Chapter Text
When he first descended into Hell, Alastor had been quite the... innovative sinner. He made it his mission to prove his worth to the others, the very reason he was there.
Not in the sense of bringing new concepts—murder, manipulation, the thirst for power were as old as Hell itself—but in the presentation. In the style. In the way he turned carnage into a spectacle worthy of broadcast.
Most sinners arrived disoriented, terrified, crawling through the crimson streets as they tried to grasp the magnitude of their eternal damnation... Yet Alastor had arrived smiling. And with the ease afforded by that collar around his neck? He began to climb the ranks of the high-level demons; from overlord to overlord, he showed no mercy when selecting his victims.
His first broadcast occurred three hours after his death.
A lesser Overlord—whose name no one remembered anymore—had tried to claim him as prey in his territory. A fundamental mistake. And the last he would sadly make. Alastor had methodically destroyed him, broadcasting every scream and every plea, every moment of agony through radio waves that saturated Hell. And the best part was that he didn't even use all of that as a warning, but rather as entertainment; a welcome would be a more fitting word. Like that bell that rings when you enter a coffee shop.
Hell, hungry for novelty, had turned to watch with delight.
But what truly accelerated his rise wasn't just his creative brutality. It was the collar.
Invisible to most, yet always present: that ethereal chain around his neck, connecting him to the contract he had signed moments before his arrival. The exact terms remained secret—as did its very existence, for Alastor was careful with such information—but the results were undeniable.
Raw power. Immense and ever-growing.
With each Overlord he eliminated and each soul he claimed, the collar pulsed with energy that seeped into him. It was a twisted symbiosis: he fulfilled—so to speak—the terms of the contract by eliminating "waste" from the infernal ecosystem, and in return, he received the resources to continue doing so.
He was efficient, he was brutal.
He was perfect.
In the city of the pentagram, his name was already being whispered with a mixture of fascination and terror.
"The Radio Demon."
Alastor appreciated the nickname. It had a certain... rhythm. A certain theatricality that complemented his style. And, besides, it was everything he was looking for.
He sat in what had been the office of his seventh victim—an Overlord who controlled an illegal arms district—reviewing soul contracts that now belonged to him. Dozens of lesser demons, all now bound to him through transactions the previous Overlord had executed with stunning negligence.
“Pathetic,” he muttered, incinerating a particularly poorly drafted contract. “How did he survive decades with this incompetence?”
His cane—a gift from his contractual benefactor, though “gift” implied generosity that was definitely lacking—tapped rhythmically on the floor as he methodically considered his next moves.
Seven Overlords in six weeks. Impressive by any standard, but not enough for him.
Not when his true target remained untouched.
He pulled out the mental list he’d been cultivating: names of Overlords who controlled significant territories, valuable resources, or simply existed as obstacles to his continued rise. Some names were already crossed off. Others remained, gleaming with the promise of perhaps future violence; he still had to think carefully about that.
However, there were names on that list that even Alastor, with his characteristic confidence, recognized as... complicated.
Zestial. Ancient, powerful, prudent. Eliminating someone of his caliber required planning that Alastor didn't yet possess, nor did he believe he would, at least not for many years. His time as an ancient granted him invaluable advantages that would be a shame to squander.
Carmilla Carmine. An arms dealer, monopolizing her market. A valuable asset alive. If she died, it would be a waste of strategic resources and long-term alliances. Besides, he didn't dislike her.
Rosie. ...Rosie was in a class of her own, and he really wouldn't bother touching her. Not yet.
Oneira.
He paused carefully at that name, tracing the handwriting with his fingers gently, carefully. He didn't have much information about her. She was a competent owner of a coffee company, the only one above the Pride Circle. An empire built on something as mundane as coffee, yet seemingly with a reach far beyond mere trade, thanks to its monopolization and control. Something that doesn't surprise him at this point in Hell.
Alastor had investigated discreetly—as discreetly as his nature allowed, which wasn't much—and the information was... limited.
Having gathered information about her business, he gleaned that many said the 'Manhattan Café' was just that: a chain of elegant coffee shops frequented by the infernal elite. Places where Overlords negotiated, a warmth where information flowed as freely as caffeine in their bodies.
There wasn't much information about her skills, nor about her hobbies. It seemed the best way to contact her was strictly through business related to the monopoly she had worked so hard to establish.
"Fascinating," Alastor murmured, twirling his cane with an imminent sense of anticipated pleasure.
He decided it was time to move strategically. A moment of reconnaissance, a necessary assessment before the moment of action. He had already dealt with enough high-class individuals, whether necessary or not, and the only exception on his kill list was the owner of the collar that remained firmly embedded around his neck.
With disgust, the demon in red ran his hand along his neck, trying to cool the suffocating feeling that filled him every time he remembered why he was there. Powerful, not just another face in the crowd, just as he wanted.
Adjusting his attire, he decided his broadcast needed new content anyway.
— ꨄ —
The establishment was... unexpectedly sophisticated.
Alastor had anticipated pretentious decor, an atmosphere that screamed "look at me, I'm important, glamorous, and stupid." Instead, he found a certain genuine elegance: soft lighting that made the space feel intimate without being claustrophobic, furnishings that balanced comfort with aesthetics, and a coffee aroma that was genuinely exquisite. It didn't surprise him so much coming from a woman, really.
The clientele was an interesting mix in his eyes: a few minor Overlords whom Alastor recognized, several high-class demons whose faces he'd seen on his rise, and a surprising number of ordinary sinners who could apparently afford the establishment's exclusive prices.
"Welcome to the Manhattan Café." A demon waitress approached with a professional smile. "First visit?"
"Indeed," Alastor replied in his most charming tone. "I've heard... things. Thought I'd experience it for myself."
"Excellent choice." The waitress guided him to a table near the window. "Our menu is here. I recommend the Special Dark Roast if you prefer something strong, or our House Blend if you're looking for something more balanced."
Alastor accepted the menu, scanning it as his eyes also scanned the establishment. He was looking for... something. A presence that would justify the mysterious reputation the lady carried with such grace.
He found nothing, a bit predictably.
"Excuse me," he called to the waitress before she walked away. "I'm curious. Does the owner frequent this establishment? I'd love to express my appreciation for the ambiance in person."
The waitress hesitated. Perhaps only for a moment, but Alastor clearly noticed.
"The lady values her privacy," she replied carefully. "But we'll pass on her appreciation if you'd like."
"How thoughtful." Alastor smiled more broadly. "Then I'll have the Special Dark Roast. And perhaps... some information about the lady. I'm new to Hell, you know. Trying to understand the power structure. Who's who."
The waitress looked at him with a new expression: an assessment mixed with a warning. Though for Alastor, it was difficult to discern whether it was for his own protection or for his mistress's.
"Some friendly advice, sir." Her voice lowered. "Manhattan Café values neutral ground. We make sure that conflicts are left at the door. The lady is... rather particular about maintaining that policy."
"Fascinating." Alastor didn't lose his smile.
The waitress didn't respond verbally to his indirect threat. It had been quite some time since she'd encountered someone who wanted to see the old woman directly; the thought only brought a feeling of unease to her stomach and a premonition of a confrontation she clearly wanted to face.
The atmosphere was thick with a tense feeling invoked by the radio demon. With the receptionist waiting, she began to reconsider her options for contacting the owner in a cool manner. Her gaze shifted to the demon who patiently awaited her response; a sinful one, clearly. She had probably sold her soul for work, so he proceeded to inspect the girl's body in front of him without shame or morbid curiosity. He didn't expect much, for he, more than anyone, was aware of the importance of appearances, yet he was also aware of their insignificance in Hell.
After all, everyone was there for a reason.
And perhaps the woman's reasons weren't related to domestic abuse or abuse of power over the souls under her control. For, again, he found nothing obvious marked on the demon's body.
"I understand," he said finally. "Neutrality respected. Just coffee then."
The waitress nodded approvingly and left with a palpable sense of relief.
Alastor lingered for an hour, sipping genuinely excellent coffee as he observed. The shadows in the corners. The way certain customers avoided specific areas of the establishment. The occasional whispers that abruptly ceased when something—someone—came too close.
When he finally rose to leave, he left a generous payment in appreciation of the quality he had enjoyed, along with a simple note beneath his freshly finished cup:
"Impressive establishment. I would love to discuss business when the lady has time. — A"
He hadn't expected an immediate response, but he had planted a seed.
And Alastor was excellent at nurturing seeds until they blossomed into opportunities.