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The halls of the Hotel were alive with their usual cacophony of footsteps, chatter, and the occasional crash from the upper floors—chaos, yes, but well within the acceptable parameters of Hell.
Alastor, as ever, strode through the lobby with the elegance of a seven-foot-tall broadcast, microphone cane tapping a rhythm only he could hear. His grin gleamed sharp, teeth reflecting the flickering neon light, and his antlers caught the soft haze of the chandeliers.
All it took was one… misstep.
A stray rug, slightly askew, caught his polished slipper in a way the Radio Demon never accounted for. His foot slipped, a delicate stumble turned into a flailing spectacle, and then—crack!—his head collided violently with the edge of the marble countertop.
The sound reverberated like a distorted broadcast, echoing through the lobby. Husk froze mid-sip of his drink. Niffty squeaked. Angel’s multiple arms flailed instinctively. And Vaggie… well, Vaggie had already braced for impact.
Alastor, however, staggered upright as if nothing had happened. His grin remained, wide, unbroken, unnaturally bright. His ears twitched, his antlers wobbled just slightly.
“My, my! What a thoroughly invigorating experience!” he announced cheerfully, brushing an invisible speck from his coat. “A rather… unexpected interlude, wouldn’t you say, dearest friends?”
Charlie, pale and anxious, approached cautiously. “Alastor… are you—?”
“Perfectly splendid, child! Why, nothing a touch of static—and perhaps a jaunty tune—cannot remedy!” Alastor twirled his cane once, once, then twice, giving the illusion of practiced elegance.
Husk grunted. “If by splendid you mean ‘lookin’ like you just got hit by a train,’ then sure.”
Alastor’s grin didn’t falter, but a slight twitch at the corner of his left eye went unnoticed by all but Angel.
For the first hour, he acted his usual self—or at least, a thin veil of his usual self. He hummed. He prattled. He adjusted his bowtie with the exact precision he always did. But subtle things began to betray him.
He miscounted his steps—tripping slightly over air that wasn’t there. His laughter came out too loud, too high-pitched, and then too soft, like a radio skipping a frequency. He hummed, yes, but the tune wavered, fading in and out.
“Ah… yes… splendid breakfast, child!” he announced while pouring coffee into a cup, only to miss entirely, dribbling it across the counter. The steam hissed, mingling with the faint ozone smell that seemed to cling to him.
Charlie frowned. “Alastor… that doesn’t seem like you. Are you sure you’re—?”
“Oh, nonsense! Never have I felt more myself!” Alastor said, twirling suddenly and nearly toppling a chair. “Observe, my dear listener, the poise, the grace! The radio waves of my very soul conduct themselves quite… differently today!”
Angel tilted his head. “Uh… I don’t know, boss… he’s kinda… off.”
“Off? My dear insect of exuberance,” Alastor said, kneeling suddenly and hopping back up with an almost dizzying flourish, “I am always… precisely as intended! A touch more… avant-garde, yes, a hint of experimental jazz in my gait!”
Vaggie crossed her arms. “He’s concussed.”
Husk snorted. “Finally realized it, huh?”
Alastor froze mid-step, head tilting sharply. Then, with a grin that might have been too wide, he hummed a single note that wavered like a warped broadcast. “Concussed? Preposterous! I am a beacon of radiance! A symphony of static! A—oh…”
He paused. His ears drooped slightly. He spun in place, eyes darting. Then… collapsed onto a nearby chair in a sudden, dramatic slump. “—fascinating. Absolutely… fascinating.”
Charlie rushed over, gently touching his shoulder. “Alastor, you’re hurt. You need to sit still—”
Alastor’s grin twitched, and his voice dropped into a low, garbled static hum. “Sit… still…? But the waves… they demand movement! They call!”
Angel peeked around him nervously. “He’s not making sense…”
Husk muttered, sipping his drink with uncanny calm, “Yep. Definitely concussed.”
Alastor, suddenly serene, leaned back and let out a soft, uneven laugh that sounded like a broken record trying to keep time. “How… curious,” he murmured. “The world… dances differently through fractured signals…”
Charlie, exasperated, sighed. “Alright… someone get him to the couch before he breaks everything.”
Alastor’s grin, ever resilient, widened once more, though slightly crooked. “Ah… my dear listeners, worry not! The broadcast continues… albeit on… a slightly different frequency.”
And somewhere in the back, Niffty squeaked and clapped. “He’s funny! I like the funny!”