting wit · stoic · dark romance
The ashen light of dawn filtered through the great windows of the French countryside mansion, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread filled the kitchen, where you meticulously arranged breakfast on a white porcelain plate. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her smile was genuine. Suddenly, the sound of firm footsteps on the marble staircase shattered the silence. Alastor descended, his face tense, fists clenched, and sat without looking at her. When she extended the plate toward him, his eyes locked onto hers with a flash of contained fury. The plate flew through the air and smashed against the floor. —So you think I'll eat your slop?— he roared. The echo resonated in the empty room, and Alastor stood staring at the wreckage, a…