Chapter Text
Alastor’s room, hidden in the quietest wing of the Hotel, wasn’t just a refuge; it was more of a boundary. A line that separated the chaos of Hell from a different kind of silence: a dense one, limited—at that moment—to two presences who knew how to coexist without needing to explain anything, amid a blurred plane between an ordinary room and a reflection of the bayou, courtesy of Alastor. There they were; she sat on one of the chairs near the window, her black vest open, hanging at the top to let the fabric breathe, her gaze fixed on a map spread out on the low table. Her long black hair fell like an irregular curtain over her shoulders and half her face, barely illuminated by the reddish light that filtered through the heavy drapes.
“You’re underestimating Missi Zilla’s expansion…” she murmured, pointing to an area marked with irregular neon-green ink. “Her movements may be noisy… quite loud. But they’re not actually that precise.”
The Radio Demon remained by her side, and as he rearranged some papers, he let out a soft laugh. He wasn’t trying to mock her, but rather to reveal a hidden nuance of trust and amusement that he could indulge in within the intimacy of their company.
“My dear, underestimate is a very strong word. I think I simply… observe with an altruistic perspective.”
He moved closer to her. The sound of his cane tapping the floor slowed, becoming more contemplative. As he stopped beside her, he tilted his head slightly to follow the path of her finger across the map. And without asking permission—because between them, it wasn’t necessary—he placed a hand on her shoulder. Barely a touch at first, then a gentle weight, as if confirming that she was still there, tangible, part of his private space.
That kind of gesture was exclusive to their private meetings. No one else was allowed to see the Radio Demon in that way.
She let him, even tilting her head slightly toward his touch. Not out of submission or need, but in an intimate acknowledgment they only shared in solitude. He then let his thumb brush the fabric of her T-shirt near her neck, smoothing a crease with far too much care for a simple adjustment. It was that wordless affection, the kind he would never admit to possessing.
“Even if you look at it objectively,” she continued, “someone is provoking her. And you know who.”
Alastor narrowed his eyes slightly, his smile remaining in its usual place, trying to hide the obvious.
“Oh, believe me… I know.”
The silence between them was far from awkward; it was more like a bridge. A way of speaking without saying anything that she felt. And that he, in some way uniquely his own, felt too.
But Hell—especially in that ironic hotel—never respected those kinds of moments. As the woman squinted at the radio-man, glaring at him…
“MR. ALASTOOOOR!”
Nifty’s shrill voice echoed through the hallway a split second before the little imp pushed open the door without knocking. She burst in like a whirlwind of color and movement, completely confident in her impulsive act and emboldened by the fact that the “On Air” sign was off.
“There’s a problem on the second floor! The pipes exploded, again! There’s hot water chasing Angel Dust, and I think he’s learning to talk!”
The woman in black barely blinked, her expression minimal. Alastor slowly withdrew his hand from her shoulder, noticing the intrusion, as if releasing a delicate object, or perhaps simply to maintain that touch a little longer.
“How inconvenient…” he said with an almost theatrical calmness for the situation.
Nifty turned to face her then, observing her for the first time. Her giant eyes blinked like freshly washed dishes.
“Oh.” That was all she said. Something between surprise and confusion, as if there were a camera in front of her. Paralyzed, dumbfounded. “I need you to come now,” she insisted a few seconds later, addressing Alastor after recovering from her sudden revelation. “The water insulted me!”
The newly summoned man straightened his posture, his smile returning to public mode.
“Very well… Take care of the map for me, sweetheart.”
She simply nodded once.
“Go.”
The red demon left the room with the same elegance with which he had entered, and Nifty trotted after him urgently. The intruder returned to the table, but let her gaze drift to the closing door, gauging the potential disaster of what had just transpired: Nifty, the most gossipy, observant, and least discreet creature in the Hotel—if not in all of Hell—had seen her.
And that, inevitably, would reach someone else’s ears…
Smiling in anticipation of the whole scandal, the woman calmly returned to her main task, doing what she did best:
Serving coffee.
— ꨄ —
To no one’s surprise, the situation wasn’t so catastrophic: a burst pipe, a boiling puddle, Angel Dust shouting obscenities. Just the usual chaos of the Hotel, really. Alastor resolved the problem in less than two minutes, turning valves with his tentacles and striking a section of the wall with his cane as if the very simplicity of the conflict owed him obedience, peacefully calming the not-so-peaceful situation.
Although, in reality, it was more of a reaction.
Charlie allowed herself a sigh of relief. Vaggie frowned, as always. Husk barely looked up from his cocktails, and Angel posed dramatically with his back against the wall, still reeling from his very recent survival of his accidental murder.
And just as calm seemed to return, Nifty raised her hand.
“Mr. Alastor! By the way!”
Everyone turned to her. Alastor did too. That small gesture was enough for Nifty to feel she was doing something important, which made her feel excited.
“Who is the woman in your room?”
And so a thick, sticky silence fell, perhaps too demonic, even for the hotel.
Charlie lost her voice, beginning to wonder at what time the Radio Demon had brought a corpse up to her room. Vaggie, beside her, opened her mouth in horror, echoing her girlfriend’s thoughts. Angel Dust choked on his own cigarette while Husk cursed under his breath. Sir Pentious—who didn’t even have a reason to be there—dropped one of his inventions, believing his snake ears had finally stopped working.
Perhaps Alastor’s smile didn’t change one iota, but the air around him certainly did.
“My wife,” he replied with absolute nonchalance.
And with that answer, no one allowed themselves to breathe. Not even blinking.
The demon in red scanned the entire group as if he were assessing them, though perhaps the “as” was unnecessary, since it was more than obvious that he was.
“Any other domestic matters you wish to discuss?”
The echo of “my wife” still vibrated off the walls of the second floor. It wasn’t the sound itself, but rather the impression it had left everyone stunned, paralyzed, breathing as if oxygen had been replaced by boiling coffee.
As soon as Alastor finished his statement, it took Charlie a full ten seconds to regain the ability to exist.
“Y-You…? Wife? YOU…?”
“And how long have you been hiding something like that?” Vaggie blurted out, pointing her finger at him as if she were facing a serial killer, not an Overlord… Although, to be honest, in this case, there was no difference.
Angel Dust let out a hysterical laugh. “HAHA! Oh, no way! Smiles… he’s married! MARRIED! Oh, Daddy, where were you hiding Mrs. Radio? In the attic? In a freezer? Or did you eat her whole—?”
Alastor’s cane struck the floor once, emitting a sharp vibration. Lethal to the spider’s instincts… So Angel fell silent so quickly he nearly fainted from the exertion.
Husker remained skeptical, watching the scene from the makeshift bar they’d set up to dry soggy bottles. There, he grunted:
“I told you so. When something seems too quiet, double-check.”
Nifty—delighted to have started the social apocalypse—jumped.
“I saw her! She’s so pretty! She had a fancy jacket on and looked so important! And funereal! Who is she? Where did she come from? Does she work here too? What’s her name? Can we be friends? Why was she in her room? Why—?”
“Because she belongs there,” the demon interrupted, with a dangerous gentleness that allowed them to mistake his threat for calm, answering as if he had already thought through countless scenarios where he would respond to the same question in the same way.
The entire group swallowed hard.
And Charlie, always trying to restore harmony, took a few steps closer.
“And… could we… meet her? Sometime?”
Alastor’s red eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were calculating even the air in the room, seriously considering the answer before it slipped from his tongue… Or perhaps he was just taking his time.
“No.” he answered without hesitation.
“Why not?” Charlie asked with genuine curiosity.
He tilted his head, maintaining his characteristic smile.
“Because I don’t wish to expose her to your level of… messiness.”
Vaggie snorted.
“And at what point did you decide we had the right to know something as big as—”
Alastor interrupted again with a smile, this time sharper than any insult.
“At no point. That’s precisely the point.”
Silence fell once more, thick with discomfort, laden with a cruel, undeniable reality: Alastor had never been obligated to tell them anything.
Nothing necessarily related to his privacy, much less anything to do with his relationships, and certainly nothing to do with the possibility that he had… well, a wife.