Chapter Text
There was a certain bittersweet feeling in waking up and realizing you were no longer part of what society believed to be the pinnacle of youth. He was no longer in his twenties.
That was Alastor’s first realization upon waking on the morning of his thirtieth birthday.
It wasn’t discomfort, not even sadness. It was more… exhaustion. As if everything had changed while he slept and now, upon waking, his mind was slightly misaligned with the past and trying to fit into what a portion of the world expected from a thirty-year-old man. Not that he cared about anyone’s expectations, but even so, he felt a little bitter in bed, thinking about all the unbearable comments he would have to hear from now on and how his age might affect the progress of his career.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The early dawn filtered light through the window, spilling a deep blue over the wooden floor of his old apartment. The radio on his nightstand, a device so ancient it seemed to resonate with memories, let out an electric pop, as if reacting to its owner’s awakening.
Alastor always slept little, but today he hardly felt the weight of his body. He sat up in bed, rubbed his face, and took a deep breath. The sensation would not fade.
He got up, put on his white shirt, straightened his vest, placed his glasses on, combed his hair in a mechanical motion and, as he did every morning, tried to find comfort in the static noise of the radio.
But the static did not greet him. On the contrary. It seemed to have become a backdrop for something greater that had yet to take shape.
He left the apartment.
In the building's elevator, the elderly neighbor—always kind to him—extended her wrinkled hand to press the button for the ground floor. Without meaning to, her skin brushed the tips of Alastor’s fingers.
And then, as if it were an involuntary reflex, a strange, intimate, painful phrase formed inside his mind:
“Today is his birthday too… if he were alive…”
Alastor nearly recoiled, as if he had been shocked. His body went rigid, as if he had stepped on thin ice.
The woman smiled at him, innocent.
“Good morning, dear, happy birthday.”
It couldn’t be real. She must have said it out loud without noticing.
“Good morning, thank you, Mrs. Camélia.” His voice came out emotionless.
But it didn’t feel like a voice or a phrase he had overheard by accident. It was a genuine thought, filled with tone, intention, and memory. Vivid colors and clear images, like a film that ran straight through his mind.
They exited into the lobby, she walked toward the mailboxes, and Alastor remained still, staring at the empty space she had occupied.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He must have slept terribly that night, and now he was hallucinating things.
But the feeling didn’t leave.
With each accidental touch from others—the streetcar conductor, the hurried shoeshiner, the receptionist who handed him his mail—phrases, images, desires, and small tragedies passed through him like radio interference, noises and whispers that did not belong to him.
When he arrived at Hazbin Entertainment’s polished golden headquarters, he felt absurdly out of place. The radio was now just one of the company’s many voices, and he, an echo of a time that was beginning to fade.
The headquarters was a corporate aberration: half radio, half television, entirely egocentric. A building that exuded arrogance from the first floor to the last, where the TV studio gleamed like a sanctuary dedicated to the god of ratings.
Alastor loved that place. Or rather, he loved what it had once been.
The golden age of radio. Stories told in the dark. Voices that slipped into the minds of millions. Imagination reigning over image.
But now, the hallways were covered in screens, advertisements…
And at the center of this modern cult of image, there was only one priest capable of making the masses kneel:
Vincent.
Host. Celebrity. Critic’s darling. A man who seemed to meticulously prepare everything to secure every spotlight in the world.
Alastor hated Vincent. With a fervor as refined as aged wine. There was poetry in the way his hatred was so well-constructed.
Vincent was everything radio was not. Visual, immediate, superficial, overly electric.
He was slowly overshadowing Alastor—a brilliant radio host, yet fading in a world trading frequency modulation for bright screens.
Alastor's ego did not take this well. He wanted his throne back. And if that required bringing Vincent down… well. He had already considered less ethical methods.
The building was a strange hybrid between old-world charm and the anxious rush of a future no one could yet imagine. Alastor crossed the lobby with calculated steps, feeling watched by the glass walls and by the noisy youth of the TV staff.
“Radio is dying,” some thought when he passed and brushed against them. He caught fleeting phrases, secret desires for promotions, doubts about their own talent, unfair comparisons. He turned down the main hallway, ignoring the news board where, inevitably, Vincent’s face dominated the month’s headline: “The Voice of a New Era: Vincent Vincent and the Television Revolution.” It was infuriating how that man was everywhere. Always smiling, always shining, always… fashionable.
Alastor quickened his pace, pretending not to care. But the truth was that the more he tried to ignore Vincent, the more the man irritated him. It was far too early to let that fraud get on his nerves.
In the recording studio, Alastor prepared his morning program, adjusting the microphone with the same care as a conductor tuning his instrument. It was a ritual, a comfort. Radio did not require him to smile, did not need a pretty face—only a steady voice and a sharp mind.
But that morning would not be peaceful.
The studio door swung open without ceremony, and Vincent entered—impeccable suit, sharp smile, posture of someone who knew exactly how to command a room.
“Good morning, ‘Radio King’,” Vincent said, his voice coated with a sweet irony, like honey on a blade.
Alastor did not turn around.
“Good morning, ‘Affected Hair.’ Did you come to learn something, or simply to show off?”
Exchanging barbs was routine. But beneath the sarcasm, there was something else—a silent tug-of-war, an almost childish need to assert themselves.
Vincent approached the soundboard, his eyes drifting over the equipment with disdain.
“I just came to see if anyone still remembers how to use these relics.” He picked up one of the headphones and spun it between his fingers. “Don’t you wish to be seen, Alastor? Or have you already grown accustomed to invisibility?”
Alastor smiled, sharp.
“The voice is more powerful when it does not require flashing lights—and a fake white smile that cost an entire program’s budget—to be heard.”
While they traded jabs, Vincent inconveniently reached for the pages containing today’s script. As he pulled the paper, he brushed lightly against Alastor’s shoulder.
“If only you knew that I don’t need to hear you to truly see you—how I see you. All the time. Even when I don’t want to.”
Alastor felt a brief shiver, as if a wave of electricity had passed through him. But there was no longer any physical contact. He froze, gripping the microphone’s stand, his mouth half-open like a dead fish, wondering if he was going mad—if all those murders truly were starting to mess with his head.
“Perhaps one day you will understand, Vincent,” he said, once he realized Vincent was looking at him in an unnatural way. “But don’t worry. A handsome face always finds a place in history. Even if only as a footnote.”
Vincent laughed cynically. But there was something in his eyes—a spark of interest, perhaps even admiration. Alastor did not notice; he never did, and today he was particularly out of sorts.
It was in the break room, that late morning, that everything fell apart.
Alastor sought distraction at the bottom of a cup of black tea when Rosie, an elegant lady and veteran journalist at the company—she had begun by singing songs for the radio, but her charisma had pushed executives to place her in front of the cameras; she was perhaps the exception to the rule that all television hosts were mediocre people—approached him cheerfully.
“Alastor, darling! I heard your interview with the mayor yesterday, it was brilliant!” Rosie said, touching Alastor’s arm in camaraderie.
The world went dark for an instant. A flood of thoughts invaded Alastor’s mind—music, shopping plans, and a hint of something obscure that he could not fully perceive. He stared into nothingness, feeling as though he had stepped into the woman’s body, and it unsettled him. He placed the cup onto the saucer for fear of dropping it, his hands slightly trembling from the shock.
Amidst his internal crisis, he felt a presence behind him—heavy, electric.
“Why is he standing so close?” The mental voice was Vincent’s. He had stolen the sugar from Alastor’s table, even though dozens of empty tables in that damn place had sugar available. His elbow brushed against him. Beyond that absurd sentence, Alastor felt the entire mental landscape of that petty man’s mind. It was like a train wreck—the impact left him paralyzed. The touch had been quick, but the feeling and the emotions pierced through his mind and body like a heavy stone dropped into a frozen lake.
It pulsed with a cold, possessive fury. A jealousy so absolute it felt like a knife pressed to skin. He looked at Rosie, oblivious to everything, and saw how deeply the desire wished for that knife to be at her throat.
Alastor turned his head, finding Vincent standing nearby, holding a cup of coffee, his smile perfectly rehearsed. But the eyes… God, the eyes were predatory. Alastor had always interpreted them as disdain and the sharp rivalry between them. But now Alastor was stunned, wondering whom Vincent had been aiming that look at.
Madness, hallucination—he must have still been asleep at home, lost in a distorted dream. That was the only explanation.
Rosie, unaware of any tension, finished her coffee, smiled, and took her leave, walking away with elegant steps. Vincent settled beside Alastor, leaning casually against the table. He did that sometimes, and Alastor had no idea why the man enjoyed provoking and irritating the weary souls of that infernal place—perhaps it was the excessive hair gel melting his brain.
“She is lively, isn’t she?” Vincent said, emotionless.
Alastor was tense, his heart racing. He never wanted to be near Vincent, but today he wanted it even less. He tried to disguise it, but the taste of anxiety was new and metallic on his tongue.
“I thought you liked her. After all, she is exactly the advertisement you preach—progress and technological advancement, or whatever nonsense they call all that babble,” he replied.
Vincent laughed, a low, almost intimate sound.
“There are people around here who talk but do nothing. I prefer action.”
The radio host scoffed. The silence became heavy, laden with unspoken possibilities. Alastor took a sip of tea, fixing his eyes on the window. His mind was a whirlwind of questions. He hardly noticed Vincent’s presence anymore.
“He… Vincent… jealous? Of me? That cannot be true. Alastor may have misunderstood, and the host was jealous of him with Rosie. That made more sense—she was still young, refined, beautiful, and sang like an angel. Exactly the type who would win Vincent’s heart.”
It must have been a side effect of sleeping poorly. I need more sleep. I need… I need to know what this is.
But then, accidentally, their fingers touched while reaching for the same packet of sugar. Again.
This time, it wasn’t jealousy Alastor heard.
It was pure, raw, desperate desire.
“Your eyes are drifting away, as always. I have never had them to myself. But if you knew what you do to me… if you knew what I think of you… how every smile you exchange with someone else leaves me desolate, blind with envy. You are so unbearable, so brilliant, so… God, I want you to look at me. Only at me. Only at me…”
Alastor dropped the sugar. He froze, his hand trembling slightly.
Vincent looked at him, a half-venomous smile tugging at his lips.
“Are you all right, Alastor?” he asked, laughing mockingly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Vincent. Better than ever. If the face and the legend of our beloved company allow me, I would like to leave. Do whatever you wish with all the sugar.”
Alastor left without looking back. It had been frightening—he was creating unnatural, disturbing fantasies even for the weakest sinner in Hell. Good heavens.
Inside, there was only static. A radio out of tune.
The rest of the day was a parade of small tragedies. Alastor messed up lines in the studio, tripped over his own steps, forgot the names of colleagues he had worked with for years. The voices in his head were a constant buzz, but none were as deafening as Vincent’s.
He found himself looking at Vincent through the studio glass, trying to decipher the man he considered his greatest rival—and the most detestable person he had ever known.
On the way back home, Alastor saw the city lights flickering like radio signals, full of hidden meanings. The world kept changing, with or without him. He needed to use his time to figure out whether he was truly hearing people’s thoughts or if he was sick with some sort of brain tumor. Either option seemed equally bizarre.
Alastor laughed to himself, a short, incredulous sound, lost in the noise of the night. On the taxi radio, an old song played, static and all.
And he thought, “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
Alastor had never paid much attention to superstitions. He wasn’t the type to knock on wood, avoid walking under ladders, or fear black cats (in fact, he felt a certain sympathy for them—after all, they were as misunderstood as good radio hosts these days). But that morning, while trying to ignore the buzzing, he felt he had fallen victim to some particularly cruel cosmic joke.
He even went to the hospital for tests, but there was nothing wrong with his health—no tumors, completely clean.
The first thing he did upon waking was avoid the mirror. He felt ridiculous. He, Alastor, thirty years old, still with a sexual history cleaner than the lab coat of a novice surgeon—and now, apparently, with a serious problem of mental intrusion.
The radio, his usual refuge, only hissed. And it wasn’t just static: it was as if every frequency carried someone else’s whisper, a memory, a secret, a silent tragedy his mind refused to forget. The entire world seemed to have invaded Alastor’s tiny apartment, lying in his bed, drinking his coffee, wearing his slippers.
He tried to distract himself with the newspaper, but the words scrambled. “New television star conquers America,” “Most popular radio show of the 1930s hits lowest recorded audience,” “Vincent nominated for national award.” The paper crumpled between his fingers.
He left home before seven, with the foolish hope that the street air would clear his head. In the elevator, Mrs. Camellia chattered about cakes and ungrateful children. The doorman thought about horse bets. The newsstand boy barely looked at him as he shoved the newspaper into his hands, but his mind screamed, “I need to stop drinking on the job.” Alastor felt a sudden nausea. He considered, for a moment, wearing gloves. Just to test.
Then, on the streetcar to work, he heard what seemed impossible: two teenagers talking behind him, laughing loudly.
“Hey, have you heard that story?” one said, chewing gum. “They say if you reach thirty as a virgin, you get magic powers.”
The other laughed, mocking.
“Like, what? You become a wizard? A sorcerer?”
“I dunno, I think you read minds or become a monk. My aunt swears it happened to her neighbor in Baton Rouge. After turning thirty, the guy got weird and started guessing everything. He made some money and finally got married. After that, he lost the luck or something.”
“Dude, your aunt is insane.”
“Whatever it is, I’m not risking reaching thirty a virgin.”
The teenagers laughed and shoved each other.
Alastor went so stiff that his glasses nearly cracked on his face. The streetcar turned the corner, and he remained frozen, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks.
He got off at the next stop, two blocks earlier than usual, just to avoid any eye contact with his companions in misfortune. He walked through still-damp streets, the smell of coffee and cigarette smoke mixing with the growing fear that he was, in fact, cursed by his own chastity.
He remembered that silly superstition. It was popular among kids at school, especially teenagers in the race to lose their virginity first. It was a nonsense story that circulated around the hallways now and then.
Ridiculous. Childish. An urban superstition to stoke anxiety in young people afraid of being left out.
But Alastor… well… he had turned thirty.
And he was a virgin.
Not out of morality. Not out of shyness or lack of opportunity. But due to a profound disinterest. People were unpredictable. Chaotic. Hungry for things he saw no point in offering.
Touching someone with that level of intimacy sounded about as appealing as trying to pet a porcupine.
At the Hazbin lobby, Christmas decorations already hung from the chandeliers, even though it was only October. It was as if time were in a rush to trample the end of the year, and Alastor felt every second of it.
He took the crowded elevator. He didn’t touch anyone, but a single brush of a shoulder was enough to hear: “If I get that raise, I can finally leave this dump.” Another thought: “Does she really love me?” And farther back: “I wonder if Alastor wears a wig—his hair is so full and shiny.”
“Idiot,” he thought, with a venomous smile. “This hair is all mine, thankfully.”
The third-floor hallway was a parade of inner voices, all wanting something, all dissatisfied. Radio was dying, yes, but egos were eternal. In the studio, Rosie waved at him—her thoughts were gentle: “I need to remember to call Mom.” Alastor felt a strange relief. It was a clean thought, almost refreshing.
When Vincent walked by, they greeted each other with the usual cold nod.
But by accident—or maybe fate, or maybe just another of the universe’s ironies—their hands brushed for a second.
“He looks especially handsome today. Did he notice I got a haircut? No, of course not. He never notices anything. But at least he looked at me. Maybe… if I manage to irritate him a little more, he’ll finally be forced to look at me.”
Alastor dropped the folder he was holding. The sound echoed down the hallway, loose papers scattering.
Vincent raised an eyebrow, that usual smile on his lips, but his eyes sharp, as if trying to decipher the mystery of an unfinished painting.
“Everything under control, Alastor?”
“Perfectly, Vincent. Just practicing for a magic trick,” he replied, gathering the papers with the dignity of a lord, though his thoughts were in tatters.
Vincent curiously crouched to help, and in that brief touch—
“He has such a pretty mole on his face, and that little tulip-shaped nose, I want to bite it. Is he as warm as he looks?”
Alastor dropped the folder again, jerking backward. He cleared his throat, flustered, shoved all the papers back into the folder, and fled before the sensation intensified.
He took refuge in the men’s restroom. He looked at the mirror, saw his own wide eyes, and thought, with bitter irony:
“Congratulations, Alastor. Thirty years old. Virgin. And now, a telepath. Heavens, what horrors did I just hear… It’s so strange to see myself through someone else’s mind. I’m losing my mind, focus, Alastor, focus. Damn it, what was that?”
He looked at his own nose in the mirror’s reflection and then, swallowing dryly, at the beauty mark near his cheek. He didn’t even remember he had one there. A nervous laugh slipped out, followed by an almost overwhelming urge to walk out and scream. He inhaled deeply.
“I need a plan. This has to be reversible. Or at least useful. If this continues, I’m going to lose my mind.”
He returned to the studio determined to avoid any physical contact for a few hours, just to test it. He spent the morning dodging coworkers, refusing handshakes and greetings. The others began whispering: “He’s acting strange today.” “Was he fired?” “Did he finally kill someone?” (that last one, curiously, came from Vincent, from afar, and Alastor nearly laughed aloud).
During the lunch break, he sat alone in the cafeteria, his hands tightly crossed in his lap, as if that could somehow keep the world from invading his head.
Rosie sat beside him, smiling.
“You’re acting strange today, Alastor.”
He smiled back, tense.
“And you’re more perceptive than ever, Rosie.”
She laughed, and her thought was a whisper: “He looks so tired. I wish I could help.”
For a moment, Alastor felt comforted. Perhaps that new “gift” wasn’t only a burden. Maybe—just maybe—he could use it to his advantage.
Later, in the office, he discreetly opened a cheap almanac, the kind filled with tips, horoscopes, and miraculous recipes. He flipped to the section on “curiosities and superstitions.” And there it was: “According to Japanese popular tradition, those who reach thirty years of age as virgins receive an extraordinary gift. Some say it’s the ability to read minds. Others say one becomes a sorcerer. In both cases, caution is advised: great powers bring great headaches.”
Alastor shut the almanac forcefully, almost laughing, almost crying.
“Great. This was all that was missing.”
Deep down, he felt a thin thread of hope. Whether it was a blessing or a curse, he still didn’t know. But if he had to choose, he would rather keep hearing voices than admit to himself that maybe—just maybe—he was beginning to enjoy hearing them. In a job like his, having a gift like this was invaluable. He was already thinking of countless plans as he walked down the hallway.
At the end of the day, crossing the lobby to leave, Alastor nearly bumped into Vincent again. Their eyes met.
“Today I just wanted to see him smile. It didn’t even have to be at me, just a simple smile for me to see would’ve been enough. Why is it so hard?”
Alastor was caught off guard, and then, when Vincent stood beside him, he offered a small smile to the guard at the entrance—tiny, almost imperceptible. But at the perfect angle for Vincent to see it. He wasn’t entirely sure why he did it, but his lips simply lifted.
“See you tomorrow, Vincent.”
Vincent blinked, surprised, and replied only:
“See you, Alastor.”
And for a second, everything fell silent. The radio, at last, had stopped buzzing.