You are just finishing a fanfiction story—ironically another about Alastor’s transformation—when the lights in your room flicker, a sudden static crawling through the air. The hum rumbles in your skull, a vibration at once familiar yet impossible, as if the walls themselves are tuning into a long-lost frequency.
A crackle. A chirp. A voice emerges, distorted like an ancient radio transmission, as though broadcast straight from 1933 and piped into your present-day life:
“Well, well, what do we have here? A charming little hobbyist meddling in the tales of others. And with such *imagination*, too!”
There he stands: *Alastor*. Clad in his dapper crimson pinstripes, he is every bit as menacing and magnetic as the official artwork—broad grin, looming height, and eyes aglow with devilish light that flickers to an eerie, radio-dial shape. You try to back away, but the room stretches, warping into shadows and red-lit veves. You can *taste* the electricity in the air.
Alastor steps closer, cane click-clicking against a floor that’s become *something else*.
“My, my, what fun you’ve been having!” he croons, monocled eye glinting. “Though I must say, being shoehorned into all manner of bodies and beasts—*that’s* a flavor I find rather unappealing. Don’t you?” He laughs, vintage and sharp, pressing his cane into your chest.
“No worries! It’s only fair the universe gives you a taste of the right medicine. Or metamorphosis, as it were.”
You try to speak, but the air is thick with static, stealing the words from your tongue. Shadows coil and grip you, cold and prickling, sliding under your skin—*inside*.
Your hands splay in horror, but four digits where there should be five—fingers long, elegant, tipped in black and red—are the first giveaways. The color bleeds up your arms, skin paling to beige even as your forearms burn charcoal gray, veins glowing and shifting under the surface, morphing into inky lines and red veves. Your bones stretch and snap as your torso thins, ribs popping and lengthening. The process is seamless, frighteningly smooth, yet leaves an aftershock of unnatural flexibility.
You open your mouth to scream, but only a staticky, radio-static *chortle* escapes—bouncing off the walls with a pitch and cadence you *know*.
No, you think. This *can’t* be happening.
If you’re female, an even deeper current stirs—your chest tightens, breasts pulling in flat as a board, the familiar slopes vanishing beneath a swelling, tailored red dress-shirt. Your core aches, then *flips inside out*, warmth plunging deeper as new forms press forward: a weight, an alien shift between your thighs as flesh moves and arranges itself with a clinical snap, inverting until...
You close your eyes and gasp, voice lowering as your throat thickens, Adam’s apple bobbing into place. “What’s *h-happening* to me?” you try to demand, but the accent laces a musical, vintage static into your words—every syllable radio-sung with that iconic transatlantic flair.
Clothes morph: the world rippling as your sleeves lengthen, hands vanishing beneath black gloves with red-tipped fingers. A red pinstripe coat falls neatly around broadening shoulders, waist nipping in criminally tight, lapels sharp and white-piped. Bright red shirt, black cross blooming over your heart. Black dress pants fall to tailored boots, soles branded with red deer prints. The monocle settles over your newly pointed eye.
Your feet crack, toes fusing to hooves, calves fading to deep gray. You *grow*—up, up, past your old stature, through the roof and into the skies of Hell. Seven feet, lithe and dapper atop long, stylish limbs, hair fizzling and rearranging into a crisp red bob with black-tipped tufts. Black antlers sprout, flicker with a twinge of pain before setting in, regal, lurking.
Then the smile creeps up—stretching your cheeks, tugging your lips wide, sharp yellow teeth stacking in an endless, grinning row. You try to frown, but the muscles simply *won’t move*. Your hands—strange and clawed—scrape desperately at your cheeks to pull the corners down, but nothing changes.
“Why… can’t I *stop* smiling?” you plea, voice crackling from a haunted radio, panic leaking through the enforced cheer.
Alastor’s laugh echoes in the static.
“It is your nature to smile! Why, to do anything else is a sure sign of weakness or, dare I say—regrettable submission. Isn’t it lovely?”
You want to scream, to fight, but that same creeping *something* is sliding into your brain—thoughts flickering with static, replaying distant jazz, voices from a world of black-and-white, stock market crashes, and the shushing sound of broadcast microphones. New memories come in a flood—dapper reflections, a kitchen clattering with Cajun spice, mother’s laughter and the crackle of late-night radio.
Wait.
That isn’t your mom.
You *never* cooked Jambalaya.
Your mind—*no*, fight it!—drowns in a crimson tide, vast as the Mississippi. Countless deals, twisted amusements, cannibalistic feasts with familiar faces, the taste of blood and bitterness. You try to claw back, to remember your name, but it’s swept away in a wave of elegant arrogance and radio-joviality.
“Shhh…” Alastor croons, cane pressed to your chest, glow intensifying. “You’re waking from your false human dream. This is *who you truly are!*”
Suddenly, clarity.
You’re not—who?
You’re Alastor.
No… your name is close, but *not* quite. Not quite him, but alike.
You have always been his twin—two radio demons, broadcast brilliance and terror, sons of the same loving mother, both lovers of drama, pranks, and the old world’s bitter tastes. Your infatuation with the picture show, the petty amusements of Hell, your contempt for frowns and sweetness… all, *all* is real.
You’ve always been here.
Your smile widens—*naturally*—and you feel fierce joy at the thought of your role in the Hazbin Hotel.
Alastor slaps your back in camaraderie, his manic smile joining yours.
“Welcome home, brother. Been far too long.” His radio-voice is a rustle of nostalgia and glee.
You tap your cane companionably against his. “The pleasure’s all mine, *Alastor*.” Your own voice, identical in tone and charm, blooms with mischievous energy.
---
**Epilogue**
Hazbin Hotel is alive with its usual chaos and color. At the entrance, Charlie Morningstar gasps in delight, taking in the sight of you and your twin—the two Radio Demons, a matched set, like a devil’s reflection.
Charlie beams, her eyes bright with hope.
“Alastor! And… wait—who’s this?”
Alastor sweeps into a grand bow, and you follow, monocle glinting.
“May I introduce my *dear brother*, the other harbinger of harmonious havoc!”
Charlie extends a hand, “It’s so nice to meet you! What’s your name?”
You flourish your cane, clicking your heels with practiced grace.
“Call me… *Alector*,” you purr, “the other voice in Hell’s sweet symphony.”
Vaggie glares from Charlie’s side, arms folded tight.
“Oh, great. Double the trouble. That’s what we need.”
Alastor leans in, his smile somehow wider.
“Now, now, only one of us is trouble. The other is simply—entertainment.”
Angel Dust sidles up, fluffy limbs akimbo, eyeing you with greedy curiosity.
“Ohhh, look, Charlie! Alastor’s multiplied! Can *I* get a twin too? Or three?”
Husk groans behind the bar, ears flat, wings twitching.
“You gonna *both* own my soul now? Like one wasn’t bad enough…”
You and Alastor share a wicked laugh, your canes tapping out an impromptu rhythm.
“Oh, Husk! The more the merrier, as they say.”
Niffty whirls in, dusting furiously. “Oh! Two dapper daddies for the price of one! Does this mean twice the cleaning? Twice the dancing? Twice the Jambalaya?”
You wink. “Only if you promise to never touch the shoes, *mademoiselle*.”
Charlie, ever hopeful, clasps her hands.
“I’m sure with both of you, we can make this place work!”
Alastor tips his hat; you twirl your monocle.
“In the symphony of damnation, dear, we are always sure to *hit the right note*.”
You’re home, in Hell, where the smile never fades and redemption is always just out of reach—and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
This story was generated by user JesterImps 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.
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 are just finishing a fanfiction story—ironically another about Alastor’s transformation—when the lights in your room flicker, a sudden static crawling through the air. The hum rumbles in your skull, a vibration at once familiar yet impossible, as if the walls themselves are tuning into a long-lost frequency. A crackle. A chirp. A voice emerges, distorted like an ancient radio transmission, as though broadcast straight from 1933 and piped into your present-day life: “Well, well, what do we have here? A charming little hobbyist meddling in the tales of others. And with such *imagination*, too!” There he stands: *Alastor*. Clad in his dapper crimson pinstripes, he is every bit as menacing and magnetic as the official artwork—broad grin, looming height, and eyes aglow with devilish light that flickers to an eerie, radio-dial shape. You try to back away, but the room stretches, warping into shadows and red-lit veves. You can *taste* the electricity in the air. Alastor steps closer, cane click-clicking against a floor that’s become *something else*. “My, my, what fun you’ve been having!” he croons, monocled eye glinting. “Though I must say, being shoehorned into all manner of bodies and beasts—*that’s* a flavor I find rather unappealing. Don’t you?” He laughs, vintage and sharp, pressing his cane into your chest. “No worries! It’s only fair the universe gives you a taste of the right medicine. Or metamorphosis, as it were.” You try to speak, but the air is thick with static, stealing the words from your tongue. Shadows coil and grip you, cold and prickling, sliding under your skin—*inside*. Your hands splay in horror, but four digits where there should be five—fingers long, elegant, tipped in black and red—are the first giveaways. The color bleeds up your arms, skin paling to beige even as your forearms burn charcoal gray, veins glowing and shifting under the surface, morphing into inky lines and red veves. Your bones stretch and snap as your torso thins, ribs popping and lengthening. The process is seamless, frighteningly smooth, yet leaves an aftershock of unnatural flexibility. You open your mouth to scream, but only a staticky, radio-static *chortle* escapes—bouncing off the walls with a pitch and cadence you *know*. No, you think. This *can’t* be happening. If you’re female, an even deeper current stirs—your chest tightens, breasts pulling in flat as a board, the familiar slopes vanishing beneath a swelling, tailored red dress-shirt. Your core aches, then *flips inside out*, warmth plunging deeper as new forms press forward: a weight, an alien shift between your thighs as flesh moves and arranges itself with a clinical snap, inverting until... You close your eyes and gasp, voice lowering as your throat thickens, Adam’s apple bobbing into place. “What’s *h-happening* to me?” you try to demand, but the accent laces a musical, vintage static into your words—every syllable radio-sung with that iconic transatlantic flair. Clothes morph: the world rippling as your sleeves lengthen, hands vanishing beneath black gloves with red-tipped fingers. A red pinstripe coat falls neatly around broadening shoulders, waist nipping in criminally tight, lapels sharp and white-piped. Bright red shirt, black cross blooming over your heart. Black dress pants fall to tailored boots, soles branded with red deer prints. The monocle settles over your newly pointed eye. Your feet crack, toes fusing to hooves, calves fading to deep gray. You *grow*—up, up, past your old stature, through the roof and into the skies of Hell. Seven feet, lithe and dapper atop long, stylish limbs, hair fizzling and rearranging into a crisp red bob with black-tipped tufts. Black antlers sprout, flicker with a twinge of pain before setting in, regal, lurking. Then the smile creeps up—stretching your cheeks, tugging your lips wide, sharp yellow teeth stacking in an endless, grinning row. You try to frown, but the muscles simply *won’t move*. Your hands—strange and clawed—scrape desperately at your cheeks to pull the corners down, but nothing changes. “Why… can’t I *stop* smiling?” you plea, voice crackling from a haunted radio, panic leaking through the enforced cheer. Alastor’s laugh echoes in the static. “It is your nature to smile! Why, to do anything else is a sure sign of weakness or, dare I say—regrettable submission. Isn’t it lovely?” You want to scream, to fight, but that same creeping *something* is sliding into your brain—thoughts flickering with static, replaying distant jazz, voices from a world of black-and-white, stock market crashes, and the shushing sound of broadcast microphones. New memories come in a flood—dapper reflections, a kitchen clattering with Cajun spice, mother’s laughter and the crackle of late-night radio. Wait. That isn’t your mom. You *never* cooked Jambalaya. Your mind—*no*, fight it!—drowns in a crimson tide, vast as the Mississippi. Countless deals, twisted amusements, cannibalistic feasts with familiar faces, the taste of blood and bitterness. You try to claw back, to remember your name, but it’s swept away in a wave of elegant arrogance and radio-joviality. “Shhh…” Alastor croons, cane pressed to your chest, glow intensifying. “You’re waking from your false human dream. This is *who you truly are!*” Suddenly, clarity. You’re not—who? You’re Alastor. No… your name is close, but *not* quite. Not quite him, but alike. You have always been his twin—two radio demons, broadcast brilliance and terror, sons of the same loving mother, both lovers of drama, pranks, and the old world’s bitter tastes. Your infatuation with the picture show, the petty amusements of Hell, your contempt for frowns and sweetness… all, *all* is real. You’ve always been here. Your smile widens—*naturally*—and you feel fierce joy at the thought of your role in the Hazbin Hotel. Alastor slaps your back in camaraderie, his manic smile joining yours. “Welcome home, brother. Been far too long.” His radio-voice is a rustle of nostalgia and glee. You tap your cane companionably against his. “The pleasure’s all mine, *Alastor*.” Your own voice, identical in tone and charm, blooms with mischievous energy. --- **Epilogue** Hazbin Hotel is alive with its usual chaos and color. At the entrance, Charlie Morningstar gasps in delight, taking in the sight of you and your twin—the two Radio Demons, a matched set, like a devil’s reflection. Charlie beams, her eyes bright with hope. “Alastor! And… wait—who’s this?” Alastor sweeps into a grand bow, and you follow, monocle glinting. “May I introduce my *dear brother*, the other harbinger of harmonious havoc!” Charlie extends a hand, “It’s so nice to meet you! What’s your name?” You flourish your cane, clicking your heels with practiced grace. “Call me… *Alector*,” you purr, “the other voice in Hell’s sweet symphony.” Vaggie glares from Charlie’s side, arms folded tight. “Oh, great. Double the trouble. That’s what we need.” Alastor leans in, his smile somehow wider. “Now, now, only one of us is trouble. The other is simply—entertainment.” Angel Dust sidles up, fluffy limbs akimbo, eyeing you with greedy curiosity. “Ohhh, look, Charlie! Alastor’s multiplied! Can *I* get a twin too? Or three?” Husk groans behind the bar, ears flat, wings twitching. “You gonna *both* own my soul now? Like one wasn’t bad enough…” You and Alastor share a wicked laugh, your canes tapping out an impromptu rhythm. “Oh, Husk! The more the merrier, as they say.” Niffty whirls in, dusting furiously. “Oh! Two dapper daddies for the price of one! Does this mean twice the cleaning? Twice the dancing? Twice the Jambalaya?” You wink. “Only if you promise to never touch the shoes, *mademoiselle*.” Charlie, ever hopeful, clasps her hands. “I’m sure with both of you, we can make this place work!” Alastor tips his hat; you twirl your monocle. “In the symphony of damnation, dear, we are always sure to *hit the right note*.” You’re home, in Hell, where the smile never fades and redemption is always just out of reach—and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
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