Chapter Text
It had been two months since Vox’s failed attempt at overthrowing Lucifer and breaching the gates of Heaven.
Two months since chaos had nearly rewritten the balance between realms.
It was safe to say that both Heaven and Hell were furious.
For entirely different reasons.
Heaven burned with righteous fury that a mere sinner had dared to ascend—had dared to attack their domain—and worse, had managed to injure one of their own. Not just any angel, but their Angel of Joy. Emily. A being meant to embody light, laughter, and warmth… scarred by something born of Hell.
Hell, on the other hand, was outraged in a far less noble way.
A sinner had attempted to overthrow Lucifer himself.
He had insulted the Princess of Hell.
Captured their king.
Used him—used Lucifer—as a living battery to power an angelic weapon.
And then, as if that weren’t enough, he had tried to invade Heaven.
It was an insult.
A humiliation.
An unforgivable display of arrogance.
There had been only one unified conclusion across Pentagram City:
Vox and anyone who stood with him needed to be hunted down.
Erased.
Alastor had volunteered.
Of course he had.
Whether it was for pride, amusement, or something far more personal, no one could quite say. But since that day, the Radio Demon had been… busier than usual.
And yet—
Despite all of that…
Despite the chaos, the politics, the lingering tension between realms…
There was something else that had quietly taken root in the aftermath.
Something far more peculiar.
The doors of the hotel burst open in a soft wash of blue light.
“Hi everyone!”
Emily stepped inside like a living sunrise, her presence instantly warming the room. Her hands were clasped neatly behind her back, posture bright and eager—almost bouncing with restrained excitement.
Her wings fluttered lightly.
One of them gleamed.
Gold.
A finely-crafted prosthetic, radiant and intricate, each feather shaped from divine metal that caught the light just a little too perfectly. It moved almost naturally… almost.
A reminder.
Of the battle.
Of what she had done.
Of who she had saved.
So far, even Heaven’s most skilled angelic medics had been unable to restore what had been lost.
And yet—Emily didn’t seem to mind.
If anything… she carried it proudly.
“It’s so good to see you all again!” she beamed.
Charlie lit up instantly. “Emily!!” She rushed forward, throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. “Oh my gosh, we weren’t expecting you back so soon!”
Vaggie lingered nearby, arms crossed, though her expression softened at the sight. “Yeah… last time didn’t exactly end quietly.”
Angel Dust sat lazily on the couch, one brow raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Speak for yourself, toots. I love a dramatic exit.”
Emily laughed—bright, melodic, effortlessly genuine.
And then—
Her gaze shifted.
Locked.
There he was.
Alastor stood near the radio console, cane resting in one hand, posture relaxed yet impossibly composed. His ever-present grin was as sharp as ever, a fixed expression that never quite reached his eyes.
Those eyes met hers.
And for the briefest moment—
Something lingered.
Recognition.
Interest.
Something unspoken.
Then he tipped his head ever so slightly.
“Ah! The radiant seraph returns.” His voice crackled warmly through that vintage radio filter, rich with charm and theatrical flair. “To what do I owe this… continued interest?”
Emily stepped toward him.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Just… direct.
A little too direct.
She stopped just within his space—closer than most would dare.
“Oh, you know!” she said cheerfully. “Just checking in! Making sure everyone’s doing okay.”
Her eyes never left his.
Not once.
Not when she spoke.
Not when he responded.
Not even when the room around them resumed its quiet movement.
Alastor noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He always noticed.
But his smile didn’t falter.
Not even slightly.
Later, as the group settled into the lounge, the energy had shifted into something more relaxed.
More casual.
More observant.
Angel Dust sat on the couch like he bought the furniture. After the chaos with Vox, after everything had spiraled out of control, Angel had made a choice. His own choice. For the first time since selling his soul to Valentino, he’d convinced himself that going back was something he decided. Not forced. Not manipulated. Just… his. It didn’t last.
With Vox and his allies being hunted across Hell, the studio became a liability, and Husk and Cherri eventually showed up to drag his ass back—whether he liked it or not. They hadn’t come alone. Alastor had gone with them, just in case Valentino decided to make things difficult. What none of them expected… was Alastor’s reaction.
The moment he stepped inside that studio and saw what passed for “work”—the condition of the workers, the damage, the quiet suffering worn into the walls—something in him shifted. Alastor was many things. A sinner. A murderer. A monster.
But professionals have standards.
And this? This was beneath them. By the time they left, there had been no grand display, no theatrical violence—just a quiet, razor-thin promise. A blood oath. The Vees had made an enemy of the Radio Demon. And Alastor intended to see them dead.
Angel leaned toward Vaggie who was sitting on the other couch, not even bothering to lower his voice.
“I’m just saying’, she’s been dropping’ by a LOT lately.”
Vaggie’s eye flicked toward Emily, then back. “Ever since that fight.”
Charlie tilted her head, confusion written plainly across her face. “What do you mean?”
Angel gestured lazily across the room.
Emily stood beside Alastor again.
Of course she did.
Close.
Talking animatedly, hands moving as she spoke, her expression bright and engaged. She laughed at something he said—something that, by all accounts, hadn’t been particularly funny.
“They’ve been glued together ever since she yanked him outta that angelic cannon blast,” Angel said. “Like… weirdly glued.”
Vaggie narrowed her eye slightly. “Attached.”
Angel’s grin widened. “Fixated.”
Across the room—
Alastor’s smile twitched.
Just barely.
So subtle that no one but the most observant would have caught it.
“Alright, everyone!” Charlie clapped her hands together, pulling attention back to the center of the room. “Group activity time!”
A collective groan followed.
Except from one.
Emily perked up instantly, wings giving a small, excited flutter—gold feathers catching the light.
“I’ve set up a trust-building exercise!” Charlie continued enthusiastically. “We’ll pair up and—”
“I’ll go with Alastor!”
Too fast.
Too immediate.
Too certain.
The room fell quiet.
Emily blinked, still smiling, completely unaware that anything about that had been… unusual.
Alastor paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
A flicker.
A calculation.
Then he chuckled.
“Well now,” he said smoothly, stepping forward with effortless grace, “how could I refuse such enthusiasm?”
Charlie beamed. “Great! Perfect!”
Vaggie leaned slightly toward Angel, voice low. “That was… immediate.”
Angel snorted. “Called it.”
The activity itself was, by all accounts, forgettable—some structured exercise in trust, communication, and emotional openness that Charlie had likely spent far too long preparing. Under normal circumstances, it might have held the group’s attention.
But none of that mattered.
What mattered… was Emily.
She remained just within Alastor’s space the entire time. Not touching—never quite crossing that invisible line—but close enough that it was impossible not to notice. Close enough that it lingered.
She leaned in when he spoke, giving him her full, undivided attention, as if every word he said carried weight. Once, she finished his sentence before he could. Then again, not long after.
“And so, the purpose of this exercise is—”
“To build trust!” Emily chimed brightly, practically glowing with enthusiasm.
Alastor turned his head slightly to look at her. His smile remained perfectly intact—sharp, polished, unchanging as ever. But behind it… something shifted. Something subtle, fleeting, and just slightly out of place.
“Indeed,” he replied smoothly.
For the briefest moment, his radio filter crackled—soft and faint, like a flicker of interference slipping through the signal.
And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
That night, the hotel had settled into an unusual quiet. The kind that only came after a long day of forced activities and lingering tension—when even Hell itself seemed to take a breath.
Inside his room, Alastor stood near his worktable, meticulously adjusting the dials on a half-finished radio set. He hummed faintly to himself, an old tune lost to time, his movements precise and practiced. The soft glow of dim lighting cast long shadows along the walls, stretching and curling in familiar shapes.
Then—
A sound.
Faint. Delicate.
Barely there.
“🎶 Daisy… Daisy…”
Alastor paused, one hand still resting on the radio dial. His ears twitched slightly, head tilting just a fraction as he listened.
Silence followed.
He blinked once, then straightened, brushing the moment aside with a quiet hum of amusement. “Curious,” he muttered under his breath, returning to his work. “Must be the wiring.”
But then—
“🎶 Give me your answer, do…”
The voice returned, clearer this time.
Closer.
Alastor’s hand stilled.
The melody was soft. Almost sweet.
Almost.
Slowly, deliberately, his smile began to widen—not with joy, but with intrigue. With interest. With that familiar spark of something just a little unsettling.
He set his tools down and made his way toward the door, each step unhurried, measured.
He opened it.
The hallway beyond was empty.
Silent.
Still.
No movement. No trace of life.
Nothing… save for a single blue feather resting on the floor just beyond the threshold, faintly illuminated by the low light of the corridor.
Alastor’s gaze dropped to it.
He leaned slightly, studying it, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
Then his head tilted.
“…how peculiar.”
The following evening found Alastor far from his room.
High above Pentagram City, within his broadcasting tower, the Radio Demon stood surrounded by flickering screens and humming equipment, their static-laced glow reflecting in his eyes. His attention, for once, was not on entertainment—but on something far more pressing.
The hunt.
Vox’s network had collapsed faster than expected. His allies had already been dragged into the light one by one—Zeezi among them, along with those two insignificant overlords whose names Alastor never quite cared to remember. One had begged. One had fought. Neither outcome had changed their fate.
Even Mastero had bent the knee in his own way, striking a deal with Charlie: five years of service at the hotel, stripped of his overlord status, in exchange for eventual forgiveness.
Pathetic.
And yet…
Effective.
But Vox himself?
Velvette.
Valentino.
Gone.
Vanished without a trace.
Alastor’s smile thinned slightly as he adjusted a dial, static flaring across one of the screens. He had theories—of course he did. Perhaps they had fled beyond the Pride Ring. Perhaps deeper. Perhaps somewhere they thought even he could not reach.
It didn’t matter.
Their luck would run out.
It always did.
Meanwhile—
Back at the hotel—
His room did not stand unguarded.
His shadow remained.
Curled low against the floor, stretched thin across the dim light like spilled ink, its form subtly shifting with the flicker of the room’s glow. It was still. Watchful. A silent extension of its master’s will.
A knock came at the door.
Soft.
Measured.
Polite.
The shadow did not move.
No answer came.
A pause followed.
Then—
“🎶 Daisy… Daisy… give me your answer, do…”
The shadow stirred.
Its form rippled slightly, edges pulling inward as if bracing against something unseen.
Outside the door, Emily stood waiting.
Her hands were clasped neatly in front of her, posture relaxed as she gently swayed in place, her voice carrying that same bright, melodic warmth. Her golden wing caught the faint hallway light, gleaming softly with each subtle movement.
Her expression was calm.
Content.
Patient.
Like she had nowhere else to be.
“🎶 I’m half crazy… all for the love of you…”
The shadow recoiled.
Not in fear.
But in discomfort.
Something about this… was wrong.
Later—
Alastor returned.
The moment he stepped inside, his shadow rose to meet him, reforming at his feet like a loyal hound returning to heel. Its shape shifted, restless, eager.
No one truly understood the nature of Alastor’s shadow. Whether it was a separate entity or simply an extension of his own being mattered little.
They were one.
Two halves of the same whole.
And because of that… no words were needed.
Alastor adjusted his coat, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeve. “What is it, old friend?” he asked idly.
The shadow flickered.
Shifted.
Pressed forward.
Alastor paused.
“…what do you mean you heard the angel singing?”
The room fell still.
His smile did not change.
But his eyes…
Those told a different story.
Confusion.
And something sharper.
“…did she now?”
By the third night—
Alastor was prepared.
The moment the first note touched the air beyond his door, he moved.
The handle turned sharply.
The door swung open mid-song.
“🎶—bicycle built for—”
Emily froze.
Mid-sway.
Mid-note.
She blinked once, eyes meeting his.
Then she smiled.
“Oh! Hello, Alastor!”
As if nothing had happened.
As if this were perfectly normal.
As if she hadn’t been standing outside his door… singing.
Alastor regarded her in silence, his gaze lingering just a fraction longer than usual.
Then, slowly, his grin returned in full.
“Good evening, my dear,” he said smoothly. “Might I ask… what precisely you are doing?”
Emily tilted her head, completely at ease.
“I was waiting for you.”
A brief pause.
“And singing.”
Another pause.
Alastor’s grin sharpened ever so slightly.
“…yes,” he said. “I gathered that.”
Later that night, Alastor stood alone once more.
Still.
Composed.
Thinking.
“A curious habit…” he mused aloud, adjusting his sleeve with practiced precision. “Perhaps a cultural expression.”
He paused, considering.
“…a ritual, perhaps?”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Then—
His hand rose, resting lightly against his chest.
There it was again.
That sensation.
Strange.
Unfamiliar.
Unwelcome.
His fingers pressed slightly against the fabric, as if testing whether it was something physical—something real.
“…no,” he murmured softly. “That simply will not do.”
His smile flickered.
Just once.
Brief.
Almost imperceptible.
“…have I been tampered with?”
A beat.
“Poisoned, perhaps?”
His gaze darkened, just for a moment.
“…Vox.”
The name lingered in the air like a threat.
Cold.
Deliberate.
If this was some lingering effect—some final act of defiance—then it would be dealt with accordingly.
Alastor’s fingers curled slightly at his side.
He would find him.
And when he did…
An angelic weapon would ensure the problem was resolved permanently.
Silence settled over the room once more.
Still.
Heavy.
Then—
Faintly.
Soft as a whisper through the cracks of the door—
“🎶 Daisy… Daisy…”
Alastor did not move.
He did not turn.
He did not open the door.
He simply stood there, hand still resting over his chest, listening as the melody drifted through the quiet.
Patient.
Unwavering.
Waiting.
His smile remained.
But beneath it—
Something shifted.
“…this is new.”
And still—
The song continued.