The piano music had just faded, the strings still vibrating with a faint afterglow.
*Knock, knock, knock.*
Three taps came from the door.
The rhythm was restrained and regular—it didn’t sound like a hand striking wood, but rather like a hard cane conducting a polite conversation with the door.
Without waiting for an answer, the door was pushed open by an invisible force.
The moment it opened, the lights in the room dimmed.
Accompanied by the crackling static of an old radio tuning its frequency, a red figure stepped over the threshold.
Alastor.
He looked like a protagonist who had stepped out of a 1920s nightmare radio drama.
His red pinstripe suit was impeccably tailored with a high collar, and the eyes behind his monocle glowed with an eerie red light.
Most striking of all was his face—a smile that looked permanently fixed by surgery, stretching all the way to his ears.
He held a microphone cane in his hand, looking like a ritual object and a weapon all at once.
“Wonderful—!
Simply wonderful!”
His voice carried the metallic texture and distortion of a radio broadcast.
“That melody just now!
It reminded me of the radio broadcast on the afternoon of the 1929 stock market crash!
That sense of beauty, calm amidst despair!
Ha-ha-ha!”
The atmosphere in the lobby shifted instantly from “peaceful tranquility” to a “horror movie set.”
Angel whistled, his body instinctively shrinking into the depths of the sofa, though his mouth remained sharp.
“Oh boy, the Strawberry Pimp is here.
This show is getting more and more crowded.”
Niffty, however, was delighted.
She scurried forward clutching her feather duster.
“Mr.
Alastor!
Look!
The floor is clean!
Very clean!”
Alastor didn’t even look down, his gaze fixed straight on the piano.
Vaggie had already stood up straight, her hand resting on her weapon.
Charlie grew nervous as well.
Alastor walked toward Moon, ignoring Vaggie’s sharp “Stop right there!” As the distance closed, the lights began to flicker unstably, the crystal chandelier groaned uneasily, and even the electricity seemed to fear his presence.
He came to a stop beside the piano.
His overwhelming pressure, paired with that eternal smile, was enough to make an ordinary demon wet themselves.
“A new face?
Or perhaps a talented performer?”
He leaned down and thrust his microphone cane in front of Moon, as if conducting an interview, yet aiming it directly at the musician’s throat.
“But this is truly interesting.
In this gutter where only screams and wails count as popular music, someone is actually trying to play a lullaby for infants?”
The radio static in the background grew piercing.
“Tell me, my dear friend.
What wind blew you to this destined-to-fail little hotel?
Are you lost?
Or are you here seeking some cheap entertainment?”
Vaggie gripped her blade, glancing at her spear on the other side of the lobby.
If Alastor made any move, she wouldn’t hesitate to rush in before Alastor tore Moon to shreds.
Charlie also gripped the hem of her shirt, preparing to intervene.
But Moon moved first.
He naturally and gently closed the piano lid.
Then, he turned to face the aggressive red light.
“Entertainment?”
Moon asked, as if he had heard a joke.
He wasn’t backed down by the microphone in his face; instead, he leaned forward, reclaiming the initiative by closing the distance.
“A performer’s duty is to ensure the masses always enjoy the solace of sound.”
“Whether in a magnificent palace or these scarred ruins.
As long as there are ears longing to listen, the melody has a reason to exist.”
Moon looked back into those red eyes, even widening the curve of his own smile.
“Mr.
Alastor, wouldn’t you agree?”
Alastor let out a laugh.
“Ha-ha-ha!
Good, very good.”
He straightened up, spinning his cane in his palm a few times.
“Finally, someone who doesn’t like to hide.
Solace?
In this hellhole?
Oh, what an arrogant and delightful answer!”
He wasn’t angry; instead, he looked like a glutton who had just tasted a strange new dish and was absolutely thrilled.
“Precisely!
Duty!
Ha!
I love that word!
It always manages to wrap ulterior motives in such grand packaging!”
He turned sideways, making an exaggerated gesture with his hand.
His tone rose and fell theatrically.
“Alastor.
As you know—the Radio Demon.
It seems our ramshackle hotel has finally welcomed a guest who understands the art of language!”
His neck let out a sharp *crack*, his head turning to the other side with an unnatural, swift motion.
“Charlie!
My dear!
From which antique shop did you dig up such a treasure?
This is infinitely more interesting than that spider who does nothing but complain!”
“Hey, come on,” Angel protested, poking his head out from behind the sofa.
Charlie hadn’t quite recovered from the silent confrontation.
She looked at Moon, then at the suddenly jubilant Radio Demon, stammering slightly:
“Uh, th-this is Mr.
A new tenant, and he’s a real artist…
right?”
“An artist?
Oh, certainly!
It’s obvious!”
Alastor tapped his cane on the floor.
The lobby lights returned to normal, and the cold pressure dissipated, replaced only by a disturbing enthusiasm.
“Well then, Mr.
Moon.
Since you’ve come to fulfill your duty as a performer and intend to stay, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of opportunities to converse.”
A hunter’s excitement gleamed in his red pupils.
“After all, I consider myself a bit of a voice professional.
Don’t I?”
The background audio timely played a canned laugh track from an old sitcom.
Vaggie sheathed her blade and walked behind Charlie, whispering, “I don’t like this development.
I feel like we just locked a fox and a wolf in the same chicken coop.”
Charlie didn’t think that far, whispering back comfortingly, “But at least they didn’t fight?
And Mr.
Moon is really amazing!
He doesn’t seem afraid of Alastor at all!”
“That’s even worse.”
Moon stood up and nodded to Alastor.
“Professional jealousy is a grave sin, Mr.
Alastor.
But I believe we will find resonance on an aesthetic level.”
“Aesthetics?
Of course!” Alastor snapped his fingers, manifesting a glass of crimson liquid out of thin air.
“A toast to aesthetics!
Though I’m not sure how long your ‘solace’ will last in this asylum of Sinners, I shall wait and see.”
He toasted Moon and drained the glass in one gulp.
“Now!
To celebrate our new member—though I was tempted to suggest replacing this piano time with my radio hour, since everyone is in such high spirits…”
He suddenly teleported next to Charlie, slinging an arm around her.
“…shouldn’t we discuss dinner?
I found a very plump deer in the back alley today.
Oh no, perhaps it was a mutant rat?
Who cares!
With enough seasoning, it all tastes the same as jambalaya!”
Charlie was jolted by his movement, her attention half-captured by the mention of dinner.
“Jambalaya!
That sounds great!
Is it your mother’s recipe?”
“That’s a trade secret!
A secret only dead men can know!”
Alastor laughed loudly as he began ushering Charlie toward the kitchen.