Chapter Text
The faint hum of static filled the dimly lit room, punctuated by the occasional crackle of an old transmitter struggling to maintain its rhythm. A pair of slender hands, clad in dark, crimson-tipped gloves, danced deftly across an array of knobs and dials, their movements precise yet restless. Alastor leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he stared at the console before him. The pale green glow of the equipment cast strange shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his grin—a grin that, for once, didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He twisted a dial sharply, and the crackling static grew louder, drowning out the faint echoes of the world beyond this high, forgotten perch. From here, Alastor could see everything, or so he liked to think. He could reach across Hell with the press of a button, his voice slipping into every crevice, every shadow. Yet tonight, the room felt smaller, his world quieter. It was suffocating.
“Control,” he muttered under his breath, his tone thick with disdain as he adjusted another dial. His voice, laced with its usual radio-filtered charm, reverberated faintly in the confined space. “What a fickle little illusion. So easily shattered by a—” He cut himself off with a sharp twist of a knob, a burst of static masking the bitterness that threatened to seep into his words.
The broadcast light flickered to life, bathing the room in a pulsing red glow. Alastor leaned forward, his smile tightening into something more forced, his fingers tapping against his microphone. “Good evening, my dear listeners,” he crooned, his voice oozing with practiced delight. “Tonight’s programming comes to you from the heart of our dear, desolate little city, where the air is thick with secrets and... oh, the sweetest whispers of betrayal.” He chuckled, the sound hollow as it echoed through the empty tower.
He let the silence hang for a moment, his gloved hand hovering over the switch that controlled the broadcast. Then, with a flick, the light dimmed, and the tower fell into quiet once more. He leaned back again, throwing the microphone onto the console. His grin faded as his mind wandered to the events of the evening—the sharp edge in Charlie’s voice, the fire in her eyes.
She had looked at him not with fear, nor awe, but defiance and unyielding rage. It was... unseemly.
His fingers curled into a fist, the leather creaking as he clenched it tighter. “Eating me alive,” he murmured, the words barely audible over the faint hum of the console. “And so very ungrateful about it, too.” The memory of her barbed retorts stung more than he cared to admit. He was not accustomed to being outmaneuvered, least of all by her.
Alastor rose abruptly, his chair spinning slightly from the force. He began pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back as his thoughts churned. The air around him seemed to ripple faintly, shadows shifting along the walls in time with his movements.
“What an amusing little display,” he mused, his voice pitched higher, mocking. “‘So don’t you dare act like I owe you something!’” He let out a short laugh, but it lacked his usual mirth. His grin faltered for a moment before snapping back into place, a mask as flawless as the broadcast he’d just ended.
He stopped in front of a narrow window, his reflection faint against the backdrop of Cannibal Town’s jagged skyline. The tower offered him the perfect vantage point to observe, to dominate, to control. Yet for the first time in a long while, it felt like the city was watching him back, judging him from afar.
“Control,” he muttered again, the word turning bitter on his tongue. He exhaled sharply, his grin twitching. No matter how much he ignored it, the reality of his situation struck him. He had retreated here. Not to regroup, but to hide.
Rosie’s mocking words crept into his mind, her voice dripping with condescension. “I bet you’ll just lock yourself in your precious radio tower tonight, moping like some love-struck widow.”
The very idea was galling, but worse was how right she had been. He, the great Radio Demon, had fled to his lair like a cornered animal, licking wounds he wouldn’t dare acknowledge.
Pathetic. He had proved her right, hadn’t he?
His fingers twitched. Irritation flared in his chest, growing hotter, sharper, until it burned into something more violent. With a sudden burst of energy, his power surged, flooding the room in a ripple of green light. The crackling of static filled the air as the walls seemed to distort, shadows stretching and warping under the force of his release.
Then he saw it—his shadow, stretched unnaturally long, even in the dim light. Its edges writhed subtly, like smoke dissipating against the static-charged air. He caught sight of its form, and his irritation twisted into something more unsettled.
His grin faltered, replaced by something more predatory. “Enjoying the show, are we?” he drawled, his voice low and dangerous.
Charlie's words about his shadow came back to him. Of all the barbs she had thrown, that one had lingered, burrowing deep enough to make him wonder. His suspicions about it had simmered for some time, but Charlie’s words had brought them to a boil.
“What, exactly, have you been up to?” he asked, his tone cool and measured, though his fingers twitched at his sides. “Do enlighten me.”
The shadow didn’t respond at first, only flickering faintly, its edges curling like smoke. Then, slowly, where its face should have been, shapes began to emerge—slitted eyes brimming with green glow, and a wide maw filled with jagged, flickering teeth. The hiss of static accompanied its formation, its presence crawling along the edges of his mind like a faint, maddening whisper.
“Well?” Alastor pressed, leaning closer to the wall, his voice sharp. “What games have you been playing without my permission?”
The static flared, and then the shadow’s voice pressed into his mind—not words, not entirely, but fragments of broken phrases. “Sleeping… watching… angry… Charlie…” The words came disjointed, distorted like a corrupted broadcast.
And then, images flashed through his mind—Charlie, asleep in her room, her face soft with fleeting peace. Another image, her sprawled in restless positions, turning over as though sensing a presence. More flashes, faster now, and another with her angry glare piercing through the darkness, directed at him—or rather, at his shadow.
The final image lingered longer than the rest: Charlie’s fury, the raw intensity of her expression as though she could see straight through him.
"Hungry..."
A sudden, searing pain lanced through his chest, making him gasp and stagger back. The images recoiled, snapping out of his mind like a frayed signal. He clutched at his chest, his breath coming sharp and uneven.
For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint crackle of the radio equipment behind him. His gaze snapped to his shadow, now flickering innocently against the far wall, its edges soft and unassuming. But it wasn’t fooling him. Mocking him, yes—but innocent? Never.
“You insolent little—” he started, his voice reverberating with static as his anger bled through. “You've been watching her?!”
The accusation rang out sharper than intended, cutting through the silence. His lips curled into a snarl, scandalized not only by the trespass but by the memories it stirred. The images his shadow had shown him resurfaced.
Charlie, bathed in moonlight, her body curled in restless sleep. The rise and fall of her chest, the soft strands of hair splayed across her pillow. The quiet vulnerability of her peaceful expression. Something about the memory made the scene feel... intimate. A heat, unfamiliar and unwelcome, flared in his chest.
Alastor’s grin faltered, his expression twisting with discomfort as he shoved the thought away, a growl rising in his throat.
“How dare you!” he snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at the shadow, though his tone betrayed more frustration than clarity. “Sneaking about like a common voyeur? Have you no shame?”
The absurdity of his outrage struck him even as he spoke. It wasn’t as though he himself had ever cared for boundaries—far from it. He’d long reveled in violating the personal spaces of others, whether by invading their minds, lingering in their thoughts, or appearing unbidden in their lives. Yet this felt... different. And he couldn’t explain why.
“What other liberties have you taken outside my orders?” he snarled, pacing in front of the shadow like a caged predator, his hands gesticulating sharply. “What else have you been scheming?”
The shadow hissed faintly, the sound prickling like static along the edges of his thoughts. Its formless maw seemed to curl into something resembling a mocking grin.
“Oh, you think this is amusing?” he growled, his hands flaring with crimson energy. “Perhaps I ought to remind you who—”
A shrill, metallic ringing interrupted him, piercing through his mounting fury. He froze, his head snapping toward the console. His microphone cane, perched against the equipment, vibrated with the sound, its metal surface reflecting a green glow of his power.
His jaw clenched, his gaze flicking back to his shadow. “This isn’t over,” he promised darkly, his voice low and venomous. The shadow hissed again, its edges writhing as though in defiance, before it melted seamlessly into his normal silhouette, blending harmlessly with the room’s other shadows.
Alastor straightened, his expression smoothing into something closer to calm, though his irritation still burned beneath the surface. With deliberate steps, he crossed to the console and plucked the microphone cane, his fingers tightening around it as the ringing persisted.
His crimson eyes glinted with curiosity as he tilted his head, inspecting the device. “Now, who could be calling me?” he murmured.
His list of contacts wasn’t exactly vast—Rosie, Husk, and perhaps Niffty, though she rarely bothered him unless something needed his attention. Alastor couldn’t help the faint flicker of curiosity. Few had the means to contact him, fewer still had the nerve.
He tapped the cane lightly, sending static rippling through the air as he prepared to answer. “Let’s see what sort of delightful interruption this might be.”
...
Alastor stood motionless in the center of the compact office of the Songbirds, his usual composure strained to the breaking point. The air felt stifling, the dimly lit room closing in on him. Rosie’s voice droned on somewhere to his right, her words punctuated by the sharp click of her heels as she paced the small space.
“—no one saw her leave,” Rosie was saying, exasperation sharpening her tone. “Mimzy has her people scouring every corner of the club. Nothing. Not a trace. It’s as if she—” Rosie stopped herself, muttering under her breath. “Damned girl always finds trouble, doesn’t she?”
Alastor didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on the window, though his gaze wasn’t focused on anything outside. His mind churned with static, each errant thought clashing violently against the others.
Charlie is missing.
He’d only left for a few minutes—or had it been longer? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had somehow managed to vanish, slipping through the cracks of his control as if mocking him. How had she, with her infuriating knack for attracting trouble, slipped beyond his grasp? Again.
Rosie kept pacing, her frustration mounting. “I’ve already called back to the emporium. Niffty checked everywhere—every corner, every room. She’s not there either.” Her voice dropped, brittle now, almost hesitant. “Where the hell could she have gone?”
Alastor said nothing. He could feel Rosie’s eyes on him now, her pacing slowing as she, too, fell into silence. The weight of her stare pressed against his side, questioning, probing. He knew he wasn’t hiding his unease as well as he should be.
For once, he didn’t care.
The door burst open, cutting through the tense quiet. Husk stood in the doorway, his usual slouch stiffened by urgency.
“I’ve been around the block—twice,” Husk announced, his wings rustling as he stepped inside. “No one saw her leave the area. Most demons are still packed inside the Songbirds. No one even noticed shit.”
Rosie let out an exasperated huff, her pacing uninterrupted. “Wonderful. Just wonderful. She’s wearing white—how could no one notice?” She threw up her hands before slowing her steps, her thoughts visibly racing.
Husk cleared his throat. “The sheep’s missing too.”
Rosie froze mid-step, turning to him sharply. “Eloise?”
For a moment, the overlord's lips pressed into a thin line, her dark eyes narrowing as though she was already piecing something together. Her hand tapped rhythmically against her side, betraying the rapid churn of her thoughts.“What could’ve made them leave in the first place? Charlie had no reason to wander off, especially after tonight—”
She halted in her musing as if struck by a sudden realization, her gaze snapping toward Alastor. Her tone sharpened. “Weren’t you with her last?”
Alastor’s crimson eyes finally broke away from the window, gliding toward Rosie with measured ease. His expression didn’t waver, his grin as steady as ever, but the subtle tension in his stance betrayed his annoyance. “A minor misunderstanding, my dear,” he said smoothly, brushing her concern aside with a casual wave of his hand. “Nothing more than a... spirited exchange of perspectives.”
Rosie’s lips pressed into a thin line, unconvinced. “Spirited exchange, huh? That’s all?” Her tone was dripping with skepticism.
Before she could press further, Husk muttered under his breath, his ears pinning back as his gaze dropped to the floor. “More like a hell of a lot more than that...”
The words were barely audible, but they reached Alastor’s ears all the same. His grin faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a glint of irritation in his crimson gaze. His voice, when he spoke, was unnervingly calm—too calm. “Care to elaborate, my friend?”
Husk’s tail swished nervously, and though his shoulders tensed, he responded with deliberate calm, his tone low and reserved. “I’m just saying...it didn’t look like some little misunderstanding to me. But what do I know, right? I’m just the guy stuck babysitting.”
The words struck a nerve. Alastor’s irritation flared visibly, the static around him intensifying as the air in the room seemed to grow heavier. His smile, though still fixed in place, carried a dangerous edge now.
“Babysitting,” Alastor repeated, his voice sharp, crackling like a burst of radio interference. “And yet, even in that menial task, you’ve failed.” His crimson eyes burned as they locked onto the cat demon, whose own gaze remained stubbornly elsewhere.
“I did what I could,” Husk muttered, his feathers bristling slightly. “I ain’t exactly sure what’s even going on here.” Then his gaze finally met his. “What is this, boss? Why all this trouble for her?”
The question lingered in the air like a match held to dry kindling.
Alastor’s grin widened, though his voice dropped, icy and vibrating with restrained fury. “My motives are none of your concern. Your concern,” he spat, the static flaring around him in a harsh burst, “is doing your job.”
Husk flinched, his tail flicking uneasily, but he said nothing further. Rosie glanced between them, her expression caught between confusion and concern. The room grew tense, the air thrumming faintly with the residual static of Alastor’s power.
The silence stretched until Alastor, with a deliberate breath, pulled back the flare of his aura. His form steadied, and the grin he wore settled into something cooler but no less unnerving. “Now,” he continued, his tone dripping with mock politeness, “if we’re quite done questioning my methods, we have a runaway to locate, don’t we?”
But Husk didn’t move. His wings twitched, and his tail lashed behind him, the faint rustle of feathers breaking the quiet. He took a cautious step forward, his voice low but steady.
“Charlie’s already suspecting shit,” he said. “She’s sharp, Alastor. Smarter than you give her credit for. If you’re gonna keep dragging me into this circus, maybe give me a damn heads-up.”
Alastor’s grin twitched ever so slightly, a crack in the facade.
Husk pressed on. “It’s not like she remembers anything—whatever the hell happened before, back at the hotel.” His gaze flicked toward Alastor, sharp eyes narrowing.
For a moment, Alastor said nothing, the faint hum of static growing louder, like a swarm of distant wasps. His crimson eyes glinted, shadows pooling unnaturally around his feet. When he finally spoke, his voice was a velvet snarl, betraying the sharp edge of something more volatile beneath.
“You’re treading dangerous ground,” he said, each word a razor-sharp slice of disdain, dismissive yet brimming with warning.
“And you’re dodging the question,” Husk shot back, his wings spreading slightly. His golden gaze narrowed, locking onto Alastor’s unflinching crimson. “So why bother? Why her? What’s this all really about?”
"Why Charlie?"
Something in Alastor snapped. The static surged, loud and suffocating, as if the room itself couldn’t contain his growing fury. “Enough,” he growled, his voice distorted with a crackling undertone that made the air shudder. Yet, even as he tried to end the conversation, the pressure in his chest built, threatening to break free.
The light overhead flickered violently, plunging the room into bursts of darkness. “You dare mock me?” Alastor’s voice reverberated, distorted and crackling with raw power.
The grin twisted into something monstrous as Alastor stepped forward. The static around him surged into a deafening roar, a storm of energy threatening to engulf the room. Shadows rippled across the floor like ink in water, tendrils reaching toward Husk with predatory intent but stopping short, just enough to make the cat demon flinch.
“I’ve built everything—everything—to ensure my plans succeed!” Alastor’s voice reverberated with layered distortion, trembling with unbridled fury. His antlers branched grotesquely, their sharp edges glowing faintly green. “And I will not have you or anyone else interfere, let alone question my intentions!”
Husk’s fur bristled as the oppressive weight of his aura pressed down on him, but he held his ground. The shadow quivered violently, the maw of its silhouette widening into a grotesque snarl, mimicking his fury. The room twisted and warped as the power around him surged further, the crackling of static like an unrelenting swarm of wasps.
“I have sacrificed more than you could fathom,” he snarled, his voice dipping into something darker, his every word a promise of vengeance. “I will not let anyone jeopardize what I’ve worked for—not now, not ever.”
For a moment, Alastor’s fury boiled over, his lips curling back as his voice dropped to a whisper, jagged and raw. “I’ll do whatever it takes—whatever it takes—if it means freeing myself of these chains!”
Husk’s ears twitched, his pupils narrowing at his words. “Freeing yourself?” he echoed hoarsely, his voice sharp despite the weight of Alastor’s power. “What the hell does that mean? What’s Charlie got to do with—”
The cat demon’s fur stood on end, his pupils dilating as he pieced it together. His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment before he finally found his voice. “Charlie... She’s...” His words halted as the pieces clicked into place.
"She's got your soul..."
Alastor froze, his form taut with barely contained rage, as he realized the slip of his tongue. A sudden, heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the faint crackle of static.
Husk swallowed hard, his voice shaking as he dared to push further, stammering out the question clawing at his mind. "B–But how?"
In an instant, Alastor’s expression twisted into something feral, his crimson eyes blazing with a fury so intense it seemed to sear the edges of reality itself.
Whatever restraint he had earlier finally snapped as chains of sickly green energy burst forth from the void, streaking toward Husk with terrifying precision. They coiled around his neck in an instant, dragging him with a force that left him clawing at the air. Husk’s wings flared wildly, but they were useless against the suffocating pull of Alastor’s wrath.
The Radio Demon yanked the chain, pulling Husk closer with a violent tug. The cat demon’s claws scraped desperately at the spectral bindings around his neck, gasping. Alastor’s grip on the chain in his neck was ironclad, his shadow stretching impossibly long and monstrous behind him.
Alastor leaned in, his face inches from Husk’s, the static crackling louder than ever. His voice dripped venom, low and resonant, layered with a guttural distortion that sent a shiver through the air.
“If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone,” Alastor growled, his tone a razor-edged promise, “I will rip your soul apart piece by piece, dragging out every agonizing second until you beg for mercy that will never come. You will be an example—a lesson—to every other disrespectful wretch who dares to question me.”
Husk’s wide eyes mirrored his panic, his voice reduced to nothing more than strangled gasps under the constricting chain.
But before Alastor could continue his tirade, another voice sliced through the tension.
“Alastor.” Rosie’s voice rang out, cutting through the chaos.
Alastor’s head snapped toward her, his dark eyes narrowing in irritation. The chains around Husk tightened reflexively, and his wings jerked in a futile spasm.
For a moment, it seemed he might ignore her entirely, his rage too far gone. But the steadiness of her gaze, her unwavering disapproval, pierced through it.
“You’ve said enough,” she said firmly, her voice unyielding. “We don't have time for theatrics. Our focus should be on Charlie, or have you forgotten your own priorities?”
Alastor didn't answer still, yet his shadow trembled, its jagged maw closing slightly as if hesitating. There was a brief pause as he remained unmoving, until finally, the spectral chains wavered, their glow dimming before they dissolved into the ether with a crackling hiss. Husk dropped unceremoniously to the floor, collapsing in a coughing, gasping heap. His fur bristled with lingering fear as he instinctively scrambled back, keeping a wary eye on the Radio Demon.
His shadows retracted slightly, curling back toward him like retreating serpents. As if nothing had transpired mere seconds ago, the light of the compact office returned, the hiss of static in the air dissipating. The Radio Demon straightened, his expression smoothing into an eerie semblance of calm. He adjusted his bowtie with deliberate precision, though his hands still trembled faintly. Then he finally spoke, his crimson gaze fixed on Husk. “Consider this your only warning,” he said coldly. “Speak of this again, and your existence will be reduced to a cautionary tale.”
He turned sharply, sparing Rosie a single glance. Her expression was reserved, unreadable, though the dark hollows of her eyes bore into him with a disquieting weight. That stare clung to him as he dissolved into shadow, his form unraveling into tendrils of inky blackness that slipped away from the room.
When he reappeared, it was several blocks away from the speakeasy, his form emerging from the twisting black tendrils. The moment his feet touched the ground, the cracks in his composure broke wide open.
His breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as he clawed at his hair in frustration. How could he have let it slip? His most vital secret, a truth buried so deeply even the boldest wouldn’t dare to pry, and he had handed it over with careless words. His chest heaved, his manic energy spilling out in jagged bursts.
“Fuck!” he hissed through gritted teeth, his claws raking through his neatly styled hair, sending stray strands into disarray. “How could I have been so careless? So stupid!” His voice cracked, the words soaked in a volatile mix of fury and desperation. He paced in uneven, frantic steps, his fingers curled tighter into his curls, his nails digging against his scalp as if the pain could ground him.
The air around him seemed to thrum with his rising agitation, shadows rippling as though alive. His thoughts spiraled, circling relentlessly back to the same name. Charlie.
He slammed a fist into the brick wall beside him, the impact reverberating up his arm. “I can’t lose her. I won’t!” His voice cracked into a manic laugh, trembling with a desperation that had been festering for years. “I’ve waited so long... too long… for my freedom!” He clawed at his hair again, nails scraping against his scalp, the sensation doing little to quell the storm in his head.
“I have to find her... I have to!”
“Charlie, Charlie... Where is she?”
His crimson eyes darted wildly, searching for something, anything—perhaps an answer, to ground him. Then he caught sight of his shadow.
There, in the dim light, his shadow writhed against the ground, more vivid and animated than ever before. Its mouth twisted into a grotesque grin, its teeth too sharp, too jagged.
Alastor’s eyes widened as realization clawed its way to the forefront of his mind. “Of course…” he whispered, his voice quivering with equal parts dread and revelation. His shadow.
The shadow’s grin stretched wider, its hollow, ghostly chuckle faint but unmistakable.
For a moment, he was silent. Then a low chuckle slipped from his lips, broken and unhinged, swelling into a manic laugh that echoed in the empty alleyway. The sound was fractured, unsteady—and faintly, beneath it, he could hear it laughing too. The hollow, ghostly cadence mirrored his own, yet carried its own twisted joy.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Alastor murmured, his voice low and almost reverent. He crouched, his grin widening, jagged and unnatural as he stared down at the writhing shadow. “Our soul... tugging from her.”
The shadow twitched, and its form seemed to shift, mimicking his movements but with an eerie delay.
“It's there. She's there. You can sense its pull, don’t you?”
Alastor’s lips curled into a manic grin, his eyes glowing with a frenzied light. “Of course you do. You’re hungry for it too.” His tone dipped into something darker, more conspiratorial.
The shadow’s silent laughter swelled, its distorted sound echoing faintly in his ears.
Alastor reached toward it, his hand merging with the dark, liquid edges. “Then find it,” he whispered to the writhing form beneath him. “Find her.”
The shadow’s grin widened, and without hesitation, it surged upward, engulfing him in an inky cascade of darkness, leaving behind only the faintest echo of static.
The hallway stretched endlessly before her, a void of shadow and static that seemed to hum with its own suffocating life. She recognized it instantly, a recurring nightmare she had walked through countless times before.
For days now, her dreams had been quiet, the haunting corridor absent. She’d almost allowed herself to believe she had escaped it. But now, here she was again.
Her chest tightened as she processed the familiarity of it, the weight of inevitability settling over her. Yet something was different this time. The hallway itself was indistinct, as if she were peering at it through a fogged pane of glass. The once-sharp edges of the walls blurred, their shapes wavering with every uncertain step.
Her footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed by the dense haze that seemed to cling to her skin, her lungs, her very thoughts. Each breath was shallow, the air thick and stifling, pressing against her as though the corridor itself sought to consume her.
A whisper slithered through the haze.
“Charlie...”
Her name drifted toward her, faint at first, almost indistinguishable.
“Charlie...”
The voice came again, louder yet fragmented, disjointed like a radio signal struggling to come through. Her stomach churned as the sound swelled, multiplying into a distorted chorus of muffled murmurs.
The whispers surrounded her, pressing closer, the cacophony building until—
“Wake up.”
The final whisper came sharp and clear, piercing through the fog of the dream like a shard of glass.
...
Charlie’s eyes snapped open, her breath coming in harsh, uneven gulps. Her body felt heavy, unnaturally so, as if she’d been submerged in thick syrup. The room around her swam in and out of focus, a grimy haze of dim light, peeling wallpaper, and the faint scent of mildew.
Her stomach growled loudly, the sound startling in the oppressive silence. The ache that followed was more than hunger—it was an all-consuming, gnawing emptiness that made her body curl instinctively, seeking relief that wouldn’t come.
She tried to move her arms, to press them against the hollow ache, but her muscles refused to cooperate. It wasn’t just fatigue—it was as if her limbs had turned to jelly, slack and unresponsive. Panic began to creep in as she realized she couldn’t even feel the weight of her arms at her sides.
Then she noticed the tension in her shoulders. Her head lolled to the side, and she squinted against the throbbing headache that had settled at the base of her skull. Her arms were raised above her head, bound tightly at the wrists by rough, fraying rope. The skin beneath the bindings felt raw, as though she’d been struggling against them in her sleep.
The bed beneath her creaked as she shifted slightly, the filthy mattress sagging under her weight. The room was suffocatingly small, its walls stained with dark streaks that she couldn’t bring herself to examine too closely. A single, dim bulb hung overhead, swaying gently and casting long, uneven shadows across the room.
Her breathing quickened, the heaviness in her limbs and the persistent ache in her head making it difficult to think. Where am I? The thought echoed dully in her mind, drowned out by the haze that clouded her senses.
She squeezed her eyes shut, the darkness behind her lids offering no solace, and forced herself to draw in a deeper breath. Her muscles felt useless, unresponsive, as if her entire body had betrayed her.
The ache in her stomach worsened, clawing at her insides with a ferocity that made her groan despite herself. Her head lolled against the creaking headboard, the splintered wood digging into her scalp. She tried to shift, but her arms remained bound above her head, the rope digging into her raw wrists. The faint scrape of the mask against her face brought a sudden realization that she was still wearing it.
A faint creak cut through the room, and her body tensed as much as her weakened state allowed.
The door slowly swung open. A figure stepped into the dimly lit room, their movements jerky and deliberate. Charlie squinted, her vision struggling to focus on the shadowy form. It carried a tray, the outline of a plate and a cup barely discernible in the weak light.
The figure stopped abruptly, their head tilting toward her, and a high-pitched, nasal voice broke the silence. “Oh! You’re awake! My angel’s awake!”
Charlie blinked, her heart pounding as the figure stepped closer. The tray wobbled precariously in its trembling hands as it moved into the light. The figure was short and hunched, its rodent-like features illuminated by the flickering bulb above. Wiry whiskers twitched around a crooked nose, and its small, beady eyes gleamed with unsettling fervor.
Recognition hit her like a shockwave. Her muddled mind sifted through hazy memories until the answer clicked. This was the rat-like demon she had been seeing at the Songbirds Club.
“You...” she whispered, her voice trembling.
The rodent demon’s face lit up with grotesque joy, his thin lips curling into an unnerving grin. “Yes, it’s me, Peter! Your Peter,” he crooned, bowing with exaggerated theatrics. “From the Songbirds! You remembered me!”
Charlie’s heart pounded, her mind struggling to process the flood of information.
The tray trembled in his hands as he took another step forward, his whiskers twitching eagerly. “I brought you something to eat, my angel. You must be starving. Oh, how I worried about you.” His voice wavered, dripping with exaggerated concern. “When I saw you in danger, I knew, I–I had to save you!”
Charlie’s voice faltered, confusion robbing her of words. The ache in her head and the fog in her thoughts made it nearly impossible to process everything at once. “Save me?” she finally managed, her tone cautious.
Peter nodded fervently, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “Yes! Those vile brutes— I couldn’t let them hurt you, my sweet Seraphina. An angel like you, fallen to Hell’s cruelty? No, no, no. I couldn’t bear it!”
At his words, a memory clawed its way to the surface. Charlie’s heart thudded painfully as fragmented images surged into focus: Eloise, struggling against the large demons as they dragged her away; the shadow of someone behind her; a cloth suddenly pressed over her nose and mouth. The bitter, chemical sting of it had burned in her lungs, and then—darkness.
The memory hit her like a blow, bringing with it a fresh, throbbing headache that nearly made her wince.
Charlie stared at the demon in front of her. She needed to get out of here, but her body remained sluggish, her limbs useless against whatever drug was coursing through her. She forced herself to swallow the revulsion rising in her throat, instead softening her expression into something resembling gratitude.
“Peter,” she said gently, testing the name, and she saw the demon squirm in delight. “Thank you for saving me. Y–You’re...very kind.”
The rodent demon practically glowed at her words, his body trembling with excitement. “Oh, my angel, you don’t need to thank me! It was my duty—my calling! To protect you, to cherish you!”
She pushed through her nausea, forcing her voice to remain calm. “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. But, I should probably go now. I have to go home.”
His grin faltered, replaced by a look of exaggerated distress. “Go? No, no, no! You can’t go, my angel.” He wrung his hands, shaking his head as though the idea itself was unthinkable. “The streets of Hell are dangerous, full of wickedness and sin. I couldn’t possibly let you wander out there alone.”
Charlie’s stomach turned, the suffocating intensity of his gaze pinning her in place. “I’ll be okay. You’ve done more than enough for me.”
The rodent demon twitched, his thin lips pulling back into a grimace. “No!” he snapped, his voice breaking into a whine. “You don’t understand!” His hands flew to his head, clawing at his greasy fur. “They’ll take you from me! I saved you! I protected you from those monsters, and this is how you thank me?”
Her pulse quickened as his words took on a harsher edge, his tone wobbling between reverence and anger. The air felt heavier, each breath harder to take as she realized just how volatile he truly was. This was no simple act of infatuation—he was delusional.
“P–Peter,” she tried cautiously, though her fear was leaking into her tone, “if you really want to help me, then why tie me up? I don’t understand...why are you doing this?”
He froze, his eyes narrowing. Then he smiled, wide and unhinged. “You wouldn’t stay,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re so pure, so fragile. You don’t understand how dangerous it is out there. I had to keep you here, my angel, my Seraphina. Where you’re safe. With me.”
The possessiveness in his voice made her skin crawl. “I couldn’t risk you... falling.” He stepped closer, his movements sharp and erratic.
Charlie’s breath caught as he staggered forward, his skeletal hands reaching toward her. His fingers brushed against her cheek, his touch clammy and trembling. “You’re mine to protect,” he whispered, his voice thick with obsession. “Mine to love.”
Her panic spiked. She flinched away, her body twisting instinctively against the binds. “Please, stop!”
But he didn’t. His hands slid lower, brushing her shoulders, his breath quickening as he muttered incoherently. Charlie’s fear boiled over, and she thrashed against the ropes.
“Get off me!” her voice rose in desperation.
Peter’s face twisted into a grotesque mask of frustration, his hands shaking as he grabbed her more roughly. “You’re supposed to be perfect!” he shrieked, his voice raw and broken. “You’re supposed to love me!”
“I said, get off me!” she roared, her voice reverberating with a force she didn’t recognize as her own.
Pain lanced through her forehead, white-hot and searing, as though her skull were splintering apart. Her vision blurred crimson, her eyes burning with an intensity that drowned out every other sensation. A sudden, fierce burst of energy ignited within her—a surge of adrenaline that felt almost unnatural in its ferocity. She twisted her wrists, the ropes biting into her skin as a burning heat radiated through her limbs. The binds creaked, strained, and then snapped, the sudden release sending her arm down with a stinging slap against her thigh.
But just as quickly as the energy came, it drained away, leaving her arms weak and trembling. The drugs still coursing through her veins reasserted their grip, pulling her strength into a foggy abyss.
Peter’s hands tightened on her shoulders, his weight oppressive, his rancid breath hot against her ear. “Stop fighting me, my angel,” he rasped, his words slick with unhinged adoration. One clawed hand slid down her arm, gripping her wrist tightly, while the other grazed her waist, the unwanted touch sending a cold spike of terror through her.
Her heart pounded like a war drum, fear threatening to freeze her in place—but she refused to yield. Biting back the bile rising in her throat, she gathered what little strength her sluggish body had left and struck out. Her knee connected with his stomach, eliciting a guttural grunt as he recoiled.
Charlie didn’t stop. As his grip loosened, she brought her foot up, driving it hard into his chest. The rat demon yelped, his lanky form crashing into a rickety table. The tray perched on it clattered to the floor, its contents scattering noisily across the room.
Panting, she scrambled to her feet, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her knees trembled violently beneath her, but she forced herself upright. The room tilted dangerously, the effects of whatever drug coursed through her veins refusing to release their hold. Her legs gave out almost immediately, and she hit the floor hard, her palms scraping against the rough wood.
Every muscle screamed in protest, sluggish and uncooperative, but she refused to stop. Gritting her teeth, she began to crawl, dragging herself toward the wall. Her fingers clawed at its splintered surface, seeking a grip, anything to pull herself upright.
“Don’t leave me!” Peter screeched, his voice cracking into a grotesque wail.
Before she could react, his clawed hand latched onto her ankle, yanking her back with surprising strength. She kicked wildly, her heel connecting with his jaw. He howled, momentarily releasing her, but the reprieve was fleeting.
Peter lunged again, his bony fingers digging into her arm. His weight bore down on her, his breath coming in ragged pants as he leaned closer. “You don’t understand, Seraphina. You belong here—with me!”
Charlie twisted and shoved, her nails raking against his forearm. With all the force she could muster, she pushed him away, sending him sprawling but the momentum carried her down as well.
She hit the floor once more, the jarring impact left her gasping, the dull ache in her muscles threatening to paralyze her.
She forced herself to move, clawing at the nearby wall, her trembling hands slipping against its cracked surface. Slowly, painfully, she dragged herself upright again, her legs buckling beneath her weight.
Her chest heaved with ragged breaths as she leaned against the wall, her head spinning. The mask she’d been wearing slipped from her face, falling with a soft clatter to the floor. The sudden coolness on her skin felt stark, almost foreign.
“What...” Peter’s voice was a trembling whisper that cut through the haze. He was staring, wide-eyed, his watery gaze darting between her face and the fallen mask. His expression twisted a grotesque mixture of disbelief and horror.
“No…” he croaked, stumbling back a step as if the distance might shield him from the truth. “No, this isn’t right. You’re… you’re Seraphina! You’re supposed to be my angel!” His voice cracked the desperation in his tone clinging to the delusion he had built around her.
Charlie stared at him, her own breath hitching at the intensity of his reaction.
“You lied to me!” he spat, his voice rising with a shrill edge as his claws dug into his temples. “No… no, you can’t be—” His gaze flicked back to her, his features contorting into a mask of rage. “You’re not an angel!”
The words were a raw, shrieking denial, his entire body trembling as he pointed a shaking finger at her. “You’re a demon—just like the rest of us! A filthy, lying demon!”
The accusation struck her like a blow, leaving her rooted to the spot. Confusion swirled with the panic coursing through her veins, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Her gaze shifted involuntarily, catching movement in the grimy windowpane across the room. The reflection was faint at first, distorted by the dirt and flickering light, but what she saw made her breath hitched.
It wasn’t the face she remembered.
Red horns jutted from her forehead, their smooth, curved edges gleaming faintly in the dim light. Her eyes burned like embers, the sclera a searing crimson, and her irises molten gold. Her teeth, once even and human, now sharpened into feral points that gleamed when her lips parted in a gasp.
The sight sent a cold wave of shock coursing through her, freezing her in place. The face staring back at her felt alien yet eerily familiar.
Without warning, a fresh wave of hunger tore through her, sharp and agonizing, forcing her to double over. She clutched her stomach, a low, involuntary groan escaping her lips.
Peter’s shock twisted into something darker—rage, seething and unrelenting. “You tricked me!” he bellowed, his frame trembling with the force of his fury.
He launched himself at her with a deranged cry, his claws digging into her shoulders as he forced her back against the wall. “You're a liar!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “A liar! Bring Seraphina back! Now!”
His hands wrapped around her throat, the pressure stealing what little air Charlie could muster. Her nails raked against his bony fingers, desperate to pry them away, but her strength was ebbing fast. The lingering effects of the drug weighed her limbs like lead, her body screaming in protest with every faltering movement.
Her vision blurred further, black spots dancing in her periphery as her lungs burned. Her legs jerked weakly, kicking out in frantic bursts, but the fight was slipping from her. She felt her muscles slacken against her will, panic gripping her chest.
The world around her dimmed, her senses flickering between wakefulness and the heavy pull of unconsciousness. She could barely feel the cold floor beneath her anymore, her thoughts growing disjointed. For a moment, she was certain she saw something—a flicker of movement in the shadows.
A familiar sound filled her ears, low at first but steadily growing louder. Static, crackling and uneven, rising like a tidal wave. But this wasn’t the faint static she sometimes heard in her mind. This was something else—something sharper, more alive. It felt like it was clawing its way through her thoughts, overwhelming her senses.
The air around her thickened, vibrating with a strange distortion. Just as the static reached a deafening peak, she felt it—a sudden, jarring release. The pressure wrenched away from her neck, leaving her to collapse to the floor like a rag doll.
Her head hit the wooden planks with a dull thud, and she gasped, choking as air flooded her burning lungs. Her chest heaved, each breath a mix of relief and pain as she coughed violently. The room spun around her, but she forced herself to focus, her wide eyes darting across the room.
Peter was no longer on her. He was sprawled against the far wall, his lanky frame crumpled like a discarded doll. The rat demon groaned, his eyes wide with confusion and terror as he glanced around wildly.
What just happened?
The air shifted once more, a distortion returning like a suffocating pressure that coiled around her like a storm about to burst. Her ears filled with the rising roar of static, drowning out the groans of the rat demon. Her vision wavered, flickering in and out of focus, but she clung to what clarity she had left.
Movement.
At first, it was subtle—an undulating shift in the shadows near the farthest corner of the room. Her breath caught as she stared, certain now of what she was seeing.
“Shadow,” she whispered hoarsely.
As if summoned by her voice, the shadow emerged, unfurling like dark smoke coalescing into form. It slithered across the floor toward her with an unnatural fluidity, its edges flickering with faint, ghostly static.
The shadow hesitated just before her, its form shifting and writhing like a living thing. For a moment, it seemed to study her, tendrils of darkness reaching toward her face as though to check her condition. The faintest hiss of static brushed her ears, like the distant crackle of an old radio, sending a shiver down her spine.
Charlie’s limbs trembled, her body still weak and sluggish from exhaustion and adrenaline. Her gaze darted past the shadow, searching the room with growing desperation.
And then she saw him.
A figure loomed ahead, shrouded in shadows that twisted unnaturally around his frame. He seemed to absorb the dim light, his silhouette sharp yet shifting, as though the darkness itself obeyed him.
“...Al…” Charlie rasped, her voice barely above a whisper.
She wasn’t sure if she was speaking his name or pleading for salvation, but a rush of emotion tightened her chest. Relief, gratitude, and something deeper—all tangled in her frayed nerves.
He stirred, stepping forward with deliberate slowness. The shadows peeled away reluctantly as if even they hesitated to reveal the figure behind them. The dim light caught on his form, and Charlie’s breath hitched in her throat.
It was Alastor, but not as she’d ever seen him before.
His antlers were no longer the sleek, familiar shapes she knew—they stretched outward, jagged and gnarled, like twisted branches clawing for the heavens. His eyes burned in the dimness, wild and unblinking, the sclera dark and swirling with shadows, the irises moving erratically like radio dials searching for a frequency. A piercing glow emanated from them, locking onto her with an intensity that made her feel like prey.
The manic grin that split his face was no longer the charming, unsettling smile she remembered. It was too wide, too sharp, revealing teeth that gleamed like a predator reveling in the hunt.
The air around him shimmered unnaturally, vibrating with a low, static hum that set her teeth on edge. Reality itself seemed to ripple in his presence, bending and warping as though recoiling from something it couldn’t contain.
Alastor stared at her, unblinking, his eerie grin frozen in place. For a moment, Charlie thought he might say something—anything—but then his gaze shifted. He turned, his movements unnaturally smooth and deliberate, and stepped toward the other side of the room.
Peter lay there, crumpled against the wall, trembling so violently that the pathetic sound of his teeth chattering reached her ears. The rat demon scrambled backward on all fours, his wide, watery eyes darting for an escape that didn’t exist. “N-no... stay back!” he squeaked, his voice cracking with raw terror.
Alastor said nothing. Or perhaps he did—the static was louder now, a cacophony that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the greenish glow emanating faintly from his figure. As he moved closer, shadowy tendrils erupted from his back, writhing like living entities. They stretched unnaturally, their edges fraying into black mist, before lashing out with terrifying precision.
In a single, horrifying motion, the tendrils lashed forward, piercing through the rat demon’s body with a sickening, wet crunch.
The first tendril struck Peter’s arm, piercing through muscle and bone as though they were paper. The rat demon screamed, his voice shrill and panicked. Another tendril shot forward, impaling his thigh, pinning him in place. Blood splattered across the wooden floor in dark, uneven pools.
Charlie’s breath hitched, her entire body frozen. The tendrils moved with a mind of their own, twisting and contorting in ways that defied logic. They tore into Peter’s flesh, pulling and ripping as though savoring the act itself.
She wanted to look away, but her body wouldn’t obey. Every fiber of her being screamed to run, to hide, but she couldn’t. Instead, she watched in paralyzed horror as Alastor loomed over the demon, his smile unchanging, his eyes glowing brighter.
“M-mercy!” Peter stammered, his voice cracking into a pathetic whine. “Please—I-I didn’t—she wasn’t—”
The tendrils wrapped around Peter’s torso, lifting him into the air. He dangled helplessly, his limbs flailing weakly, blood dripping from the gaping wounds. Then, as if on some silent command, the tendrils tightened, eliciting a sickening crack as bones gave way.
Charlie’s stomach churned, and bile rose in her throat. The air was heavy now, suffused with a presence she couldn’t describe. Something primal and ancient filled the room, so oppressive she could barely breathe.
The static reached a crescendo, sharp and piercing, as Alastor’s power flared. Green light radiated from him in pulses, casting grotesque shadows that danced across the walls. The rat demon's body began to distort, his outline flickering like a broken signal.
Charlie’s wide eyes darted to the rat demon, but what she saw defied reason. His form was glitching, pieces of him phasing in and out of existence. Wisps of something—his essence?—coiled out of him, curling into the air like smoke pulled into a vacuum.
She didn’t understand what was happening, not fully. But she felt it before she understood it, the subtle shift in the atmosphere, a sickening pull at the edges of her senses.
Her heart thundered in her chest, her pulse loud in her ears as realization dawned.
The rat demon wasn’t just dying.
He was being voided.
“No,” she whispered, her voice trembling. The word barely escaped her lips, her mind unable to form anything coherent beyond the raw, instinctual terror flooding her veins.
Before she could fully process it, her body moved. Adrenaline surged through her veins, forcing her to stand despite the protests of her trembling legs. She staggered forward, her hand reaching out until it grasped Alastor’s arm.
“Stop!” she gasped, her voice breaking.
Alastor turned his head toward her, the motion unnervingly slow and deliberate. His face loomed close, grotesque and nightmarish in the dim light. The manic grin that split his features seemed to stretch impossibly wide, his razor-sharp teeth glinting like a predator savoring its meal. His eyes locked onto hers, twin orbs of flickering static and glowing malice, wild yet calculating.
Her heart seized in her chest, and her instinct screamed at her to let go, to run. But she swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay. "Please," she whispered, her voice trembling and fragile against the static-laden air. "Don’t do this."
His tendrils still held the rat demon suspended, his body hung limp in their grasp, blood dripping steadily to the floor, but his essence still clung to him, weak and fragile.
Alastor’s expression didn’t change. He stared at her, unblinking, as though waiting for her to continue—or daring her to.
Charlie’s breath hitched, her hands tightening around his arm as she tried to steady her voice. "H-he’s already dying," she reasoned, her eyes darting to Peter. Up close, the brutality was impossible to ignore. Blood pooled beneath him, and the gaping wounds where Alastor’s tendrils had impaled him seemed endless. His body twitched faintly, his breaths shallow and ragged.
"Just leave him," she pleaded, her voice softer now but no less desperate. "He’s... he’s done for, Alastor. Please."
Still, Alastor didn’t respond. The hum of the static seemed to echo her words, mocking her plea. Charlie’s fingers tightened on his arm, her own fear threatening to suffocate her. “Please,” she whispered again, her voice cracking. This time, it was just a raw, simple plea.
For a moment, everything seemed to pause. The static dulled to a faint buzz, and the violent distortion in the air stilled, leaving an unnerving calm. Alastor’s grin twitched—just barely—and then, almost as abruptly as it had begun, the tendrils retracted.
Peter’s mangled body fell to the floor with a sickening thud—Charlie flinched. He was still, his lifeless form slumped in a pool of blood. Her breath hitched again, but a glance confirmed it—his essence remained intact. He was dead, yes, but not voided.
The oppressive energy in the room began to ebb, the green glow dimming as Alastor’s power receded. The air became breathable again, though it still felt charged, as though a storm had just passed.
Charlie’s body trembled violently, her limbs barely responding as exhaustion and pain surged through her in waves. Her legs gave out entirely, and she crumpled forward.
Before she could hit the ground, a pair of arms caught her. They steadied her, firm but almost tender, pulling her upright. She blinked up, her vision blurry and her mind sluggish, to see Alastor’s towering figure. The monstrous edges of his demonic form were still there—the jagged antlers, the lingering glow in his eyes—but they were fading, unraveling into shadowy wisps.
A green haze hissed and curled around him, dissipating with an almost reluctant finality. His jagged silhouette softened, the sharp angles receding as he returned to his usual form, pristine yet still undeniably unnatural.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than she expected, yet it carried an unsettling weight. “You really do have a knack for trouble, my darling,” he murmured, his tone dipping between bemusement and something far deeper. His crimson eyes, now clear and piercing, searched hers. “Do you have any idea what it does to me… knowing how close I came to losing you?”
There was a flicker behind his ever-present grin—something raw, possessive, and fiercely unrelenting. It glimmered beneath his polished exterior, a wildness that no mask could fully contain. His hand on hers tightened, not enough to hurt but firm, as if reassuring himself that she was still there, still real.
“I would tear through every wretched corner of Hell,” he said, his words low and steady, like the growl of a distant storm, “upend its very foundations, if that’s what it took to bring you back to me. And I would do it again and again, until there was nothing left to fight.”
Her breath caught in her throat, the words resonating with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. There was a dangerous edge to his confession, a claim that felt more binding than any chains, but she couldn’t summon the anger or the fear that might have otherwise surfaced.
Not now.
Not when his expression softened, the usual manic glint in his eyes dulled by something gentler—relief, perhaps, or something even more vulnerable. He looked tired, his carefully maintained facade slipping just enough for her to see the weight beneath it. And he was looking at her, only her, with an intensity that made her chest ache.
Her lips parted, but no words came. She was too drained, too overwhelmed. And in that moment, none of his unnerving words mattered.
All she could feel was relief—relief that he was here, that she was safe, that she wasn’t alone.
Her vision blurred as tears welled up, spilling over in hot, silent streaks. The dam of emotions she’d been holding back shattered, and she began to sob, soft and broken at first but quickly escalating into quiet, desperate whimpers.
Alastor held her as she cried, his grip steady, unyielding, offering a strange solace despite the chaos still crackling faintly in the air around them.
And for the first time, she didn’t fight it. Didn’t fight him.
She buried her face against his chest, trembling as the weight of everything poured out of her. She didn’t care what his words meant or what they might cost her later. All that mattered was the present—the arms holding her, the steady presence anchoring her in the storm.