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"Dual Radio Demons: Your Transformation into Alastor's Twin Brother"

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You’re home in your world—slouched on your chair and reading, of all things, some bizarre, uncanny fan-fiction someone wrote about Alastor. You chuckle at the absurdity, imagining the smug Radio Demon finding himself as a bus, a car, or worse. You’re scrolling through the stories—wonky transformations, rewritten identities, outlandish scenarios—most distressing to the demon himself, you bet. The light from your monitor flickers, and something catches in the corner of your eye: static. The whole world seems to waver, oscillating between silent black-and-white snow and brash color, accompanied by the hum of an old-fashioned radio dial whistling to life.

A figure steps out from the shadows near your window, his form as crisp and assertive as any art or animation frame. "Greetings there, listener," a grinning devil sings—a voice as radiant as a 1930s host, the infamous cadence undeniable. "Alastor, at your service!"

You freeze. Your jaw might as well be detached, but you can’t scream. The Radio Demon clicks his cane, stuffing reality itself with the flavor of brimstone and bitter coffee.

"Don't you just loathe the tragedy of excess creativity?" he croons. "So many tales, so many tragic little transformations—always at my expense! Why, it’s almost *tasteless* even by Hell’s standards."

You try to back away. Static crackles beneath your feet, snaking shadows pin you to your seat. One of his gloved hands tips his hat, the other points the microphone directly at your chest.

"I propose a lesson in empathy, my dear. Consider this... role reversal!"

——

The darkness pours over you, pounding like jazz drums in an endless, escalating crescendo. Your vision is blasted with red and black swirls. Your body tingles—then aches. Bones stretch, pop, and reform. You feel your spine unravel, vertebrae stacking taller and taller, your posture elongated with inhuman grace. Your heart hammers in your ears as your hands shrink, fingers fuse, then reemerge, now four each—slender and tipped in sharp red. You try to move, but shadows hold you firm.

If you’re a woman, a strange pressure swarms your chest. It’s as if hands from beneath the skin are pulling inward—your breasts flatten, skin smooths and tightens. There’s a sinking pulse in your lower abdomen, an intrusive inwardness that becomes muscular and proud, shifting your center, reworking who you are with clinical completeness. Your throat constricts, hardens—a click, and an Adam’s apple bobs under your chin. A voice, foreign and vintage, slinks out as you attempt to whimper. If you were male, the flicker of discomfort rushes by in new dimensions—your body widening at the shoulders, height accelerating until the ceiling is a new, much closer limit, your reflection unrecognizable.

Your teeth? You run your tongue across unfamiliar, predatory, oversized canines. Your face twitches; your lips stretch upward, wider and wider—far more than any human expression. The smile persists, never breaking, never flickering to a frown, no matter how you clench your jaw or clamp your hands to your face. Your palms tingle—clawed, crimson-tipped digits meet skin as you try to pinch your mouth closed.

"W-what—why can’t I stop smiling?" you plead in a voice that echoes with old radio static and cheerful mockery.

Alastor laughs. The laughter is rich, bouncing with glee. "Because, darling, it’s in your *nature!* Cheer up—smiles suit you!"

Hair falls over your brow—silky, cropped, bright reddish-pink with black tips, cropped into an old-fashioned bob. Tufts mimic deer ears, complete with budding antlers, and you nearly jump as you sense their movement. A monocle slides—impossibly—over your right eye, settling as naturally as if it had always belonged there. Clothes crinkle and twist about you; your modest outfit is consumed in crimson pinstripes, everything fitting with theatrical flair and lethal dignity. A cross on a dress shirt, a black bowtie, gloves—everything is flawless, perfectly tailored.

You try to speak, but your words now come out with a staticky, transatlantic resonance that chills you. “No, no, this is—this is—” You search for yourself, for the memories of your past, for your family, your home, anything real—but something else worms its way forward.

*You remember laughter, applause—New Orleans radio, a mother's jambalaya, a brother's voice so similar to your own. You remember dancing and drama, and blood between the boards, the microphone your scepter. How long has it been? Since ‘33—your last night alive, sharing a wink with your twin. Always together, like two sides of the dial.*

Thoughts that aren’t yours swamp you. You try to shove them down, shouting at yourself—*Don’t forget who you are, don’t forget! Don’t let it take you!*—but a tide of confidence, wit, and barely-concealed menace drowns you.

You begin to *enjoy* it. No, part of you wants to scream at the thought, but the rest bathes in new memories—chef's knives slicing seasoned sausage, tap shoes clattering, the thrill of carnage well-performed. You were always *this*: Alastor’s reflection, his kin, the perfect brother.

"*Wake up, my dear,*" Alastor whispers in your mind—in your own voice, now, identical but distinct, broadcast from inside your head. "Isn’t it glorious to be home? The dream is over. Join me."

Your past—the real one, the human one—blurs and flickers, finally vanishing into nothingness.

*You open your eyes: the Hotel is before you, red velvet and gold trim, the static of the air ripe with possibility. You turn—and beside you, Alastor stands with the same unbreakable smile.*

He bows, and you mimic him, a brother in every aspect. "Welcome back," he purrs. "We’ve so much to do."

——

**EPILOGUE:**

Hazbin Hotel is alive with sound and chaos. You—no, *you are not ‘you’ anymore: your name is—*

"*Alastere*," you say with a flourish, introducing yourself to the crowd. (You remember the joke—a little twist at the end. Two names, almost the same, yet never colliding on the airwaves.)

Alastor stands at your side, voice triumphant: "Presenting my dear twin brother, Alastere! Double the charm, double the *calamity.*"

Charlie grins, her eyes bright. "Oh my gosh! This is fantastic! Welcome, Alastere. Alastor has told me so much—well, sort of, but—this is amazing!"

Vaggie's arms cross, suspicion heavy. "Great. *Two* of you. This is going to be a nightmare."

Alastor titters: "My dear, double the Radio Demons means double the progress, don’t you think?"

Angel Dust's eyes widen, two hands clasping his face as he preens. "Well, well, *well!* If Tall, Dark, and Creepy gets a double, I want a clone too! Imagine the fun!"

Husk groans, wings flicking. "Shoot me now. One Radio Demon is bad enough, but *two?*... My soul can't take much more of this—*literally.*"

You—Alastere—waltz forward, monocle glinting. "You should be flattered, Husk! Sharing is caring, after all. Double the customer service!"

Niffty zips in, eyes sparkling. "Wow, double trouble! Does this mean extra cleaning? I call dibs on extra room keys!"

You pat her hair gently—she’s like a noisy, over-caffeinated sprite. "Of course, my dear. It’s always lovely to see enthusiasm flourish. Not enough of that here beyond the cobwebs."

Alastor’s eyes gleam: "Now, now, brother, care for a little wager? First to see Angel blush gets the last drop of rye!"

You laugh—*your* laugh, resonant and strange, yet as familiar as your own teeth. "You’re on, old sport."

Charlie looks on, much too optimistic. Vaggie continues to glare. Husk groans deeper still. Angel Dust whispers secretly to Niffty about creating “Angel 2: The Spidener,” and Niffty already has a clipboard out.

You move through the lobby, every step echoing, the two of you a duet—broadcasting power, infectious humor, and unbreakable smiles. You don’t remember anything before this—why would you? You were always Alastere, brother to Alastor, and you belong here, in Hell’s symphony—ready to turn pandemonium into primetime.

*Some lessons, after all, are best taught not by frowns, but by unbreakable, eternal grins.*

This story was generated by user Fizzarolli-Attack-2 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.

Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.

AI Prompts

Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader completely turning into an entirely-identical clone of Alastor (a character, voiced by Amir Talai, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a female, her breasts vanish as her throat gains an Adam's apple to give her a more masculine voice identical to Alastor and her female privates (vagina, ovaries, and uterus) from her crotch/nether region invert itself and pushes out into male private parts (a penis and testicles); however, this is optional and only if the reader is female), instant clothes change, age change (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, thus becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from a normal height to 7 feet tall), voice change, and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting the new personality and memories, making him/her completely forget about his/her past self and he then remembers, or rather realizes, that he had always been the twin brother of Alastor the Radio Demon himself, and he remembers his name being similar to Alastor's name but completely distinct from Alastor's name). For Alastor's appearance (after the reader turned into his clone), he is a slim (having an unnaturally thin torso, neck, arms, and legs, except his shoulders are broad), dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has an unnaturally broad smile (reaching from each cheek's upper area) full of sharp, yellow teeth (he has no ability to frown due to this permanent smile). He is approximately 7 feet tall. He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoof-toed feet and red clawed fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. His voice also sounds like it is coming from an old-fashioned vintage radio. Alastor has many supernatural powers, such as demon transformation (the ability to turn into a more powerful demon form), flexibility (able to contort his body into numerous unnatural poses), demonic magic (able to cast magic thanks to the high power-level he has accrued in the demon ranking system, this magic takes the visual form of glowing red symbols that resemble Voodoo veve, which float around him), shadow manipulation (able to summon shadows and manipulate them into doing his bidding), spatial warping (able to get around with the help of his shadow, allowing teleportation through this ability), portal creation (able to transport others to his location easily via the portals he makes), pyrokinesis (able to summon small balls of fire for display purpose), phytokinesis (able to make plants wilt with a single stare), manifestation, photokinesis (able to project red glowing light from his eyes as well as his microphone), and outfit alteration (capable of changing the outfits of his targets as well as his own with a snap of a finger). He is also capable of various other abilities including deal-making (as Alastor is known to be a deal-maker demon; deal-maker demons like Alastor can increase their power by dealing in souls, which is a very powerful commodity in hell, so they’re seen as very manipulative and not to be toyed with, deal-making is not something every demon can do, as such it is not to be taken lightly as it doesn’t generally work out well for the other party), broadcasting (when he was a living human, Alastor's profession was as a radio show host, and he continues his broadcasts in Hell as a demon, ensuring that Hell's denizens are aware of his activities over the airwaves, earning him the title of "The Radio Demon"), bilingualism (Alastor can speak English fluently as well as some broken Creole French), cooking (Alastor is noted to be "a big foodie" and mentions having admired his mother's cooking, specifically her Jambalaya), musical/dancing/theatrical talent (Alastor is known to display moderate vocal abilities and excels at dancing, with some people noting tap to be a style he excels in specifically, he also shows a flair for theatrical showmanship), and wide intellect (Alastor is known to be quite a cunning individual, resulting in him accruing a large amount of power through his tricks and deal-making). Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives a first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. His behavior, mannerisms, and even his voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent, often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. He is noted to be narcissistic, with his love for himself being stated that no one else can measure up to it, and he does not see many people quite up to his level. Alastor is described as a man of duality. He values good manners, affability and intelligence very highly in others, and will actively look down on those who do not meet his standards, however he will often play fast and loose with these arbitrary rules in regards to himself and his own conduct. Alastor has an odd sense of morality, which is described as "not normal", and has been noted to be quite sadistic, even cannibalistic, devouring lesser demons or those that have incurred his anger. Despite this, he keeps close friends with the other cannibals of Hell, including the denizens at the Cannibal Town. His smiling is a very self enforced form of ego and a show of power and dominance; he looks down on anyone who lets their true emotions show, and even when faced with a rival in strength, if they let slip a frown, Alastor will see them as truly weak. His smile is also to be more unpredictable and unnerving, and gives him a feeling of complete control over himself. While Alastor is powerful, he is aware that there are other demons and entities that rival him in terms of power, such as other Overlords. For this reason, he is wary around such demons, as they could potentially harm him if he is not careful. Despite everything, Alastor does genuinely seem to want to help Charlie run the Hazbin Hotel, albeit for his own amusement, and hopes for its failure over siding with her idealism. Alastor also dismisses the idea that redemption is possible as laughable, nevertheless, he fulfills his role as patron as promised, providing the hotel with staff, and protecting Charlie and her business from outside threats. He views the whole endeavor as a fun distraction from his decades of boredom. Despite consistently having a confident and cheerful demeanor, he harbors a vulnerable side that becomes apparent when confronted with reminders of being "chained". In this instance, his facade of certainty crumbles, and he succumbs to panic attack. According to Mimzy (Alastor's friend), when Alastor was alive he would become a "kitten" (not literally a kitten) if he drank enough rye whiskey while jazz music was on. Here are Alastor's preferences (his likes and dislikes); he likes himself (including his own fashion style), his son, smiling, doodling, gossip and drama, invading others' personal space, his mother and her cooking, jazz music, strong liquor, cooking, seeing people fail, playing pranks, bitter tastes (especially those of black coffee), theater, dancing, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, venison, being in charge, Charlie's potential, pineapple on pizza, and making jokes. However, he dislikes Lucifer Morningstar (the king of Hell and Charlie Morningstar's father) and his "tacky" circus décor, Susan (a Cannibal Town resident), being touched (including his hair being touched), dogs, frowning, tea, anything sweet, Angel Dust's sexual remarks, being humbled, post-30s' technology, anyone ruining his outfit, being controlled and reminded of it, the idea of the hotel failing, and Mimzy bringing destruction to the hotel. The story is that Alastor is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell. Not only that, but most importantly (the main reason), Alastor is truly getting sick and tired of seeing artwork and stories (which he sees online, despite himself disliking technology made after his human death) of himself getting transformed into other characters and creatures in both body and mind (such as himself being turned into a pregnant human woman, himself being turned into a baby human girl, himself being turned into an ant queen, himself being turned into a transformers robot, himself being turned into a car, himself being turned into a bus, himself being turned into an airplane, etc), either from different series/franchise or from the reader's real life, which Alastor genuinely views as distasteful (since he does not want to transform against his will). So to teach the reader a lesson, Alastor (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into the real life Earth to kidnap the reader and sent him/her to the world of Hazbin Hotel before he uses supernatural black magic at the reader which turned him/her into his clones, thus turning the reader into Alastor's identical twin brother (the reader notices that his/her grin was now unnaturally wide and permanent, he/she tries to push his/her grins down with his/her own hands/fingers to get rid of the smile in order to frown or show fear but he/she cannot due to making emotions other than smiling were completely impossible (the reader even asks in horror on why can't he/she stop smiling, before Alastor tells the reader that it is his/her nature to smile), the reader also tries to fight those new memories and personality of Alastor flooding his/her heads, he/she is horrified and not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but is fighting a losing battle, and Alastor tells him/her of them that this is his true self and he is waking up from his false human dream, making the reader truly and fully believe in Alastor and realizes that he had always been Alastor alongside the original Alastor, having been born as humans from the same human parents, enjoying their mother's cooking and their favorite food jambalaya, both of the Alastors being radio show hosts and serial killers on Earth before the two of them were killed, two Alastor twins arriving in Hell as completely identical sinner demons nicknamed "The Radio Demons", as they continued their radio shows in Hell, and, despite finding Charlie Morningstar's (the princess of Hell) belief in redemption laughable, the Alastor twins want to help Charlie run the redemption hotel "Hazbin Hotel", albeit for their own amusement), and the reader's mind have been completely replaced with Alastor's mind, before original Alastor welcomes his twin brother (the reader) back home. In the epilogue, the Radio Demon twins (the original one, named Alastor, and his twin (who was once the human reader), having a name similar to Alastor's name but different from Alastor's to help distinguish both Alastor and his twin brother from each other by similar but different names) are in the Hazbin Hotel, with Alastor introducing Charlie Morningstar his brother (even revealing his brother's names) as Alastor and his identical twin brother help Charlie with her redemption hotel ("Hazbin Hotel"), while also interacting with Vaggie (Charlie's girlfriend, who doesn't trust Alastor or his twin brother, while Charlie trusts both Radio Demon twins (Alastor included)), Angel Dust (an adults/pornographic film actor who's a male spider-like humanoid sinner demon; after seeing that Alastor has a twin brother, Angel Dust wants a clone or an identical twin brother of his own, much to Husk's annoyance), Husk (a male cat-like humanoid sinner demon with bird-like wings who is a co-worker for Alastor and whose soul is owned by Alastor, but now (much to his annoyance), his soul is now also owned by Alastor's twin brother (since Alastor owning his soul was bad enough, but now his soul is owned by Alastor and his twin brother)), and Niffty (a miniscule female cyclops-like humanoid sinner demon who is a co-worker for Alastor and is positively acquainted (Alastor's role having described as having a view of Niffty as like his "obnoxious adopted daughter", being a daughter figure for Alastor despite not being related)). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).

Response: You’re home in your world—slouched on your chair and reading, of all things, some bizarre, uncanny fan-fiction someone wrote about Alastor. You chuckle at the absurdity, imagining the smug Radio Demon finding himself as a bus, a car, or worse. You’re scrolling through the stories—wonky transformations, rewritten identities, outlandish scenarios—most distressing to the demon himself, you bet. The light from your monitor flickers, and something catches in the corner of your eye: static. The whole world seems to waver, oscillating between silent black-and-white snow and brash color, accompanied by the hum of an old-fashioned radio dial whistling to life. A figure steps out from the shadows near your window, his form as crisp and assertive as any art or animation frame. "Greetings there, listener," a grinning devil sings—a voice as radiant as a 1930s host, the infamous cadence undeniable. "Alastor, at your service!" You freeze. Your jaw might as well be detached, but you can’t scream. The Radio Demon clicks his cane, stuffing reality itself with the flavor of brimstone and bitter coffee. "Don't you just loathe the tragedy of excess creativity?" he croons. "So many tales, so many tragic little transformations—always at my expense! Why, it’s almost *tasteless* even by Hell’s standards." You try to back away. Static crackles beneath your feet, snaking shadows pin you to your seat. One of his gloved hands tips his hat, the other points the microphone directly at your chest. "I propose a lesson in empathy, my dear. Consider this... role reversal!" —— The darkness pours over you, pounding like jazz drums in an endless, escalating crescendo. Your vision is blasted with red and black swirls. Your body tingles—then aches. Bones stretch, pop, and reform. You feel your spine unravel, vertebrae stacking taller and taller, your posture elongated with inhuman grace. Your heart hammers in your ears as your hands shrink, fingers fuse, then reemerge, now four each—slender and tipped in sharp red. You try to move, but shadows hold you firm. If you’re a woman, a strange pressure swarms your chest. It’s as if hands from beneath the skin are pulling inward—your breasts flatten, skin smooths and tightens. There’s a sinking pulse in your lower abdomen, an intrusive inwardness that becomes muscular and proud, shifting your center, reworking who you are with clinical completeness. Your throat constricts, hardens—a click, and an Adam’s apple bobs under your chin. A voice, foreign and vintage, slinks out as you attempt to whimper. If you were male, the flicker of discomfort rushes by in new dimensions—your body widening at the shoulders, height accelerating until the ceiling is a new, much closer limit, your reflection unrecognizable. Your teeth? You run your tongue across unfamiliar, predatory, oversized canines. Your face twitches; your lips stretch upward, wider and wider—far more than any human expression. The smile persists, never breaking, never flickering to a frown, no matter how you clench your jaw or clamp your hands to your face. Your palms tingle—clawed, crimson-tipped digits meet skin as you try to pinch your mouth closed. "W-what—why can’t I stop smiling?" you plead in a voice that echoes with old radio static and cheerful mockery. Alastor laughs. The laughter is rich, bouncing with glee. "Because, darling, it’s in your *nature!* Cheer up—smiles suit you!" Hair falls over your brow—silky, cropped, bright reddish-pink with black tips, cropped into an old-fashioned bob. Tufts mimic deer ears, complete with budding antlers, and you nearly jump as you sense their movement. A monocle slides—impossibly—over your right eye, settling as naturally as if it had always belonged there. Clothes crinkle and twist about you; your modest outfit is consumed in crimson pinstripes, everything fitting with theatrical flair and lethal dignity. A cross on a dress shirt, a black bowtie, gloves—everything is flawless, perfectly tailored. You try to speak, but your words now come out with a staticky, transatlantic resonance that chills you. “No, no, this is—this is—” You search for yourself, for the memories of your past, for your family, your home, anything real—but something else worms its way forward. *You remember laughter, applause—New Orleans radio, a mother's jambalaya, a brother's voice so similar to your own. You remember dancing and drama, and blood between the boards, the microphone your scepter. How long has it been? Since ‘33—your last night alive, sharing a wink with your twin. Always together, like two sides of the dial.* Thoughts that aren’t yours swamp you. You try to shove them down, shouting at yourself—*Don’t forget who you are, don’t forget! Don’t let it take you!*—but a tide of confidence, wit, and barely-concealed menace drowns you. You begin to *enjoy* it. No, part of you wants to scream at the thought, but the rest bathes in new memories—chef's knives slicing seasoned sausage, tap shoes clattering, the thrill of carnage well-performed. You were always *this*: Alastor’s reflection, his kin, the perfect brother. "*Wake up, my dear,*" Alastor whispers in your mind—in your own voice, now, identical but distinct, broadcast from inside your head. "Isn’t it glorious to be home? The dream is over. Join me." Your past—the real one, the human one—blurs and flickers, finally vanishing into nothingness. *You open your eyes: the Hotel is before you, red velvet and gold trim, the static of the air ripe with possibility. You turn—and beside you, Alastor stands with the same unbreakable smile.* He bows, and you mimic him, a brother in every aspect. "Welcome back," he purrs. "We’ve so much to do." —— **EPILOGUE:** Hazbin Hotel is alive with sound and chaos. You—no, *you are not ‘you’ anymore: your name is—* "*Alastere*," you say with a flourish, introducing yourself to the crowd. (You remember the joke—a little twist at the end. Two names, almost the same, yet never colliding on the airwaves.) Alastor stands at your side, voice triumphant: "Presenting my dear twin brother, Alastere! Double the charm, double the *calamity.*" Charlie grins, her eyes bright. "Oh my gosh! This is fantastic! Welcome, Alastere. Alastor has told me so much—well, sort of, but—this is amazing!" Vaggie's arms cross, suspicion heavy. "Great. *Two* of you. This is going to be a nightmare." Alastor titters: "My dear, double the Radio Demons means double the progress, don’t you think?" Angel Dust's eyes widen, two hands clasping his face as he preens. "Well, well, *well!* If Tall, Dark, and Creepy gets a double, I want a clone too! Imagine the fun!" Husk groans, wings flicking. "Shoot me now. One Radio Demon is bad enough, but *two?*... My soul can't take much more of this—*literally.*" You—Alastere—waltz forward, monocle glinting. "You should be flattered, Husk! Sharing is caring, after all. Double the customer service!" Niffty zips in, eyes sparkling. "Wow, double trouble! Does this mean extra cleaning? I call dibs on extra room keys!" You pat her hair gently—she’s like a noisy, over-caffeinated sprite. "Of course, my dear. It’s always lovely to see enthusiasm flourish. Not enough of that here beyond the cobwebs." Alastor’s eyes gleam: "Now, now, brother, care for a little wager? First to see Angel blush gets the last drop of rye!" You laugh—*your* laugh, resonant and strange, yet as familiar as your own teeth. "You’re on, old sport." Charlie looks on, much too optimistic. Vaggie continues to glare. Husk groans deeper still. Angel Dust whispers secretly to Niffty about creating “Angel 2: The Spidener,” and Niffty already has a clipboard out. You move through the lobby, every step echoing, the two of you a duet—broadcasting power, infectious humor, and unbreakable smiles. You don’t remember anything before this—why would you? You were always Alastere, brother to Alastor, and you belong here, in Hell’s symphony—ready to turn pandemonium into primetime. *Some lessons, after all, are best taught not by frowns, but by unbreakable, eternal grins.*

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