Lucifers POV:

It started with a salt circle.

Not a real one, of course. That would've been too direct. Too obvious.

No, this one was scattered just a little too perfectly—on the floor of the hotel library, around an antique armchair Charlie happened to lounge in while flipping through a book on demonology. Just enough angelic powder mixed in the salt to tingle in the air, but not enough to trigger a reaction from anyone who didn't know what they were looking for.

Alastor knew exactly what he was looking at.

He walked in mid-conversation, smile stretched wide, that ever-present hum of static trailing behind him like a warning shot. I was across the room, pretending to browse a shelf of cursed cookbooks while secretly watching him through a reflection on a polished vase.

His eyes locked on the salt.

His grin didn't falter—but his fingers twitched.

"Oh my, what an interesting arrangement of minerals," he said cheerfully, voice just a little too sharp. "Practicing defensive spells, my dear Princess?"

Charlie blinked innocently. "Oh! I didn't even notice that." She looked down, all sunshine and sugar. "Must've spilled something earlier. Vaggie said these old floors are cursed. Maybe the salt was trying to protect me?"

Bless her soul, she said it without flinching.

I could see his smile twitch ever so slightly. A hairline fracture in his perfectly-composed performance.

And that was just the beginning.

Later that night, I placed a small altar under the stairs—a twisted mockery of angelic ritualism. A cracked porcelain cherub. A candle shaped like a bleeding heart. A little scroll that read "Sanctum Vitae: The Lamb Rises."

Nonsense. Pure, delicious nonsense.

But oh, Alastor found it.

I know he did. Because by morning, it was gone, and he'd scrubbed the entire stairwell clean—like it was diseased. His laughter was louder at breakfast that day. Sharper. Too crisp. His eyes lingered a second too long on my wine glass as though he expected blood instead of Cabernet.

He's slipping.

Charlie upped the ante next. She started humming weird little melodies under her breath. Not real songs. Just eerie, off-key, spine-tingling notes—always when he was nearby. Always when the lights flickered just slightly too much. She wrote strange phrases on sticky notes and left them on the fridge.

"The lamb devours the shepherd."

"He watches from below."

"The crown weighs heavier at midnight."

Nonsense phrases. Gibberish. But poetic enough to sound prophetic.

She even started doodling holy symbols on napkins and leaving them scattered around the lounge. Some were upside down. Some were deliberately misshapen. All of them were just believable enough to mess with his head.

And Alastor?

He started pacing. Muttering. Staring at walls. Talking to himself in the hallway. Still grinning, still playing his part, but the cracks were spreading.

"He's going to start chewing the radio wires soon," Charlie whispered to me one evening as she pressed a bloody thumbprint onto a hotel brochure and tossed it casually on the reception desk.

"I give it three more days," I whispered back, sipping my wine. "Two if he finds the fake spellbook I left in the boiler room."

She grinned. "You are evil."

"Thank you, dearest."

Truthfully? I'm having the time of my life. There's something profoundly satisfying about watching a being as smug and composed as Alastor slowly unravel in the background while pretending everything's fine.

It's like watching a porcelain teacup develop microscopic cracks under boiling water—beautiful in its inevitability.

And when he finally shatters?

I'll be there, sipping tea, smiling sweetly, and saying:

"Oh dear... was something wrong?"

Alastor's Point of View

It began with the salt.

An innocent detail. A speck. A pattern so subtle most would overlook it entirely.

But not me.

No, I saw it immediately—that neat little circle, not too perfect, not too messy. The kind of imperfection that pretends to be accidental. Salt, lightly dusted with a trace of angelic powder. Just enough to set my teeth on edge.

And that damn Princess had the gall to act like she hadn't noticed it.

"Oh! I didn't even notice that," she said sweetly. Sweetly. Like a bird chirping right before a forest fire.

I smiled. Of course I smiled. I always smile.

But inside? Something... itched.

I laughed it off. Spoke in riddles. Made a joke. But I couldn't stop looking at it. Couldn't stop thinking about it.

That was the first crack.

Then came the altar.

Under the stairs. Filthy. Obscene. A porcelain cherub with eyes gouged out. A candle that bled. A scroll with a phrase that didn't make any sense but felt like it should.

Sanctum Vitae: The Lamb Rises.

It meant nothing. It had to mean nothing. I tore it all down. Burned it. But the words wouldn't leave me. They echoed when the static in my mind grew too loud.

I began noticing... other things.

Whispers in empty rooms. Notes on the fridge written in delicate, curling script. Half-melted symbols scrawled in napkin ink. Scribbles and sigils and songs hummed just beneath hearing.

At first I thought I was imagining it.

But no.

It was real.

Every time I turned, another misplaced object. Another eerie tune. Another pulse beneath the walls like something alive. And always—always—that damn girl smiling at me like sunshine itself while the shadows grew longer behind her.

She knows something.

They both do.

Lucifer grins too much lately. He always grinned, but now it's different. Tight-lipped. Knowing. Like he's watching me fall into a trap that's already closed around my ankles.

And Charlie?

She's a chorus of contradictions. So gentle. So pure. And yet, she walks through bloodied halls like it's Sunday brunch. Her eyes hold something deeper than innocence now—something feral, quiet, and ancient.

I've spent decades unbothered. Decades.

But this hotel has never felt so... off.

I tried to ask her once—subtly, of course.

"I must say, Princess," I had chuckled, fingers tapping too fast against my cane, "you've taken quite an interest in the occult lately. One might think you were preparing for something!"

"Oh, just redecorating," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Don't you think the place needed a little mystery?"

Mystery. Ha.

I'm starting to hear whispers in the static.

They say things I don't understand. Or maybe I do understand, and that's what terrifies me.

He watches from below.
The lamb devours the shepherd.
The crown weighs heavier at midnight.

They mean nothing.

They mean nothing.

Don't they?

I tore up the entire boiler room this morning. Found a book—not mine—half-written in celestial script and stitched together with teeth. Fake, probably. It has to be. But I burned it anyway.

I burn everything now.

Still, they smile.

Still, they act like everything is fine.

And I—Alastor, the Radio Demon, predator of souls and devourer of legacies—am left standing in my own hallway, gripping my cane so tightly I could snap it in half, because I can't tell if the walls are whispering or if I've finally gone mad.

I need to talk to her.

I need to make her tell me.

And if she doesn't...?

Well. Static has always been my language of persuasion.