By: DoublingDownOnRed

Hell didn't look the way you might expect. At least, not if you were new to the place, fresh off the soul-damning train, barely aware of the eternity awaiting you. It wasn't fire and brimstone, not entirely. No lakes of lava or endless screaming pits, none of that cliché nonsense. Hell was worse because it was familiar. Buildings and streets stretched out before you, resembling a long-forgotten city at twilight—but twisted just enough to unsettle you. The angles were wrong, the shadows too sharp or too soft, and the colors all seemed off, as though reality itself had been corrupted.

You stood on the edge of one of those streets, your body still, your mind racing. There was a nagging thought in the back of your mind, the part that hadn't quite caught up with the fact you were dead. It wondered if you could hail a cab. Another part of you—the part screaming that everything was wrong—wondered if there was a cab to catch in this place.

Then, it happened.

A sound sliced through the still air, crisp and clean, far too sharp for a place like this. It was the kind of sound that didn't belong. It didn't belong in the world you knew, and it certainly didn't belong in Hell. But here it was—cutting, like the crack of a whip or the high-pitched ring of static on an old radio.

It was a laugh.

Not just any laugh. It wasn't forced, not the kind you'd hear from an audience at a bad stand-up show. No, this was different. This was a laugh that crawled under your skin and wrapped itself around your spine, a laugh that told you it wasn't just laughter—it was a warning. A sound meant to unsettle you on a level so deep, you could feel it in your bones.

Your heart—or whatever passed for it now—lurched.

Shadows pooled in the alleys between buildings, pulling themselves into something darker, something far more sinister. You could swear the very air around you thickened, like the atmosphere itself was bending under some unnatural force. Then, from within those deep, writhing shadows, a figure emerged—not walked, not even floated. No, it simply stepped into existence, as if reality had been kind enough to invite it in.

Alastor.

The Radio Demon.

You had heard of him—everyone had. His name had been whispered, carried on the wind by terrified souls who claimed to have seen him, met him, or worse, crossed him. But hearing the stories didn't prepare you for this. Nothing could have.

He was tall, unnaturally tall, with a presence that seemed to stretch far beyond his physical form. His suit—blood-red, crisp, and too sharp—seemed to shimmer in the low light, every fiber alive with some unspeakable energy. His eyes glowed, two burning crimson orbs filled with chaotic glee, yet somehow cold. His grin—wide, too wide—was all teeth, gleaming and sharp. It was the kind of smile that didn't mean joy. It was a promise, a promise that things were about to get much worse.

"Well, well, well," he said, his voice sliding through the air with a rich, vintage timbre, like a broadcast from some long-forgotten radio show. "What do we have here?" His words lingered in the air, echoing in your mind long after they'd been spoken, as if the very sound of his voice had embedded itself into your brain.

You stood frozen, unsure if you should respond, unsure if you even could. There was something about him, something in the way he looked at you that made it hard to breathe. It wasn't fear, though fear would've been natural. It was something else—something darker, more primal. His presence demanded attention. No, not attention. Submission. The world around him seemed to bow, to bend, to give way in his wake, and somehow, you knew you would too if you let yourself.

"A new arrival, I see." His voice dipped lower, silky smooth, the kind of voice that could charm you into forgetting exactly what kind of monster stood before you. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, gleaming with amusement as they swept over you, taking in every detail. "Oh, how delightful."

He was closer now, though you hadn't seen him move. One moment he was standing several feet away, and the next, he was only a breath's distance from you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a stifling, oppressive energy that made the air thick, hard to swallow. His grin widened, impossibly wide, sharp enough to cut through steel.

"So, tell me," he purred, his voice laced with mockery, "what's your name, darling?"

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. The words were there, somewhere, but they wouldn't form. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, pinning you in place like an insect caught in a spider's web. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but there was nowhere to go. And even if you could move, would you want to? Would you dare?

"Oh, come now," Alastor said, a chuckle vibrating deep in his chest, like the low hum of a radio just barely picking up a signal. "No need to be shy." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your skin, though you couldn't quite tell if it was real or imagined. His voice dropped to a near whisper, and yet it carried, cutting through the oppressive silence around you like a knife through butter. "I'm sure it's a lovely name."

He stood straight, pulling back with a theatrical flourish, his grin still plastered across his face as though it had been etched there. He began to move, a graceful, almost effortless sway, his movements too fluid, too controlled. It was as though he was part of the world around him, yet completely separate from it, like he was merely playing a role, and everything else was his stage.

The street seemed to warp and bend as he moved, reality distorting in small, almost imperceptible ways. The shadows clung to him, moved with him, and the dim light flickered like an old film reel struggling to stay in focus. It made everything around you feel less solid, less real. Only Alastor remained sharp, a beacon of dangerous clarity in a world that suddenly felt too fragile.

"And what brings you to this delightful little corner of the afterlife?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. His voice had shifted again, light and playful, as though you were old friends catching up over tea. It was almost charming—if you ignored the fact that he was the living embodiment of everything wrong in this place. "Did you make a wrong turn on the way to paradise?"

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice, but it felt trapped in your throat. Every part of you was screaming to respond, to say something—anything—but your body wouldn't cooperate. It was as though the air itself had thickened, the oppressive atmosphere weighing down on you, making it impossible to breathe, let alone speak.

Alastor's grin didn't falter, but his eyes darkened, the playful glint in them fading into something far more sinister. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze boring into you, unblinking. It was as though he could see straight through you, past the surface, past the façade, down to your very soul.

He stepped closer again, his shoes clicking against the cracked pavement with a sharp, deliberate sound. His fingers, long and slender, lifted, not to touch you but to gesture toward the world around you, a world that seemed to bend to his will. "This place... it's something, isn't it? A twisted paradise for the wicked and damned. But you…" He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he examined you. "You're different."

The word hung in the air between you, heavy and charged, like a storm waiting to break. His smile twitched at the corners, growing sharper, more dangerous. "I can feel it. A little spark, something special."

You shivered, though whether it was from fear or something else entirely, you weren't sure.

"Shall we see what makes you so... unique?" He didn't wait for an answer. He already knew you'd comply, either out of fear or some twisted curiosity.

You barely had time to react before Alastor's fingers twitched, and the world around you shifted. It wasn't a slow, gradual change. One moment you were standing on the cracked pavement of the street, staring into the demon's maddening grin, and the next, you were falling. The ground opened up beneath you, a gaping maw of darkness swallowing you whole.

You couldn't scream. The air was too thick, too stifling, and the sensation of falling was so sudden, so complete, that all you could do was feel it. The world spun around you in a kaleidoscope of shifting shadows and distorted light, and just when you thought it would never end—just when you thought you might actually be plummeting into some bottomless pit—everything stopped.

You hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from your lungs. The pain wasn't sharp; it was a dull, aching throb that radiated through your body as you tried to piece together where you were. The impact left you dazed, but the sound of Alastor's laughter echoed through the blackness, pulling your mind back to sharp, unwanted clarity.

When your vision cleared, you found yourself lying in a strange room. No—calling it a room didn't feel right. It was more like a hall, vast and empty, with walls that stretched up into the shadows far above. The floor was slick with something that glistened in the dim light—blood, maybe? The walls themselves pulsed faintly, like they were alive, and the ceiling... you couldn't even see the ceiling. It was too high, lost in the darkness.

Alastor was standing a few feet away, watching you, his head tilted at that strange, unsettling angle that made it seem like he wasn't entirely human. Of course, he wasn't human at all.

"Ah, you landed on your feet, more or less," he remarked, his voice carrying a strange lilt, like he was hosting a radio show. His smile didn't falter as he watched you struggle to your feet. "Always impressive when they don't break immediately. It gives the game so much more... flavor."

You didn't feel broken, but something in his words unsettled you, and you felt the sharp sting of adrenaline flooding your veins. You needed to move, needed to act, but your body hadn't quite caught up with your instincts.

The Radio Demon noticed. He always noticed. "Come now, don't be shy," he purred, his eyes glowing brighter in the half-light of the hall. "After all, you wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?" His voice was sweet, cloying, but the threat beneath it was clear.

And then, without warning, the walls started to move.

The pulsing you'd seen before wasn't just your imagination. The walls shifted and twisted, bending inward as if they were alive, reaching out toward you with dark tendrils that snaked across the floor. Your heart hammered in your chest as panic surged up your throat, but you forced yourself to move, scrambling backward, trying to get away.

Alastor's laughter rang out again, bright and cheerful, as though this was all some kind of game to him. "Oh, don't worry, darling," he called, his tone playful. "They won't hurt you... yet."

Your back hit something solid—another wall, or maybe the door you'd missed before—and you twisted, desperately looking for a way out. The tendrils were getting closer now, coiling and uncoiling like serpents, their tips brushing the ground, leaving trails of that same glistening, wet substance behind them.

You threw a glance at Alastor, hoping for some sign of mercy, but his eyes were alight with amusement. He didn't move. He didn't even blink. He just stood there, grinning that wide, awful grin, watching as the walls closed in on you.

You could feel it—the weight of those walls pressing in, the tendrils reaching, brushing against your legs, your arms. Cold and slimy, like something pulled from the depths of a nightmare. You shoved yourself off the wall, stumbling forward into the center of the room, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The walls pulsed again, and you heard something—something beneath the sound of your own breathing. A hum, low and rhythmic, like the background noise of a radio station turned just off the correct frequency. Static, but alive.

Alastor took a single step forward, his shoes clicking on the floor, and you could feel the shift in the room as he approached, his presence making the air grow even heavier. "You're going to have to make a choice soon, you know," he said, his voice light but dripping with condescension. "You can run, try to escape... or you can surrender."

His words hit you like a physical blow. Surrender. The word echoed in your mind, twisting and turning. What did he mean? What was he asking for?

The tendrils were closing in now, wrapping themselves around your legs, coiling tighter and tighter until you could barely move. You thrashed, desperate to free yourself, but they held fast, pulling you down toward the slick, wet floor. The hum in the air grew louder, a pulsing rhythm that seemed to sync with the beating of your heart, as if the room itself was feeding on your fear.

Alastor's grin widened.

"Well, my dear," he said, taking another step closer, his voice as smooth as silk. "What will it be?"

Your mind raced. Run? But where? The room was shifting, the walls alive, moving as if they were connected to something far more sinister than you could comprehend. And Alastor... there was no escape from him. He wasn't just a demon. He was Hell itself, wrapped in a charming, deadly façade.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Your throat was dry, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest you thought it might burst. The tendrils were pulling tighter, dragging you down, and you could feel the cold slickness creeping up your legs, reaching toward your waist.

In that moment, the world slowed. Your body screamed for you to run, to fight, to resist, but something else inside you—something deeper, darker—whispered in your ear. Maybe it wasn't fear you were feeling. Maybe it was something else.

Maybe you wanted to see what happened next.

Alastor stopped, standing just a foot away now, his eyes locked onto yours. There was something there, something beyond the madness and the mockery. It was hunger. Not for power, not for control—something deeper, more primal. He tilted his head, watching you closely, and you realized then that he wasn't going to force you into anything.

This was your choice.

You took a slow, steadying breath, your mind clearing just enough to form a single thought.

"Why me?" The question slipped from your lips, barely more than a whisper, but it echoed in the cavernous hall, bouncing off the twisted walls and back to your ears. It was a question you needed answered, a question that had been gnawing at you from the moment you arrived.

Alastor's smile didn't falter, but his eyes flickered with something that might have been interest. He crouched down, his face inches from yours now, his breath hot against your skin. "Because, my dear," he said softly, his voice carrying that same unsettling melody, "you have potential."

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