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Chapter Text

His name was Asmodeus. He came from a land of sweeping deserts and winding rivers, a place steeped in myth and mystery, where war, faith, and love were etched into every grain of sand. He possessed a gift unlike any other—a rare magic that could turn the mystical into the tangible.

He could summon stars from stone, paint illusions of light, color, and joy across the air, and breathe strength into the frail. With a whisper, he could make a plain girl radiant, or craft love potions so potent they could mend the fragile bonds between quarreling hearts—banishing anger, silencing neglect.

No one knew where his powers came from—not even he. But Asmodeus cared little for origins. All he ever wanted was to use his magic to ease sorrow and brighten lives.

He was so wondrous that even the Sultan took notice, naming him the royal magician and showering him with gold, praise, and admiration. To the world, he had everything.

But behind the marvels and the magic, Asmodeus remained a deeply lonely man. What were power, riches, and the favor of royalty worth, when he had no one to share them with?

Then one day, a young slave girl was brought before the Sultan—a mere child, with no name, no family, no past. She was a ghost of a person, small and silent, adrift in a world that had given her nothing.

When Asmodeus first looked upon her, he saw in her eyes a reflection of his own deepest sorrow: that same aching loneliness that had haunted him for years. Moved by something he couldn't quite name, he asked the Sultan for the girl—not as a servant, but as a ward. And because the Sultan held him in such high regard, he agreed.

Asmodeus named her Hecate.

He raised her as his own, and loved her as a daughter. In time, he began to teach her his craft—the art of wonder and illusion, the quiet magic that brought joy to the brokenhearted. At first, Hecate embraced his philosophy: to give, to heal, to delight.

But as the years passed, something shifted within her.

She began to question the very foundations of their servitude. Why, she wondered, should they, who wielded such astonishing power, bend the knee to a man whose only claim to authority was the accident of birth? Why should magic be a tool of submission, when it could be a force of transformation—for themselves?

And so, a new hunger stirred in Hecate. One not for joy, but for freedom... and perhaps, for more.

When she became a woman, Hecate longed to win the favor of Arman, the sultan's firstborn son. She danced for him, performed her charms, enchanted him with her beauty and magic. To him, she was a wonder—mysterious, vibrant, intoxicating.

But Arman was promised to Catalina, daughter of the Byzantine Emperor. Their union was a political one, a fragile thread of peace woven after years of war and bloodshed between their empires. The first time Hecate saw Catalina, she thought her plain, meek, and sheltered—no match for her own passionate, worldly allure. Surely Arman could not love such a dull girl. Surely he agreed to the marriage only out of duty.

So, one night, when Arman lay ill in bed, Hecate slipped into his chambers. She brought with her a spell from Asmodeus—an enchantment meant to bind his heart to hers. But Asmodeus's love spells do not work that way, and in her haste, Hecate left behind the book of incantations.

Later, Catalina entered the room as she did every night, staying by Arman's side. She fed him, whispered prayers, wiped the sweat from his brow, and watched over him until he finally opened his eyes once more.

But then the book was found.

A servant discovered the spell book hidden beneath Arman's bed. Whispers turned to accusations, and soon, the court declared Catalina a witch—an agent of black magic who had bewitched the prince and nearly killed him.

The sultan ordered her execution.

Arman, by then truly in love with Catalina—not by enchantment, but by the gentle constancy of her care—refused to believe she was anything but good. As the flames rose around her, he broke through the guards and leapt into the pyre, desperate to save her. But the fire showed no mercy. They perished together, and it was only then that Hecate realized her spell had never bound Arman's heart—only doomed it.

Wracked with guilt—realizing she had been wrong about their love and that her actions had led to their deaths—Hecate hanged herself. Asmodeus was devastated, blaming himself for her fate—for he had taught her magic, but not the wisdom to wield it. In desperation, he pleaded with God to take his soul in her place, offering his damnation to save hers. Moved by his sacrifice, the Lord chose a different path: he split their souls and bound them to immortality, condemning them to walk the earth until they atoned for their sins.

But Hecate, bitter and broken, vanished into the shadows. She blamed not Asmodeus, but humanity itself for her fall, vowing never to walk in the light again. Asmodeus, meanwhile, wandered among mortals, using magic in service of good—forever seeking redemption, and hoping, somehow, to bring Hecate back.

"Asmodeus, meanwhile wandered among mortals, using magic in service of good—forever seeking redemption, and hoping, somehow, to bring Hecate back."

Seventeen-year-old Charlie stood at the front of the classroom, finishing the last lines of her story. For their latest literary assignment, each student had been tasked with writing a short piece centered on a real-world issue. As she lowered her paper, she could feel her classmates' eyes on her—some glassy with boredom, others already whispering and snickering, just like always.

"Such a lovely story, Charlie," said Ms. Mayberry, her English teacher. "Lovely and sad. However did you come up with it?"

Charlie shrugged. "I don't know. It just came to me."

"And what would you say is the theme? How does it connect to a real-world issue?"

"I think one of the biggest problems in the world is the struggle to do good, to find happiness, and to be loved. My uncle says it's a struggle that's been around since Adam and Eve."

Ms. Mayberry smiled thoughtfully. "A very intriguing concept, Charlie."

From the back of the room came a scoff. Charlie didn't have to turn around to know who it was. Velvette was whispering to her friends.

"No wonder she's good at writing fairy tales," Velvette sneered. "Her uncle raised her on them."

Laughter bubbled around Velvette's desk, but Charlie didn't react. She sighed quietly and returned to her seat.

As she sat down, someone leaned over from the desk beside hers.

"I thought it was great," came a soft voice. "The best one so far."

Charlie turned slightly, trying to hide her face behind her hair. "Alastor, you haven't heard all the reports yet."

"Don't need to," he said, flashing her a small smile. "You're the best at everything. Always have been."

She ducked her head, cheeks burning. She could never quite bear it when he said things like that. Alastor was the smartest boy in school—sharp, talented, kind. And, in her eyes, the most handsome person she'd ever seen. She couldn't understand why someone like him would ever pay attention to someone like her.

She didn't think of herself as pretty. In her own mind, she was just a chunky girl with too many pimples, sickly pale skin, and flat, lifeless hair. Her strange grey eyes only made it worse—eyes that always seemed tired. Weak. Like her.

But her uncle Michael saw something else.

"You have eyes like Leah," he would tell her. "She was overlooked by men, passed over for her sister Rachel, who had a more pleasing figure. But it was Leah whom the Lord blessed more. It was Leah's children who carried forth the line that gave us the Savior. If your classmates call you ugly or ignore you, let them. They know nothing of true beauty. Only God's opinion matters—and I am certain that in His eyes, you are among His most beautiful creations."

Uncle Michael always had a way of making the rest of the world feel small—like their judgments didn't matter. And maybe, for a little while, when he spoke, they didn't.

But high school was all about appearances—about what other people thought of you. And at this high school, everyone thought Charlie Morningstar was a freak.

It all started after her parents were taken away. Yes, taken. No one ever said the word, but that's what happened.

She was only eight.

They were visiting her uncle Michael's house when strange men in dark suits arrived without warning. They didn't knock. They simply came in and said her parents had to go with them. No explanations. No apologies.

Her father scooped her up and placed her in Uncle Michael's arms.

"Goodbye, Charlie," he said gently. "Your aunt Lilith and I are going away for a while, and we don't know when we'll be back. So you be good for your daddy, okay?"

Her mother kissed her cheeks, then her forehead, her voice trembling as she added, "And always remember—we love you. No matter what."

Then her father turned to Uncle Michael, and his expression shifted—desperate and afraid.

"Lilith and I won't be around to help you raise your daughter," he said quietly. "So take good care of her, you hear?"

Michael nodded and pulled his younger brother into a tight embrace. It was the last time they would ever hold each other.

"I'll protect her with my life," he whispered. "And I'll love her with all my heart and soul."

Most children wouldn't have understood what was really happening. But somehow, Charlie did. She already knew the truth: They were saying she was their niece to keep her safe. So she wouldn't be taken, too.

And deep down, she also knew...
That was the last time she would ever see them.

After that day, all kinds of rumors began swirling around the neighborhood. Some said her parents were Russian spies. Others claimed they were terrorists, escaped convicts, or even runaway patients from a mental hospital.

The gossip hurt Michael deeply. But in a strange way, he was relieved—relieved that no one had mentioned the two things he feared most: witchcraft or devil worship.

One night, not long after her parents disappeared, Charlie finally asked the question that had been weighing on her heart.

"Uncle Michael... why did Mommy and Daddy go away?"

He looked at her for a long moment, then gently took her hand.

"When your mommy and daddy were young," he said softly, "they got involved with something they shouldn't have. It gave them... abilities. Special abilities. Things that weren't normal. Things that scared people."

He paused, watching her closely.

"It was dangerous but not evil, Charlie. Not at all. Just hard to control. And when certain people—powerful people—found out, they wanted to capture your parents. To study them. To figure out if they could take those abilities for themselves."

He sighed.

"That's why they had to go."

"They're not coming back, are they?" Charlie asked quietly.

Michael didn't answer right away. He looked down at her, his eyes full of sorrow he couldn't hide.

"No," he said at last. "I don't think so. But we can keep praying that they will."

The neighbors' rumors didn't stay behind closed doors for long. Soon, their children picked them up—parroting whispers they didn't understand. At first, it was just teasing. Name-calling. Snickering behind her back. But over time, the cruelty grew bolder. They started chasing her. Throwing things.

One day, while fleeing a pack of kids laughing and shouting insults, Charlie darted across the street without looking—and ran straight into a boy on a bicycle.

They both went down hard.

"I'm sorry! Are you okay?" the boy asked, scrambling to his knees.

Charlie looked up at him through stinging eyes. He was the boy from the foster home next door—the one run by Miss Rosie and "those two men who were pleasant and decent but made questionable life choices," as Uncle Michael liked to put it.

His knee was scraped and bleeding, his glasses cracked from the fall. But he wasn't checking himself. He was only looking at her.

"I'm alright!" Charlie said quickly, blinking back tears. She pushed herself to her feet, trying to run—but the pain shot through her ankle, and she stumbled, falling again with a cry.

Her foot was sprained from the impact.

The boy moved closer, lowering his voice. "Just stay still. I'll help you."

It was the first time in a long while that someone—anyone—had shown her kindness. And that was the day she and Alastor first met. One of the happiest days of her life.

From that day on, Charlie and Alastor were inseparable. Best friends. Nearly every hour of every day, they were together—reading, exploring, talking about everything and nothing. He made her so happy. She would do anything to keep him with her always.

One warm afternoon, the two of them were sitting beneath the old oak tree behind the school, reading side by side. The shade was cool, the breeze gentle, and the world—for once—felt peaceful.

Until it wasn't.

A group of older boys approached, their shadows falling over the pages of Charlie's book. She looked up and immediately felt her stomach sink. These were the boys who always picked on Alastor—especially the biggest one, Tom.

"Hey, nerd," Tom sneered. "Got my money today?"

Alastor didn't even flinch. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill—his weekly allowance from Miss Rosie.

"Five bucks?" Tom snatched it from his hand, scoffing. "That's the best you can do?"

"It's all Miss Rosie gave me," Alastor said quickly. "I—I haven't been keeping up with my chores lately. But I'll get you double next week. Promise."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Yeah? I don't like promises, Alastor. I like payment."

He suddenly lunged, grabbing Alastor by the shirt and dragging him up. The other boys laughed as they began pulling him toward the edge of the street—toward the manhole cover near the curb.

"Oh no, not the sewers again!" Alastor groaned. "Come on, guys—it took me a month to get the smell out last time!"

Charlie stood frozen for a second, her heart pounding.

Then something in her snapped.

She looked at the tree above them, her fists clenched at her sides. Anger surged through her—hot and wild and wrong—and then...

CRACK.

A thick branch snapped from the trunk and crashed down with a sickening thud—right onto Tom's back. He cried out and crumpled to the ground, the other boys stumbling away in shock.

Alastor fell back, gasping, scrambling to his feet as the bullies ran.

Charlie stared at the broken branch, her chest heaving.

She hadn't touched it.
She hadn't even moved.

But deep down, she knew: she had done that.

"Charlotte!"

Uncle Michael's voice rang out, sharp and urgent.

He had seen the commotion from the kitchen window and had rushed outside, only to arrive just in time to witness the branch falling. His eyes immediately flicked from the groaning bully to the tree, then to Charlie—and what he saw in her face made his blood run cold.

He knew.
He didn't need to ask.
It was in her eyes—wild, frightened, powerful.

"Alastor," Michael said, his tone suddenly gentle but firm, "you should head home now. We'll talk later."

Alastor hesitated, looking between them, concern written across his face. But he nodded. "O-okay. See you tomorrow, Charlie?"

Charlie didn't answer. She just stood there, staring at the broken branch as Alastor slowly walked away.

Michael waited until the boy was out of sight, then gently placed a hand on Charlie's shoulder.

"Inside. Now."

The door closed behind them with a soft thud, but the silence in the house was loud. Michael didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. His disappointment settled heavily in the room.

"I didn't mean to," Charlie whispered, her voice shaking. "I... What did I do?"

Michael knelt in front of her, gently taking her trembling hands in his.

"You must never do that again, Charlotte," he said softly but firmly. "Never."

Tears welled up in her eyes. "But—what was it? What did I do?"

Michael's face twisted with pain. He hesitated, then shook his head.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "What matters is that you don't do it again. Next time, you run. You find help. You don't use whatever that was."

She stared at him, confused, afraid.

"Because if the wrong people find out what you can do..." His voice grew quieter, heavier. "They'll come for you. Just like they came for your parents. And they won't care that you were scared, or trying to protect someone. They'll see power, and they'll either want to control it... or destroy it."

He paused, his gaze locking with hers.

"And I can't lose you too, Charlotte."

The fear in his voice broke something in her. She flung herself into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Michael," she sobbed. "I didn't mean to—I didn't..."

"I know," he whispered, wrapping her in a tight embrace. "I know you didn't. But from now on... you have to hold it in. You have to hide it. No one can ever know. Not anyone. Ever."

Charlie nodded, silent against his chest.

But deep inside, a quiet fear was already forming—one she didn't dare speak aloud:

What if she couldn't keep it in forever?

Chapter Text

She was so beautiful—like an angel. Especially her eyes. Those soft grey eyes, flecked with blue, held a quiet sadness that made it hard to look away. He'd thought so from the very first moment he saw her.

It was just a week after he'd moved into the foster home, still trying to recover from the worst day of his life.

His father had been a good man. A loving man. But also a painfully weak one. Timid. Bookish. Insecure.

Much like Alastor himself.

Jean-Baptiste Le Beau had spent years being quietly crushed beneath the weight of a life he didn't know how to resist. For as long as Alastor could remember, his father had endured relentless humiliation at the hands of his boss—Harry Pagan, a petty tyrant of a man who treated people like tools to be used and discarded.

Jean-Baptiste and Adele had married young, barely out of high school when Alastor was born. Pagan had been the only one in the city willing to give a high school dropout a job that paid just enough to rent a small apartment. So Jean-Baptiste took it. And he stayed. No matter how badly he was treated, he stayed.

Because it was the only option he had.

Pagan had a habit of preying on those weaker than himself, and he especially enjoyed tormenting beautiful women. Alastor's mother was beautiful.

It started with him inviting himself over for dinner, leering at her across the table. Then came the flowers. The notes. Unwelcome visits when Jean-Baptiste wasn't home. She always turned him away—calmly, firmly. She always said no. She always said she loved her husband.

But one day, Pagan got tired of waiting.

Alastor was hiding in the closet, just as his mother had told him to. "No matter what happens," she had whispered, "don't come out." From the shadows, he listened to her scream.

Then—silence.

A door creaked open. His father's voice cried out in horror. Alastor dared to peek through the slats of the closet door—and saw everything. His mother's lifeless body. His father's face contorted in grief. And then something changed.

Alastor saw the man he knew as his father disappear. In his place stood someone else. Someone colder. Someone capable of killing. And he did. His father had killed that awful man — slowly, remorselessly, in a way that left a sound Alastor could not erase. He closed his eyes against it, but the noises kept coming, a wet, ragged cadence that filled the room. The violence hadn't arrived out of nowhere; it was the end of a long, smoldering fuse — years of being pushed around, of swallowing his pride, and of losing the love of his life until grief and fury braided into a murderous haze.

"Dad?" Alastor called, his voice small. It was enough to bring the man back.

When Jean-Baptiste saw his terrified son, he dropped to his knees, pulled him into his arms, and wept. He held Alastor tightly, refusing to let go until the police arrived.

Afterward, his father was committed to a psychiatric hospital. Alastor was placed in foster care.

The home he was sent to was run by Rosie Mae, along with a gay couple, Stolas and Blitzo. Alastor became one of four children living there: Moxxie, Loona, and Octavia. Octavia was Stolas's biological daughter from a failed marriage, while Moxxie and Loona, like Alastor, were essentially orphans.

Rosie and Stolas did their best to welcome him with warmth and kindness, but Alastor wasn't interested in making the best of anything. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to play. He barely ate. All he wanted was to sit alone in his room with the old radio his mother had given him, letting the music drown out the thoughts he couldn't bear to face.

That's how he spent his first week—silent, shut down, unreachable. No one could get through to him.

Then, one quiet afternoon, the radio's batteries finally died. Needing a replacement, he wandered out to Blitzo's shed, where the extras were kept.

That's when he heard it—soft, sweet singing drifting over from the house next door.

Peering through the fence, he spotted a man helping a young girl practice for choir. The man was Michael. The girl, his niece—Charlie.

Her voice was light as silk, soft as smoke, full of longing and a kind of aching hope that tugged at something buried deep in his chest. She wasn't performing, not really. It wasn't the kind of singing meant for applause. It was personal—like a prayer whispered between breaths. As she sang, her eyes closed, her hand resting over her heart, Alastor stood motionless, forgetting even the batteries in his hand.

That night, for the first time, he didn't reach for the radio. He lay in bed with the silence and listened to it, wondering if he'd hear her voice again.

And he did.

Day after day, Alastor began spending more time outside—lingering by the fence, "accidentally" walking by her yard, sometimes pretending to be fixing his bike or reading, just to hear her sing.

He wanted to talk to her—but she was just... so amazing. And he was, well... not.

Scrawny, with crooked teeth and thick glasses too big for his face, he moved through the world like he was trying not to take up space. Clumsy, awkward, and—if he was honest with himself—completely spineless. It wasn't long before he became every bully's favorite target, their favorite pocket to pick and punch to throw.

He knew the script: if he so much as tried to talk to a girl like her, she'd laugh. Of course she would. Why wouldn't she?

But then fate intervened—in the clumsiest way possible.

He hit her with his bike.

Definitely not the grand introduction he'd imagined... but then again, beggars couldn't be choosers.

He brought her inside, careful not to let her limp too much on the sprained ankle. Rosie, who used to be a nurse back when she still wore scrubs, immediately took over—ushering Charlie to the couch with all the gentle authority of someone who'd patched up dozens of scraped knees and bruised egos.

"Anything for the girl who made Alastor able to speak again," she teased, casting a sideways grin at him as she gathered bandages and antiseptic.

"Rosie!" Alastor groaned, his cheeks flushing red.

Charlie laughed, a clear and easy sound that made something flutter behind his ribs.

Once Rosie was done cleaning her up and wrapping her ankle, Alastor nervously asked, "Um... do you maybe wanna come upstairs? I can show you my radio. And some books. If you want."

To his shock, she smiled and nodded. "Sure."

He blinked. "Really?"

"Of course," she said.

In his room, he showed her the old radio—his prized possession. The dial still stuck sometimes, and the antenna had to be propped up with a pencil, but it played music like magic when it worked. He showed her his growing stack of books—and audio book tapes. She listened to him ramble, wide-eyed and smiling, like none of it bored her. Like he mattered.

She was always like that with him. Kind. Bright. Happy to see him. And why, he didn't know. Not really. But he didn't complain. Not even once.

When they went to high school, he was absolutely terrified. He was positive that someone as beautiful, talented, and smart as Charlie would definitely fall into the popular crowd and ditch him once it became obvious what a loser he was.

Freshman year he offered to tutor some of the jocks in math, in hopes of getting into the popular crowd and they came up with a game. Something Alastor called bully by numbers. Two teams, hallway was the field, and Alastor was the ball. They'd toss and shove him around while adding, subtracting, multiplying, and diving how many times he was sent flying. Hell, they still did it to him now during his senior year. Grabbed him right after Ms. Mayberry's house let out.

"Heeey, Al!" Valentino drawled, slinging an arm around Alastor's shoulder like they were old friends. "Been a minute, mathlete. Miss me?"

Behind him, the rest of the team was closing in like wolves. They always laughed when Valentino started talking. It was part of the show.

Alastor didn't answer. He didn't need to. That only egged Val on.

"You know," Valentino said, tightening his grip just enough to hurt, "I've been feeling a little tense lately. Lot of pressure. Practice, scouts, my girl riding my ass about prom..." He leaned in, close enough for Alastor to smell his cologne—cheap, strong, and aggressive, just like him.

"Which is why," Valentino continued, voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I have this sudden urge to pound you."

Alastor blinked. "You could do that, yeah," he said, nodding slightly. "Or—hear me out—you could channel all that aggression into something healthier. Like... I don't know... Chess Club?"

The team erupted in laughter—loud, cruel, and not with him.

"Vox was right, Alastor—you are funny."

Valentino's grin curled wider, but his eyes stayed cold. His hand gripped the front of Alastor's sweater like he was deciding whether to tear it—or just tear him.

Alastor shrugged, trying to keep his voice steady even as his stomach twisted into knots. "I try."

Then came the shove.

It wasn't subtle. Val slammed him backward into the lockers hard enough to make the metal rattle, then caught him before he could fall and flung him into the waiting arms of his goons. The hallway became their field again. One shove, two punches, three jeers. Four steps back. Five kicks forward.

"Extra credit for creativity," one of the guys snickered as Alastor hit the floor again.

Valentino cracked his knuckles, looming over him. "C'mon, math boy, what's 98 plus you getting wrecked?"

Then a voice cut through the chaos.

"Real nice, Val. Five on one." A pause. "Y'know, in my book, that makes you a chicken shit."

Everyone turned.

It was Angel.

Leaning against the wall like he hadn't a care in the world, twirling a lollipop between his fingers, dressed in a loose jersey and half-zipped jacket, Angel looked like he'd just walked out of a music video. Popular. Confident. Untouchable.

Alastor blinked, dazed. What was Angel doing?

Valentino narrowed his eyes. "What's it to you, Angel baby?"

Angel shrugged lazily. "Just hate seeing you flex your fragile ego on someone with a higher GPA than your whole bloodline."

The hallway filled with a low chorus of "ooohs."

Val looked pissed. "You got a problem with me now?"

"Always have," Angel said, smirking. "But I usually keep it to myself — outta respect. Now?" He popped a lollipop into his mouth and let it click against his teeth. "Now I think it's only fair we acknowledge the terrible truth about you."

"What truth?"

"That you have the IQ of a cockroach."

Valentino moved like a coiled spring. He clamped a hand around Angel's throat and drove a knee into his groin, folding him to the floor. "How d'you like that, dick face?"

Alastor crouched to haul Angel up. The moment Angel staggered to his feet he spat straight into Valentino's face. That finished the conversation — fists flew, bodies crashed together, and the room erupted into a brutal brawl.

But the chaos didn't last long. Not because the boys ran out of steam—but because Ms. Mayberry came storming down the hallway like a force of nature in orthopedic heels.

"What on Earth is going on here!?" Her voice cracked like thunder across the lockers.

In an instant, the team scattered like startled rats. Even Valentino, mid-swing, flinched and dropped Angel, who hit the floor with a grunt.

Alastor helped him up—again—and this time Angel leaned on him a little heavier.

Ms. Mayberry's eyes swept the hallway, taking in bruised faces, disheveled shirts, and the distinct stink of boy-sweat and trouble. Her mouth thinned to a tight line.

"Valentino. Principal's office. Now.”

"But Ms. May—“

"Now!"

Val opened his mouth again, but whatever comeback he had withered under her glare. He turned and stalked off, muttering a string of curses under his breath.

The rest of the team trailed behind him, heads low.

Ms. Mayberry turned back to Alastor and Angel, her voice softening only slightly. "Do either of you need to go to the nurse?"

Angel wiped a smear of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nah. I'm chill."

Alastor straightened his glasses, blinking through the daze. "I think I'm fine."

She eyed them both skeptically. "Angel, you're bleeding."

"I bleed cool," he said with a wink. "It's my thing."

Ms. Mayberry sighed like she'd just aged five years. "Then at least walk yourselves home and put some ice on it. And Alastor—if I hear anything else about you being harassed, I will eliminate it. Do you understand me?"

Alastor nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am."

She gave them a final once-over, then turned and marched off, her heels echoing sharply down the hall.

"...You okay?" Angel finally asked, glancing sideways.

Alastor winced as he adjusted his bag. "Yeah. Just sore. You?"

"Peachy. Except for, y'know, knee to the balls. But I've had worse." He gave Alastor a crooked grin. "You're lucky I'm such a good influence."

Alastor gave a half-laugh. "That's not exactly the word I'd use."

Angel shrugged. "Whatever. You're welcome, anyway."

Angel was an athlete too—a starter on the basketball team with the swagger to match. Back in the day, he'd been one of the many who teased Alastor, never cruel exactly, but never kind either. That started to change when his mom forced him into tutoring to keep his grades from tanking. Alastor was the unlucky genius assigned to help.

At first, Angel had dreaded it. But hours spent across from each other—crammed into quiet corners of the library, trading sarcastic remarks between equations—started to shift something. Alastor wasn't so bad. A little weird. Kinda intense. But sharp. Funny, even. And real in a way most people weren't.

Somewhere along the way, the teasing stopped.

Angel just wished the guy would learn how to fight back.

"You know I don't get something." Angel said. "You're smart enough to get all A's, you can even build a clock radio from garbage, but you can't figure out how to stick it to Valentino? You know you could take him if you just had the nerve."

"I don't believe in violence for conflict resolution."

"You do realize that if Americans lived by that, we would have lost the war?"

"Well it's not like I don't want to...I mean think about doing it all the time. But...I...I don't think it would be a good idea to act on it. Vox says it's best if I just lay low and let him get it over with."

Angel huffed, blowing a strand up his hair up.

"At least Charlie didn't see that," Alastor muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Angel glanced at him, brow raised. "That’s why you're really upset?"

Alastor didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"Hey, it's the weekend. Why don't we go out?" Angel asked, nudging him. "We'll grab my ma's car, cruise around, maybe get something to eat."

"Can't," Alastor said. "I've got a science project to work on."

"I thought you already finished yours."

"I did. Vox asked me to help with his."

Angel paused, his smile dimming just a little. "Right. Cool. Guess I'll see you around, then."

Alastor had barely made it off the front steps of the school when he heard her voice behind him.

"Alastor! Wait up!"

He turned just in time to see Charlie jogging toward him, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, concern written all over her face.

"Hey," she said, falling into step beside him. "Are you okay? Vaggie told me what happened with Valentino and his buddies."

Alastor blinked. "What? Oh, that?" He gave a forced laugh, waving it off. "That was nothing. We were just, you know... joking around."

Charlie gave him a look—the kind that cut right through fake smiles. "Come on, Alastor. You don't have to pretend with me."

He looked away, lips twitching into a faint, sheepish smile. "...Yeah. It sucked."

Charlie exhaled sharply through her nose. "Ugh, Valentino is such a jerk."

"Agreed."

They walked a few more steps in silence, the weight of the day lingering between them.

"But hey," Charlie added, her tone brightening slightly, "at least he didn't spray-paint 'Charlie Morningstar eats shit' all over your locker."

Alastor winced. "Don't tell me—Velvette again?"

Charlie sighed. "No hard evidence, but... it's obvious."

He shook his head. "She's got a lot of nerve for someone who thinks glitter eyeliner counts as a personality."

Charlie laughed, and the sound made something ease in his chest.

"I swear, high school must've been invented by sadists," Alastor groaned.

"I don't know. My uncle says compared to the real world, high school's a playground."

And maybe she was right.

Because outside those school walls, things were much worse.

Nine Circle City wasn't just the worst place in the country—it might've been the worst on the planet. Misery wasn't a phase here; it was the default setting. Depression was part of the skyline, crime was clockwork, and the only cops with any real courage were already buried. The rest? They kept their heads down and hoped to make it home alive.

Justice didn't live here. Hope barely visited.

And yet... this city was home.

For better or much, much worse.

Chapter Text

The walk home was terrifying as usual. Everywhere they looked, the streets crawled with drug dealers, muggers, gangs, and prostitutes—every kind of lost or dangerous soul imaginable.

This part of the city was especially dangerous, controlled by two ruthless figures. The first was Mammon—a notorious drug lord so warped by his own product and paranoia that he once shot his own dog, convinced it would rat him out to the cops. The other was Striker, leader of a violent gang that would mug or maim someone just because Striker didn't like the way they looked.

Charlie had grown up watching people get beaten, stabbed, or gunned down by those two. The violence wasn't rare—it was routine. And it made her sick. It hollowed her out.

"There's nothing we can do, except pray," her uncle would say.

"Just keep walking. Don't make eye contact," Alastor would add.

It wasn't fair. Why did they have to live in such an ugly and cruel world? What did they do to deserve this?

"Thank God, they're not on the street today." Alastor sighed as they walked. "Mammon must've overdosed and Striker must be out pinching chains again."

"Or beating someone to death." Charlie sighed. "Or drugging someone to death."

"Let's try not to think about it and hope that we get home before one of them sees us."

"Do you think we could ever try to reason with them?"

"Charlie, you can't reason with crazy. I know, I've tried."

"With Striker and Mammon?"

"No, with Stolas and Blitzo. I told them not to invest their share of the money into a drag show, I told them a theater would be more profitable. They called me a philistine and said I knew nothing about the arts."

"That's ridiculous, you know a lot about the arts. Your mom used to be an actress."

"Well, I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I do know a thing or two about entertainment," Alastor said with a shrug. "Anyway, turns out their share wasn't enough to cover all the expenses. Rosie agreed to pitch in some of her cut—but only on the condition that they follow my advice and turn it into a proper theater, so she could perform too."

"And what did they say?"

"Stolas didn't care either way. Blitzo put up a fight—said Rosie would steal the spotlight because she looks better in a dress than either of them. But in the end, he gave in."

"No one's ever won an argument with Rosie."

"No kidding."

"What do Moxxie, Loona, and Octavia think about the whole thing?"

"The girls don't really care, but Moxxie's all in. He wants to be in their first show."

"Yeah? Why do you think?"

"I'm sure they'll put on a decent show—probably something flashy and ridiculous."

"No, I mean... would you want to be in one of their shows?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because the stage is for talented, good-looking people."

"You are talented and good-looking."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm serious! You're smart and creative, you can dance, you're funny, and you're... handsome—"

She suddenly trailed off, blushing.

"What was that last part?" Alastor asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You're... handy! Very handy on stage!"

Alastor tilted his head, confused. "Handy?"

Charlie's cheeks burned. "I-I mean, with props! You're great with props! And sets! Very... handy!"

Charlie's eyes darted ahead.

"Oh! Look at that—we're almost home!" she blurted. "I just remembered I left something in the oven. No—not the oven, the... hallway closet! I was supposed to organize it!"

"Organize the hallway closet?" Alastor echoed, arching a brow.

"Yep! Super important. Can't put it off!" she said, speeding up. "Anyway, thanks for walking with me, okay bye!"

She practically bolted toward the door, leaving Alastor standing on the sidewalk confused.

"Handy...She thinks I'm handy."

Charlie watched from her window as Alastor made his way to the house next door. The moment he disappeared inside, she groaned and smacked her palm against her forehead.

"Oh my God... Handy? Seriously, Charlie? What is wrong with you?"

After she recovered from her mild humiliation, she checked around the house to see if her uncle was home. He wasn't , and with no homework to keep her busy, she decided to slip away to her secret place. It lay just across from her house—up a hill, through a cluster of trees, and down a long-forgotten dirt road. The place itself was just as forgotten: an abandoned, church that looked like it had been standing for centuries, weathered by time and memory.

She had discovered it years ago, while trying to escape a group of men who started to follow her after school one day. It had been the perfect hiding spot—secluded and forgotten, tucked beyond the trees where no one ever bothered to look. Despite the silence, the cold drafts, and the worn, walls, Charlie saw something magical in it. To her, it looked like a palace.

She would sit for hours beneath the shattered stained-glass windows, their broken colors still catching bits of light in the late afternoon sun. Vines crept up the stone like nature trying to reclaim it, but Charlie liked to imagine they were decorations—ivy garlands placed there for a princess. Over time, the church became more than a hideaway. It became a sanctuary, a place where the world couldn't reach her. Here, no one whispered behind her back. No one laughed when she walked by. In this quiet, sacred ruin, Charlie wasn't invisible—she was royalty.

No one else knew about it. The secret was hers alone—not because she didn't want to share it, but because Nine Circle City was teeming with angry, destructive people. People who broke things simply because they could. She feared that if anyone else ever found out about her sanctuary, it wouldn't stay safe for long. Someone cruel would find it. And ruin it.

There was another reason she kept it to herself, though. A quieter fear. She worried people would mock her for spending so much time alone in a decaying church. Even Alastor didn't know—not because she didn't trust him, but because she was sure he'd laugh. He was sharp, logical, always dissecting the world like it was a problem to solve. He probably thought things like religion—and imagination—were pointless. Silly. Maybe even weak.

All she wanted was a place of her own—a small, quiet corner of the world she could escape to when the days got too hard. Days like today.

From the moment she arrived at school, it was as if the whole building conspired against her. People pinched her in passing, stuck out legs to trip her in the halls, knocked her books off her desk without so much as a glance. Someone even managed to slip an obscene message into her notepad during history class. She didn't know who did it, but it didn't matter. It could've been anyone.

But Velvette Cooper was the worst.

Velvette didn't just bully Charlie—she made a sport out of it. She was relentless, cruel in a way that felt personal, as if Charlie's existence offended her. And it had been that way for as long as Charlie could remember.

Back in third grade, Velvette had pretended to be her friend. She smiled sweetly, asked if she could braid Charlie's hair during recess. Charlie, thrilled at the thought of someone—anyone—wanting to be close to her, had said yes. She sat patiently, heart thudding with hope, only to hear the metallic snip of scissors and feel her hair fall against her shoulders. Velvette had cut it. Chopped off two thick pieces and held them up like trophies, laughing as the other kids joined in.

Another time, Velvette posted on the school's website—and even taped it to the nurse's office window—that Charlie had syphilis. Just like that, the rumor took off like wildfire. People stopped talking to her. Stopped sitting near her. Stopped looking at her, unless it was to snicker or whisper something behind a cupped hand.

For a whole year, no one came near her. They called her names in the halls. Wrote "slut" on her locker in permanent marker. Someone even left a box of condoms in her backpack once, like it was a joke. Like she was the joke.

But the worst thing Velvette ever did to Charlie happened sophomore year, at the school's homecoming dance.

It started as a dare. All the girls egged her on, laughing behind their lip gloss and fake sympathy. They handed her a compact mirror and told her to play Bloody Mary—alone, in the janitor's closet. Charlie didn't want to, but the pressure felt like a vice around her throat. So she went in.

As soon as the door closed behind her, she heard the click of the lock. Then footsteps fading. Then nothing.

They left her there. In the dark.

Charlie hated the dark. She had been afraid of it ever since she was little, when shadows seemed to crawl and whisper and wait. Alone in that closet, the air thick and stale, her fear rose like a tide.

She screamed. Cried. Kicked the door. Pounded the walls. But the music from the gym was deafening—thudding bass, laughter, heels clacking across linoleum. No one heard her.

No one... except Alastor.

To this day, he couldn't explain how or why. One moment, he was surrounded by lights and noise, floating in the chaos of the dance floor—and the next, everything went silent. The music. The chatter. The world. All of it faded away, until the only sound left was her voice—her screams, sharp and ragged, cutting through the quiet like glass.

He followed them.

Found the closet.

Without hesitation, he grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and used it to smash the doorknob clean off. The door creaked open, and Charlie stumbled out, still screaming, eyes wide with panic, cheeks streaked with tears.

He caught her before she hit the ground.

Held her tightly, arms wrapped around her shaking frame, whispering that it was over, that she was safe. She clung to him like he was the only real thing in the world.

She didn't want to go back to the dance. But she didn't want to go home yet either—not so early. Her uncle would ask questions, and she wasn't ready to talk.

So Alastor took her to the diner to eat a burger and milkshake in silence.

Charlie just couldn't make sense of it. Why did people like Velvette, Valentino, Mammon, and Striker always seem to delight in hurting others? What did they gain from spreading so much misery?

Her gaze drifted to a pile of stones nearby. She locked eyes on one, narrowing her focus. I wish I could throw that right at Velvette's smug face, she thought bitterly.

As if obeying her, the stone suddenly lifted into the air and hurled itself across the room. Then another rose. And another. One by one, the stones launched through the air—just because Charlie looked at them.

It was another reason why she liked being here. This was the only place where she could safely explore her "powers."

They'd started showing up after her parents were taken. Strange things would happen when her emotions ran high—especially when she was scared, angry, or overwhelmed. Lightbulbs would shatter without warning. Mirrors cracked without a touch. The walls trembled during nightmares. Once, she was nearly hit by a drunk driver—only for the car to suddenly veer and flip sideways, narrowly missing her.

Michael told her to ignore it all. "Coincidence," he said. "Forget it ever happened."

But Charlie couldn't forget. Deep down, she knew—whatever caused those incidents, it was connected to what happened to her mother and father.

So she started digging.

Library books. Old articles. Fringe science papers. Anything that mentioned unexplained phenomena. Eventually, she found a name for it: telekinesis—the ability to move things with your mind.

Her parents must have somehow obtained it and, she'd inherited it.

Every night, Michael prayed—begging God to take her power away. To strip it from her completely. If she didn't have it, then the government agents—or as he called them, "slaves to the devil"—would have no reason to come for her. No reason to drag her off to some cold, sterile facility. No reason to cut her open and dissect her until she died... like they did to her parents.

That's why he never wanted her to use her powers. Never wanted her to even acknowledge they existed.

Charlie tried to respect that. For a long time, she almost didn't use them at all.

But when she was alone—in her secret place—she couldn't help herself.

It was like breathing. Like a pressure valve. A way to release everything she was holding in—her fear, her rage, her grief.

Surely there was no harm in that, was there? Not when she was alone. Not when no one was watching.

As the last stone hit the far wall with a sharp crack, Charlie stood in the center of the ruined church, chest rising and falling. The air around her had gone still. Heavy.

After releasing her anger, Charlie took a deep breath and decided to channel her energy into something more constructive—a project she'd been quietly working on for weeks: restoring the shattered stained-glass windows.

It had started as a whim. One day, she found a jagged shard of deep blue glass buried in the dirt near the altar. Something about it—its color, the way it caught the light—had pulled at her. She wiped it clean and tucked it into her pocket, not knowing why. The next time she came back, she found another. Then another.

Soon, she was combing through the rubble every time she visited, carefully collecting the broken pieces, rinsing them in a basin she kept hidden in the back corner, sorting them by color. There were dozens now—crimson, gold, emerald, sapphire—like fragments of a forgotten dream.

She didn't have the tools or training of a real stained-glass artist, but she didn't need them. With focus, she could hold the pieces in the air, gently rotating and fitting them together like a puzzle. If she concentrated hard enough, the glass would heat at the edges—not with fire, but with the strange pulse of her power—softening just enough to fuse.

She approached the window frame nearest the altar. The sun was slanting through it just right, casting a pale glow across the floor. Charlie raised her hand. Shards rose from the cloth bundle where she'd left them, slowly lifting into the air. They shimmered like floating jewels.

One by one, she guided them into place—a petal of ruby here, a strip of amber there—rebuilding the image she could barely make out from the remnants still clinging to the lead outlines. Some pieces she managed to rebuild into their original designs, fitting them back into place like memories being restored. Others, she used to create her own images—little glimpses of the world as she wished it could be.

A rainbow shining in the sun. A star-scattered night sky. A family of ducks gliding across a quiet pond.

Now, as she hovered a few more shards into the air, she paused, tilting her head.

What should this next image be?

"Butterflies," she murmured with a soft smile. "Butterflies in the breeze."

With that she set to work.

Chapter Text

Guiding each shard with delicate precision, she began shaping the wings first—slivers of amber, violet, and sapphire gliding into place like pieces of a delicate mosaic. The butterflies took form slowly, each one unique, their wings poised mid-flight as if caught in a moment of gentle motion.

She added thin arcs of silver for the breeze, weaving them between the wings, giving the illusion of movement, of freedom. It was peaceful work—quiet, focused, almost meditative.

"Wow! That's pretty!"

Charlie was so startled she almost dropped the frame. Someone was here. Someone had found her secret place.

She turned around, standing there was Vaggie Madrigal.

She was a cheerleader, captain of the debate team, and one of the girls who had locked Charlie in the janitor's closet. Vaggie was beautiful, slender with long shiny black hair and hazel eyes, sharp-tongued, and fiercely confident. She carried herself like someone who knew exactly where she was going and dared anyone to get in her way. She prided herself on strength—on grit, ambition, discipline. She admired people who clawed their way upward, who fought to be more than what they were.

She had no patience for weakness. And to her, Charlie had always seemed like the weakest person in the room.

Quiet. Nervous. Too polite, too soft. Vaggie thought Charlie wore her sadness like armor, clinging to it just to feel special. She was convinced Charlie liked being the victim—that she used her meekness like a weapon, always hinting that everyone else was cruel, corrupt, or doomed, while she and her saintly uncle floated above it all.

So when they locked her in the closet, it didn't feel like cruelty. Not really. It felt like a lesson. A harmless scare. A reminder that the world didn't cater to fragile girls with haunted eyes and too many prayers in their pockets.

But then Vaggie saw her face.

Saw her as she was walking toward the school exit with Alastor by her side, eyes wide and wet, her whole body trembling like a kicked dog. She wasn't just crying—she was terrified. Like something had broken open inside her. Like she'd clawed her way out of hell itself and barely made it back.

Vaggie felt like a monster.

For days, Vaggie barely spoke to anyone. She couldn't focus—on her classes, cheer practice, or debate meetings. The guilt sat in her chest like a weight she couldn't shake. She felt disgusting. Ugly. Vile. Loathsome. Like something rotten had been pulled to the surface.

"What's the big deal? It was just a prank," Velvette said one afternoon, casually painting her nails in the locker room like nothing had happened.

Vaggie stared at her. "No. It wasn't a prank. It was a really shitty thing. I think we might have traumatized her."

Velvette rolled her eyes. "So? Who cares? It's not like she's anyone important."

Vaggie's jaw clenched. Her stomach twisted.

"You know," she said slowly, "my mom's always telling me I shouldn't hang out with you. That you're a bad influence."

Velvette smirked. "Your mom says that about everyone."

"Yeah," Vaggie replied, standing up and grabbing her bag, "but for once... I think she might be right."

Eventually, Vaggie apologized, promising that she'd make it up to Charlie someday. Charlie told her it wasn't necessary, but she accepted the apology—and forgave her.

After that, something changed.

Vaggie started smiling when they passed each other in the halls. She'd say hello, wave, even invite Charlie to sit with her at lunch. Once, she invited her to go shopping.

Charlie smiled back. She returned the greetings, sat beside her at lunch, even joined in the conversation. But when it came to things like shopping trips... she hesitated.

She wasn't sure she could trust Vaggie—not completely. What if her kindness wasn't real? What if it was just another setup, like before? Charlie couldn't afford to find out the hard way again. So she politely turned the invitation down.

Now, as she caught sight of Vaggie at the stone steps, panic surged in her chest.

Had she seen what Charlie was doing?

Would she tell someone? Call the police? Call her a freak? A witch? Laugh?

"Wha—what are you doing here?" Charlie asked, her voice tight with surprise.

"Your notebook fell out of your bag in class," Vaggie said, holding it up. "I found it on my way back from cheer practice and figured I'd return it. No one was home, and then I saw you heading up the hill, so... I followed you."

Charlie stared at her, studying her expression. No fear. No confusion. No shock. Just calm, casual curiosity.

She hadn't seen anything.

Thank God.

Vaggie glanced past her toward the window frame. "What's that you've got there?"

Charlie glanced down at the framed image in her hands, then hesitantly held it up for Vaggie to see. "It's nothing, really. Just a little arts and crafts project."

Vaggie's eyes widened. Her jaw almost dropped as she took in the intricate stained-glass design, glowing softly in the sunlight.

"You made this?" she asked, incredulous. "Seriously—you made this? How?"

Charlie gave a half-smile, hugging the frame a little closer to her chest. "Uh... trade secret."

"Well... this is incredible."

"You really think so?" Charlie asked, a bit of disbelief in her voice.

"Yes! Can I see it up close?"

Charlie hesitated for a moment, then slowly stepped forward and handed over the frame. "Be careful. Some of the edges are still a little sharp."

Vaggie took it gently, her hands steady as she lifted it toward the light streaming through the broken windows. The colors flickered to life—soft blues and warm golds casting glowing reflections across her palms.

"Butterflies," she whispered, eyes wide. "They look like they're actually moving."

Charlie nodded, her voice barely above a breath. "That's what I was going for. Butterflies in the breeze."

Vaggie kept staring, something soft and distant settling over her expression. "It's beautiful."

Charlie looked down, cheeks flushing slightly as she tried to stifle the small smile tugging at her lips. "Thanks... But you don't have to say that just to be nice."

Vaggie shook her head, her tone firm but kind. "I'm not. I mean it. I really like this. Butterflies were always my favorite, you know?"

Charlie glanced up, surprised. "Really?"

Vaggie smiled faintly, still gazing at the glass. "Yeah. They're fragile... but they still fly."

"Well you can have that, if you want."

Vaggie blinked, startled. "Wait—what? No. Charlie, I couldn't. This is yours. You made it."

Charlie shrugged, eyes on the ground, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. "I can make another. It's okay."

"Thank you. I'll hang it in my room—I already know the perfect spot." She set the piece down gently, somewhere safe, before glancing around. "So... what is this place?"

"It's my secret spot," Charlie replied softly. "I come here when I need space. Time to think. No one else knows about it. Well—no one did, until today." She gave Vaggie a sidelong look. "You won't tell anyone, right?"

"I won't," Vaggie promised. "But even if I did, I doubt anyone would come. No offense, but this place is... kinda creepy."

Charlie smiled faintly. "That's one way to see it. But to me, it's beautiful. Quiet. Peaceful. Sometimes... even a little romantic." She paused, then added, more shyly, "I've always thought—maybe someday—I'd like to get married here."

Vaggie blinked, then looked around again with fresh eyes. The cracked stone, the broken windows, the light streaming through in fractured colors—it didn't seem so creepy now.

"Yeah, I think I see what you mean." she said slowly. "So how's your friend? Alastor, right?"

"Yes."

"Is he okay?"

"He said he was fine. I just... hope that's true."

"You don't believe him?"

"I don't know. Sometimes he shrugs things off like they don't matter. Other times... I feel like it hurts him more than he lets on. But he always finds a way to get back up in his feet. Somehow."

"I'll take your word for it. I barely know him—except that he seems to be Valentino's second favorite punching bag."

"Second? Who's the first?"

"That geek Vox. Though Val does enjoy groping me when I wear a skirt. Tries to dry-hump me in the hallway like it's funny."

"You get bullied?"

"Not anymore. Not since I nailed him in the balls. Twice." She smirked. "Too bad you can't do that to Velvette or the rest of us. God knows we probably deserved it."

Charlie laughed a little, a soft, almost shy sound that broke the tension between them.

"Hey, do you like pupusas?"

"I don't know what that is."

Vaggie grinned. "Only the best thing you've never tried. It's thick corn tortillas stuffed with cheese, beans, and meat. My mom's making some for dinner tonight. Want to come over?"

Charlie hesitated. "I don't know... My uncle wouldn't like me going to someone's house if he hasn't met them first."

Vaggie smiled, quick to ease her worry. "Well, he can come too. If you guys want, that is."

Charlie looked thoughtful, then nodded slowly. "Maybe... yeah. That could work."

"Great!" Vaggie's face lit up.

They shared a small laugh, the weight of hesitation easing between them. They walked back together, with Vaggie recounting the time her mother first tried to teach her how to make pupusas.

"Mom was so patient at first," Vaggie said, laughing. "But by the end, she was covered in masa from head to toe. I swear, I nearly set the kitchen on fire trying to flip one."

Charlie smiled, the story pulling her out of her usual quiet. "Sounds like a disaster."

"Total disaster," Vaggie agreed, grinning. "But we ended up laughing so hard, and the pupusas turned out delicious anyway."

Charlie's eyes brightened. "I'd like to see that. Maybe I'll bring my uncle next time—he could use a good laugh."

Vaggie nudged her playfully. "Deal. Just wait until you taste the real thing."

They continued down the path, the late afternoon sun warm on their backs. Michael arrived home just as the girls pulled up to the house. Normally, he didn't like last-minute invitations—especially from people he didn't know. But Charlie had never been invited anywhere by a girl before, and he could tell this meant a lot to her.

So, after a moment's hesitation, he nodded and agreed to dinner with Vaggie and her mother. He hoped this meant  things would start going her way for once.

The Mae-Goetia household was never quiet. Every time Alastor came home, his foster family was in the middle of something bold, loud, and usually dramatic.

For Rosie, Stolas, and Blitzo, foster care was a way to pay the bills—and to have a full house without the hassle of marriage—but their true passion was the stage. Theater ran through the veins of the household like electricity, lighting up every room with rehearsals, costumes, and bursts of spontaneous song.

Moxxie shared that same passion, eagerly throwing himself into any chance to join the trio's theatrics. Octavia loved music, but found all the dramatic flair a little too exhausting to keep up with. And Loona—well, no one was entirely sure what she liked. She acted like she hated everything. But then again, she was fourteen, and that was pretty much par for the course.

Alastor liked theater, too. His mom had been studying to be an actress, and when he was little, the two of them would put on little performances after dinner—just the two of them in the living room. His father would sit on the couch, beaming with pride, laughing at all the right moments.

But after she died, the spark went out. The stage felt too quiet without her. And Alastor never quite found his way back to it.

"I'm home," Alastor called as he stepped through the front door, dropping his bag by the coat rack.

He walked into the living room—and straight into the middle of a full-blown rehearsal.

Stolas stood in the center of the room, arms flailing with dramatic precision, eyes glittering like stage lights.

"You do an eclectic celebration of the dance! You do Fosse, Fosse, Fosse! Or Madonna, Madonna, Madonna!... but you keep it all inside!"

Blitzo blinked at him, baffled. "What does that even mean? I thought we were doing Carmen! Not... interpretive dance breakdowns from a Broadway fever dream."

"Carmen is a very complex character," Stolas explained, lifting his chin with theatrical poise. "She's bold, seductive, defiant—an icon of passion and rebellion. You can't just walk around the stage. You have to embody her essence. Every movement, every gesture, every breath has to scream drama!"

"I know that! I've read the script a thousand times!" Blitzo snapped, throwing his arms up.

"But you're just mimicking her!" Stolas shot back, pacing in an agitated circle. "You're performing Carmen, not being Carmen! If you can't connect to her truth, I'll have no choice but to cast Rosie in the lead."

"What?!" Blitzo's voice cracked like glass. "You'd really bump me for Rosie? She sings like a haunted accordion!"

Alastor, murmured. "She's got better pitch than you, though."

"You stay out of this!" Blitzo barked at him, then spun back to Stolas. "You can't be serious!"

Stolas crossed his arms, smug. "I'm always serious when it comes to the stage."

Blitzo groaned and sank dramatically onto the nearest chair. "This is betrayal. Treason." He muttered, "I give one underwhelming monologue and suddenly I'm the understudy to a woman who thinks tap shoes are a personality trait."

Alastor sighed, setting his book bag down by the door.

"Ah," he muttered dryly, "another normal evening in the asylum."

"At least you haven't been stuck here all week with them," Moxxie chimed in from the couch, resting his casted foot on the coffee table with a dramatic groan. "I've had front-row seats to every meltdown, monologue, and musical number."

Alastor raised an eyebrow. "I thought you liked theater."

"I do," Moxxie said flatly. "But this isn't theater. This is emotional warfare with jazz hands."

"Where are the girls?" Alastor asked, glancing around.

"Where they always are during rehearsal time," Moxxie replied, gesturing vaguely upstairs. "In their rooms, earbuds in, music up—doing everything they can to block this out."

Alastor smirked. "Smart."

"They've got survival instincts," Moxxie said, sighing. "I, unfortunately, have a broken foot and no escape plan."

Rosie stepped into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Dinner's ready!" she called, her voice warm but firm—like a stage manager wrangling an unruly cast.

Everyone looked up, the energy in the room shifting instantly.

But her eyes landed on Alastor, and her expression softened. She walked over, tilting her head slightly as she caught sight of the faint bruise on his cheek.

"Alastor..." she said gently, reaching out to brush his hair aside. "Has Valentino been bothering you again?"

Alastor instinctively flinched back—not harshly, just enough. "No," he said quickly. "It's nothing. I just... slipped. Walking home."

Rosie didn't look convinced, but she nodded slowly, not pressing—at least not here, not now. "Alright," she said quietly, though her eyes lingered on him a second longer. "But if that nothing ever turns into something, you tell me. You hear?"

He gave a faint nod, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Yeah. I hear you."

"Good." She straightened up, her tone snapping back into its usual cheerful cadence. "Now let's eat."

The group shuffled in, squeezing around the mismatched chairs and plates. Conversation flowed easily between bites, laughter rising and falling like background music.

Halfway through the meal, Rosie dabbed her mouth with a napkin and looked around the table. "So," she said, "since tomorrow's the weekend, I was thinking—maybe we could all go to the museum? Or catch a show downtown? They're doing that retro sci-fi musical at the community theater."

There were a few murmurs of interest, mostly from Stolas and Moxxie, but Alastor gently shook his head.

"I can't," he said, slicing into his pupusa. "I promised I'd help Vox with his science project."

Rosie raised an eyebrow. "Really? Vox?"

"Yeah," Alastor replied. "He's building some kind of solar-powered... thing. He wouldn't tell me what it is, just said he needed another pair of hands that 'don't get in the way.'" He smirked faintly. "So I guess I made the cut."

"You're not going to end up doing all the work for him again, are you?" Octavia asked, raising an eyebrow from across the table.

Alastor gave a small shrug, poking at the edge of his plate. "I mean... I don't plan to."

Octavia leaned back in her chair, unimpressed. "You never do. But somehow he always talks you into doing the hardest parts while he takes credit."

"He doesn't take credit," Alastor said, half-heartedly. "He just... forgets to mention I helped."

"That's literally the same thing," Loona muttered without looking up from her phone.

Rosie gave Alastor a look—not scolding, but concerned. "You know, helping someone is a good thing, sweetheart. But letting them use you? That's something else."

"Hey, nobody uses Alastor Le Beau!" he said, sitting up straighter. "I am no one's doormat!"

"Spoken by every doormat who's ever lived," Loona said.

Blitzo snorted into his drink, trying not to choke on his laughter. "She's got you there, kid."

Alastor shot her a look but didn't respond. He knew better than to argue with Loona when she was in one of those moods—and, deep down, he wasn't entirely sure she was wrong.

Chapter Text

The next day, Alastor arrived at Vox's house just after noon, his backpack full of notes, tools, and quiet optimism. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe Vox would actually help with his own science project.

That hope lasted all of five minutes.

By the time Alastor had unpacked the circuit board and reviewed the materials list, Vox was already planted on the couch, headset on, controller in hand, and eyes locked onto the TV. The game he was playing was loud—absurdly loud—and every few seconds the screen erupted in flashes of gunfire, gore, and explosions.

Alastor glanced up from the instruction manual as a particularly grotesque slow-motion kill played out across the screen, complete with an over-the-top scream.

"Do you really think it's healthy to play games like that?" Alastor asked, raising an eyebrow.

Vox didn't look away. "It's fine. Better I shoot fake people than real ones, right?"

"That's... certainly one way to rationalize it," Alastor replied dryly, twisting a wire into place.

Onscreen, Vox's character jammed a chainsaw through an enemy's head, then kicked the body into a wall of spikes.

"Besides," Vox added casually, "it keeps me focused."

Alastor blinked. "You're not even looking at the project."

"Yeah, and you're doing great," Vox said with a grin, finally glancing back at him. "Keep it up, partner."

Alastor exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh—but close.

"Someday," he muttered, "you're going to have to actually build something instead of just blowing it up."

Vox laughed. "Why bother? That's what I've got you for."

Alastor and Vox had met in eighth grade—in the nurse's office, both bruised and bleeding after separate run-ins with the wrestling team. Neither of them had much social capital. Most kids ignored them, or worse. No one in their grade really wanted to hang out with either of them—except for Charlie,

So, sitting side by side on those paper-covered cots, ice packs pressed to their faces, they'd shared a quiet, awkward moment. Vox had cracked a joke about the nurse smelling like disinfectant and regret. Alastor had laughed. And for a moment, it felt like maybe they understood each other.

They thought they could be friends.

Or rather—Alastor thought they could be friends.

"So I've got some great news," Vox said, grinning as he tossed his controller aside. "Valentino's throwing a huge party tonight, and guess what? He invited us. Can you believe it?"

Alastor looked up from the project, eyes narrowing. "No, actually I can't. Considering he hates us."

"He hates you," Vox corrected, pointing casually. "But he likes me. And I can get him to like you too. One night, that's all it takes. A little charm, a little confidence—and boom, we're in. His crowd, Al. The top tier."

Alastor blinked slowly. "Interesting idea. One problem though."

"What?"

"I don't want to be in his crowd."

Vox stared at him like he'd just spoken another language. "Why not?"

"How about the fact that he's viciously harassed me since ninth grade?" Alastor said, voice flat and tired. "I'm not a masochist, you know."

Vox scoffed, waving a hand. "He was just messing with you. That's how he tests people. If you'd just lighten up—"

"Oh, right," Alastor cut in, arms crossing. "I should've laughed harder when he shoved me into a locker. Or when he poured hot glue into my hair. Real knee-slappers."

Vox shrugged, tone flippant. "Okay, yeah, maybe he was a little intense—"

"He once tried to drown me in a toilet," Alastor said coldly.

"That was a long time ago."

"It was last week," Alastor snapped.

"Alright, so he's an asshole," Vox admitted, holding up his hands. "But if we get on his good side, he'll leave you alone. Won't that be nice?"

"I seriously doubt that," Alastor muttered, pulling out his notebook and flipping it open to a fresh page. He started jotting down a few rough ideas for the project, eyes focused, pencil gliding neatly across the lines.

But as he turned a page, something caught Vox's eye—a series of scribbles in the margins. Before Alastor could stop him, Vox snatched the notebook from his hands.

"Hey!" Alastor snapped. "Give that back!"

Vox grinned, already flipping through. "What's this? Chemistry notes?"

"Vox—seriously."

"You are such a nerd, Alastor." He held the notebook up dramatically. "Let's see... H is for Hydrogen..."

Alastor stood up, trying to grab it back. "Come on."

"O is for Oxygen..." Vox dodged his reach, laughing. "Oh wait—what's this? CM? What does CM stand for?

Alastor froze. "Uh...Carbon Monoxide."

"It's written all over the page," Vox said with a smirk, eyes dancing with amusement. "You even drew little hearts around it. Adorable. But you're not seriously telling me you doodled Carbon Monoxide in hearts?"

"It's... it's my favorite element!" Alastor blurted out.

Alastor lunged to snatch the notebook back, but Vox was too quick, already stepping back and flipping another page.

"Oh now this is just precious," he said, holding it up like it was evidence in court. "You drew a big heart and wrote AL + CM inside of it. Is it possible—just maybe—that CM actually stands for Charlie Morningstar?"

Alastor's ears burned crimson. "Shut up."

Vox cackled. "Oh my god. You're still crushing on her?! This is like, middle school level tragic."

"I said shut up!" Alastor made another grab for the notebook, this time more forcefully.

Vox danced back, still laughing. "This is so sad. Does she even know? Or do you just pine silently in the corner like a haunted Victorian poet?"

Alastor's voice dropped low and tense. "Give. It. Back."

Vox finally relented, tossing the notebook onto the table with a smug grin. Alastor snatched it up, clutching it to his chest like it might dissolve.

"I don't know why you bother with her," Vox said casually, grabbing his controller again. "She's pretty, sure, but not really anything special. I could get a date with her, but you?"

He scoffed, not even bothering to look up.

Alastor stiffened, his fingers tightening around the notebook. "Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm just being real," Vox replied with a shrug. "She's all angelic and polite and sunshine or whatever. You're... you. Kinda gloomy. Kinda intense. Kinda... weird."

Alastor didn't respond right away. He just stood there, jaw clenched, face unreadable.

"You know," Vox went on, leaning back lazily, "I bet if you could impress someone like Valentino, she might actually find you attractive."

Alastor's brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Look," Vox said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "She thinks you're a wimp. And why? Because you get pummeled every day. She sees you as some poor, defenseless kid—not really a man. But if you could get Valentino off your back, if you proved you weren't just a punching bag? She'd finally see you had a spine. She might even find it..." Vox smirked. "Sexy."

Alastor stared at him, dead silent.

Then he laughed—just once, a short, bitter sound.

"You really think I have so little respect that I would go groveling to a bully, hoping he stops hitting me long enough for someone to like me?"

Vox raised an eyebrow. "I think power talks. And you don't have any."

"Neither do you," Alastor shot back. "You're just as pathetic as me—the only difference is, I admit it."

"Which is exactly why we're going to this party. It changes everything. And if Charlie hears you were there—surrounded by Valentino's girls—she's guaranteed to get jealous."

"Really? Wait what if she thinks I'm just another sleazy player."

"Not if you spin it right. You tell her the girls wouldn't leave you alone, but the only one on your mind was her. Romantic, tragic... believable—if girls actually found you attractive, of course."

He hesitated. "Well..."

The last place Alastor wanted to be was a party thrown by Valentino. Those nights were legendary for all the wrong reasons—cops had shown up more than once, someone had actually been tossed out a window, and rumor had it that one poor soul died trying to survive Valentino's infamous drinking challenge. The girls Valentino invited barely wore anything, and they were always way too handsy. Half of them weren't even girls—they were women, and then some. Still, maybe Vox had a point. It'd be good to finally get Valentino off his back. And if Charlie had any feelings for him, the thought of him surrounded by so many women would probably rattle her. Besides, he wouldn't stay long. Just an hour. That was it.

"I guess I could—"

"Great! Meet me here at seven tonight. We'll grab the liquor, then head to the party."

"Liquor? What liquor?"

"Oh, did I forget to mention Valentino only invited us because I promised to bring booze?"

"Yeah, you kinda left out that important detail."

"Well, now you know."

"Vox, we can't buy liquor! We're only seventeen! It's illegal! We could get arrested!"

"Only if we get caught. Besides, the cops around here have about as much sense as a daytime talk show host."

"What about Husk? I'm pretty sure his brain works, and you know he's had it out for us ever since Valentino made us handcuff him to his own car."

"I'll handle Husk if he gets nosy. Trust me, I've got this."

Alastor narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. "You always say that, but things usually end up worse than before."

Vox grinned, as if that was a badge of honor. "Hey, no risk, no reward."

Alastor sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine. But just for an hour. And if anything goes wrong, I'm out."

Vox clapped his hands together. "Deal. You won't regret it."

The afternoon stretched on as Alastor tried to focus on the project, but his mind kept drifting back to the party. The thought of walking into Valentino's den of chaos made his stomach twist uncomfortably. Yet beneath that knot of anxiety, there was a flicker of something new—hope. Maybe this one night could change things. Or maybe it would just be another disaster to add to the list.

The plan was simple—or as simple as anything involving Vox ever was. At seven o'clock they grab the liquor from the gas station, no questions asked, and get out before anything went sideways.

The gas station was a dump on the edge of town, its flickering neon sign humming faintly in the haze. Vox grinned as they approached. "See? Easy. The cashier's always baked out of his mind. He won't even blink."

Alastor shifted nervously, the weight of the backpack with the half-packed science project digging into his shoulder. "I still don't like this."

"Relax," Vox said, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I'll handle the tough part. You just buy the booze, alright? Don't screw it up."

They pushed through the creaky door, the chime jangling above them. Inside, the cashier was exactly as Vox had described: eyes half-lidded, a slow smile spread beneath a mop of tangled hair, and a haze of smoke clinging to the air around him.

"Hey man," Vox called, voice casual, "you feeling good today?"

The cashier gave a lazy nod, barely processing. "Yeah, man... good vibes only."

Vox's grin widened as he leaned over the counter. "That's what I like to hear."

Alastor moved toward the refrigerated section, the cold air a welcome relief from the heat outside. He grabbed a cheap bottle of whiskey, trying to keep his hands steady. The plan was working—too well, maybe.

But then a shadow crossed the entrance.

Lieutenant Husk.

The man's face was a map of hard lines and hard-earned scars, his eyes sharp and scanning like a hawk hunting for prey. He wasn't just any cop; he was the best the city had, and probably the only one with enough sense to see through anyone's schemes.

Vox spotted him immediately and nudged Alastor. "Showtime."

Alastor's stomach dropped, but he kept his cool as Husk strode toward the counter, boots clicking on the cracked linoleum.

"Evening, Lieutenant," Vox said smoothly, stepping in front of the cashier. "Just picking up some snacks."

Husk's eyes flicked to Vox, then to Alastor, who was clutching the hidden bottle of whiskey like it was a ticking bomb.

Vox started chatting, loud and friendly. "Hey Husk, remember that time at Valentino's party last month? Crazy night, huh? I still can't believe someone got thrown out the window."

Alastor's stomach dropped, but he kept his cool as Husk strode toward the counter, boots clicking on the cracked linoleum.

"Evening, Lieutenant," Vox said smoothly, stepping in front of the cashier. "Just picking up some snacks."

Husk's eyes flicked to Vox, then to Alastor, who was clutching the hidden bottle of whiskey like it was a ticking bomb.

Vox started chatting, loud and friendly. "Hey Husk, remember that time at Valentino's party last month? Crazy night, huh? I still can't believe someone got thrown out the window."

Husk's gaze sharpened, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know what I can't believe? That you two would actually be dumb enough to handcuff me to my car and then actually speak to me afterward."

Vox's grin didn't waver. "Oh come on, Lieutenant, where's your sense of humor?"

Husk stared at him flatly. "I lost it in the war, along with my ability to forgive and forget."

There was a beat of silence.

Vox chuckled, glancing at Alastor. "Well, that explains the personality."

Husk leaned a little closer, voice low and bone-dry. "You're real lucky I don't feel like filling out paperwork today, Vox."

Alastor felt the sweat prick at the back of his neck. The bottle was still in his jacket, tucked just barely out of view. One wrong word, one shift in Husk's mood, and they were both toast.

But Vox—of course—kept pushing.

"Come on, Husk. We're just a couple of harmless kids picking up snacks for a party. Nothing illegal, nothing scandalous. Hell, I didn't even insult your hat today."

"You're on thin ice."

"Thinner than your patience, I know," Vox said with a grin. "We'll be out of your hair in two minutes. Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout."

"True. But I did steal a badge once. That counts, right?"

Husk exhaled slowly, then turned his eyes to Alastor—who was desperately trying to look like someone buying a bag of chips instead of committing a misdemeanor.

"What's your deal?"

Alastor blinked. "Uh. I—I'm just here with him."

"Tragic," Husk muttered, then straightened up. "Two minutes. If I see either of you near Valentino's place tonight doing something stupid, you'll wish I just cuffed you to your own damn car."

"Understood, Lieutenant," Vox said with a little salute. "You won't even know we were there."

"Doubtful," Husk said, already walking toward the exit. "I always hear the sirens eventually."

As the door swung shut behind him, Alastor exhaled shakily, then seized the moment. He moved to the register, slamming the bottle down with a forced confidence and sliding his card across the counter.

The cashier barely looked up, swiping the card sluggishly and handing over the receipt.

"Here you go, man. No worries," the cashier muttered, eyes drooping.

Vox clapped Alastor on the shoulder. "See? Told you it'd be fine."

"For now," Alastor muttered.

"Relax, Al. That was the hardest part."

Alastor ran a hand through his hair, still looking back over his shoulder. "You really think Husk didn't notice?"

"I think Husk has better things to do than babysit two high schoolers playing bootleg errand boys," Vox said casually. "Besides, he gave us two minutes. We beat the clock. That's legally binding."

"That's not how laws work."

Vox smirked. "And yet here we are. Still free. Still fabulous."

Alastor shook his head but didn't argue. They reached the car, and Vox tossed the bag into the back seat like it weighed nothing.

"Just think about what Charlie will do when she finds out she could've lost you forever to an orgy of women."

Alastor recoiled. "Vox, that's disgusting."

"But it will lead her right into your arms. You'll finally get to kiss her, to see her naked, and to fuck her."

"Don't talk about her that way!"

"Sorry! But isn't that what you want?"

Vox could be so lewd and perverted, it almost made Alastor sick. The way he spoke about Charlie—like she was some prize to be claimed, some body to conquer—was grotesque. It made Alastor's skin crawl.

Because Vox didn't understand.

Alastor didn't have a crush on Charlie. He was in love with her.

Had been for years.

He didn't dream about tearing her clothes off or bragging about scoring with her at some party. He dreamed about dancing with her. In a quiet room, music soft, her smile only for him. He dreamed about holding her—really holding her—where nothing hurt, and everything felt safe.

He dreamed about kissing her. Not with fire or frenzy, but gently, reverently, like it meant something.

He dreamed about being intimate with her, yes—but not the way Vox thought. A moment of honesty between two people who trusted each other, who shared everything—fears, hopes, quiet mornings. Maybe even a life.

He'd imagined what it might be like to wake up next to her. To hear her laugh in their kitchen. To hold her hand when the world got hard.

He'd imagined a future.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was naive.

But it was his. And Vox's crude jokes didn't belong anywhere near it.

Chapter Text

The party was worse than Alastor ever imagined.

From the moment they stepped through the door, it hit him like a wave—thick air clogged with smoke and sweat, the stench of cheap perfume and something chemical. Music pulsed like a living creature through the walls, too loud, too sharp, all bass and no rhythm. Lights strobed red and purple, casting faces into ghoulish silhouettes. Someone was vomiting into a potted plant. Another person was passed out halfway on the stairs, a bottle clutched loosely in one hand, their shirt missing entirely.

Alastor stiffened, the backpack with the whiskey hanging from his shoulder like a bad omen.

"Come on," Vox said, elbowing him. "Loosen up. This is where the magic happens."

Magic, Alastor thought, stepping over a broken bottle and what looked like someone's lost wig. More like a waking nightmare.

They weaved through a crush of barely-clothed bodies grinding to the beat. People openly passed around joints, pills, syringes—no one even tried to hide it. A group was playing strip poker in the corner, one guy in just socks and a cowboy hat. Someone else was on a leash. A girl—at least Alastor thought it was a girl—was dancing on the table in nothing but fishnets and body paint.

"This is insane," Alastor muttered.

Vox grinned, straightening his jacket and puffing his chest. "This is high society."

Alastor rolled his eyes. "This is a biohazard."

"Details," Vox said, already scanning the crowd for Valentino. He finally spotted him near the back, lounging on a velvet couch like a low-budget mobster, surrounded by women in stilettos and men who looked like they bench-pressed crime for fun.

"Wait here," Vox said. "I'm gonna go make an entrance."

Vox strutted toward Valentino like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment.

"Valentino, my man!" Vox called. "Hell of a party. You've outdone yourself. Again. I mean, honestly—what do you do, bottle decadence? Because this? This is art, baby."

Valentino didn't even flinch.

He barely glanced at Vox, his expression unreadable behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses—worn indoors, at night, of course. He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl upward like a question mark.

"You bring the booze?" he asked, flat and uninterested.

Vox faltered for just a half-second before recovering. "Oh—yeah. Of course. Premium whiskey. Aged to... something. I brought a bottle that'll make your taste buds climax."

Valentino's lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk. Might.

"Cool," he said, eyes flicking lazily over to the bar setup in the corner. "Fix me a drink."

Vox blinked. "You want me to—?"

Valentino looked directly at him now, sunglasses lowered just enough to show a flash of sharp, disinterested eyes.

"Did I stutter?"

Vox's grin turned rigid. "Nope. Not at all. You got it, boss."

Alastor leaned against the wall, watching it all unfold. Vox kept pushing, pivoting, cracking jokes, tossing his hair like some drunk soap opera actor. Nothing landed. He was like a mosquito at a dinner party—buzzing around with no clue he wasn't wanted.

And then came the moment that made Alastor's blood run cold.

"Hey!" Vox called suddenly, loud enough to cut through the noise. "You guys want to see something legendary? My boy Alastor's gonna hook up with Velvette tonight."

Alastor's head snapped up. "I'll what?!"

The room quieted just enough for the echo to bite.

"You didn't say anything about me doing that!" Alastor hissed, storming toward him. "Besides, isn't she a lesbian?!"

"Exactly!" Vox grinned, his eyes wild with desperation. "That's why it would be so awesome if you were the first guy to score with her!"

Alastor looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "But I don't want to score with her. I don't even like her!"

"You don't have to go all the way, just kiss her and do a little groping. Show 'em you've got game!"

"No. Absolutely not. This is insane. I refuse-"

But Vox didn't wait for the end of the sentence. He shoved Alastor hard toward the next room. "Just try, man! For the team!"

Alastor stumbled through a beaded curtain and into a dimly lit side room—straight into Velvette.

She was lounging on a love seat, scrolling through her phone, cigarette between her teeth. She looked up, startled, as Alastor tripped over the rug and practically landed on top of her.

"Oh—God—sorry!" Alastor gasped, jerking back immediately, hands in the air. "I didn't mean to—!"

Velvette's eyes went wide. "What the fuck?!"

"I'm sorry—I swear—I was just leaving—!"

But Velvette wasn't listening. She screamed.

"GET OFF ME YOU CREEP!"

Alastor backed away frantically, hands still raised. "I DIDN'T TOUCH YOU—I SWEAR—!"

She launched at him with the fury of a hornet nest in heels. Her nails raked across his arm. She threw a drink in his face, then a punch that missed and hit his chest instead.

"YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST—JUST FORCE YOURSELF ON ME?!" she screamed, loud enough for the whole party to hear.

"No! No! It's not like that!" Alastor cried. "I didn't—!"

But it was too late. Two of Valentino's fellow jocks were already storming in, and before Alastor could say another word, they grabbed him by the arms and threw him through the front door.

He hit the concrete hard, his backpack slamming beside him, its contents spilling into the street. Someone inside laughed. The door slammed shut. Alastor groaned, slowly pushing himself upright, his elbow scraped and bleeding.

Vox appeared a moment later.

Not to help.

Just to peek.

"Alright," Alastor said, voice low, ragged. "You got your fifteen minutes of fame. Now take me home."

Vox didn't move from the doorway. "You got thrown out. Not me."

Alastor finally looked over his shoulder, glaring. "Are you serious right now?"

Vox shrugged, expression unreadable in the flickering porch light. "Look, man. I'm still invited. You're not. Can't exactly roll in with the loser who got kicked out for groping someone."

"I didn't grope anyone," Alastor said through clenched teeth. "You shoved me in there like I was part of some twisted party trick!"

Vox leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "And it would've worked if you hadn't freaked out."

"You set me up to be humiliated!"

"Humiliated?" Vox laughed, mean and sharp. "Come on, you've been humiliated since middle school. This isn't new."

Alastor stood, slow and trembling, brushing broken gravel from his scraped palms. "Fine. Give me your keys. I'll take your car."

Vox scoffed. "Oh hell no. I'm not walking home."

"But Vox—" Alastor's voice cracked. "I can't walk home in the middle of the night. It's five miles. And what if that gang's still out near the bridge? What if they jump me again?"

"Just play dead or something," Vox said flatly, turning back toward the door. "They'll lose interest."

Alastor stared at him, stunned. "You don't care."

Vox paused, one hand on the doorknob, the other still holding a red Solo cup. "Don't make this dramatic. You'll be fine. You always are."

The door closed behind him.

Just like that, Alastor stood there in the dark, the chill wind picking up. He pulled his hoodie tight, and started walking.

The city got quieter the farther Alastor walked. Crickets chirped. Wind whistled through broken fences. Somewhere, a dog barked in the distance.

Then he heard the bikes.

It started as a low whine, somewhere behind him. Engines revving—three, maybe four. Not cars. Motorcycles.

He didn't turn around. Didn't have to. He already knew.

"Yo, if it ain't Little Squealer's big brother!" came a voice like gravel soaked in bourbon.

Alastor stopped walking.

Slowly, he turned.

Striker and three others behind him, all on beat-up bikes with mismatched headlights and plates that had either fallen off or been ripped off on purpose.

Striker cut his engine and dismounted, walking forward with that same lazy gait he always had—like nothing in the world could touch him. His cowboy hat was tilted low, shadowing his scarred face, and the gleam in his eyes was pure fire.

"Well, well," he drawled, cracking his knuckles. "Fancy seein' you out here alone. At night. Lookin' like somethin' the alley spat out."

Alastor swallowed. "I don't want trouble."

"You already got trouble," Striker said, circling him slowly. "Your little foster brother—Moxxie, right? He made me real popular with the pigs last month."

Alastor's stomach twisted. "Well what did you expect? You did break his foot."

"Yeah, well, he squealed like a piglet. Got Lieutenant Husk sniffin' around my turf ever since." Striker's jaw flexed. "He won't let up. Now I can't get to Moxxie right now, he's under protection. But I can get to you."

One of the guys chuckled, pulling a chain from his jacket and letting it drag against the pavement with a hiss.

"C'mon," Alastor said quickly. "Can't we discuss this like civilized men?"

Striker's answered by punching Alastor in the stomach. Hard.

Alastor doubled over, gasping for breath as the others descended. A blow to the side. Another to his back. A knee to the ribs. He fell to the ground, arms up to shield his head.

But they didn't stop.

A boot connected with his side. Another stomped on his hand. And then Striker grabbed him by the collar and hauled him halfway up. He punched him across the face. The impact sent his glasses flying. They hit the asphalt with a sickening crack—one lens shattered, the frame twisted.

He dropped again, blood running from his nose, one eye already swelling. Someone laughed.
Alastor curled tighter. This was it.

He heard the revving of another engine and thought it was one of theirs—until it screeched.

Loud.

Too loud.

Headlights blinded the whole street, and a beat-up convertible swerved into view, tires screeching as it came to a sideways stop just inches from Striker's crew.

A familiar voice rang out over the roar of the engine:

"Step away from the nerd!"

Angel.

Alastor blinked, dazed, as the convertible's door flew open and Angel stepped out.

Striker glared. "You don't scare me, freak."

"Oh yeah? Well I bet this does!" Angel said, and he pulled out a Tommy gun from the passenger seat.

Striker froze. Everyone did. Because Angel wasn't bluffing.

The Tommy gun gleamed in the streetlight—old, maybe antique, but well maintained. Angel didn't even raise it fully. He didn't have to. Just letting it rest across his arms like a lounging predator was enough.

"You wanna test me, cowboy?" Angel asked, voice smooth and sharp as a switchblade. "I got twenty bucks and a milkshake that says you blink before I do."

The gang shifted uneasily. One of Striker's goons looked at him, wide-eyed. "Let's scramble, man!"

"Mount up!" Striker ordered. .

One by one, the others backed off, climbing onto their bikes. Engines snarled to life. Then they peeled off into the night, tires screeching, taillights vanishing like dying stars.

Angel let out a slow breath, put his gun back in the car, then walked over and knelt beside Alastor.

"Holy shit..." he muttered, brushing glass away from the broken frames. "They really did a number on you."

He helped Alastor to his feet gently, one arm around his shoulders. "C'mon. Let's get you home."

When they got back to the house, the door had barely swung open before Rosie gasped.

“Oh sweet mercy!” she cried, rushing forward as Alastor stumbled in, half-supported by Angel.

His hoodie was soaked in blood, one sleeve torn, and his glasses hung crooked with one lens completely shattered. Bruises bloomed across his jaw and temple, and his lip was split wide open.

“Alastor!” Rosie nearly shrieked, catching him as his knees buckled. “What happened to you?!”

“Ran into… some old friends,” Alastor mumbled, trying to crack a smile that only made the blood from his lip drip faster.

Rosie turned sharply to Angel. “What the hell happened?!”

Angel set him down gently on the couch, shaking his head. “Striker and his little biker goblins. I pulled up just in time. They woulda killed him.”

Rosie’s face went pale, then bright red. “Stolas!” she barked over her shoulder. “Ice and the first aid kit. Now!”

Footsteps scrambled somewhere deeper in the house.

She knelt in front of Alastor, her hands hovering, unsure where to touch him without making it worse.

“God, your face… your ribs—did they break anything?”

“Just my pride,” Alastor muttered. “Well, and probably a finger.”

“Don’t joke, sweetheart,” she whispered, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

Stolas appeared in the doorway, a velvet robe haphazardly tied around his waist, holding a bag of ice in one hand and a glittery pink first aid kit in the other.

“Here,” he said, eyes wide at the sight of Alastor. “Dear heavens…”

Rosie took both without looking at him. “Help Angel get some clean towels. And put water on to boil. I want tea—calming tea. Chamomile, lavender, something with a sedative in it if we’ve got it.”

“Right,” Stolas nodded and vanished again.

Rosie, had moved into nurse mode. She cut off the remains of his sleeve, cleaned the scrapes on his arms with swift, practiced movements. Every time Alastor winced, she murmured soft apologies, but she didn’t stop.

“You’ll be fine for tonight,” she said briskly, inspecting the swelling on his ribs, “but first thing in the morning, we’re going to the hospital to have you x-rayed.”

Alastor’s eyes widened. “Oh Rosie, no! You know I hate hospitals!”

Rosie didn’t even blink. “Now don’t be difficult.”

“They smell like antiseptic and sadness!” he whined.

“And you smell like blood and pavement,” she snapped, dabbing at his split lip. “You could have broken ribs. Or worse.”

“I’d rather die at home in my own bed,” Alastor grumbled.

Rosie arched a brow. “If you had broken something worse, you might have died on the street.”

Alastor looked away, shame creeping into his voice. “Wouldn’t have been the worst thing tonight.”

Rosie froze for half a second, then cupped his face gently, ignoring the bruises.

“Don’t say that,” she said, quietly but firmly. “Don’t ever say that.“

“Why not? No one would care,” Alastor whispered, voice barely holding itself together.

Rosie froze mid-motion, the clean towel in her hand dropping to the floor. Her eyes locked onto his, hard and blazing.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I would care! Stolas would care! Blitzo, Moxxie, Loona, Octavia! They would all care! Even that nice young man who brought you here—Angel—he seems to care!”

Alastor looked away, jaw clenched, eyes brimming. “I’m a loser, Rosie…”

Her palm struck the arm of the couch—not him, never him—but the sound cracked through the room like thunder.

“Enough with that kind of talk! I won’t allow it! Not in my house!” she said, rising to her full height, eyes flashing.

“I can’t help it, Rosie!” Alastor shouted, the words cracking in his throat. “Every day feels like a war and I’m losing it! Everyone looks at me like a bug they want to squash! And it’s been like that ever since I came to this city!”

Rosie didn’t flinch. She knelt again beside him, gently placing a hand over his trembling one.

“It won’t be forever,” she said softly but firmly. “Things will change for the better. You just have to hold on a little longer. Be patient.”

Alastor let out a bitter, wet laugh. “I’ve been patient for nine years!”

His voice echoed in the room, raw and scraped thin.

Nine years of keeping his head down. Of being mocked, shoved, lied to, thrown away. Of putting on a polite smile and pretending it didn’t sting.

Rosie’s eyes filled, but her voice didn’t shake.

“Alastor, look at me.”

He kept his head down, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear.

“Look at me,” she said again, more firmly this time.

She reached out and gently, but without hesitation, tilted his chin up until his eyes met hers—wet, red-rimmed, and full of shame.

“Now you listen to me,” Rosie said, her voice low, steady, and burning with conviction. “And you listen good. You are going to be so blessed, and so loved someday. And I know this.”

He shook his head slightly, but she held on tighter.

“I know this,” she repeated, “because you have been through so much, and you still have a good heart. You still have a gracious soul.”

Alastor blinked, trying to turn away again, but she wouldn’t let him.

“When you were a boy,” she continued, softer now, but just as sure, “you were always so caring. So sweet to Moxxie, to Loona, to Octavia. You’d sit up for hours with Moxxie after his nightmares—when he couldn’t even speak, just shaking and crying. You were the one who told him his mother’s soul had gone to Heaven. That the part of her that loved him was safe up there with the stars, and not rotting away at the bottom of some lake like his father said.”

Rosie held him tighter, her hand cradling the back of his head as if she could shield him from every cruel thing the world had ever thrown at him. Her voice shook now, but only because it was carrying too much love to be contained.

“And on Valentine’s Day,” she went on, “when Loona came home crying because her whole class didn’t give her so much as one Valentine—when they ignored her like she wasn’t even there—you went out and made her twelve. You cut little hearts out of red construction paper, wrote notes on each one, and spent your own allowance to buy candy for every single card. You wrapped them in ribbon and left them outside her door with a note that said ‘From your secret admirer, who thinks you’re better than all of them put together.’ She didn’t stop smiling for a week.”

Her voice wavered, but she pressed on.

“And when Octavia’s mother…” she paused, jaw tightening, “when Stella dropped her off like luggage, not even checking if anyone was home—just drove off while that poor girl was chasing the car, crying like her whole world was crumbling… You were the one who ran out after her. You were the one who picked her up off the pavement, carried her back inside, sat on the floor with her in your lap, and rocked her until she could breathe again. You told her—you promised her—that none of us would ever leave her like that. Ever.”

Alastor’s shoulders shook silently but Rosie didn’t let him pull away.

“It doesn’t matter what the world thinks of you,” she said, brushing a tear from his cheek with her thumb. “To hell with the world. To us, you are so precious, and so wonderful, and I don’t want you to ever forget that.”

Alastor nodded faintly. The smile stayed, even if it wasn’t real. His ribs ached. It stayed because she needed to see it. Because she deserved it.

“I’ll try,” he said.

Chapter Text

Dinner with Vaggie and her mother was very nice. It was the first time Charlie had ever been invited to someone's home—aside from Alastor's, of course. Mrs. Madrigal had a cold, composed demeanor—her face and posture both distant and controlled—but her eyes told a different story. They were warm and full of passion, just like her daughter's. Michael had once said that was typical for many parents of teenagers.

Mrs. Madrigal had seemed rather wary of Charlie and her uncle at first. She had never liked any of Vaggie's friends, often dismissing them as lazy, mean-spirited troublemakers who would only be a bad influence on her daughter. Of them all, Velvette ranked as her least favorite.

"She's loud, disrespectful, uncouth—and I heard that last year she beat a mentally handicapped boy so badly he had to be hospitalized," she once said bluntly.

"Mom, that was just a rumor," Vaggie had replied, exasperated.

"That's not what Ms. Mayberry told me. And she said the only reason Velvette wasn't expelled—or arrested for assault—was because her father donates money to the school."

"Why were you talking to Ms. Mayberry?"

"She called me. She saw you hanging around Velvette and thought you were a good girl. She wanted to warn me."

"She should mind her own business."

"You should be careful of the company you keep," her mother said firmly. "I don't want you spending time with her or her little posse. You're better than that, and they'll only try to drag you down with them."

Vaggie had always thought her mother was being snobbish—convinced that no one would ever be good enough for her daughter. In Mrs. Madrigal's eyes, Vaggie deserved only the best, and that included the people she surrounded herself with.

But, as you probably know by now, Vaggie eventually realized her mother had been right about Velvette.

Charlie and Michael greeted Mrs. Madrigal politely. Michael then asked if he could say grace before the meal, and she gave him a reserved nod of approval.

After the prayer, they began to eat. The pupusas were just as delicious as Vaggie had said. Charlie and Michael enjoyed each bite and graciously complimented Mrs. Madrigal. Slowly, her demeanor began to soften, and she asked Charlie about her interests. Charlie explained that she liked music, dance, and the theater—that she mostly spent her days reading and sewed as a hobby.

"Rosie taught me how to sew, and later I used those skills to earn some extra money by sewing and mending clothes for the neighbors," Charlie explained.

"Who's Rosie?" Vaggie asked.

"My next-door neighbor. She runs a foster home with Stolas and Blitzo."

"Wait—aren't those the two guys who got caught singing 'I Feel Pretty' and dancing drunk in the street?"

"Uhhh... maybe."

"They are very strange," Michael said. "A lot of the things they do, I can't really approve of. But they're good people. They mean well, and they're great with the kids they look after. And Stolas in particular just adores his daughter."

"I thought all their children were fostered," Mrs. Madrigal said.

"Three of them are," Michael replied. "But Stolas has a biological daughter living with them as well. Rosie is the one who keeps everything running smoothly—a real mother hen. It's a peculiar dynamic: one mother, two fathers, and it's the two men who are romantically involved."

"Sounds confusing."

"It is, but it's also oddly wholesome, all things considered."

After dinner, Michael stepped into the kitchen to help Mrs. Madrigal with the dishes, while the girls headed to Vaggie's room so Charlie could help her hang the stained-glass frame.

"Mr. Morningstar," Mrs. Madrigal began, her tone unusually somber. "I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for the cruel prank my daughter and her so-called friends played on your niece at the homecoming dance. When I found out, I grounded her and made it very clear how unacceptable it was. I can assure you, she feels awful about it, and something like that will never happen again."

Michael paused, confused. "I'm sorry—what prank?"

"You mean... you don't know?"

"I'm afraid not. What are you talking about?"

Mrs. Madrigal hesitated, then sighed. "Oh dear. Mr. Morningstar, I hate that you're hearing it like this, but at the dance, my daughter and a group of girls locked your niece in the janitor's closet and left her there. According to Vaggie, the poor girl had a meltdown—she was terrified."

Michael's expression darkened. "Charlotte never told me any of this. What else do you know?"

"Only what my daughter eventually admitted," she said quietly. "She didn't come clean right away—but I could tell something was wrong. She was too quiet. That's when I started asking questions."

"I knew Charlotte was having a hard time fitting in," Michael said quietly, his brow furrowed. "But I didn't realize it was that bad. Have they done anything else to her?"

"That's all I know," Mrs. Madrigal replied. "But I can promise you this—Vaggie won't act like that again. Not while she's living under my roof."

She paused, her expression softening.

"She's actually a good kid, Mr. Morningstar. Really. It's just that... well, cancer took her father when she was eleven. Those years after were rough. She was angry—angry at me, at the world, at everyone. And I think some of that still comes out, especially when she feels cornered."

"I knew Charlotte was having a hard time fitting in," Michael said quietly, his brow furrowed. "But I didn't realize it was that bad. Have they done anything else to her?"

"That's all I know," Mrs. Madrigal replied. "But I can promise you this—Vaggie won't act like that again. Not while she's living under my roof."

She paused, her expression softening.

"She's actually a good kid, Mr. Morningstar. Really. It's just that... well, cancer took her father when she was eleven. Those years after were rough. She was angry—angry at me, at the world, at everyone. But she's getting better."

"Thank you for telling me this, Mrs. Madrigal," Michael said, his voice calm but weighted. "I appreciate your honesty."

Meanwhile, in Vaggie's room, Charlie stood on the edge of the bed, carefully holding up the stained-glass frame against the wall while Vaggie adjusted its position from below.

"Left a little," Vaggie said, squinting. "No—wait, too much. Go back... yeah, there."

Charlie gave a small laugh. "You sure? Because at this point, I think I've lifted this thing high enough to qualify for a gym badge."

Vaggie cracked a smile then stepped back to look at the stained-glass frame now hanging over her desk. Light from the setting sun filtered through it, casting soft colors across the room.

"There! Right there! It's perfect!" she said, a rare smile spreading across her face.

"Can I ask you something?" Charlie said quietly.

Vaggie leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Sure."

"Aren't you worried about what your friends will think... seeing you hanging out with me?"

Vaggie didn't hesitate. "Not really. They're not really my friends anymore. I think it's time I found a new crowd to run with."

Charlie gave a half-hearted smile. "I think just about every crowd in school has a problem with me."

Vaggie shrugged. "Then who needs a crowd?"

There was a pause—long enough for Charlie to look down again, uncertain.

"You know," she said softly, "you don't have to be friends with me. I've forgiven you... for the closet incident."

Vaggie pushed off the wall and crossed the room, sitting beside her.

"Look... I won't lie," she began, her voice low. "At first, I was just trying to make up for what I did. I felt awful, and I thought maybe if I was nice enough, helped you out, I could balance the scales."

Charlie stayed quiet, her eyes searching Vaggie's face.

"But now that I've actually gotten to know you..." Vaggie continued, her voice softening, "I really like you. I was such an idiot, I assumed you were just some boring, crazy-religious loner who thought she was too good to talk to anyone. But the truth is, you're kind. You're modest. And you have these incredible talents."

She paused, looking at Charlie more closely.

"Really, the only thing wrong with you is your attitude toward yourself."

Charlie blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Well... the way you keep your face all covered up with your hair. The way you're always trying to hide. You walk around like you're apologizing for existing, always moping like you're invisible." Vaggie stood and held out her hand. "Come here, you big silly. I want you to look at yourself."

She gently tugged Charlie over to the mirror.

"Would you look at that?" Vaggie said, sweeping Charlie's hair away from her face. "Now that's a pretty girl. Your lips—try some lipstick, you've got soft, pretty lips. And your cheekbones? Gorgeous. Look at your hair—seriously, it's beautiful. And your eyes, a little mascara would make them pop. You've got amazing eyes."

Charlie's voice was barely a whisper. "Alastor once told me that I had beautiful eyes."

Vaggie smiled, softer now. "Well, he wasn't wrong. Is he your boyfriend?"

Charlie shook her head. "No... he's my best friend. He'd never go out with me."

"Why not?"

"Because he's handsome, and smart, and strong... and I'm..." She looked down. "I'm nothing."

Vaggie's brow furrowed. "Did he say that to you?"

"Oh, no! Never!" Charlie said quickly. "He's too kind to ever say something like that to me. Even if it's true."

Vaggie reached out, placing a hand over Charlie's.

"Or maybe," she said softly, "he just doesn't believe that's true."

"Well, he's never said anything to imply that maybe he might—"

"Well, neither have you, I bet," Vaggie cut in gently.

"I... I'm afraid."

"Maybe he's afraid."

Charlie gave a quiet, doubtful laugh. "I can't imagine why."

"I know, you said you didn't want to go shopping," Vaggie said after a moment, "But maybe if we picked out some new clothes, a little makeup... something that says you're interested. Something that gets his attention."

Charlie blinked, caught off guard. "You think that would work?"

Vaggie shrugged, smirking a little. "Well, it wouldn't hurt. And let's be real—you'd look killer in something with a little confidence."

Charlie laughed softly, cheeks warming. "I'll... think about it."

A little while later, Charlie and Michael said their goodbyes and headed home. When they came to the house they saw Blitzo aggressively shoving a bundle of bloodstained towels into a trash can. He looked up as they approached.

"Blitzo?" Michael called out, alarmed. "What on earth happened?"

Blitzo wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, sighing. "Ah, it's nothing. Just cleaning up the aftermath."

"Aftermath of what?" Charlie asked, stepping closer.

Blitzo hesitated, then gave a tired shrug. "Striker and a few of his goons jumped Alastor."

Charlie's heart dropped. "Is he okay?!"

"He's fine," Blitzo said. "He just got banged up a little but Rosie is taking him to the hospital in the morning just to be sure."

"Can I see him?"

Michael gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Not tonight, dear. Tomorrow morning would be better."

Charlie bit her lip, worry clouding her expression as she nodded.  However she couldn't sleep that night. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her blanket. Her thoughts kept circling back to Alastor—he had already been dealing with so much. Bullied by Valentino and his pack of parasites, and now this—getting jumped in the street like he was nothing.

It wasn't fair.

He didn't deserve it.

He needs something, she thought. Something to cheer him up. But what?

She turned onto her side, the moonlight spilling across her floor. Her mind wandered back to the little things he'd told her—his fondness for jazz and swing, his obsession with golden-age radio dramas, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about vinyl. He liked things that crackled and hissed with age. Things that felt timeless.

Then it hit her.

Records. He loves records.

Michael had a collection. A really nice one.

She got out of bed and tiptoed down the hall. Michael was still awake, sitting in the study with a book in hand and a cigar in the other.

"Michael?" she whispered.

He looked up, immediately alert. "Can't sleep?"

She shook her head. "I was thinking... Alastor loves vintage music. Do you think I could give him one of your records? Just something small to lift his spirits?"

Michael studied her for a moment, then smiled gently.

"Of course," he said. "Take whichever one you think he'll like best."

Charlie's face lit up. "Thank you."

She turned to go, but he called after her.

"Charlotte?"

"Yeah?"

Michael's voice was quiet but warm. "You're awfully fond of that boy, aren't ya?"

She froze for a moment, caught off guard by the truth in his words. Her heart fluttered with something she couldn't quite name. Then, with a shy smile and a small nod, she disappeared into the hallway.

Michael watched her go, then leaned back in his chair and took a slow puff from his cigar.

"Oh boy."

There was so much going on with that girl, and he'd missed a lot of it. Too busy with his job, the church, and doing everything he could to make sure her little secret stayed protected.

And speaking of secrets... he still couldn't wrap his head around why she hadn't told him what happened at the homecoming dance. Was she afraid she'd get in trouble? No, that wasn't it. Charlie knew better. She trusted him. So... why?

God help him—he never could understand girls.

Probably why he never married. Then again, his brother hadn't understood them either, and he somehow ended up married to the most beautiful woman in the whole city. According to many that is.

Michael took another slow puff of his cigar, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling as his thoughts swirled in the silence.

Michael and Lucifer Morningstar had grown up in a strict, religious household. Their father was the local pastor—a faithful man, but also deeply traditional and unyielding in his beliefs. The only remotely liberal thing he ever did in his life was get a divorce.

Their mother, on the other hand, was never content with the housewife role—or with her husband. She had more interest in chasing a free-spirited, hippie lifestyle than in baking casseroles or attending Sunday service. She wasn’t cruel, just… restless. A dreamer. Unpredictable. The kind of woman who burned incense and read banned books while the boys were at school.

Both parents loved them. That wasn’t the issue.

The problem was, they never worked together in raising them. Two different worlds under one roof, constantly pulling the boys in opposite directions. Lucifer grew up seeing their father as a judge—stern, cold, always ready with a verdict. Michael, meanwhile, viewed their mother as a radical—flighty, reckless, and allergic to responsibility.

The irony, of course, was that both parents probably thought they were doing the right thing.

Michael had taken more after their father, while Lucifer was clearly their mother’s son. But it wasn’t a perfect copy-and-paste of personalities—far from it. Michael had inherited their father’s discipline and faith, yes, but not his harsh judgment. He tried to lead with patience, not punishment. Lucifer, on the other hand, had their mother’s fire and her hunger for freedom, but he wasn’t as reckless or self-absorbed. He still cared—sometimes too deeply, just in ways that didn’t always make sense to other people.

Lucifer had always butted heads with their father, especially once he hit his teenage years. The rebellion came fast and loud—long nights out, sharp words at the dinner table, and a sudden fascination with anything their father disapproved of. His equally defiant girlfriend, Lilith, only added fuel to the fire. The two of them started spending more and more time with their mother and her commune friends, diving headfirst into things like street theater, sexual liberation, and experimenting with alternative belief systems—Buddhism, Wicca, even magic.

Their father called it all Devil worship. Eventually, he started insisting that the rest of the family pray for Lucifer’s soul at the end of every dinner. It was as if he thought he could save him by sheer force of prayer.

But Michael… Michael had always been pretty sure Lucifer didn’t take any of it seriously. He didn’t believe in magic, or witchcraft, or sacred crystals. He believed in reactions. And pushing buttons. And nothing got under their father’s skin faster than watching his golden son flirt with “pagan nonsense.”

He wasn’t searching for truth—he was picking a fight.

But that all changed the day the damn commune brought in some so-called witch doctor—or maybe he was a magician, Michael never got the full story. What mattered was that something happened. Something real.

Because after that night, Lucifer and Lilith could move things with their minds.

Telekinesis.

At first, Michael didn’t believe it. Thought it was a trick, some clever sleight of hand meant to spook their father or stir up more drama. But then he saw it for himself. A bookshelf shaking on its own. A coffee mug hovering in mid-air. Doors slamming without a touch. No wires. No explanation.

That’s when things turned bad.

The rebellion stopped being just about loud music and incense and yelling at the dinner table. It became something dangerous. Something unnatural. Their father didn’t just condemn it—he feared it. Started calling it demonic possession. Started praying harder. Yelling more.

And Lucifer? He didn’t stop.

At first, Lucifer and Lilith loved it.

The powers gave them a rush—sweet, intoxicating revenge against all the people who’d hurt them. Lucifer went after the students and teachers at that “snotty private school” who used to torment him, who made him feel small, invisible, or monstrous—bullied him just as cruelly as Charlie was being bullied now. And Lilith? She used it to finally push back against the ex-boyfriend who refused to leave her alone, who stalked her like she was still his property.

They justified it. Told themselves it was justice.

And maybe, for a little while, it was.

But they were reckless. Too young to understand the weight of what they were doing. Too angry to care. The power made them feel invincible, and worse—it made them feel right.

Michael had watched from the sidelines, praying it would burn itself out.

It didn’t.

The day it all fell apart was the day Lucifer and their father had the worst argument of their lives.

Michael still remembered the sound of it—raised voices, glass shattering, doors slamming like thunder through the house. Their father had caught Lucifer defacing the school’s chapel, using his powers to rip scripture off the walls and scorch symbols into the altar. Vandalism born of fury, of rejection, of years of feeling hated for what he was.

Their father confronted him, full of fury and heartbreak. Told him he was damning himself. Called it blasphemy. Called him a danger.

And Lucifer… he lost control.

He didn’t think. Didn’t understand the strength of what he had become. One burst of anger—just one—was all it took.

His powers surged, and in a single instant, their father’s heart stopped beating.

Just like that.

Gone.

Lucifer was mortified. He never forgave himself for what happened that day.

After their father died, everything changed. He and Lilith stopped using their powers immediately—cold turkey. Whatever thrill they once felt was gone, burned away by guilt and grief. But the damage had already been done.

People had seen things. Felt things. Rumors started swirling—about objects moving on their own, strange lights, broken things no one could explain. It wasn’t long before the government started sniffing around.

And then Lilith got pregnant.

That changed everything.

They were terrified—terrified that the baby might inherit the power, might carry the same curse that had destroyed so much already. Terrified of what the world would do if it found out.

They tried to disappear. To hide. But it was too late.

Eventually, the wrong people came knocking. Lucifer and Lilith were taken—no trial, no warning, just gone. Swept into some secret facility under the banner of “national security.”

And Michael? He swore then and there that Charlie would never suffer the same fate. He’d raise her right. Keep her safe. Keep her normal, if that was even possible.

Even if it cost him everything.

Even if it meant hiding the truth from her.

Even if it meant dying to protect her.

Chapter Text

Alastor hated hospitals. They were where his father had been taken—dragged away, really. To him, hospitals weren't places of healing; they were full of screaming, broken people and sterile halls that smelled like bleach and control. Places where they locked you up, pumped you full of drugs, and messed with your mind. At least, that's what his father used to say during one of his many rants.

Rosie had told him a thousand times that not all hospitals were psych wards. But no matter how often she said it, the anxiety still crept in every time he stepped near one.

"Do we really have to go?" Alastor asked, his voice tight with unease.

"Alastor, it's going to be fine," Rosie said gently. "This hospital doesn't even have a psych ward, and you're just getting an X-ray. We need to find out if your ribs are broken."

She gave him a look—part concern, part warning. "Please don't make me drag you there like we had to do with Loona."

They stepped out the front door and headed toward Rosie's car when a voice called out behind them.

"Alastor, wait!"

Charlie came hurrying across the lawn from next door, cradling something carefully in her arms.

"Good morning, Charlie," Rosie said with a smile. "You're up a little early, aren't you?"

"I know," Charlie replied, slightly out of breath. "But I wanted to give Alastor this first thing."

She turned to Alastor, her expression softening. "I heard about what happened last night. I know how much you hate hospitals, so... today probably won't be easy. But maybe this'll help."

She held out a record album. Alastor took it carefully, his eyes scanning the title.

"Porgy and Bess? I don't believe this! Albums like this belong in a museum. Where did you even get it?"

Charlie grinned. "My uncle's a record collector. He says modern music encourages too much sin." She rolled her eyes affectionately. "But he let me give you that one."

"Thanks, Charlie. I'll listen to it as soon as I get back," Alastor said, holding the album like it was something fragile.

Charlie's smile faded as her eyes lingered on the bruises on his face—the swollen lip, the purpling around his jaw.

"Oh, Alastor..." she whispered. "How could they do this to you?"

She reached out to touch his cheek, but he instinctively stepped back.

"It's nothing," he muttered. "I've had worse."

There was a pause. Then, softly, she asked, "Do you want me to come over later? We could talk."

He looked away.

No. He didn't want to talk. Not about last night. Not with her. It was too humiliating—and he couldn't stand the thought of her looking at him with pity in her beautiful eyes.

"No thanks. I'm fine. I can hold my own." His voice was steady, but distant—like a door quietly closing.

Charlie hesitated, then offered a faint smile. "Alright then. Talk to you later?"

Alastor gave a small nod, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah. Maybe."

She lingered for a moment longer, then turned and walked back toward her house, her hair catching the morning light, each step light and full of quiet grace.

Alastor watched her go, a tight knot forming in his chest.

What if she'd been with me last night? he thought. I wouldn't have been able to protect her. I couldn't even protect myself.
His jaw tightened. How could a girl like her ever love someone like me? A weak coward. She deserved better.

He hung his head in shame and stepped inside Rosie's car, the weight of his thoughts pressing heavier than the bruises on his ribs. The door closed with a dull thunk, sealing him in with silence and the faint scent of Rosie's lavender air freshener. He kept his eyes on his lap, unable to shake the feeling that no matter where he went, he was dragging failure in behind him.

The hospital waiting room was cold and far too quiet, except for the occasional cough or the distant squeak of nurses' shoes on linoleum. Alastor sat hunched in the stiff plastic chair, arms crossed, the record still tucked under one arm like a shield.

Rosie had gone to speak with the nurse at the front desk, leaving him alone with nothing but outdated magazines and a growing sense of irritation. He grabbed one off the nearby table without looking at the cover and started flipping through it, hoping to distract himself.

Articles on healthy diets, celebrity scandals, and vacation destinations blurred past. But no matter how fast he turned the pages, he couldn't outrun the thoughts creeping into his head.

"You're pathetic."

The words weren't printed in the magazine, but they were louder than anything he read. "You let them do this to you. Again. Everyone sees it."

He clenched his jaw and tried to focus on a recipe for lemon tarts.

Meek. Ridiculous. A joke. Another page turned.

Then something caught his attention.

A full-page advertisement, bold and strange against the dull pages around it:

Ozzie's Magic Shop.

"You can bring out the best in yourself. Be the best you can be. Unlock your full potential—strength, charm, your true inner self."

The ad showed a tall, confident silhouette standing in a swirl of golden light. Behind the figure, shadows shrank and faded.
Alastor stared at it, then scoffed under his breath.

Of course. Ozzie's Magic Shop. It had to be one of those novelty stores—cheap tricks, rubber wands, fake coins, smoke bombs for kids who thought pulling a rabbit out of a hat was real magic. A place for birthday party magicians and bored children.

Nothing serious. Nothing real. Because magic didn't exist.

"Unlock your full potential... your true inner self."

He shook it off. Just a gimmick. He glanced down at the bottom of the ad, where an address was printed in bold, curling letters:

Lucky Thirteen Street.

Alastor blinked. That couldn't be right.

He knew Lucky Thirteen Street. He'd ridden his bike up and down it for years—cut through it on the way to school, passed the same row of dusty antique shops, a boarded-up apartment building, and that one laundromat with the flickering sign. There was never a magic shop there. Not once.

He stared at the ad again, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something more believable. Weird. Maybe it was new. Or maybe it was just fake—an ad for some online shop pretending to be local.

Whatever the reason, he was now curious. Of course, he didn't actually believe the place sold real magic. That would be ridiculous. But maybe they had something useful. Like itching powder he could discreetly slip into Valentino's gym shorts on Monday.

After the X-ray and a brief check-up, the doctor confirmed what Alastor already suspected: his ribs were sore but not broken. Rosie seemed relieved, though she still gave him a lecture about being more careful, as if he'd walked into a fight on purpose.

Once they were back home, and after Rosie got distracted with a phone call, Alastor grabbed his bike and made his way toward Lucky Thirteen Street. He pedaled slowly, eyes scanning the familiar stretch of road. Same laundromat. Same empty apartment building. Same peeling signs and crooked lampposts.

And then—he saw it.

A narrow storefront squeezed between a pawn shop and a vacant building, one he swore hadn't been there before. The windows were dark, but painted in swirling gold letters across the glass were the words:

Ozzie's Magic Shop
Curiosities, Charms & More

Alastor hit the brakes, gravel crunching beneath his tires. He parked his bike against the rusted bike rack out front. Afterward Alastor pushed the door open. A small bell jingled overhead—not the usual cheery kind, but something older, more delicate, like it belonged in a clock tower or an antique carriage.

The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. It smelled like dust and incense and something faintly metallic. The lighting was low, golden, and flickering—like the shop was lit entirely by candles, even though he couldn't actually see any.

Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with oddities: glass jars filled with herbs and bones, decks of worn tarot cards, crystal spheres, brass compasses, masks, coins, candles, bottles with labels in strange handwriting. Some things he recognized. Most he didn't.

At the far end of the room was a counter, and behind it stood a tall figure in a dark green coat with velvet lapels and a wide-brimmed hat that cast their face in shadow.

"Uh... Hello? Mr. Ozzie?" Alastor said, peering around the dim, flickering shop.

The figure behind the counter looked up with a grin that practically twinkled.

"Just Ozzie," he corrected smoothly. "Welcome to my shop—an establishment of mystery, enchantment, and the finest merchandise this side of the Nine Circles, on sale today only. Come on down! Heh, heh."

Before Alastor could respond, Ozzie swept out from behind the counter like a magician stepping onto center stage.

"Now then! Let's not waste a moment—perhaps you're looking for something practical."

He darted to a nearby shelf and held up a beautifully carved silver goblet.

"The Goblet of Infinity! Pour in a drop of lemonade—get a pitcher. Fill it with tea—never-ending. Hot cocoa? Endless. Coffee? Dangerous. Doesn't work on motor oil or mischief, but nearly everything else!"

He placed the goblet into a swirling display and spun on his heel.

"Or maybe you're the restless type! Allow me to present—" he plucked a twisted vine from a hanging pot, its stems dotted with shimmering bubbles, "—Bubble Vine! Crush one of these glowing little jewels on your skin, and poof! Goodbye bruises, cuts, even fatigue. The vine itself hums lullabies at night. Great for insomnia."

Alastor stared, unsure whether to laugh or be impressed.

Ozzie was already moving again.

"This one's a bestseller with the fair folk—" he pulled out a delicate tin of silvery sachets, "—Lantern Leaf Tea. One sip, and your skin glows like a paper lantern. Very fashionable. Very handy during power outages, romantic walks, or if you just want to freak someone out in the dark."

He tossed it into the air and caught it behind his back.

"Now, for those with... digestive complications, we offer: Hex Lax! Curses go in—bad vibes come out. Side effects may include cackling."

He gestured toward a bubbling cauldron labeled in ornate script: Elfa Seltzer – for when your inner elf needs a little pop. And finally, from a velvet pouch, he carefully removed a small, wriggling object that looked suspiciously like a candy... with a tongue.

"Crocodile Tongues. Imported. Slightly illegal. Don't ask."

Ozzie paused, arms spread, the air practically vibrating with his energy.

"Uh..." Alastor scratched the back of his neck, still trying to keep up with the whirlwind of bizarre items. "Got any... itching powder?"

Ozzie grinned like he'd just been asked for a rare treasure.

"Of course! Now—do you want it made from quicksand or desert sand?"

Alastor blinked. "Wait... that makes a difference?"

Ozzie held up two tiny vials—one filled with pale gold dust, the other a darker, swirling mixture that seemed to shimmer as it shifted.

"Quicksand powder is slower to activate but lasts longer. Perfect for extended torture—or long classes."

He gave a wink.

"Desert sand's more immediate. A real firestarter. Instant itching, short fuse, lots of scratching. Also slightly flammable, so... don't use it near a Bunsen burner."

Alastor hesitated, then pointed. "I guess the, uh... desert kind?"

"Excellent choice." Ozzie handed him the vial with a flourish. "One sprinkle will do. Two if you really hate someone. Shake well before use. Not recommended for internal organs, diplomatic negotiations, or babysitting gigs. Anything else?"

"Not really—well, I read your ad. The one about 'unlocking your true potential.' What's that about?"

He hesitated. "Oh. You mean the potion. I don't usually offer it to minors."

"I'm not a minor. I'm seventeen."

He studied him for a beat. "Can you legally consent to sex?"

"Yes."

"Then I suppose you're mature enough to try it." He shrugged. "It was made to bring out the best in a person — to help them become who they actually are. It eases insecurity and sharpens the desire to improve."

"Could it make me more confident?"

"Sure. It can produce all sorts of advancements."

He reached for the shelf behind the counter, fingers gliding over rows of bottles until he pulled down a slender vial filled with a shimmering, amber liquid. The cork was sealed with crimson wax stamped with an unfamiliar symbol.

"Here it is," he said, holding it up to the light.

Alastor looked at the glowing vial with a raised eyebrow.

"And it actually works?"

"Like a mirror showing you the part of yourself you've been too afraid to see," he said softly. "But before I give you this, I have to ask—do you have control of your inner self?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your inner self. Is it under control? If it is, the potion should work flawlessly. If not... well, there may be some side effects."

Alastor's eyebrows shot up. "Side effects? What kind?"

"Split personality, memory loss, involuntary transformation, lack of impulse control, animal traits, fever, bunions, warts, hair loss, tooth decay, and possibly..." He glanced downward, voice dropping to a whisper. "Certain appendages falling off."

Alastor's eyes went wide.

"What the hell is in that stuff?"

"Angel tears, demon's blood, and human skin and bones."

Alastor recoiled. "What?!"

"Dead human skin and bones that fell off or broke off. Stuff I smuggled from hospitals and the morgue."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all."

Alastor uncorked the bottle and sniffed the fluid inside. The smell was strange—sharp and unfamiliar, almost off-putting. For a moment, he thought about backing out, certain it was just some cheap concoction made from lead paint or worse.

But then, the scent stirred something deep within him—a flicker of something strong, brave, exciting, even powerful. It was like catching a glimpse of the person he wanted to be.

That feeling convinced him. He nodded.

"I'll take it.” 

“But do you have control-“

”Yes I have control. I’ve exercised perfect control over my inner self my whole life.” 

"Alright but be careful—only one drop at a time. Trust me on this."

Alastor pulled out twenty dollars and handed it over. The deal was sealed.

"If you have any issues or emergencies," Ozzie said, slipping the cash into a worn leather pouch, "just come back to the shop. I'll help however I can—just, don't sue me. I already have enough problems."

"Okay," Alastor said, slipping the vial carefully into his jacket pocket.

Ozzie leaned in slightly, his expression suddenly more serious.

"And keep that thing locked up somewhere no one else can get to it. Not your friends, not your enemies, no one. This isn't bubblegum or breath spray. One drop too many, in the wrong hands..." He let the thought trail off.

Alastor nodded, his unease creeping back.

"Got it."

Ozzie straightened, the grin returning.

"Good lad. Now off you go."

Alastor left the shop, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft chime. Ozzie watched through the dusty glass as the boy disappeared down the street, the vial of golden liquid tucked away in his jacket.

He exhaled slowly and rubbed his chin.

"Hope it turns out better this time," he murmured to himself. "Haven't had much luck aiding my fellow man lately."

His smile faded.

"And I really hope he was telling the truth... about having control of his inner self."

Then something shifted. A flicker in the far corner of the room—no sound, just movement. Quick, almost imperceptible. Too fast for any ordinary human eye.

But Ozzie was far from ordinary.

He turned, eyes narrowing toward the darkened corner behind the shelves. The shadows held their shape a moment too long, almost as if watching.

Something... or someone had taken an interest in the boy.

"I know you're there," Ozzie said, his voice low and steady. "You can't hide from me. What are you up to?"

The shadows didn't reply.

They shifted—just slightly—like smoke caught in a draft, then slipped away into the far corners of the shop, dissolving into nothing. Ozzie watched in silence, eyes sharp and knowing.

Chapter Text

Alastor rolled his bike quietly into the backyard, hoping to slip into the house unnoticed. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Rosie why he'd spent money on a so-called "potion."

From the kitchen came Rosie's muffled voice, still deep in conversation, her socked feet pattering rhythmically across the tile.

But in the living room, Loona was sprawled across the couch like a sun-drenched cat—boots kicked off, one leg slung over the armrest, absently flicking through static-filled TV channels.

"Hey," she said flatly, eyes never leaving the screen. "Where've you been?"

Alastor shrugged, brushing wind-tousled hair from his eyes. "Just out riding my bike."

Loona arched a brow, glancing at him sideways with a mix of boredom and suspicion. "Riding your bike? What, to the next state?"

Before he could answer, a second voice cut in—sharp, light, and merciless.

"More like riding on the wings of loooove," Octavia sang from the hallway, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief.

Alastor blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"I saw you this morning. From my window." Octavia leaned against the doorframe, grinning. "Charlie gave you something, didn't she?"

Like most twelve-year-olds, Octavia lived to tease and eavesdrop. She'd known Alastor was head-over-heels for Charlie since day one—and she knew Charlie felt the same. She'd once caught her doodling Mrs. Charlie Le Beau in her notebook. Something Charlie had made her swear, cross-her-heart, never to tell.

"So, how are you gonna thank her for the gift, huh?" Octavia teased, her grin widening. "Gonna write her a love poem? Serenade her under the moonlight?"

"Don't be stupid," Alastor said, brushing past her.

"Are you gonna ask her to prom this time?" Octavia shot back. "You know she didn't go last year, right? She was waiting for you to ask her. But nope—too scared."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes I do," she said with a smirk. "You two are like hopeless little lovebirds. Just dying to kiss and coo. Coo, coo, coo."

Alastor's face reddened. "Be quiet before I shove you in a birdcage and hang you from the ceiling."

"Don't get mad at me just because you're too chicken to make a move."

"I'm not a chicken—I'm a fox. And foxes eat pesky little birds like you. So scat!"

Octavia laughed as she ducked out of the room, clearly pleased with herself.

Alastor let out a sharp exhale and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He made his way upstairs, boots thudding softly against the steps. The second floor was quieter—until he heard a voice drifting from the guest room.

"O wrathful night, conceal my shame beneath your shadowed wings..."

Alastor paused in the doorway. Inside, Moxxie stood in front of a mirror, holding a crumpled script and gesturing dramatically with one hand while the other clutched a half-empty energy drink.

"For love is but a fire, and I the foolish moth—"

"What are you doing?" Alastor asked, raising an eyebrow as he stepped into the room.

"Monologuing," Moxxie replied, not missing a beat. "Stolas and Blitzo are holding auditions for their next show."

Alastor crossed his arms. "I thought you had to be twenty-one to be in one of their shows."

"They're going PG-13 this time," Moxxie said, puffing out his chest a little. "Rosie convinced them it'd be 'an artistic challenge' to include teenagers. I'm really excited about this! Not just because I might land a big role, but I'll actually get to meet other kids my age who love theater too."

"What show are they putting on this time?"

Moxxie shrugged. "They haven't said. These auditions are just to see if we can act. It's like... pre-auditions." He paused, then added with a hopeful grin, "But personally, I hope it's Phantom of the Opera. That's my favorite musical."

"What role would you go for?" Alastor asked.

"Either the Phantom or Raoul," Moxxie said confidently.

Alastor blinked. "No offense, Moxxie, but... the Phantom is supposed to be terrifying and towering, and Raoul is—how do I put this—tall, dashing, and... strapping. And you, well... you're kind of...short."

Moxxie crossed his arms. "Appearance means nothing if you have talent."

Alastor smirked. "Try telling that to the audience that started cheering when Rosie came on stage in a two-piece harem girl costume—then booed and threw glasses when Blitzo came out wearing the exact same thing."

Moxxie winced. "Okay... fair. But I still have range."

"Sure," Alastor said with a grin. "Just maybe not Phantom-level murder-in-the-catacombs range."

"We'll see," Moxxie muttered. "So what kind of roles did your mom play?"

"Oh, nothing major—just school plays and the little pretend shows we'd put on for my dad. Nothing important."

"That's not what you told me when I was nine. Remember? I was crushed because they said I was too young to act on stage. And you told me to put on my own show for you and the girls. You said it didn't matter where the stage was, as long as someone was laughing... or crying."

"Oh yeah... I guess I did say that."

"So what shows did she do?"

"Let's see... She played Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night's Dream, Ronette in Little Shop of Horrors... But her biggest role was Sarah in Ragtime. That one meant the most to her. In fact when I was little she used to sing 'Wheels of a Dream' to me."

"My mother used to sing 'Think of Me' to me when I was little," Moxxie said softly. "I guess that's where my love of theater started. She used to sing when she was most happy, and she would only sing to me. She never sang for anyone else. That's another reason why I love music. I was so little when she died, music helps me remember her."

"I know you've probably heard this a thousand times, but... I'm sorry for what your father did to you and your mother," Alastor said quietly. "My father wasn't perfect—God knows—but he'd have damned himself to hell before he ever laid a hand on us. That's why he snapped when she was killed."

"Do you think he'll ever be... cured? Or at least well enough to leave the mental ward?"

"No. He doesn't want to leave. He hates it there—hates the doctors—but he's scared. Scared that if he gets out, he'll try to see me again... and that he'll make me crazy and evil just like him."

"Well, for what it's worth... I don't think your dad's crazy or evil. Just heartbroken."

"Thanks Moxxie."

After a beat, Moxxie looked up at Alastor, guilt flickering in his eyes. "I'm sorry about what Striker did to you. He... he did it because of me, didn't he?"

Alastor's expression didn't shift, but his voice softened.

"It wasn't your fault. He broke your foot, Moxxie. Of course you had to tell the police."

Moxxie looked down at his cast, fingers tightening slightly against the armrest.

"Yeah, well... what he did to you? That was nothing. Just a warning shot." His voice dropped, almost a whisper. "As soon as this cast comes off... he'll be coming for me."

"Nobody here is going to let that happen," Alastor said firmly.

Moxxie let out a hollow laugh. "How? The cops didn't do anything when I reported him. And it's not like any of us can stop him. We're all a bunch of twigs."

Moxxie hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot. Then he leaned in toward Alastor.

"Can you keep a secret?"

Alastor raised an eyebrow. "Of course. What's up?"

Moxxie lowered his voice. "I've been thinking about... getting a gun."

Alastor blinked. "A gun? What kind of gun?"

"Just a handgun. Something small. For protection, y'know—when I walk home."

Alastor frowned. "Moxxie, you're fifteen. You can't legally buy a gun."

"But Blitzo has one, I know where he keeps it."

"Yeah, and he's licensed. You're not."

"Your friend Angel doesn't have a license and he carries a damn Tommy gun."

"Which he's had years of practice using in an abandoned field. You've never even fired a gun before. What the hell are you thinking?"

"Well, the police aren't going to help us," Moxxie snapped. "And Striker and his gang? They've got me outnumbered and outsized. What else am I supposed to do?"

Alastor's voice rose, sharper now. "I don't know—but don't do something that stupid! Not unless you want to end up dead like your mother or in jail like your father!"

Alastor stopped, the words hanging in the air like a slap. He saw the way Moxxie's face fell—shock first, then something harder to look at: hurt. Alastor's jaw tightened. He knew he'd crossed a line. Hit too deep, too fast. But he also knew it'd make Moxxie think twice.

"...I'm sorry," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off him. "But you kind of scared me back there."

"I just don't know what else to do," Moxxie said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm scared."

Alastor didn't respond right away. His thoughts drifted to the potion he'd bought—the one Ozzie claimed could "produce all sorts of advancements." He wondered if that included physical strength. Or if it would at least give him something that would make that gang less of a problem.

"We'll talk about it later, alright? I won't say anything to anyone—as long as you promise not to do anything stupid until we talk."

Moxxie nodded slowly.

"Promise me, Moxxie," Alastor insisted, his eyes narrowing. "Or I swear, I'll tell Rosie right now—and she'll take a switch to your behind for even thinking about doing something so idiotic and dangerous."

Moxxie blinked, a flicker of nervous guilt flashing across his face.

"...Okay," he muttered. "I promise."

“Good. Now I'm going to turn in early," Alastor said at last, stepping back toward the hallway. "My body's not broken, but it still hurts. Rest should help."

Moxxie nodded. "Alright. I'll let everyone know at dinner."

Alastor gave a small nod in return, then turned and hurried to his room. Once inside, he closed the door behind him with a quiet click. The silence wrapped around him like a weight.

He pulled the potion from his jacket pocket and stared at it—an unassuming little vial, glowing faintly, almost mockingly. His fingers curled around it, hesitant. Would it even work?
Did he want it to?

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under him. For a long moment, he just stared at the swirling liquid. Something about it felt dangerous... and tempting.

Reaching over, he flicked on the old radio by his bedside. A soft static hummed before jazz filtered through the speaker—low and wandering, like a memory. It filled the room with a worn kind of comfort. Maybe the music would help him think. Or maybe it would just drown out everything else.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours. The radio crackled softly in the background, its slow, wandering tune looping endlessly. Even as the sky outside darkened and fatigue settled into his bones, he didn't move. He just sat there—thinking. Turning it over and over in his mind. Every reason to try it. Every reason not to.

At last, with a hand that barely trembled, Alastor pulled the cork from the vial. He stared at the liquid one more time, then tipped the bottle carefully and let a single drop fall onto his tongue.

Just one.

The taste was bitter. Cold. It burned faintly on the way down. He closed his eyes. And waited.

Nothing happened. No surge of energy. No tingling magic. No sudden clarity or strength. Just stillness.

Exactly what he expected. A fake. A waste of money. Snake oil in a fancy bottle. He sighed through his nose, setting the vial on the nightstand with a faint clink.

And then—grrrrrrnnnk. His stomach growled, low and hollow. He grimaced. Right. He'd skipped dinner. With a tired groan, Alastor pushed himself up and left his room, heading downstairs toward the kitchen.

He opened the fridge and rummaged through the drawer of lunch meat.

"Alright, let's see... sliced ham? No. Sliced turkey? Nah. Ah—here we go. Sliced venison, fresh from Miss Rosie's hunting trip."

With a satisfied grin, he grabbed the pack and set to work, quickly assembling himself a sandwich. To drink, he poured himself half a glass of red wine. Rosie had allowed him to start drinking when he turned seventeen—but only half a glass per week, and only if he was someplace private.

At the same time, Octavia stepped quietly out of the hallway, empty glass in hand. She was on her way to get some water, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, her footsteps light.

She reached the kitchen at the exact moment Alastor finished his late-night meal.

That's when it began.

As the moonlight spilled through the window, casting soft light across the room, Alastor noticed something strange—his shadow. It moved. Not with him, but on its own.

It turned toward him and smiled. Wait. Smiled? Since when did shadows have mouths?

For a second, he was sure he was imagining it. Shadows play tricks, especially at night, when the lights are low and your mind's already halfway into dreaming. But this... this felt different.

Suddenly, the shadow ripped itself from the wall and lunged at him. It grabbed hold of him, cold and suffocating like a living fog. Before Alastor could react, it slipped inside him—seeping through his skin, invading his very being.

Octavia froze, her breath caught in her throat as she watched Alastor writhe—shaking, spinning, flailing as if some invisible force was toying with him.

His skin had drained of color—not from fear, but something unnatural, something otherworldly. Slowly, a flush of deep red spread across his arms, snaking up his neck like ink dissolving into water. His hair shifted too, darkening into a rich scarlet streaked with black. He collapsed to one knee, gasping, eyes wide and glowing faintly now—bright red, fierce, and utterly unearthly.

And then—Antlers. They pushed their way up and out from his skull like twisted branches breaking through the surface of a frozen lake. Octavia stepped back, lips parted but silent. Her glass slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a soft clink—not shattering, just tipping over. She bolted from the kitchen, heart pounding, feet barely touching the stairs as she sprinted to her room. Throwing the door shut behind her, she dove under the covers, trembling, willing herself to believe it was just a bad dream—something she'd forget by morning.

A faint sound buzzed in the air. Like static. Radio static. It crackled just beneath the kitchen light, hovering like an invisible signal tuned to something ancient, something wrong.

Alastor slowly stood, shoulders rising, breath slow and deep. He wasn't just different. He was something else entirely.

Chapter Text

Striker and his gang were packed into a dimly lit bar, the air thick with smoke and laughter. Bottles clinked, and glasses sloshed as they toasted their latest haul—a cool two hundred dollars and six glittering gold chains, trophies from their latest score.

"Here's to us!" Striker bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. "Getting rich off these fools!"

The others whooped and jeered, slinging back drinks like there was no tomorrow, their swagger loud and proud. Tonight, they ruled the streets.

"Where are the refills?" he barked, rising halfway from his seat. "My boys and I are hungry!"

The room quieted just a touch—enough to notice the tension that crept in behind his words. The bartender, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better days, exchanged a glance with the waitress. She hesitated, tray in hand, before edging toward the table.

"C'mon," Striker growled, gesturing wide with both arms, "Don't make me ask twice. You see this crew? You see these pockets? We tip better than your landlord!"

The waitress forced a smile, nodding quickly. "Y-yes, of course. Right away."

The bartender started lining up fresh bottles behind the bar, hands shaky but quick. Striker leaned back with a smirk, satisfied, his gang hooting again as the drinks came flowing like they owned the joint.

The waitress approached, clutching her tray like a shield. Her hands trembled as she placed fresh bottles on the sticky table, avoiding eye contact.

But the gang had other ideas.

One of Striker's boys, Razor, leaned in too close, breathing cheap whiskey and grinning like a hyena. "You always serve with that pretty little shake, baby?" he leered, brushing her arm as she tried to step away.

Another reached for her waist. "C'mon, don't be shy. We're just celebrating."

The others laughed, loud and crude, egging each other on.

"Back off," the bartender snapped, his voice cracking as he stepped out from behind the counter. "That's enough."

The laughter died. Striker turned slowly, his chair creaking as he stood. With a cold smile, he pulled a pistol from his coat and leveled it at the bartender's chest.

"You take another step," Striker said, voice low and flat, "and I'll redecorate this dump with your ribs."

The bartender froze.

The room was silent now—just the faint hum of neon and the soft clink of ice in a forgotten glass. The waitress stood like stone, wide-eyed, her tray shaking in her grip.

Striker glanced at her. "You good, darlin'? Or you wanna keep making this a thing?"

She shook her head quickly, stepping back, out of reach, out of danger—for now.

Striker tucked the gun away, calm again like nothing happened.

"Now," he said, raising his glass, "where were we?"

And the chaos rolled on, thick and heavy.

Suddenly, the bar door swung open with a sharp creak, drawing every head inside.

A tall, striking figure stepped through—dark, red, dressed sharply, his smile wide and unsettling, humming a strange, almost eerie tune under his breath. He moved with an effortless confidence, weaving through the crowd toward the bar.

"Whiskey. Neat," he said, his voice smooth and polished—like a radio announcer's, clear and captivating, cutting through the raucous noise as if the whole room had fallen silent just for him.

They stared, unable to look away. The man's eyes glowed bright red, sharp and piercing. His ears, pointed like a deer's, twitched slightly, and from his head rose a proud set of antlers—majestic and unexpected in a smoky bar like this.

Despite his strange features, there was no denying he was handsome, with a confidence that filled the room like a tangible force.

"Who's this freak?" Striker snarled under his breath, eyes narrowing as he glared at the stranger.

Striker hated anyone who stood out—people who looked different, dressed different, or acted different. Anyone strange was trouble, and he wanted them gone from his sight as fast as possible.

Striker shoved his chair back with a loud scrape, rising to his feet. The bar quieted a little, sensing trouble.

He swaggered over to the stranger, eyes locked on him like a predator sizing up prey.

"Hey, freakshow," he growled. "This ain't a circus. Take your antlers and get the hell outta here."

The man didn't even look at him.

He simply raised his glass, took a slow sip, and let out a satisfied sigh—still humming that same strange tune under his breath.

"Hey, are you deaf or something?" Striker snapped, stepping closer.

The man finally turned his head, just enough to look at him—eyes glowing, smile still intact.

"No," he said calmly. "But for a moment, I thought I was hallucinating... because last I checked, trash doesn't talk."

A few gasps and snickers rippled through the bar. Striker's face darkened. He threw a punch—fast, and mean.

But the man didn't flinch. Instead, he leapt straight up, impossibly fast, landing upside down on the ceiling. His shadow clung to it like a second skin, anchoring him in place.

The bar went dead silent.

Striker blinked, stunned. "What the fuck are you doing up there?"

The man looked down at him with a smile that was all teeth and mischief. "Oh, just staying away from you. Most people, you see, don't like being punched in the face."

Then his eyes swept over Striker's clothes. "My, that is a charming outfit. Did your husband give it to you?"

A few laughs burst out from nearby tables.

Striker's face twisted with rage.  He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling.

"Ice this deadbeat!" he barked at one of his crew.

One of the gang members—tall, heavy-set, and eager to prove himself—pulled a pistol from his jacket and took aim.

The man on the ceiling didn't flinch. His glowing red eyes narrowed, and the shadow holding him rippled like liquid smoke.

"Careful now," he said smoothly, voice still dripping with amusement. "Guns make such a mess... and cleaning up bloodstains is so tedious."

Shots cracked like whips. The heavy-set thug's pistol barked twice; the sound slammed into the room, sharp and final. Glass trembled in its racks. For a heartbeat the bullets seemed to hang in the smoky air—then the man on the ceiling was gone.

He uncoiled with the grace of something that never belonged to gravity. One instant he hung by the shadow on his heels, the next he flipped down, folding through the air with a blur of red and antlered silhouette. Bullets stitched through the varnished bar where his head had been a breath before. Wood splintered; a shower of chips glittered like confetti.

"How foolish," he said, landing on his feet as if he'd always intended to be there. His smile stretched wider, and when he hummed it was no longer a tune but a low, resonant vibration that crawled under skin.

The lights dimmed as if a hand had slid over the room. Shadows pulled away from corners, from the legs of tables and the folds of coats, thickening like ink poured into water. They moved with purpose, not slavish darkness but living, eager things.

Tendrils of shadow coalesced and struck. One wrapped around the heavy-set man's wrist like a leather glove, another threaded between his knees. The gun spun free and clattered across the floor. The shadows didn't merely hold them; they became limbs—fingers of pure night that yanked, slammed, dragged.

A thug tried to tackle the stranger, swinging wild. His fist went straight into a mass of shadow. It wrapped the arm and snapped it back with a wet, echoing crack of effort. The man's grin never faltered; he watched as the crew's bravado curdled into confusion and terror.

Then the sound changed. It started inside their teeth, a pressure at the back of the throat, then a high, crystalline keening that drilled into bone and memory. The man's lips parted and from his mouth poured waves—no ordinary scream but layered pulses, a radio-current of sound that seemed to vibrate the very air into static. The wave hit the shadows first and they shivered, then rolled it into the people they gripped.

The radio waves were surgical and relentless. They made knuckles ache as if stomped, made vision swim and stomachs flip. Men went rigid, then doubled over, hands clawing at ears and eyes. A laugh burst out of one throat—half hysteria, half strangled plea—and turned to nothing as the vibrations tore through the lining of his chest. Phones and neon signs answered with a whining whiplash of feedback; ash drifted like gray snow.

Shadow-hands were unkind. They pulled bodies up and hurled them into tables; chairs splintered with hollow crashes. Another shadow coiled around Striker's legs, lifting him until his boots left the floor. Striker's face, red with fury, contorted as the waves found him—teeth chattering, eyes watering, breath ragged. He swung at the darkness and hit nothing but a void that tightened like a noose. The shadow slammed him back down hard enough to knock the breath out of him; coins and one of the gold chains skittered across the floor.

They howled, the whole gang reduced from bluster to animal panic. Some prayed, some cursed. Their guns clattered away, kicked from numb fingers, or were wrenched and bent by smoky, unyielding grips. None of it was graceful. It was brutal, quick, and absolute.

The stranger stepped through the chaos as if through a mist, each shadow parting for him. He crouched beside Striker whose face had gone slack with pain, inspected a shattered wrist with the casual interest of a man checking a broken tool.

"Well," the man murmured, almost conversationally, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips, "I don't know about you, but I rather enjoyed that little sparring. Oh—mind if I borrow your forehead for something?"

From his pocket, he pulled out a small scrap of paper and a pen. Carefully, he pressed the paper against his own forehead and began to write, the letters sharp and deliberate.

"Thank you," he said softly once he finished.

He turned his attention back to the bar, where the bartender and waitress had been quietly hiding behind the counter, wide-eyed and tense the entire time. Without a word, he placed a few bills on the bar—enough to cover his drink—and slid a twenty-dollar bill along with the folded note across to the waitress.

He didn't wait for thanks. Striding out of the bar, he disappeared into the smoky night.

The waitress hesitated for a moment, then picked up the note. Unfolding it, her eyes scanned the neat, almost elegant handwriting:

A tip for the lovely lady, courtesy of The Radio Demon.

Outside, the man who called himself the Radio Demon strolled down the empty sidewalk, the moonlight casting long shadows behind him. The bar's noise faded to a dull hum, swallowed by the city's restless quiet.

As he passed a darkened storefront, something in the glass caught his eye.

He stopped.

In the window's reflection, framed between mannequins in outdated fashion, stood a figure draped in deep crimson—coat sharp, posture relaxed, eyes glinting with mischief.

He tilted his head.

"Huh..." he murmured, smoothing the lapel of his red jacket with idle fingers. "I never thought much of it before, but I look pretty good in red."

He flashed himself a grin—one part charm, two parts danger—then kept walking.

The Radio Demon slowed as he reached the crumbling shell of that long-abandoned apartment building, its windows boarded and blackened, its walls sagging like tired shoulders beneath years of neglect.

He settled onto a broken step, one leg crossed over the other, red coat gleaming under a flickering streetlight. Just as he closed his eyes to enjoy the quiet, the low growl of a police cruiser engine cut through the silence. Tires crunched to a stop on the cracked pavement.

The door creaked open.

Lieutenant Husk stepped out—thick-built, tired-eyed, and dressed in the same wrinkled uniform he wore like a second skin. He didn't bother reaching for his flashlight.

"You can't be here," Husk called, voice dry. "Building's condemned. Could fall on your head any second."

The Radio Demon didn't move. He opened one eye and smiled lazily.

"Oh, Lieutenant," he purred, "always so concerned with public safety. How touching." He stretched, lounging like a cat in the sun. "Why don't you go back to your squad car and mind your own business?"

Husk's jaw tightened. "Look, I'm not in the mood. Under the law, I can't let anyone loiter here. You either move along—or I put you in cuffs. Your choice."

That made the Radio Demon laugh—sharp and musical, like a radio crackling to life mid-broadcast.

"You?" he chuckled, rising to his feet. "Make an arrest? Please, Lieutenant... you can't even catch a cold."

Husk took a step forward, hand drifting toward the baton at his side. "Try me."

The Radio Demon's smile sharpened, but his tone remained light, playful—almost bored. "Oh, I would, Lieutenant... but you might break before the building does."

"Is that a threat? You know it's against the law to threaten a policeman," Husk growled, stepping forward, hand now fully on his baton.

The Radio Demon's grin stretched just a little wider—his eyes gleamed like twin radio dials flickering to a strange frequency.

"Too bad the law..." he said slowly, voice echoing faintly like it was bouncing through an old speaker, "...doesn't apply to me."

That was it.

"Alright, that's it! You're under arrest!" Husk barked, reaching for his cuffs as he lunged forward.

But he never made it. From the alley behind the building, a slithering shadow detached itself from the wall—inky, fluid, alive. With uncanny speed, it whipped around Husk and—

WHUMP! A solid, well-placed kick landed squarely on his backside, sending the grizzled lieutenant sprawling face-first onto the cracked sidewalk with a loud grunt.

The Radio Demon burst into laughter, his fingers snapping rhythmically like he was cueing a vaudeville routine.

"Now Lieutenant," he chortled, strolling in a circle around the fallen officer. "You really should've seen that coming. You do wear those pants a bit... tight for stealth."

Husk tried to get up, but the shadows were faster—wrapping around his limbs like snakes made of smoke. One tugged off his cap. Another drew a mustache across his upper lip with soot from the ground.

A third gave his nose a little flick.

"Boop."

"Now hold still," the Radio Demon said mockingly, crouching beside him. "Let's see—should I turn you into a puppet? A balloon animal? Or—oooh—a warning."

Husk growled through gritted teeth. "You're insane."

"No, no, no," the Radio Demon said with mock offense. "I'm exceptional. Big difference."

He stood, dusted off his coat, and let the shadows slide away, leaving Husk tied in a loose, cartoonishly exaggerated knot of limbs.

"Oh don't worry, Lieutenant," he said, stepping back into the night. "I'm sure someone will untie you eventually. Maybe a stray cat. Maybe the press. You're very... public-facing."

And with that, he vanished down the sidewalk, whistling once again, the tune fading like static at the end of a broadcast.

Charlie suddenly awoke with a start, her heart hammering like a warning bell in her chest. The room was dark, but not quiet. The wind outside pressed against the windows like it was trying to whisper something through the glass.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. There'd been no noise. No dream. But still—something pulled at her. A feeling. A chill.

It wasn't fear. Not exactly. It was a presence. Like a voice she hadn't heard with her ears, but felt deep in her chest.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing barefoot on the cold floor. She moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside just a crack. The city lay stretched beneath her—quiet, for now. But something was stirring.

Something unnatural.

It was her powers—trying to tell her something. She remembered reading about it once, in a book on telekinesis from the library. It had mentioned that the ability didn't just stop at moving objects. With time and age, it could evolve—growing into something deeper. Sharper. A sense that reached beyond the physical world.

A power that could see what others couldn't. Know what others wouldn't. And tonight, that power was trying to warn her.

But it wasn't her own life in danger.

It was someone else's.

"What's going on?" Charlie wondered, the question echoing through her mind like a whisper in the dark.

She took one last look out the window, eyes scanning the quiet streets below. Nothing moved. Nothing seemed out of place.

But the feeling remained.

With a sigh, she let the curtain fall and turned away, retreating to the warmth of her bed. As she lay down, she tried to shake the unease clinging to her thoughts.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Alastor woke with the sensation that someone had surgically implanted an electric drill in his skull. His head throbbed with a relentless, mechanical pain. How much red wine had he drunk last night? Surely not enough for this. It was barely half a glass.

"Alastor?" Rosie's voice followed a soft knock at his door. "Are you alright?"

It wasn't like him to sleep in this late.

"I'm fine," he groaned.

"Are you sure? Your ribs aren't acting up, are they?"

"No, my ribs are—"

He stopped mid-sentence as he pushed himself upright. To his surprise, there was no pain. None at all. He glanced down at his side—no bruising, no tenderness. The marks were gone.

"Huh... that's weird," he muttered. "I'll be down for breakfast in a minute, Rosie."

"All right, dear."

He slid out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth. But as he looked up into the mirror, he froze. The bruises and cuts on his face—vanished. Not even a trace. His reflection stared back, untouched and unmarked.

"Gee, the human body heals faster than it used to. Or at least in my case it does."

He shrugged, grabbed his toothbrush, and began brushing. A moment later, he started flossing—until a sudden sting made him flinch.

"Ow! What the—?"

He looked down. A small cut on his fingertip was bleeding.

Frowning, he leaned closer to the mirror and opened his mouth. One of his teeth gleamed oddly in the light—longer, sharper. Predatory. It looked more like something from a shark. Or an alligator.

"Was it always like that?" he whispered, staring at it.

Brushing it off, he headed downstairs for breakfast. Blitzo was already busy making his signature breakfast basket—eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and pancakes stacked high. Rosie stood nearby, preparing her special tea and coffee blend. Loona, as usual, was the first to dive in like a starved dog. Moxxie hovered around Blitzo and Rosie, eagerly trying to learn their cooking secrets. And Octavia typically sat at the table, earbuds in, listening to her favorite band until food was served.

But not today.

This morning, she just sat there—still, silent—staring at Alastor.

She looked at him like she'd seen a ghost.

"What are you looking at?" Alastor asked, half-grinning. "Do I have something in my teeth?"

Octavia didn't answer right away. She just stared, her expression unreadable. Her eyes flicked to the others—no one else seemed to notice. In fact, no one was even at the table.

"Drop that bacon, Loona! It's not ready yet!" Blitzo barked from across the kitchen, swatting at her hand with a spatula.

Rosie was focused on pouring coffee. Moxxie was still pestering her about getting honey for the tea instead of sugar. No one was paying attention to Octavia—or to Alastor.

Octavia leaned closer to Alastor, lowering her voice so only he could hear.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Actually, apart from a headache when I woke up, I feel great," he said with a small smile. "Look—no cuts, no bruises. But what about you? You look like you just witnessed a murder."

"What happened to you last night?" she asked quietly.

He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Last night, I got up to get a glass of water. You were in the kitchen, and I saw you... change."

"Change?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean, change?"

"Your body. Your face. It twisted. It stretched. You grew—like, transformed into something. Something not human. It was terrifying. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but—"

"It probably was a dream, Octavia," he said, brushing it off with a chuckle. "You really shouldn't be watching those horror movies before bed."

She shook her head, firm. "Oh no. I wasn't dreaming. I never went back to sleep. I stayed up. I watched you come back—and change back."

"That's wacky nonsense," Alastor said with a forced chuckle.

"You were red," Octavia insisted, her voice barely above a whisper. "You had antlers. And fangs."

His smile faltered for a second.

A flicker of unease crept in as he remembered the tooth—the one that cut his finger. Was that... a fang?

He glanced down at the table, suddenly unsure. His hand reflexively went to his mouth, brushing along his teeth with the tip of his tongue. That one tooth still felt... wrong. Sharper than the rest.

Suddenly, his mind jolted—flashes of memory surfacing without warning.

The kitchen. The bar. Striker and his gang. He saw himself—moving fast, too fast—throwing punches, taking them down one by one like they were nothing. Husk lunging at him—and being swatted aside like a joke. The chaos. The adrenaline. The power.

But then it was gone.

He blinked, staring at the table as reality settled back in.

No... no, that couldn't have happened. That was impossible. Wasn't it?

Just as Alastor was trying to push the creeping memories out of his mind, the front door swung open.

"Good morning, everyone!" Stolas called, strutting into the kitchen with a folded newspaper in hand and a grin that was far too smug for this early in the day. "You will not believe what happened in the city last night."

He waved the paper in the air as he moved to the table.

"Some lunatic beat the ever-loving hell out of a gang near the East District. Broke bones, shattered eardrums—it says here they were screaming about shadows and radio waves." He paused, unfolding the paper and tapping the front page. "And then, get this—he tied Lieutenant Husk up by all four limbs outside the old condemned building. Left him dangling like a marionette for the morning crowd. Absolutely scandalous."

Alastor froze.

Stolas turned the paper around and held it up for everyone to see. There, in black-and-white, were grainy surveillance photos—one of a tall, red figure in the middle of the brawl, another of Husk, strung up, his expression twisted in fury. The figure in the photo looked like something out of a nightmare.

Long coat. Antlers. A grin stretched too wide.

"They're calling him The Radio Demon," Stolas said, eyebrows raised. "Catchy, no?"

Alastor didn't speak. He didn't blink.

Octavia leaned in just slightly and whispered, "Still think I was dreaming?"

"You know, I'm not really hungry this morning," Alastor said, rising from the table. "I think I need some air. I'm going for a walk."

"I'll go with you," Octavia offered quickly, already pushing back her chair.

"Princess, it's not healthy for a growing girl like you to skip breakfast," Stolas said, frowning.

"I'll eat later, Dad. My stomach hurts too much right now."

"Probably because you're hungry," he replied with a tilt of his head.

"It's nothing, Dad, it's... it's cramps. You know?"

"Oh!" Stolas straightened abruptly, flustered. "Oh, I see. Of course."

"Alastor and I can stop by the pharmacy to grab some ibuprofen," she added smoothly.

Stolas blinked, then gave a small nod. "Alright. But be careful out there, both of you."

Alastor opened the door, casting one last glance at the newspaper still spread across the table. That twisted image of himself—half-demon, half-nightmare—grinned back at him.

He stepped outside into the morning air. Octavia followed close behind as Alastor stepped onto the sidewalk.

"Alright—start talking!" she snapped. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," he said quickly, hands raised. "I really don't."

"What did you do last night? Anything weird?"

"No," he replied, but his voice wavered just slightly.

"Are you sure?" Octavia pressed, her eyes sharp. "Because you were gone a long time on that bike ride yesterday. Anything unusual happen? Anything at all? Think!"

Alastor frowned, sifting through the foggy memories. The ride... the winding roads... the little shop on the corner with the glowing sign. Then it hit him. Ozzie's Magic Shop. The potion.

There's no way that stuff actually worked... right?

"...Oh," he muttered.

Octavia narrowed her eyes. "Oh?"

Without another word, Alastor turned on his heel and slipped back into the house. Octavia watched, arms crossed, tapping her foot.

Upstairs, he moved quickly, careful not to draw attention. He stepped into his room, shut the door behind him, and went straight to the nightstand. Then he grabbed it, shoved it into his coat pocket, and hurried back outside where Octavia was waiting.

She raised an eyebrow. "So?"

He held up the vial. "This."

"Oh God," Octavia groaned, eyes wide. "Please tell me you're not on drugs."

"No, Via," Alastor said quickly, holding up the vial. "This isn't... that. It's a potion. I bought it from a magic shop. Supposedly, it brings out the best in you—your true self. Makes you better."

She stared at him, deadpan. "Oh come on, Al. Give me a little credit. I'm younger than you, not stupid."

He sighed. "I didn't think it would actually do anything! I thought it was just a gimmick—like tea leaves and fortune cookies!"

Alastor stared at the vial, turning it over in his hand. Then, slowly, he uncorked it.

"Does it really work?" he murmured to himself. He had to know.

He reached for Octavia's hand and pulled her gently but firmly toward the alley beside the house, away from the others, away from curious eyes.

Alastor stopped, looked down at the open bottle in his hand, and exhaled. Alastor raised the vial to his lips and let a single drop fall onto his tongue.

It hit like a spark to dry kindling. His eyes widened. His breath hitched. Then the change began. This time, it was instant.

His back arched as something surged beneath his skin—bones shifting, muscles tightening, joints popping in unnatural ways. His pupils narrowed into slits. Crimson flickered in his irises and colored his hair. Antlers burst forth from his skull, spiraling upward like twisted branches. His teeth elongated into sharp, predatory points.

Octavia stumbled back, eyes wide in horror.

"Alastor?" she whispered.

He looked up at her, his smile stretched unnaturally wide. But his voice was layered now—distorted, like a broken radio.

"...I think it works."

"Oh my God!" Octavia gasped, stumbling back another step. "Who are you? And what have you done with my brother?!"

Alastor tilted his head, that eerie grin still etched across his face. His voice crackled with layered distortion, like an old radio struggling to find a station.

"Octavia, dear... it is me. The potion isn't a fake. It actually worked. It brought out the inner me."

She stared at him, mouth agape. "The inner you sounds like a radio and looks like a mutant deer-man."

He chuckled, and even that sounded warped—like laughter caught between frequencies. "Yes...I did wonder about certain details to this form, but at least I'm good-looking."

"Alastor, this isn't funny!" Octavia snapped. "You assaulted a cop last night!"

"Assaulted is such an ugly word," Alastor replied with a smirk. "I prefer humiliated. Which is exactly what I did. And he's fine—the only thing bruised was his ego."

"You know you can get half a year in prison just for spitting on a cop, right?"

"That's only a problem... if I get caught," he said with a wink, his voice still tinged with that eerie radio distortion.

Octavia crossed her arms, glaring. "I don't like this. It's creepy. It's unnatural."

Alastor's grin widened. "That's what they said about your father's love life."

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "You're not even denying it anymore."

"Nope!" he chirped. "Feels liberating, actually."

"Oh yeah? How liberating do you think it'll feel in jail?"

Alastor chuckled, the sound skipping like a broken record. "Now, now, Via... only the law says I did something bad."

He stepped closer, voice dropping into a smooth, eerily reasonable cadence.

"Morally speaking, I gave Striker and his gang exactly what they deserved. They broke Moxxie's foot, assaulted me, and would've kept harassing him if I hadn't stepped in. And let's be honest—the police? Utterly useless in this kind of situation."

He spread his arms with a theatrical flourish.

"So... technically, I've done no wrong. Not really. Besides," Alastor said, tapping the side of his head with one clawed finger, "the paper says the Radio Demon did all that... not Alastor Le Beau."

He gave her a sly smile.

"As far as the public eye knows, I'm completely innocent."

Octavia narrowed her eyes. "You do realize that sounds exactly like something a guilty person would say, right?"

He grinned wider. "Only if you're bad at playing the game."

"I still don't like this," Octavia muttered. "Maybe we should get you to a doctor. Or at least tell Rosie and Dad."

"Not necessary," Alastor said calmly.

"Not necessary?"

He turned to her, eyes glowing faintly beneath the shadow of his antlers.

"Octavia, this couldn't be more perfect," he said. "We live in a cesspit, constantly looking over our shoulders, hiding from drug lords and gangs. The police won't help. But now—with this form, with this power—I can do something. I can protect us. Do what needs to be done, without worrying about laws that were never written to protect people like us anyway."

Octavia stared at him, her voice low. "I don't know... Something in my gut tells me this is going to backfire. And I really don't think we should keep this from Rosie and Dad."

Alastor hesitated, then said softly, "Moxxie's so scared to walk outside, he's thinking about getting Blitzo's gun."

"What?" she breathed, eyes wide.

"He hasn't said it out loud, but I can tell. He's getting desperate. And if things keep going the way they are... he will."

Octavia looked away, chewing her lip. "So what? You're just gonna use a gun instead?"

Alastor's grin returned, calm and unsettling.

"Ah, but that's the beauty of it," he said, lifting a hand. "I don't need a gun. No switchblades, no brass knuckles. Nothing crude."

He snapped his fingers. A ripple of shadow flickered at his feet, coiling briefly like smoke before vanishing into the pavement.

"I have strength. Speed. And look—" he twirled a finger in the air as faint static crackled around them, a distant echo of a radio tuning between stations, "—I can control shadows... and radio waves. No weaponry required."

"Well... I guess when you put it like that..." Octavia muttered, still uncertain.

"See?" Alastor beamed, patting her on the head. "Nothing to worry about."

He turned, his coat swaying with each step. "Now, run along—and not a word of this to anyone."

"But, Alastor—"

He was already walking away, shadows curling faintly around his boots. Octavia stood there, arms folded, watching him disappear down the alley.

"...Oh boy," she sighed. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

Meanwhile, just a few streets away...

A diner buzzed with life, styled like something straight out of the 1950s—checkered floors, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox softly playing an old swing tune in the corner. The smell of fries and grease hung warmly in the air.

Charlie sat in a booth by the window, happily sipping a chocolate milkshake. Across from her, Vaggie was focused on the menu, clearly unimpressed by the grease-slicked lamination.

"Do they even have anything here that isn't fried?" Vaggie muttered.

"That's the charm of it!" Charlie grinned. "It's like stepping into a retro time capsule. Just enjoy the vibe!"

From behind the order counter, Angel, dressed in a grease-stained apron and a ridiculous paper hat, flipped a burger with one hand and waved enthusiastically with the other.

"Hi, Charlie!" Angel called out, already strutting over with the swagger of someone who definitely shouldn't be on break—but was taking one anyway.

"Hi, Angel," Charlie said, smiling.

"How's Alastor doing?"

"He's... fine. A little beaten up, but okay. I heard you saved him from the assault. Thank you."

Angel shrugged. "Eh, I owed him one."

Then his gaze shifted—and landed on Vaggie. He paused. Blinked. Then slowly straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his apron, suddenly standing like he was modeling for a cologne ad.

"Well hell-o, bellissima," he purred, flashing a grin like it had its own spotlight.

Vaggie looked up from the menu, unimpressed. "Excuse me?"

Angel leaned against the booth, completely unfazed. "Charlie, who's your friend?"

Charlie smiled. "This is Vaggie. Vaggie, this is Angel. He's on the basketball team."

"Ohhh," Vaggie said, recognition dawning with a flat tone.

Angel's grin widened. "You've heard of me. I'm not surprised."

"Yeah, you're the guy who streaked across the football field on a dare."

Angel blinked. "...Okay, wow. You do know me."

Charlie giggled into her milkshake.

"That was one time," Angel said, hands raised in mock defense. "And for the record, it was cold out that night."

"Mm-hmm," Vaggie muttered, flipping the page of the menu without interest. "Sure it was."

"Hey, I raised five hundred bucks for charity!" Angel added proudly.

"And traumatized the marching band," Charlie chimed in, still laughing.

Angel shot her a look. "They got free therapy. You're welcome."

"Don't you have something you need to be doing right now?" Vaggie said, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice. "Something that requires you to leave?"

Angel placed a dramatic hand over his heart. "Wow. Just rip the flirting right outta the air, huh?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Was that what that was? I thought it was the smell of burnt fries and desperation."

Charlie nearly choked on her milkshake.

Angel threw up his hands. "Alright, alright—I can take a hint. Rude, but clear."

He backed away with exaggerated flair, walking backward toward the kitchen. "If you need me, I'll be in the back... slaving away in the heat... unloved... underpaid... and deeply misunderstood."

"Don't forget unsupervised," Vaggie muttered.

"I never do," Angel winked. "Farewell, Charlie... and oh, visione radiosa che fa vergognare le stelle."

And with that, he disappeared behind the counter, hips swaying like he was leaving a runway.

Vaggie stared after him. "What the hell did he just say?"

"I'm not sure," Charlie said, sipping the last of her milkshake. "But I think it was Italian."

"Figures."

Charlie set her glass down, about to tease back—when she froze.

Her smile faded.

There it was again. That feeling.

Like a low hum in her bones. A pressure behind her eyes. A ripple in the air that no one else could sense, but one she'd known since she was a child.

Her powers were whispering—something was wrong.

She looked toward the window. The street outside seemed calm, the usual people going about their day... but something wasn't right.

"Charlie?" Vaggie asked, noticing the change in her expression. "You okay?"

Charlie didn't answer right away.

"I... I don't know," she murmured. "But I think something's about to happen."

Chapter Text

Charlie wanted to leave. Right now. Before something went wrong. But Vaggie was hungry, and if Charlie told her the real reason she was anxious to go, she'd have to explain her powers—and she wasn't ready for that. So instead, she stayed quiet and hoped nothing would happen before they left.

"I heard you made up some story for Ms. Mayberry's class," Vaggie said, waiting for her lunch to arrive. "Velvette said it was lame, but what does she know about creativity? Want to tell me about it?"

"Sure," Charlie said, eager for a distraction from the knot of nerves tightening in her stomach.

She launched into the tale—dark, mysterious, tragic, and romantic—of Asmodeus, Hecate, Catalina, and Arman. As she spoke, the world around her faded, if only a little.

When she finished, Vaggie looked impressed. "That's a great story. You seriously just made it up?"

Charlie hesitated. "Well... I guess I did. No one's ever heard of it before. But it doesn't feel like I made it up. It feels like... I've always known it."

"How do you mean?"

"It's the strangest thing," Charlie said quietly. "These stories... the stories about this Asmodeus character...they just come to me."

"What's he like? This Asmodeus?" Vaggie asked, her curiosity piqued. "Anything like the biblical one?"

"Oh—no, nothing like that," Charlie said quickly. "He's actually very kind."

She paused, trying to put the story into words that felt just right.

"He was born during a time when children were taken by the Ottomans to be raised as slaves. But the Ottomans were deeply superstitious, so his parents named him Asmodeus, hoping the name would scare them off—make them think he was cursed and leave him alone."

Vaggie raised her eyebrows. "That's... dark. But clever."

"He always wants to help people. Always tries to use magic to make things better—for everyone. But..."

"But what?"

"It hardly ever works out the way he hopes," Charlie said, voice softening. "No matter how good his intentions are, something always goes wrong. People get hurt. Things fall apart."

"What other stories are there?" Vaggie asked.

Charlie's eyes softened, her voice lowering as if recalling something half-remembered and half-imagined.

"There was one... when he was in China, during a time of war," Charlie began, her voice distant, like she was seeing it unfold in her mind. "Two young men—Zhang and Bolin—were conscripted, ordered to fight. Both were husbands, both fathers. And all they had were daughters. They didn't want to go. They knew that if they died, their wives and little girls would be left with nothing. No protection. No future. Just silence, and struggle, and sorrow."

Vaggie listened closely, her expression unreadable.

"Asmodeus tried to help," Charlie went on. "He cast a spell meant to let the families escape—meant to carry them high into the mountains, far from the violence. And it worked... but not the way he wanted."

She hesitated.

"They escaped the war," she said. "But not as people. The spell transformed them. The men—and their families—became dragons."

Vaggie blinked. "Dragons?"

Charlie nodded. "It was the only way the magic could save them. It gave them wings, scales, breath like fire... but took away their human lives. They could never go back."

"Did they blame him?" Vaggie asked softly.

"No," Charlie said, almost whispering. "They thanked him. Even though they lost everything, they were free. Together. Alive."

"Well that's bittersweet."

"There's another story... one from when he was in Mali," Charlie said. "A Russian noble—Nikolai—had come to hunt. He was a game hunter, proud and arrogant. But he was challenged by Ukume, the daughter of a local chief. She belonged to a warrior tribe and didn't believe in hunting for sport."

Charlie's eyes lit up slightly as she told it, the story unfolding like a memory.

"They fought—again and again. Not just with weapons, but with words, with pride. They tried to destroy each other. But they were equals—in skill, in fire, in stubbornness. And of course, they were drawn to each other. Eventually... they fell in love."

"Huh and I hear I thought that only happened in movies and soap operas."

"But her father the chief hated outsiders. Especially those who came with guns and arrogance. He gave Nikolai a choice—leave the tribe forever, or die."

Vaggie frowned. "What did Asmodeus do?"

"He tried to help," Charlie said quietly. "He cast a spell to change the chief's heart—to make him love Nikolai the way he loved his daughter."

"But?" Vaggie asked.

"But the spell twisted," Charlie said. "Instead of loving Nikolai, the chief's hatred for outsiders was turned on Ukume. He cast her out, just like Nikolai."

"They lost everything," Vaggie murmured.

Charlie nodded. "But they stayed together. Even in exile."

"Geez..." Vaggie said with a half-smile. "Asmodeus sure has a long string of bad luck. Can't you cut the guy a break? I mean, he's your character."

Charlie didn't smile.

"That's the thing, Vaggie," she said quietly. "I don't think I made him up.  I don't know...Maybe someone else made up these stories and told them to me a long time ago, and I just... remembered."

She paused, staring down at her hands.

"Or maybe I didn't remember them at all. Maybe I dreamed them. But they feel real. Like they've always been there, just waiting for me to tell them."

At last, Vaggie's lunch arrived. She didn't like to talk while she ate, so the conversation slipped into silence.

Charlie turned to the window, letting her thoughts drift with the passing clouds. The hum of the diner faded into the background as her mind wandered.

The diner door slammed open with a jangle of bells and a rush of late-afternoon air.

Charlie flinched before she saw them—Valentino, striding in like he owned the place, flanked by Velvette, who was already mid-laugh, and a few of their entourage. Vaggie stiffened the moment they entered. Charlie saw the way her hand curled into a fist on the edge of the table.

Valentino spotted them immediately. "Well, well, well," he drawled, loud enough for every booth to hear. "Look who decided to slum it today."

Velvette giggled. "Aw, this place is so cute and retro. It's like a trashy little time capsule."

They closed in fast. Charlie's stomach twisted again, but for a very different reason now.

"Hey, Vaggie," Valentino said, sliding an arm casually across the back of her seat like he belonged there. "Didn't expect to find you hanging out with—what's the word? Oh, right. Dead weight."

"Get lost, Valentino," Vaggie said flatly. "Take your circus with you."

Velvette leaned in from the other side, eyes flicking to Charlie with a sneer. "Seriously though, what are you doing here with her? You lose a bet or something?"

"Back. Off." Vaggie's voice dropped a notch, cold and sharp. "I'm not in the mood."

"Aww, don't be like that, babe," Valentino said with a mock pout. "We're just concerned. Hanging out with the weird little charity case? Not really your brand."

Charlie stared at the tabletop, heart pounding. She knew she should say something—but she felt frozen, like if she opened her mouth, everything might come spilling out. Her powers.

"Do you want me to ram you in the balls again?!," Vaggie snapped.

That should've been enough.

But it wasn't. From a nearby booth, Angel Dust stood up. He'd been trying to mind his own business, headphones around his neck, but he'd heard enough.

"Yo, that's enough, Val," he said, stepping forward. "Why don't you go find someone who actually wants to hear your voice, huh?"

Valentino's smile disappeared like someone had flipped a switch. He turned, slow and dangerous, like a snake tracking prey.

"You talkin' to me, Angel?"

Angel didn't back down. "Damn right I am."

Charlie stood now too. Her instincts were screaming. Magic prickled at her fingertips.

"Don't," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Vaggie stepped between Angel and Valentino, arms out. "This is over. You made your point. Now go!"

But Valentino shoved past her, and everything snapped tight.

He yanked Angel by the collar and slammed him into a table with enough force to send glasses skittering and shattering across the linoleum. The diner erupted—metal clattered, voices cut off in a single, horrified intake of breath.

"Stop it!" Vaggie screamed.

Valentino didn't stop. Angel swung back, flailing, but the man was a wall of muscle and entitlement; a fist connected with Angel's cheek, then another. Blood and rage looked for a place to land.

"Valentino—stop!" Vaggie launched herself at him, hands raking his hair, smacking the side of his head.

He snarled, shook her off with a brutal twist, and Vaggie hit the floor hard, a chair toppled beneath her as she rolled.

Charlie's heart thundered in her chest. She could feel it now—the pull. The tide rising in her veins. A hot, electric current of magic building at the tips of her fingers, begging to be released.

The fork left the table like a tiny, silver arrow.

It spun through the air with a clean little tinny whistle and slammed into Valentino's cheek. He stumbled as if winded, eyes going wide with shock and indignation. Every head in the diner turned. The fork clattered to the linoleum. For a beat there was nothing but the scrape of a chair, the low hum of conversation, the distant hiss of the coffee machine.

Valentino whirled toward Charlie, jaw working. His face was a mask of insult—how dare she—and fury. "You little—" he lunged.

Charlie backed away before she even knew she was moving, breath coming hot and shallow. Her knees knocked the edge of the booth; her foot caught; she fell, palms slapping the vinyl. For a split second the world narrowed to the leather at her back and Valentino's boots advancing like black thunder.

He reached for her.

Something cold and iron-clanged closed over his wrist. A hand—firm, impossibly strong—grabbed and twisted.

Valentino's shout was raw, cut off by a sharp, sickening sound: a snap that vibrated the air. He tried to wrench free but whatever held him held like a vice. He staggered, face contorted, the color draining from his features.

Then the lights in the diner dimmed for a heartbeat, as if a switch had been flicked. The radio behind the counter crackled to life with a dozen overlapping static-laced announcer voices, high and cheery and a hair away from madness. From that buzzing dark a figure stepped forward, grin impossibly wide and red suit crisp as ever. The Radio Demon.

He looked like he'd been plucked from a nightmare and dressed in showbiz—antlers, teeth, and an air of old-timey broadcast charm. In his hands were tools that gleamed; spanners and pliers and a ratchet with a face that seemed to grin too. He moved with the theatrical deliberation of a stage magician revealing his final trick.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he chirped, voice layered with static, "it seems you all need an extreme attitude adjustment."

Valentino found his voice back long enough to bark, "Who the hell—?"

The demon didn't answer. He didn't need to. He set to work with the same meticulous, gleeful focus of someone restoring an antique radio. He looped the ratchet around Valentino's fingers, twisted, clicked the wrench against the knuckle of a thumb. Each motion was precise, practiced—not merely to break, but to humiliate, to recalibrate. Bones popped and the diner's collective breath went cold at the noises: a series of sharp, clinical cracks that were terrible and final without being gore-soaked. Valentino howled, a crunching, indignant sound, and dropped to one knee.

He didn't yank or rip. He adjusted, tightened, turned. Where Valentino had been imposing and smug only moments before, he now sat slumped, wrist grotesquely cocked at an unnatural angle, his hand wrapped in a twisted maze of metal like a cartoon prop gone wrong. The Radio Demon gave a satisfied little whistle, as though he'd tuned the man to the proper frequency.

Around him, patrons stared, frozen between horror and the kind of spellbound awe people reserve for fireworks and miracles. Vaggie's hand went under the table, desperately looking for something to use with as a weapon. Angel Dust had gone from open-mouthed to rapt; his usual flippancy had been ground into stone.  Even Valentino's cronies had shrunk back against the booth, suddenly very small. Then, like a pack of gutless jackals, the sadistic bullies scattered—tails tucked, pride forgotten.

Alastor turned with a flourish as if concluding a performance and offered Charlie his free hand; it was unexpectedly gentle. He helped her up without so much as a smudge of menace on his smile.

"You do lead the most inconveniently dramatic life, my dear," he said, his voice crackling with vintage charm, like a broadcast from a bygone era. "But then, I suppose that's simply the price of being so devastatingly lovely."

Charlie blinked, still catching her breath. "I... I... Who are you?"

He gave a mock gasp, placing a hand to his chest. "Ah! How rude of me. Where are my manners?" He gave a low, theatrical bow. "You may call me the Radio Demon."

He bowed just enough to be ridiculous and very deliberate. Then he took her hand between two manicured fingers and pressed his lips to it. The kiss was cool and polite and edged with static.

"Enchanté, ma belle," he crooned, eyes flashing like studio lights.

Charlie's heart stuttered, part terror and part something like dizziness.

"What the hell just happened?" Vaggie whispered to Angel, her voice sharp and hushed, like a knife behind velvet.

Angel, still blinking, slowly shook his head. Then his eyes went wide.

"Wait a minute... I know this guy!"

Vaggie snapped toward him. "You do?"

The Radio Demon's antlers twitched slightly, the first crack in his otherwise theatrical poise. Just a flicker—but it was there. Like a radio catching static from a station it hadn't meant to tune in to.

Angel kept staring. "Yeah. He was in the news this morning. He's the one who wrecked that gang last night! The Crimson Set. Left 'em scattered across the bar like a junk pile. Oh God, do you think he beats up queers?"

The Radio Delon chuckled at Angel's comment. Then he
tipped an imaginary hat. "Well my work here is done. I'll be off—unless, of course, you'd prefer I stay and cause a bit more chaos."

"No," Vaggie said quickly, standing and putting herself subtly between Charlie and him. "You've done enough."

He chuckled again—like the pop of a phonograph needle—and backed away toward the door.

"Very well," he said with a bow. "Call me anytime, ma belle. Just tune in." He winked. "I'm always listening."

Then, with a flick of his wrist and a static hum, he vanished like a signal fading into white noise. The diner was quiet.

"What a dreadful man," Vaggie muttered, still eyeing the Radio Demon with open suspicion.

"He is creepy," Angel said, rubbing his jaw where the bruises were starting to bloom, "but you gotta admit—what he did to Valentino?" He gave a crooked grin. "Awesome."

Angel pressed a hand to his mouth, wincing.

"Shit... I think I lost a tooth. Hope it wasn't the gold one."

Charlie just stood there—stunned, breath shallow, the world still buzzing with leftover static.

She turned to Vaggie and Angel, voice soft and shaken.

"Are you guys okay?"

"We'll live," Angel muttered, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth. "Not the first time I've taken a hit."

Vaggie turned to Charlie, her voice gentler now.
"Are you alright?"

Charlie hesitated, eyes still wide.

"I'm fine," she said softly. "I think..."

"Are you sure? That guy didn't scare you, did he?" Vaggie asked, watching Charlie carefully.

"No," Charlie said slowly. "No, he didn't... at least, not in the way you'd expect."

"Why would he scare her?" Angel said with a raised eyebrow. "He totally saved our asses back there."

"But you didn't know that was his intention. Maybe Valentino just pissed him off and we were lucky enough to get caught in the splash zone."

"Or maybe he's just someone who got tired of shitters stepping on him while the cops sit around picking their teeth."

"Even if that's true, vigilantes don't fix anything. They just shift the chaos around."

"How do you know that?" Angel asked.

"My grandparents were protesters during the Vietnam War," Vaggie said quietly. "It ruined my mother's childhood. She grew up surrounded by rallies—screaming crowds, and fights breaking out between civilians and soldiers. Seriously, if you're going to get involved in that shit then don't have kids."

"I get that," Angel said with a shrug. "My folks were more military types. According to my grandpa, it's my destiny to die honorably in the field—just like every man in my family before me. Not exactly the plan I had in mind, though."

"Wait," Vaggie said, brow furrowed. "If every man before you died in a war, how could your grandpa talk to you?"

"Oh—he didn't die. He was the first in our family to make it back. But he lost both his legs... and, apparently, his sanity."

Vaggie glanced at Charlie again, watching the way her eyes lingered on the door the Radio Demon had disappeared through.

"Hey," Vaggie said gently. "You wanna get out of here for a bit? Take a walk? Just... breathe?"

Charlie blinked and looked at her, like the question had pulled her back from somewhere far away. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then finally nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I'd like that."

They stepped outside into the late afternoon light. The city buzzed around them—cars honking, pigeons flapping from rooftop to rooftop, music leaking from open windows. The concrete still held the heat from earlier, warm and grounding beneath their shoes. They didn't talk for a while. They didn't need to.

Charlie focused on the rhythm of their steps, the brush of wind against her skin, the feel of Vaggie walking beside her like a quiet shield. Every now and then, Vaggie would glance sideways, checking in without saying anything. Charlie appreciated that—how Vaggie didn't try to fill the silence. Just being there was enough.

They passed a bookstore, a tiny record shop, a mural of a serpent coiled around a tower, and then—

Charlie stopped.

A bright yellow flier flapped against a corkboard outside a closed café, pinned by a thumbtack and fluttering like it was waving her down.

MAE-GOETIA THEATER AUDITIONS!
Looking for fresh talent!
Ages 14 and up welcome!
All roles open—no experience necessary!
Come share your voice.
Saturday @ 3PM – 127 Gossamer Lane

Vaggie looked back, noticing she'd stopped.

"What is it?"

Charlie turned toward her, eyes brighter now—still tired, but clearer.

"I think I want to audition," she said. "For the theater."

Vaggie blinked. "Seriously?"

Charlie nodded.

"I think it's just what I need. Something to focus on. Something normal. Or... not normal, exactly, but something that won't get me into trouble.

"I think that sounds like a great idea."

Charlie smiled back—small, but real.

Chapter Text

Being the Radio Demon was a strange, exhilarating experience for Alastor. It was as if fear, insecurity, and doubt had vanished entirely. He moved with absolute certainty—knowing exactly what to say, exactly what to do. For the first time, he had the spine to stand up to Valentino and every other jerk who had ever turned Alastor Le Beau into their personal joke. It felt intoxicating to crush Valentino's hand, to rearrange the bones beneath his skin while watching him writhe like the worm he truly was.

Then, almost on impulse, he flirted with Charlie. He actually flirted with her—kissed her hand, called her "devastatingly lovely" and "ma belle." If the old Alastor Le Beau had even tried, he'd have fumbled over his words and stammered away. Now, he couldn't help but wonder: What did she think of him? Or rather, what did she think of this version of him? Was she charmed? Attracted?

"I scared her."

The voice whispered from the shadows of his mind, and suddenly the Radio Demon's confidence wavered, replaced by creeping doubt. Just like that, he slipped away—and Alastor Le Beau was back.

"Golly," he thought, "maybe I went too far. Valentino definitely deserved it... but maybe I shouldn't have done that in front of Charlie."

He made a personal note never to let her witness him in an act of violence again. She didn't deserve to see things like that. Charlie was a ray of sunshine—something that lit up, warmed, and gave life. At least, that's how she was in his world.

Now that he was back to his old self, Alastor decided to head home before Rosie started worrying too much. Alastor quickly pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and set off down the sidewalk, his shoes clicking softly against the damp cobblestones. But then he stopped.

Something felt... off.

He cocked his head slightly, his ear twitching at a sound too soft for any normal ear to catch. The street was empty, yet his skin prickled with the undeniable sensation of being watched. Not in the casual, passing way of a stranger on the sidewalk. No, this gaze was deliberate. Hungry.

From the alley to his left, the shadows pulsed. There—just at the edge of perception—something shimmered. Not light. Not movement. But presence. A cold wind hissed through the narrow passage. Then he heard it.

"Change back."

The voice slithered from the darkness—just a silky amalgamation of darkness. Yes, it sounded like if darkness could speak.

"Change back."

His hand twitched to his pocket. The bottle. The potion. It was still there, tucked against his shirt. All it would take was one sip. One tiny sip, and the Radio Demon would return—confident, untouchable, thrilling.

He took one step toward the alley.

Then he heard her.

"Alastor?"

Her voice, light as birdsong and just as natural, cut through the lure like a blade.

Alastor froze, breath hitching. Charlie.

He blinked—and the presence retreated like smoke on the wind. The shadows grew still, inert. The bottle's weight in his pocket suddenly felt heavier, more shameful.

Quickly, almost guiltily, he slipped his hand away and smoothed the front of his jacket. He turned to see Charlie jogging up the street toward him, the hem of her pale skirt swaying with each step.

"There you are!" Charlie called, a little out of breath as she caught up to him. "I was just on my way to find you. I wanted to talk to you—and your family—about this."

She showed him the flier about the auditions Rosie, Stolas, and Blitzo would be holding.

"Do you think they'd mind if I joined their show?" she asked, a hopeful spark in her eyes. "I mean... if there's still room?"

Alastor blinked, then let out a rich, amused laugh.

"Mind? Charlie, they'd be thrilled!" he said, pressing the flier back into her hands with a grin. "You do realize nearly everyone in that house adores you, don't you?"

Her cheeks flushed slightly. "Really?"

"Yes. In fact ever since we all met you, none of us can say anything bad about you. Even Loona likes you and she doesn't like anyone."

Charlie smiled wistfully.

"You're so lucky. I always wanted a big family like yours. Uncle Michael is wonderful, but I would've loved to have brothers and sisters."

Alastor shrugged slightly.

"Well, technically, Moxxie, Loona, and Octavia aren't my siblings."

"You might as well be. You've lived in the same house for what—nine years? You've been raised by the same people, cared for like family. Honestly, I'm surprised Rosie, Stolas, and Blitzo didn't adopt you, Moxxie, and Loona after year five."

Alastor chuckled under his breath.

"They talked about it. But... adopting us meant the government would stop sending money. And by then, well—it was pretty clear no one else was going to adopt us anyway. We were all considered... too much. Too broken. So they figured—if no one was trying to take us away, why not just keep things the way they were? An unofficial adoption."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "So... lie to the state for extra cash?"

He grinned. "Not lying—just... omitting the fact that they decided to keep us forever."

Charlie giggled, her eyes bright. "I bet it's never dull at your house."

Alastor laughed. "That's an understatement. Rosie's as conservative as a corset in July. Stolas and Blitzo? Bleeding-heart liberals who argue about everything except musical theater. The girls are deep in their emo phase—permanently, I think. Moxxie and I are full-blown nerds. And all of us are completely, hopelessly obsessed with the arts in one form or another."

"But you're all real with each other. You're open, honest. You can say anything, and even if you argue, there's still love underneath it."

"Well, that's how most families should be—healthy ones, anyway. Isn't it like that with you and your uncle?"

Her smile faltered.

"Not always. I want to be honest with him, I do... but ever since Mom and Dad were... lost, he's been so terrified of something happening to me. Of raising me the wrong way." She looked down. "If I tell him all my problems, I'm afraid he'll think it's his fault."

Alastor frowned gently.

"Charlie... don't tell me you still haven't told him about Velvette and the rest of those she-idiots tormenting you."

She gave a weak laugh. "Well... 'tormenting' might be a bit of a stretch."

"Charlie, this isn't like they made up some dumb rhyme to tease you. They cut your hair. They posted online that you had syphilis. They locked you in a dark closet, knowing damn well you're scared of the dark—and they were planning to leave you there."

"Kids are mean."

"Mean?" Alastor scoffed. "No. That's not 'mean.' That's malicious. That's cruel. That's evil—and trust me, I know evil. I live with it everyday of my life."

"Alastor, I don't think Blitzo in drag qualifies as evil," Charlie said, raising an eyebrow.

"Not that!" Alastor snapped. "And for the record, I never said it was evil—I said it was a plague upon my eyes. I meant the kind of evil that sadistic psychopaths like Valentino and Striker have put me through."

"Speaking of which, did you hear about the guy who attacked Striker and his gang last night? The one calling himself the Radio Demon?"

"Oh, I... I heard something about it this morning."
Alastor's eyes flickered, just for a moment.

"Well, you won't believe what happened earlier today."

Alastor's breath hitched, ever so slightly. But he smiled—calm, polite, like he didn't already know.

"Oh? Do tell."

"I was at the diner with Vaggie when Valentino showed up. Velvette, too. It got ugly—he was picking a fight with Angel, with Vaggie, with me...And then, before anyone could react, he came in."

"He?" Alastor echoed, feigning curiosity with the subtlety of a stage actor. "The Radio Demon?"

"Yes. He just showed up out of nowhere and—crack—snapped Valentino's hand like he was tuning a radio and I think he did something to his bones on the inside."

"Impressive."

"Disturbing, was more like it."

"...Oh. So you didn't like what he did? He didn't impress you at all? Not even a little?"

"I mean... I admired his manners. And his courage, sure. But I wish he hadn't been so brutal about it. There are ways to stop someone without turning it into a spectacle."

"Maybe he thought someone like Valentino deserved to suffer... just a little."

"Maybe. But doesn't that make him just as awful as Valentino?"

"Don't worry, Charlie. I've got a feeling he's not the kind of person who'd let it go that far."

"Angel thinks he's amazing. Vaggie thinks he's completely unhinged," Charlie said.

"And you? What do you think?" he asked.

"I'm not sure yet. It's strange—he scares me, but not in the way you'd think. I'm not afraid he'll hurt me or anything. It's just... I don't know. There's something about him."

"Something... I don't know. Attractive, maybe?"

"I'm sorry—what?"

"Nothing! Forget I said anything! Heh, heh... Listen, why don't we meet up later? I'll fill you in on the audition details—what Rosie, Stolas, and Blitzo are actually looking for in a young actress."

"That would be great. Thank you."

They walked the rest of the way in easy conversation—the kind that filled the silence without demanding too much. It wasn't awkward. It wasn't forced. It just was.

At the door, Charlie turned to him, her expression soft in the glow of the porch light.

"I'll see you later?" she asked.

Alastor tipped his head in a neat, almost theatrical bow. "Yes indeedy."

She smiled, then slipped inside, the door closing with a gentle click. Alastor lingered on the sidewalk, watching the porch light hum for a few more seconds before it flickered off and left the house in stillness.

His smile faltered. Then vanished. He spun on his heel and stormed toward the house next door, muttering like a tea kettle about to blow its lid.

"Attractive," he seethed through gritted teeth. "Attractive?! What in all holy Hell made you think that was a good idea?!"

He slapped a hand to his face and dragged it down in pure, theatrical misery.

"She just said you scare her, you absolute moron! And what do you do? You flirt like a frat boy on a sugar high! A dollar store Casanova!"

Reaching the front steps, he groaned and threw his head back like a silent film star in despair.

"She probably thinks I'm the biggest loser to ever walk the Earth. Hell, I probably am!"

Still muttering curses at himself under his breath, he yanked open the front door and stepped inside. The warm noise of home hit him immediately. Stolas and Blitzo were deep in animated discussion in the living room, tossing out wild ideas for their next show. Moxxie and Loona lounged nearby, tossing in commentary.

"Okay, okay, hear me out!" Stolas was saying, arms flailing with far too much flair for someone wearing a robe covered in glittering crescent moons. "What about Les Misérables."

"I hated that show!" Blitzo snapped, tossing a pillow across the room with a dramatic huff.

Stolas clutched his chest like he'd just been mortally wounded.

"Blitzy! How could you say such a thing?! It's a masterpiece! A tragic tale of redemption and revolution!"

Blitzo rolled his eyes.

"It's three hours of singing French people crying about bread! And every time I think it's over, it's not over! I swear the last guy dies for forty-five minutes! What about Cats?”

Ugh, no!" Stolas gagged like he'd just tasted expired wine. "Don't even joke about that."

Blitzo squinted. "What's wrong with Cats?"

"What's right with it?!" Stolas demanded, with indignation. "It's two and a half hours of felines introducing themselves in rhyme and none of it goes anywhere! It's like watching a cult sacrifice narrative structure to a giant, singing furball!"

"Fiddler on the Roof?" Moxxie ventured.

"We're not Jewish," Blitzo replied flatly.

"Grease?"

"Overrated," Stolas said dismissively.

"Rocky Horror Picture Show?" Loona threw out.

"Loona, we're working with minors this time," Stolas reminded her.

"Oklahoma?" Moxxie tried again.

"Oh God, no!" Blitzo groaned.

"Repo," Loona said.

"Again, minors, Loony," Blitzo shot back. "Do you want us to go to jail?"

"How about Jekyll and Hyde?" Octavia suggested, casting a sidelong glance at Alastor—who shot her a warning glare.

"Too complicated, sweetie," Stolas said with a gentle smile.

"Ooo! Can we please do Phantom of the Opera?" Moxxie pleaded, eyes shining with hope.

"No, that show's been done to death," Stolas replied firmly, crossing his arms.

"But it's a classic," Moxxie insisted, stepping closer. "People love it."

"Yeah, I think it'd be perfect," Blitzo jumped in, grinning. "Drama, music, masks—what's not to love?"

Stolas shook his head. "It's too cliché. We need something fresh."

Blitzo smirked. "It is not. You're just scared of the spotlight being stolen."

"Please," Stolas scoffed. "The only thing getting stolen here is originality."

Moxxie sighed. "Maybe a little cliché isn't so bad. Sometimes classics are classics for a reason."

Blitzo nudged Stolas. "Come on, admit it—you'd love to see me in a mask."

"Blitzo, we won't be in the starring roles this time around," Stolas said firmly, folding his hands. "We're directors. This is for the kids."

Blitzo rolled his eyes but didn't argue. "Yeah, yeah, I get it—no spotlight hogging. Still, it'd be fun to see them pull off a classic."

The arguments ricocheted like tennis balls in a hurricane.

"Too cliché!"

"Too depressing!"

"Too many cats!"

"What are you two drama queens arguing about now?" Rosie entered from the kitchen, drying her hands with a tea towel.

Blitzo perked up instantly. "Rosie! Save us from the royal ego over here—he thinks Phantom of the Opera is cliché."

"It is cliché," Stolas huffed, arms crossed.

"But in a good way," Moxxie added.

"Clichés exist because they work," Rosie replied smartly, plopping down onto the nearest armchair. "Besides, Phantom has drama, romance, music, and masked lunatics. What more could a theater production ask for?"

Stolas opened his mouth to protest, but Rosie cut him off with a raised hand.

"And I happen to know someone who'd be perfect for Christine."

"You do?" Moxxie asked.

"Millie. You remember Millie, don't you, Loona? She's Lin's daughter. My old coworker—when I was still a nurse?"

Loona blinked, then snapped her fingers.

"Oh yeah! Cute girl, short, big voice?"

"That's the one," Rosie said proudly. "She's a phenomenal singer. Trained in classical and country—but she's got the power and range for musical theater. She's studying for agriculture, but I bet she'd love the chance to audition. I'll give Lin a call."

Alastor shrugged with an amused grin and turned toward the stairs, heading up to his room. Octavia trailed after him, arms crossed and eyes sharp. Once they stepped inside, she closed the door behind them.

"So," she said, eyeing him carefully. "You've changed back. That means this whole freaky Radio Demon thing is done... right?"

"For today," Alastor said casually, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

Octavia stared at him, deadpan. "You can't be serious."

He turned to her with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Octavia, will you relax? Nothing went wrong."

"You're doing something that requires lying and sneaking around," Octavia said, folding her arms. "Anything that needs both of those things is automatically wrong. Trust me—I told Dad he couldn't pull off a secret affair, and look how that turned out. My mother tried to sue him for alienation of affection,"

"I thought your mother couldn't stand to be touched by your father, even when they were married?"

"I didn't say she sued him successfully," she replied. "But my dad did spend an entire year in court listening to her scream."

"No offense," Alastor said, "but your parents make no sense to me."

"The point is, I think you're playing with fire. Either tell Rosie and Dad what you're up to, or toss that jug of voodoo in the trash."

Alastor's smile sharpened.

"How about you mind your own business and kindly keep quiet about my little secret... or I'll tell Rosie you used one of her dresses to make little costumes for your taxidermy crow collection."

Octavia narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"She hadn't worn that dress in years!" Octavia shot back. "The color was fading!"

Alastor raised an eyebrow, voice dripping with mock scandal. "But it was silk, darling. Hand-stitched. Imported. I think I actually heard her weep when she couldn't find it."

"Yeah? Well, I wept trying to get bloodstains out of polyester for three hours. We all suffer," Octavia snapped. "Besides, I can just deny whatever you say."

Alastor's grin turned devilish. "Did I mention I found a torn piece of the dress in your room?"

"...That proves nothing."

"Monogrammed."

"...Okay, that proves a little."

He watched her, arms crossed, waiting with the kind of smug patience only an older sibling could master.

Octavia groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Fine! I won't say anything!"

Alastor beamed like he'd just won a Tony. "Splendid. Knew you'd see reason."

"Ugh. You're the worst."

"And yet, so often right."

Chapter Text

The diner was still in Angel Dust's rearview when the buzz of the day finally began to fade. He didn't say goodbye when he clocked out. No one expected him to.

The sky was a deepening bruise, scattered with stars and the lingering glow of city lights. The streets were still humming, neon signs flickering like drunk fireflies, and the steady buzz of late-night life trailed in every direction. Angel made his way to the back lot, past a line of dented dumpsters and the usual halo of cigarette butts. His beat-up sedan waited under a single flickering light, paint dull, tires worn, but reliable in the way a once-junkie learns to love things that stick around.

He reached for his keys.

"Oh Angel," a voice purred behind him, slow and oily, like syrup poured over razors.

Angel froze. That voice hit like a trap snapping shut. He turned.

Mammon stood at the edge of the lot, framed by the blinking streetlamp. His suit was gold—of course it was—satin and shimmering, his tie loose around his neck like a noose he hadn't finished tightening. His grin was diamond-bright, all teeth and appetite. Gold rings shimmered on each knuckle. His eyes glinted, the kind of green that came from acid and envy.

Behind him, two bodyguards stood—matching black coats, matching dead eyes.

Angel stuffed his keys into his jacket pocket. "What do you want?"

Mammon stepped closer, slow and casual, hands in his pockets. "Aw, now that's no way to greet an old friend."

Angel didn't move. "We're not friends."

Mammon raised a brow. "That's not what you said when you were half-naked in my penthouse, talkin' about how Valentino didn't deserve you."

Angel's jaw clenched, his fists too. "That was two years ago."

"And yet..." Mammon stopped just outside arm's reach. "Here I am. Still thinking about you."

Angel scoffed and turned toward his car. "Then maybe you need a hobby."

Mammon didn't stop him—but his voice chased Angel like a scent he couldn't shake. "You know, I saw your sister last week. Molly. Still working at that cute little supermarket."

Angel's hand froze on the car handle. He turned, slower this time. "You stay away from her."

Mammon grinned wider. "I didn't go in. Relax. But I did wonder..." He took a small vial from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers. The contents glittered—liquid gold. "How's sobriety treatin' you?"

Angel didn't answer. His mouth had gone dry.

Mammon stepped forward again, holding the vial up like a prize. "This one's new. Not on the street yet. Sweet like sugar, smooth like velvet. Doesn't punch. It sings. You'd like it."

Angel's eyes flicked to the vial, then away. He stepped back, hand on his car door. "I'm clean."

"Doesn't mean you have to be boring." Mammon twirled the vial once more, then tucked it back into his jacket like a magician hiding a card. "C'mon, Angel. You remember how it felt. The buzz, the high, the clarity. Like flying."

"I also remember what came after." Angel's voice dropped. "Waking up face-down in the gutter. Going two days without eating. I was ready to kill someone for a fix."

Mammon's expression didn't change, but his voice sharpened. "You mean hitting your sister."

Angel flinched.

Two years ago, Angel and Valentino had a secret relationship—built on lust, control, and a shared addiction. It started with late nights and whispered promises, but it quickly spiraled into something darker. Valentino introduced him to crack cocaine, and for months, they fed each other's worst impulses. Together, they went to Mammon—their dealer, their devil—willing to trade anything, even their souls, for the next high.

Angel wasn't chasing a thrill. He was drowning. Depression clung to him like smoke, and the drugs became a crutch, a numbing escape from the weight of feeling worthless and lost. He couldn't find purpose in his life, so he let the haze take over.

His sister Molly found out first. She saw the signs before anyone else did. While their mother, grandfather, and brother remained in the dark, Molly did everything she could to protect him. She covered his debts, paid back the people he'd stolen money from, and kept the truth hidden from the rest of the family. She begged him to get clean. Pleaded. Cried. But Angel wouldn't listen.

Then came the night that changed everything.

The family was out of town. Angel overdosed alone. Molly found him unconscious and barely breathing. At the hospital, while he was still recovering, she made a decision—one born of desperation and love. She flushed every last gram of his stash and gave away all the money he had left.

When Angel came home and discovered what she'd done, he snapped. The withdrawal was already clawing at him, and in his fury, he lashed out. He struck Molly. Just once. But it was enough. She fell and hit her head on the edge of the coffee table.

She only suffered a minor concussion, but that moment shattered him.

Seeing his sister bleeding on the floor—because of him—was the wake-up call he'd been too stubborn to hear. It broke something open inside him. He ended things with Valentino that same week. Checked himself into rehab. Spent the entire summer there, detoxing, rebuilding, facing the ugliness he'd tried so hard to avoid.

And when he left, he made himself a promise:
He would never touch crack again.
Not even once.
Not even a glance.

Angel's fists tightened. He could still hear Molly's scream in his head—that awful, broken sound as she hit the floor—and the silence that followed. That silence had been louder than any overdose, any come-down. It had burned into him.

"I made a promise," Angel said, voice tight. "I don't break those anymore."

Mammon gave a lazy shrug, as if the words meant nothing. "Promises are for people who think they still got time. You and I? We know better." He leaned in, his breath warm and sour against Angel's cheek. "You miss it."

Angel didn't flinch. "Yeah," he said, voice dry. "Like a dog misses the tick on his ass."

Mammon's smile soured just a bit, his gold rings catching the streetlight as he adjusted his cuffs.

"Y'know," he said casually, "Valentino still owes me a chunk of change. Big chunk. And when people don't pay their debts, I start looking for... mutual assets."

Angel narrowed his eyes. "If you're trying to shake me down for Valentino's mess, you can forget it. He's not my boyfriend anymore."

Mammon raised an eyebrow, mock surprise dripping from his voice. "Oh? Could've fooled me. You sure moaned like he was still your man."

Angel stepped forward, anger flaring. "We broke up two years ago. I've been clean since. I want nothing to do with your little operation—him, the drugs, you. So take your glittery threats and shove 'em."

The smile dropped.

Mammon's hand shot out like a whip, grabbing Angel by the collar and slamming him back against the car. The metal thunked hard against Angel's spine, and the keys fell from his hand, clattering to the pavement.

Mammon leaned in close, voice low and venomous.

"Nobody just walks away, Angel. You think you're clean? You think that first hit you took was just a bad decision?" His grip tightened. "Nah. That was a contract. You signed your name on the dotted line the second you let my product into your veins."

Angel's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away.

Mammon's breath was hot and sour, eyes gleaming with something ancient and predatory. "You don't quit me. You just owe me slower."

Angel's heart hammered in his throat, ears ringing, but he didn't flinch. "Let go of me—or I'll call the cops."

Mammon laughed, venom thick in his words. "Go ahead. You really think they'll help a queer little freak like you?"

"If they won't, then my knife will." Angel's fingers closed around the switchblade; the metal was ice-cold. He flicked it open and slashed at Mammon's leg.

Mammon hissed and stumbled back, his golden slacks torn, a thin line of blood beading along his thigh. The bodyguards tensed but didn't move—Mammon held up a hand to stop them, his twisted grin returning like a storm cloud reforming.

Angel stepped between them and his car, switchblade gleaming under the flickering streetlight. His stance was tight, controlled, but every muscle in his body screamed to run. His hand trembled—just slightly—but he held the blade steady.

Mammon looked down at the blood, then back up, eyes glittering. "Well now... there's the fire I remember."

Angel's voice was low. "I'm not scared of you."

"Bullshit." Mammon laughed again, but it didn't reach his eyes this time. "Everyone's scared of me. You're just pretending you're not." He reached into his coat, and for a second Angel's heart stopped—but it wasn't a gun. Just a handkerchief. Mammon pressed it against his wound and hissed softly through his teeth. "You know what your problem is, Angel?"

Angel didn't answer.

"You think because you clawed your way out once, you can stay out. That the weight of everything you did just goes away. But it doesn't. It sits in you. Festers. Makes you itch. And one night, when you're tired, or lonely, or pissed off just enough—" He pointed at the ground, at the glittering keys that still lay where they'd fallen. "—you're gonna pick up that phone. Or knock on a door. Or end up in another diner parking lot, and I'll be there. Smiling."

"I'd rather lie down in the street and let a truck roll over my skull twenty damn times than come crawling back to you."

His voice cracked like a whip.

"Stay the hell away from me—and don't go anywhere near my family, or so help me, I'll go straight to the cops. I'll tell them everything. All of it. Even if it means they lock me up and throw away the key."

Mammon wasn't like Striker. He wasn't reckless enough to just put a bullet in Angel—not yet. He knew better. Knew Angel wasn't scared of cops or prison. When you've survived addiction, a jail cell feels like a nap. Pain stops being a threat when you've already lived inside it. Or at least for survivors like Angel.

So he let Angel walk—for now. But this wasn't mercy. It was a delay. Because in Mammon's world, nobody quits. Not really.

"See you around, Angel," Mammon said, voice like a dagger wrapped in velvet. "Say hi to your sister for me."

Angel stood rooted in place, watching them disappear into the dark—Mammon's golden silhouette swallowed by the flickering shadows of the lot. Rage churned in his gut, hot and bitter. But beneath it, shame twisted like a knife.

It was bad enough that he'd ever been stupid enough to touch the stuff in the first place. Worse still that the addiction had twisted him into someone unrecognizable—someone who could raise a hand to someone who he loved more than his own life. Molly had been his anchor, and he'd nearly dragged her under with him.

Now that he was clean—truly clean—he was supposed to feel better. Stronger. Whole. But instead, standing there in the echo of Mammon's voice, all Angel felt was exposed. Like sobriety had peeled away the numbness but left the scars behind.

Mammon hadn't laid a finger on him this time.

He didn't need to.

And this wasn't the first time Mammon had come sniffing around since Angel got clean. At first, it was just shadows—Mammon lurking at a distance, watching from across the street or slipping into crowds just as Angel looked up. Then came the setups: Valentino inviting him to the same parties, the same clubs, acting like it was all coincidence. And now tonight—a direct approach, bold as ever.

Angel had thought about asking for help. The cops. Husk. Maybe even Alastor or Charlie's uncle, if things got desperate enough.

But Mammon wasn't just some dealer with a bad attitude—he was a monster. A killer with a look sharp enough to cut throats. He'd murdered so many people he'd lost track—and he hadn't drawn the line at men. Women. Children. Hell, even pets. Mammon once burned down a shelter just to send a message. The bastard had booby-trapped his own house, like he was daring the world to come for him.

And that's why Angel hadn't gone to anyone yet. Not out of cowardice. Out of fear that if he made the wrong move...

Mammon wouldn't come for him.

He'd go after Molly. His mom. His brother. His Grandpa.

Anyone Angel loved—anyone he tried to protect—would become a target the second Mammon said so.

Suddenly Angel heard footsteps. Fast. Light. Coming up from behind. He spun, blade still drawn, eyes wide with the kind of wild panic that doesn't think—just reacts.

"Back off, bastard, I swear to God—!"

"Angel!" a sharp voice cut through the night.

It wasn't Mammon.

It was Vaggie.

She skidded to a stop just outside the circle of light cast by the flickering lamp, hands up, expression tight with concern but not fear. In this city, seeing people react like this was considered the norm. Especially late at night.

Angel froze, still shaking, blade gleaming in his fist. His breath came in shallow bursts, lungs dragging in air like a man pulled from drowning. For a second, the night spun. He blinked hard, forcing the rush back.

"...Shit," he breathed, lowering the knife. "Shit."

Vaggie stepped closer, cautiously. "It's me. Just me." She kept her voice low, steady. "Are you okay?"

Angel stared at her a second longer, like he was still trying to make sure she was real. Then he ran a hand through his hair, the switchblade sliding closed with a metallic click.

"Fuck. Vaggie—I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice raw. "Didn't mean to... I thought you were someone else."

Her brows furrowed. "I hope so."

He looked away, ashamed. "What're you doing back here? Walking around alone at night? Are you crazy?"

She exhaled and lifted a hand in a calming gesture. "I left my purse here. Figured I'd come back and grab it. Can you let me in?"

Angel gave a stiff nod. "Yeah. Sure."

He drew in a slow, shaky breath, forcing his heartbeat to settle. The switchblade slipped back into his coat pocket with a quiet clink, and his fingers closed around the keys. He crossed the lot without another word, the pavement cold underfoot, and unlocked the diner's back door.

They stepped inside. The diner was dim and hushed, lit only by the red neon glow bleeding through the front windows. Vaggie moved with quiet purpose, weaving through the rows of booths until she reached the one she'd sat in earlier. Her purse was tucked beneath the table, right where she'd left it.

She scooped it up and turned back toward him. "Thanks," she said, slinging it over her shoulder.

Angel hesitated. "Wait—let me take you home."

She blinked. "No thanks."

"C'mon, it's nearly midnight. You can't just walk around alone at this hour. You know how many lust-crazed deviants are out there, sniffing around for a girl on her own?"

Vaggie raised a brow. "If I can handle Valentino, I can handle some street scum."

Angel shook his head. "Valentino works alone. Street scum run in packs. You'd be better off letting me give you a ride."

She narrowed her eyes, arms crossed. "No offense, but we just met today. I don't get into cars with strangers."

"But Charlie knows me. You trust her judgment, don't you?"

Vaggie didn't respond—just gave him a long, skeptical look.

Angel sighed. "Okay, how about this?"

He reached into his coat, pulled out the switchblade, and without a word, he tossed it to her. She caught it, startled.

"There," he said, voice flat. "If I try anything, you've got full permission to stick that right in my eye."

Vaggie looked down at the weapon, then back at him. Her expression shifted—part amusement, part reluctant approval.

"...Fine," she muttered, tucking the blade into her jacket. "But if you even so much as breathe funny, I'm gutting you."

Angel gave a tired grin. "Fair enough."

They stepped back out into the night, the diner door closing behind them with a soft metallic click.

Chapter Text

Alastor knew Charlie would be thrilled about the decision to stage Phantom of the Opera. She was a hopeless romantic—just like Moxxie, though far less theatrical about it. Her love for romance wasn't rooted in the kind of stories with wind-swept pirates and heaving bodices—those covers alone were enough to make Alastor dry heave—but in the timeless classics. Her bookshelf held worn copies of Wuthering Heights, Rebecca, and Gone with the Wind. But it was Jane Eyre she returned to most often—her favorite. The only one, she once admitted with a sheepish smile, that gave its heroine a truly happy ending. That book had stubbornness, longing, quiet resilience, and ultimately—love that endured. It was no wonder she adored it.

Charlie had asked her uncle to invite Alastor over for dinner that evening, hoping it would give them a quiet moment to talk more about the play. Wanting to offer something in return, Alastor decided to bring her his copy of the novel Phantom of the Opera was based on—a gift from Moxxie, given years ago. At the time, he'd been reluctant to read it, assuming it would be little more than a dull echo of the musical: overwrought, melodramatic, and far too soaked in sentiment. But to his surprise, the book had turned out to be something else entirely—more of a thriller, really. A gothic mystery laced with obsession, crime, and psychological tension. Just his style. He wondered what Charlie would make of it.

"Oh, Alastor, that's wonderful!" Charlie said, her eyes lighting up as he told her about the production.

"Do you think you'll audition for the lead?" he asked.

"I don't think so," she replied, shaking her head with a modest smile. "Christine is such a demanding role—and I don't have much experience. I'd probably be better off going for a smaller part my first time."

"Well," Alastor said, reaching into his coat, "whatever role you go after, this might help you get into character a bit more."

He handed her the book. She read the title on the cover and smiled.

"Thank you, I've always wanted to read the original."

"Want to start now?" Alastor offered, a touch too casually.

She glanced at the clock. "Sure—but it's getting late. Don't you want to head home?"

"I can stay another hour or two," he said, settling back into his chair with a small, easy smile. "Besides, you know I've always enjoyed listening to people read something new—watching their reactions, hearing which parts catch them by surprise."

That's what he told her. And to be fair, there was some truth to it. But the real reason? He just liked the sound of her voice when she read. Warm. Steady. Full of quiet feeling.

"Alright," she said with a soft smile, settling into the chair by her desk. She opened the book with care, fingers brushing gently over the pages as if greeting an old friend.

Alastor took a seat on the edge of her bed, folding his legs beneath him and propping his chin on his fists. His eyes never left her face, giving her his full attention—not to the words, but to the way she spoke them.

"The Opera ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants or the concierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say, of a spectral shade."

As Charlie read, her voice gentle and deliberate, Alastor let out a soft, contented sigh. What was it about a woman's voice that made reading sound so beautiful?

It wasn't just Charlie. His mother's voice had been like that too—warm, careful, full of life even in the quietest words. Rosie's voice had the same softness, the same quiet strength. It wasn't the pitch or the cadence—it was the feeling behind it. The care. The love.

Hearing it again now—here, in this room, wrapped in the low golden light of evening—was like touching something he thought he'd lost a long time ago.

His memories floated in the abyss—scattered, flickering like old film reels. They danced past him, taunting, tempting him to reach out and reclaim them. Connections sparked like frayed wires to his brain, imagery rushing in, vivid and unbidden.

A ray of sunshine—she smelled like flowers and smiled with a face so familiar to his own. And beside her, a wisp of shadow—tall, somber, with dark eyes like his. They looked down at him as he sat in a safe little nest, surrounded by toys.

"Look at how alert he is, Jean," the sunshine said, voice full of wonder. "Look at how he's watching us—how he's smiling. It's like he already knows who we are."

"It's a miracle, really, Adele," the shadow murmured. "The doctors said he probably wouldn't make it... and if he did, he'd likely be delayed. Although, knowing he came from me, that may have happened anyway."

"Oh, nonsense!" she chided, her laughter light as air. She reached down to lift her little one from the cradle, cradling him with reverent care. "He came from our love, Jean. That makes him absolutely perfect."

She loved him—Alastor could feel it even now. He remembered the way her gaze softened when she looked at him, the way her voice warmed when she spoke to him, the way her arms felt like the safest place in the world. There had never been any doubt.

The shadow loved him too. Alastor had always known that. But the shadow—quiet, self-effacing—had never believed he deserved something so pure. So bright. So beloved. Adele would call Alastor a gift from God, and Jean-Baptiste would look away, like he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

"Must you go back to work tonight?" Adele asked gently.

"I'm sorry, Adele... but Mr. Pagan says—"

"That man is completely unreasonable," Adele huffed. "Your job is to sell insurance, for heaven's sake—not do his taxes."

"Adele, if I don't do what he says, he'll fire me."

"Would that be so terrible? You could find another job."

Jean-Baptiste sighed, his voice low. "Where else am I going to find work that'll take someone without a college degree—and still pay enough to cover the rent?"

"I could work," she offered quietly. "I could help."

"And who would watch Alastor?" he asked, gesturing gently toward the cradle. "We can't afford a babysitter. I know it's not fair, darling... but I made you a promise. When we decided to have this baby, I swore he'd have the best of everything. If he gets sick or hurt, I need to make sure he gets proper care. When milk isn't enough anymore, I'll need to buy him the best food. I want his Christmases and birthdays to be special. And in eighteen years, if he wants to go to college—or chase any dream—I want to make sure he has the money to start that life."

"Oh, my sweet Jean..." Adele whispered, placing Alastor gently back into his crib. She pulled the blanket up around him with tender care, then crossed the room to her husband.

She wrapped her arms around him and pressed a kiss to his cheek, her voice soft but certain.

"We'll make it work. Somehow... we always do."

He didn't speak at first. He just held her, burying his face in her shoulder, as if trying to hide the emotion that trembled beneath his quiet exterior. He nodded, once.

They stood there for a moment in silence—the kind that wasn't empty, but full of love, of quiet understanding, of shared burden.

Alastor watched them curiously from his crib, wide eyes blinking up at the two figures bathed in soft lamplight. It wasn't long before he learned their names—not the ones the world used, but the ones meant only for him.

Mama.
Daddy.

As he grew older, awareness slowly bloomed. Patterns revealed themselves.

His mother was always there. There was never a day she wasn't nearby—smiling, talking to him, holding him like he was the most precious thing in her world. Her presence was constant, like sunlight in spring.

His father, by contrast, was a figure of early mornings and late nights. Always tired. Always gone. And when he was home, a quiet sadness clung to him—except when he looked at Adele or Alastor. Only then did something light up behind his eyes, fleeting but real.

Then... the monster came.

That's how Alastor remembered him—as any small child might. Not a man. Not even human, really. Just a loud, lumbering, angry thing. A walking abomination of flesh and rage that reeked of something sour and always barged in.

He would yell at Daddy. Always yelling. Then, with a grotesque shift, he'd speak to Mama in a voice soaked in sickly sweetness—too sugary to be real. And when his eyes finally landed on Alastor, they were full of something that made the boy's stomach twist. Contempt. Disgust. Like Alastor was a crawling, drooling thing he couldn't wait to step over.

Alastor came to learn that the monster had a name, too.

Mr. Pagan.

As the years passed, the monster started coming around more often. He always tried to get Daddy to leave—tried to separate him from Mama—but Jean-Baptiste rarely gave in. He wasn't afraid when it came to his wife or son. Not then. Not when it mattered most. He'd never leave Adele alone with that man if he could help it.

But Alastor noticed something else, too.

Whenever it wasn't about them—when it was just himself—his father would shrink. He'd tremble under the weight of the man's voice, his presence. He'd stutter and hesitate, his shoulders curling inward like he was trying to disappear.

It was only when Adele or Alastor were involved that his courage rose up and took shape.

Once, when Alastor was seven or eight—too young to fully grasp the weight of what was said—his father spoke to him quietly during one of the rare afternoons they spent alone. Adele had gone out to buy groceries, leaving Jean-Baptiste to watch over their son. They sat in the quiet, the air thick with something unspoken, until Jean finally said, "I know I'm a coward."

Alastor looked up at him, confused. His father wasn't looking back—just staring at his hands.

"But sometimes," Jean murmured, "a man has to swallow his pride. Endure humiliation. Make sacrifices for the people he loves."

Alastor hadn't understood then. Not really.
But he never forgot the way his father's voice sounded when he said it.

Like something had cracked open inside him.

He would never forget the day the light that was his mother was snuffed out—and the years of darkness that had always stalked his father finally swallowed him whole.

Alastor had been in his room, curled up in a patch of sunlight by the window, trying to make sense of one of his parents' thick chapter books. He was only just learning to read, sounding out each word slowly, determined to understand.

Then he heard it—shouting.
Muffled, sharp, rising in pitch.

He put the book down and crept out into the hallway. He stopped just before the living room, peeking around the corner.

At the front door stood the monster.
Mr. Pagan. His mother was holding the door half-closed against him, her body rigid with fury. She was blocking him with all her strength, trying to slam it shut as he pushed against it.

"Go away, Mr. Pagan!" she shouted, her voice firm but trembling. "I told you—no!"

But the man didn't move. He stood in the doorway like a slab of rot made flesh, bloated by years of power no one had dared to take from him. His smile was small, cruel. His eyes roamed the inside of the house like a predator casing familiar ground.

"You really gonna keep me out, Adele?" he said with a slur of mock offense. "After everything I've done for your husband?"

"I love my husband! And I'm loyal to him!" Adele shouted, her voice trembling not with fear—but fury.

Mr. Pagan leaned in closer, eyes cold, breath sour with smoke and something fouler. "He doesn't need to know," he murmured, voice oily and low. "He's not even here."

Adele stared him down, the door still halfway open between them.

"That's the difference between you and him," she said through clenched teeth. "He trusts me. And I'd never betray that trust—not for anything. Especially not you."

Mr. Pagan's eyes darkened, his expression tightening into something uglier than before. He reached out—whether to force the door, or to touch her, Alastor never knew.

The next thing Alastor knew, his mother had grabbed him—arms shaking, breath uneven—and was running. He didn't know where they were going. Her grip was tight, the kind of tight that meant danger. Her heart pounded against his little body like a war drum.

She reached the hallway closet, flung open the door, and shoved aside coats and shoes with frantic hands. Then she turned to him—her eyes wide and glassy, not with panic, but with fierce, protective love.

"Alastor," she whispered, crouching down. "Listen to me carefully. You have to stay in here. No matter what you hear. No matter what happens. Do not come out."

His lip trembled. "Mama—"

"Shhh." She cupped his face. Kissed his forehead. One last time. "You're my brave boy. My beautiful boy. Stay quiet. Stay hidden."

And before he could beg her not to go, she shut the door. From the darkness of the closet, Alastor heard everything. The sharp, sudden crash of glass. His mother's scream—high, jagged, full of pain.

Then silence.

Except for the monster's laugh. Low. Guttural. Pleased. And then—footsteps. The creak of the front door opening.

His father's voice.

"You bastard! What did you do?! What did you do, you devil?!"

Alastor couldn't stay hidden. His hands were trembling as he pushed the door open just an inch. Just enough. From the narrow gap, he saw it.

His father, collapsed on the living room floor, cradling his wife—her lifeless body slack in his arms. Her dark hair was splayed out like a fan of ink. Her eyes were closed. He was shaking her. Calling her name like it could bring her back.

"Adele! Adele! ADELE!"

His voice cracked apart with each repetition, until it wasn't a name anymore—just raw grief echoing off the walls.

Alastor couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink. Couldn't move. The light in his world and his father's world was gone. Then Alastor saw it.

His father, still clutching Adele's body, turned—slowly—toward the monster who stood looming in the doorway like rot in a suit. His eyes, once dim with grief, now burned with something else.

Fury. Hopeless, soul-splitting fury.

Then his gaze shifted—to the kitchen. To the knife glinting on the counter. A simple thing. But in that moment, it became something dangerous. Something final.

Alastor's breath caught in his throat.

And then—

"No!" the boy screamed, voice cracking, hands flying to his ears. "Not again! No! I don't want to see this again!"

"Alastor?"

A soft voice broke through the fog.

"Alastor, wake up. Come on... wake up."

The memory shattered like glass underfoot.

He blinked, and the darkness was gone—replaced by the familiar softness and warmth of Charlie's voice. She was leaning over him, eyes wide with concern, her hand brushing gently over his forehead and cheek, grounding him.

"You fell asleep on my bed," she said softly. "I think you were having another nightmare."

Of course he was. He always knew when it happened—the feeling lingered like ash in his lungs. Nightmares weren't as common as they had been when he was younger, but they never left completely. Once a week or once a month. But they always came back. They always found him.

And Charlie... she knew. She always knew. She never asked him what he saw—she didn't have to. It was always the same. Always that night. His mother's scream. His father's fury. The monster. The knife. And she knew, too, what his first thought would be upon waking.

If only he had done something. If only he hadn't been so small. So weak. So useless. If only he could have stopped it. He looked up at her now, swallowing back the tightness in his throat. Her hand never left his cheek.

"I'm here," she whispered. "You're safe."

Without thinking, Alastor reached for her—arms trembling, breath uneven—as if holding her could somehow anchor him to the present, to safety, to the one thing the past could never take from him.

“Let’s get you home,” she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

To her, they were only nightmares. Shadows of pain that time would wash away. She didn’t see them for what they truly were—more coal for the fire smoldering deep within him. A fire that would never go out. One that would, make him rely more on the Radio Demon instead of finding a balance between the two egos.

Chapter Text

Once Alastor had gone—his usual polite farewell delivered with a smile—Charlie stood by the door long after it closed.

She waited. Waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps retreating down the path. Waited until she was sure he wouldn't double back or linger just beyond the gate. Only then did her shoulders fall. Only then did the silence collapse in on itself—and with it, her composure.

Charlie pressed a hand to her chest, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her sweater. Her breathing hitched. It had started weeks ago—small flashes of emotion that weren't hers. An ache behind her ribs when she looked at him. A heat behind her eyes that came from nowhere. Echoes of a sorrow so deep, so old, it seemed etched into the bones of his soul.

And tonight? Tonight it was unbearable. She'd felt it the moment his smile had faded into sleep—the way his features twitched, then twisted, like he was reliving something that never stopped hurting. She hadn't needed to hear the cries, the whispers, the jagged gasps to know it was bad. She'd felt the scream before it ever left his throat.

And when he'd reached for her...

She'd felt it all.

The grief.
The rage.
The guilt.
The helplessness.
The self-loathing.

All of it, pressing in on her like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her.

She had clung to him because she couldn't think of what else to do. She hadn't known how to say it: I see you. I feel what you feel. You're not alone. Because he'd hate that, wouldn't he? He'd feel exposed. Vulnerable. Weak. And Alastor could not stand weakness—especially not in himself.

So instead, she stayed quiet. Played the comforter. Let him think she was the one offering solace—when the truth was, she was breaking apart right alongside him.

Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor with a soft, choked breath, her back to the door, arms wrapped around herself. Tears slipped free—silent, steady. Her jaw clenched as she tried to hold them back, but there was no stopping them now.

She didn't notice the soft creak of footsteps until a pair of her uncle's arms wrapped around her from behind. Warmth. Steadiness. He said nothing at first. Just held her. Let her cry. When the sobs finally quieted into shaky breaths, he spoke. His voice was low, gentle, but certain—like the ringing of a cathedral bell through fog.

"You felt it again, didn't you?" he murmured.

Charlie nodded into his shoulder.

"He's hurting, Uncle Michael." Her voice cracked as she spoke, eyes glistening. "He's hurting so much. I can feel it. And I can't bear it."

Michael's expression was gentle, but firm. "Then don't. Will yourself not to feel it. Block it out, Charlotte."

"I can't." She shook her head. "And I wouldn't even if I could. It's torturous... but I won't ignore it."

"Why not?"

She looked up at him, eyes full of quiet, aching truth.

"Because I love him."

Michael stiffened, his brow furrowing. "Love?" he echoed. "Charlotte... you're only seventeen. I know you care for him but I don't think you fully understand what that kind of love really means yet."

Charlie didn't flinch. Her voice was soft, but steady.

"My father told me he fell in love with my mother when he was fourteen."

"That wasn't love," Michael said, gently shaking his head. "Not at first. Infatuation, maybe. Instant attraction—well of course. Every man who met your mother felt that. Myself included. But love? That took time. It always does."

"I've had time," she replied, her voice trembling now—not with doubt, but with conviction. "I've known Alastor for nine years. I've seen his smile every morning, heard his voice in every hallway. I've watched the way he listens, the way he makes people laugh. I've felt how gentle he can be... even when he's hurting. After knowing all that for nine years, how could I not love him?”

Michael didn’t know how to answer that. He had never been in love—not in the way she meant. His heart had always belonged to God and to the mission of spreading His word. The only loves of his life were God, his brother, and his niece. That kind of love—devoted, steadfast, pure—he understood. He could speak of it with conviction, offer guidance, even comfort.

But romantic love? The kind that stirs between a young man and a young woman? That was a mystery to him.

Sometimes, he wished he had taken a wife—if only so Charlie would have had a maternal figure to turn to for conversations like this. And for other things, too.

Things like bras and menstrual cycles.

Thank God for Rosie, who lived next door. She’d been a godsend during Charlie’s puberty, guiding them both through territory he was utterly unequipped to navigate.

But in moments like this, he truly wished his brother and sister-in-law were still here. They were the only ones who could have taught Charlie about that kind of love—the kind that grows between two people and binds them in ways he could never fully explain.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he told Charlie gently. “Get some sleep—you’ve got school in the morning.”

Then he scooped her up—just like he used to when she was just a little thing—and carried her upstairs to bed. 

Meanwhile, to Vaggie's great relief, Angel turned out to be nothing like that disgusting pig Valentino or those knuckle-dragging jocks she'd known. Oh, he was definitely just as cocky—that much was obvious—He never laid a hand on her or said anything crude—but his eyes did take a little detour to her legs now and then. Angel fit a description her mother used to give: a chivalrous pervert.

The kind of guy who couldn't stop eyeing the ladies (or occasionally the gents), but still treated them like they were actual people.

"That's how your father was when he was young," her mother had once told her with a fond smile. "He was a notorious flirt—couldn't resist a pretty face. But 'no' meant 'no' in his book, and he never chased after women who were already taken. And especially after he met me."

"But didn't you catch him peeking through your window once?" Vaggie had asked, skeptical.

"Catching implies I didn't know he was there," her mother replied smoothly. "Or that I didn't want him to be."

"Mom!" Vaggie had gasped, scandalized.

"Well, I just wanted your father to know he'd hit the jackpot."

"But Mom, you always told me I shouldn't be... well, easy."

"Hija, that's not being easy. You're in high school—when you date, it's just for fun. But your father and I were in college. We were serious, already talking about getting married."

She gave a sly smile.

"That wasn't being easy, sweetheart. That was giving your father a little sneak peek of the joy and bliss that was waiting for him in a lifetime with me."

Vaggie groaned. "Ugh, Mom... that's so gross."

Then, after a beat:

"...But kinda sweet. I guess."

Vaggie didn't date much—at least, not seriously. In fact, she'd only dated two people in her life.

The first was Vortex, from the school band and the wrestling team. He was sweet, good-looking, funny—honestly, the perfect guy for a girl's first relationship. They had fun together, and for a while, it felt like something real might come of it. But over time, they realized they liked each other better as friends. He wanted to be a singer. She was determined to get into law school. Their lives were heading in different directions, and they both knew it. They ended things on good terms and stayed in touch.

Her second was Velvette—and that one was a mistake. A big one. Well, they weren't quite a couple, but they were on the verge. They bonded over shared passions and similar frustrations: dreams of independence, a deep hatred for unjust authority, and ambitious plans for the future. And if Vaggie was being honest with herself, part of it was to rebel against her mom.

Okay... a lot of it was to rebel against her mom.

She thought her mother disapproved because Velvette was a girl. But as it turned out—and Vaggie figured this out eventually—her mom just didn't want her dating psychos.

Which, unfortunately, Velvette absolutely was. A spoiled, manipulative, anarchist bully who took genuine pleasure in hurting people just to feel powerful. What Vaggie had mistaken for passion or edge turned out to be cruelty in disguise.

Ugh. She hated when her mom was right.

"Mind keeping your eyes on the road?" she snapped, catching him sneaking another glance at her legs.

"Hey, can you blame a guy for appreciating beauty?" he said with a grin. "Especially when he's descended from Italian Renaissance artists."

"You're related to a Renaissance artist?" dhe asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well... probably. My mom always said I looked like Michelangelo. Maybe he's my, I dunno, two-thousandth great-grandfather or something."

"Michelangelo never had kids. In fact I'm pretty sure he was gay."

"Okay, okay—so maybe I came from one of his brothers. He had four, right? At least one of them had to be into women long enough to produce offspring."

Vaggie let out a laugh before she could stop herself.

"Aha! So you do know how to smile." he teased.

"Well, it's hard to smile in a city like this," Vaggie muttered. "I don't know how Charlie's friend Alastor does it."

"Me either," Angel said. "Even when he gets his ass kicked, he's still grinning like it's a joke."

"You're friends with him too, right? I think I've seen you hanging around him once or twice."

"Yeah."

"I never asked Charlie—didn't want to upset her—but... does he even have feelings? From what I've seen, it's like he doesn't feel anything. It's weird."

"Don't ask me," Angel shrugged. "I've been trying to crack that code ever since he started tutoring me. Some people have thick skin, but him? I found him beaten half to death on the street the other night, and he didn't shed a single tear. Not in front of me, anyway. Of course I've only recently become friends with him."

"And Charlie? How long have they been friends?"

"Since forever. And I'm willing to bet my grandpa's life insurance that he's been in love with her since day one. Oh, he's never said it, but it's obvious. The guy's always worried about what she thinks of him."

"Really? He's in love with her?"

"Couldn't be more obvious."

"Unless you're Charlie."

"What do you mean?"

"She told me the other day he was handsome, smart, strong... and that there's no way he'd ever go out with her."

Angel rolled his eyes. "Oh, what a crock of shit. I caught him trying to write poetry for her once."

Vaggie blinked. "Seriously? Then why doesn't he just ask her out already?"

"Why doesn't she?"

There was a pause. Then they both said it at the same time:

"Low self-esteem."

Angel leaned back with a sigh. "I swear that's killed more people than war and disease. It's such a stupid problem."

"Yeah, well, considering they've been bully targets since middle school..." Vaggie said quietly. "...Which I've definitely been guilty of," Vaggie admitted.

"Me too."

They both went quiet for a moment.

"You can't really blame them," she said.

Angel nodded. "No. You really can't. Especially with someone like Vox in his life."

"Who's that?"

"Basically Valentino's groupie—and apparently Alastor's so-called best friend." Angel scoffed. "Best friend, my ass. That little weasel's always hanging around him just to boost his own popularity. And every time Alastor starts to feel good about something, Vox kicks him right back down."

Vaggie frowned. "What, like insults?"

"Worse. Constant little digs. Telling him he's wasting his time. That he doesn't have a shot at anything, or anyone. Always acting like he's doing Alastor a favor just by sticking around." Angel shook his head. "He's even worse than Valentino. At least Val doesn't pretend he's anything other than a grade-A bastard."

"Wait a minute," Vaggie said, eyes narrowing. "Does he carry around a video game console and try to play it in class?"

"Yep," Angel replied, nodding with a smirk.

"Eww! Oh God, I do know him! He's that creep who kept trying to sneak into the girls' locker room at every game!"

Angel snorted. "That's the one."

"And then he whines about none of the cheerleaders wanting to date him because he 'doesn't have muscle.' Please. The cheer captain is literally dating the lead champion of the chess club!"

"I want to tell Alastor to ditch him," Angel said, frustration creeping into his voice. "But my grandpa always told me—be careful giving advice about cutting off toxic people. You might end up pushing them straight into their clutches instead."

"Tell me about it," Vaggie muttered, the words hitting closer to home than she liked.

"Vox has been his so-called best friend since middle school. Meanwhile, I've known the guy what—maybe a month?" Angel shrugged. "I doubt he'd listen to me."

"So what can you do?" Vaggie asked.

"I asked my grandpa that," Angel said, leaning back with a sigh. "He told me, 'Wolves can't wear a sheep suit forever.' Sooner or later, it gets too hot hiding under all that wool, and they've gotta take it off—and let everyone see what they really are."

He paused, then added quietly, "He said the best thing I can do is just... be there for him. When it all falls apart."

A quiet beat passed.

"Like he and my family were there for me," Angel whispered to himself. "When it all fell apart for me."

Despite his quiet tone, Vaggie caught every word—and something in his voice made her pause. There was a weight behind it, a flicker of something raw and unfinished. Her thoughts drifted back to that moment, when Angel had gotten spooked and nearly pulled a knife on her.

He'd looked terrified. And he'd thought she was someone else. Someone who scared him. But who?

It wasn't her business. And she sure as hell didn't want it to become hers. In Nine Circle City, you didn't go digging into other people's issues. That's how you ended up bleeding to death in some alley, your clothes ripped off or floating face-down in the harbor with your wallet missing and your eyes still open.

"So, which turn do I take to get to your place?" Angel asked, his voice light, trying to cut through the lingering heaviness.

Vaggie blinked, pulled from her thoughts. "Oh—right. Uh, next left. Then it's the third building on the right."

Angel pulled up in front of her house—a neat little townhouse, surprisingly well-kept for Nine Circle standards.

"Nice digs," Angel said, giving an approving nod. "Better than most houses I've seen around here."

"My mom's a college professor," Vaggie replied as she unlocked the door. "Teaches foreign languages. She's good at yelling at me in five of them."

Angel chuckled. "Multilingual guilt trips—now that's talent. My mom only speaks three languages: English, Italian, and operatic rage."

"What was that last one?" Vaggie blinked.

"It's when your voice gets loud enough to break glass when you're in a rage. Usually when you catch your sons hiding Playboy magazines and porn tapes. It's a miracle my brother and I never went deaf."

"Oh, gross. Why do boys always look at that trash?" Vaggie wrinkled her nose.

"Hey, girls do it too," Angel shot back with a grin. "They're just as dirty-minded—we're just more honest about it."

Vaggie rolled her eyes. "No, you're just louder about it."

"Just wait until you really like someone," Angel teased. "I bet you won't be able to resist sneaking a teeny, tiny peek."

Vaggie snorted. "Right—And brain-sucking aliens built the pyramids."

Angel pulled up to the curb and shifted the car into park.

"Well, here we are," he said.

Vaggie unbuckled her seatbelt, then reached into her jacket and pulled out his switchblade, giving it back to him. Then she opened the door, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

"Thanks for the ride," she added, glancing back at him.

He gave her a lazy salute. "Anytime, babe. Call me if you ever need a chauffeur, a particularly sexy one."

She rolled her eyes but didn't hide the faint smirk tugging at her lips as she shut the door and walked toward her house.

Angel drove off, the low rumble of his engine fading into the distance. Vaggie turned toward the house, reaching for her keys—when she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye.

A man was walking slowly down the sidewalk across the street, his steps deliberate, head turning side to side like he was searching for something. Or someone. He looked desperate—terrified—the way a parent does when their kid hasn't come home and it's hours past dark. In this city, that kind of fear was heartbreakingly common.

She hesitated, then called out, "You okay over there?"

The man stopped and turned toward her. She didn't know him—but Alastor did. It was Ozzie, from Ozzie's Magic Shop.

"I'm looking for someone," the man said, his voice smooth—but something about it made her skin crawl. "A beautiful young lady... who never steps into the light when she moves."

Vaggie narrowed her eyes. Did she hear that right? Someone who never steps into the light when she moves? What the hell did that even mean?

"Yeah... I haven't seen anyone like that," she said slowly. "And I have no idea what you're talking about."

The man smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Then perhaps," he continued, "you know where I might find that peculiar individual known as the Radio Demon?"

Vaggie's expression hardened instantly. "Hell no. If I ever see that horror show again, I'm running the other way. Don't tell me you're friends with him."

"Not exactly," the man said calmly. "We made a small business transaction once. I sold him a certain... product. Unfortunately, it seems that item may have attracted the attention of someone he'd very much prefer to avoid."

The man paused, sniffing the air—subtly, almost like an animal catching a scent.

The trace of the Radio Demon was on her. Faint... barely there. But on the young man she'd been with? It had been strong. His eyes flicked down the road in the direction Angel had driven off. A new decision settled over his expression.

He gave Vaggie a small, courteous nod.

"Beg your pardon," he said softly. "And thank you for your time. Goodnight, Miss."

With that, he turned and walked away—quiet, purposeful, and already fading into the night like he'd never been there at all.

For a moment, Vaggie thought she heard him mutter under his breath:

"You warn them about the side effects. You tell them not to take the potion or cast the spell under certain conditions. You tell them not to do it when they're angry, heartbroken, or can't control what's inside them...Do they ever listen? No. They never do. And then they act surprised when it all goes wrong. Honestly, no wonder the Puritans wanted to burn it all down—too many people playing with spells like they're IKEA furniture. No one reads the damn instructions.”

She wasn't sure if the words were meant for her—or just himself.

Chapter Text

Alastor wanted to learn more about his powers—discover what kind they were and how to wield them. To buy himself the time, he pretended to be sick the next morning, avoiding school. He had never faked illness before, so Rosie didn't suspect a thing. Octavia, however, was more suspicious but kept her thoughts to herself.

With Rosie, Blitzo, and Stolas tied up at the theater all day, busy cleaning and preparing for auditions, Alastor seized the opportunity. As soon as they left, he slipped quietly out of the house and made his way to the cemetery—a perfect place for privacy.

Once he was certain he was alone, Alastor drank the potion again and transformed back into the radio demon.

"Now then, let's see what I can do."

He moved his arms and hands deliberately, inhaled deeply to catch every scent in the air, scanned his surroundings with sharp eyes, and listened intently with keen ears. He spoke and shouted, his voice booming wide and powerful. He lifted rocks and stones with ease, ran swiftly across the ground, then jumped and climbed with graceful agility.

He discovered he could control shadows—merging seamlessly with those clinging to walls and surfaces. His voice could unleash powerful sound waves like a radio transmitter, allowing him to locate anything or anyone by their unique waves. His senses were heightened like a deer's: advanced sight, acute hearing, and a keen sense of smell. He could run as fast as a deer and moved with their same stealth and agility. On top of that, his strength and adrenaline surged beyond natural limits—almost supernatural.

"Incredible!" he exclaimed. "With powers like these, I could be anything! A crime-fighter, a protector of the innocent, a champion of world peace!"

He paused, then snorted.

"Nah. World peace is a crock of shit anyway..."

He grinned, eyes gleaming with manic energy.

"I could take over the world! Conquer nations! Enslave tyrants and turn dictators into sniveling worms!"

Another pause.

"...No, that didn't work out too well for Napoleon. Or the Axis powers..."

He shrugged, relaxing.

"I got it. I'll just use them to make my life a little easier."

He leaned against a nearby tombstone, tapping his clawed fingers thoughtfully along the weathered stone.

"Hmmm... but where do I start?" he mused aloud. "Money, maybe? I could rob a bank—probably without anyone ever knowing it was me."

He paused, considering.

"But then again... crime's hard to maintain. So much hassle. So messy."

But money was definitely the first step. Not just for his sake, but for his foster family. They had to use the government checks they received for food, clothing, and housing for the kids. Rosie, Stolas, and Blitzo couldn't use any of it for themselves, hence another reason why they went into show business. But getting a theater started took a long time and a lot of expenses. Not to mention while Moxxie, Loona, and Octavia had what they needed, the parents never could afford to buy them things they wanted.

Like a guitar like Moxxie always wanted, Or new clothes for Loona—something that might finally help her attract some attention, maybe even make a few friends. Or that brand-new telescope Octavia had been dreaming about since she was five.

And then there was Charlie. She didn't talk much about the things she wanted, but Alastor remembered one moment vividly.

They had been walking down the sidewalk when they passed a jewelry store. In the window, nestled beneath soft lights and velvet lining, was a necklace that caught her eye.

Delicate and poetic—an antique piece crafted in solid 14k gold, adorned with hand-painted enamel flowers: carnations, lilies of the valley, roses, and morning glories, each blossom rendered in soft pastels and kissed with tiny, glinting diamond accents.

Her eyes lit up the moment she saw it. It reminded her of the flower necklaces she used to make with her mother—one flower for each season. He could tell she wanted it, badly. But the price tag? More than a down payment on a car. Still, Alastor could already picture it around her neck—how much more beautiful it would look on her than sitting behind glass. And her smile... it would be worth more than the necklace itself.

But steal it? No. If he stole it, she'd never accept it. Sure, he wouldn't be stupid enough to tell her where it came from—but she'd find out. She'd see the theft reported on the news, connect the dots, and when she did... she'd throw the necklace right back in his face.

The same would go for anything else. If he stole money and used it to buy gifts for the others—for Moxxie, Loona, Octavia—they'd know eventually. And once you steal, you can't really enjoy what you've taken. You just spend all your time looking over your shoulder, waiting to lose it. So what was the point?

No, if he was going to get money, he'd do it legally—the way everyone else was expected to. But that took time. Time he didn't want to waste.

So the question was... how could he shorten it?
The age-old answer: he needed a job.

But not just any job. He didn't have decades to waste grinding away for scraps. He needed real money—the kind doctors and lawyers made. Without, of course, the years of grueling college, soul-crushing debt, and the endless stress of courtrooms or operating tables.

That narrowed the options down to two: pop singers and television stars. He grimaced. Yuck. No way was he getting involved in that business.

But perhaps there was another way.

A different form of entertainment—one the city had long since cast into the shadows. Forgotten. Dismissed. Left to rot beneath the glitter and noise of modern media.

But with his powers? He could bring it back. Drag it out of obscurity and throw it into the spotlight where it belonged. He wouldn't need fame or paparazzi, just a radio station—and an audience.

He slipped quietly back into the house, grabbed his notebook, and began scribbling ideas—notes and lists about everything he'd need to make his plan a reality. What kind of content would draw people in?

News? No, people already got plenty of that from television. Gossip? Too easy. Too unoriginal. And far too likely to attract lawsuits. Music was a must, of course—but not pop. And definitely not rap. But even music alone wouldn't cut it. Not if he wanted to offer something TV couldn't.

But what?

He found himself wishing he could talk to Charlie about it. She always had a creative spark when it came to entertainment—like the stories she made up for their literature class. Those were good. Funny, clever, sometimes sad... but always memorable.

That's when it hit him.

Of course. Audio stories. Something that gave the audience a chance to imagine—to see the story in their own minds, the way they wanted. A kind of theater that didn't need a stage. Just a voice and a signal.

He could hire amateurs to read their stories on the air—after he reviewed and approved them, of course. Standards had to be maintained. He'd host dramatic readings, maybe even serialized tales. Thrillers. Fantasies. Comedies. Horror.

It was perfect. The idea, the format, the possibilities—it all aligned like clockwork in his mind. He could see it already: voices crackling through the static, stories unfolding across the airwaves, listeners leaning in, captivated.

But there was one problem. Money. He needed a lot of it. Enough to secure a building, outfit it with professional-grade equipment, and hire a handful of people who could actually follow instructions without ruining everything.

He sighed, staring down at his notes, tapping his pen against the paper.

"Lord, where am I going to get that kind of money?" he muttered.

Then he felt it again. A presence. Faint, but unmistakable—like eyes watching him from the corners of the room. The shadows around him seemed to stretch, shift, as if whispering to one another behind his back.

He narrowed his eyes.

Curious, he stepped outside, the evening air cool against his skin. The world was quiet—too quiet. The shadows clung to the edges of trees and fences, thicker than they should've been. And for a brief moment, he could've sworn they were... pointing. Toward something.

Beneath a nearby tree, just barely catching a glint of moonlight, lay a small pouch. He approached it cautiously and knelt beside it, picking it up. It was a pouch of five gold coins. Or at least, they looked like gold coins. They were old, heavy, and beautifully minted—but real? He couldn't tell. He turned one over in his hand, uncertain whether to feel thrilled or suspicious.

Where did these come from?
Who left them?
And why?

Questions for later. For now, he slipped them quietly into his coat pocket. Once he reverted to his original form, he'd make a trip into the city—quietly—and have the coins appraised. Just in case... they were exactly what he needed.

The next afternoon, disguised in his original form and with the pouch tucked safely inside his jacket, Alastor made his way into the city.

He chose a quiet, well-reputed appraiser tucked between an antique bookstore and a tailor's shop—far from the loud streets and nosy questions of larger dealers. The man behind the counter was old, with round glasses and a voice like worn paper.

Alastor placed one of the coins on a velvet tray.

The man adjusted his lenses and picked it up with gloved hands, examining the markings, the edges, the weight.

Within seconds, his eyebrows lifted. "Where did you get this?"

Alastor offered a polite smile. "Family heirloom."

The man hummed. "This isn't just gold. It's history. These coins are from the Ottoman Empire—late 17th century, possibly earlier. See the calligraphy? That's Ottoman Turkish. And the design here—this was only minted under the rule of Sultan Mehmed IV."

He paused, visibly impressed. "This coin alone could fetch a small fortune at auction. If the others are like it..." He glanced at the pouch. "You're sitting on something very valuable."

Alastor leaned back slightly, concealing the thrill rising in his chest. Valuable. Just what he needed.

He didn't waste time. He went straight to the nearest antique store, selected five of the most impressive coins, and sold them on the spot.

The shopkeeper's eyes had nearly popped out of his head when he saw them. No questions asked—just a quick, hushed transaction and a sealed envelope thick with cash. Alastor didn't even count it until he was back outside, walking calmly down the street like nothing had happened.

But fate—of course—decided to throw a wrench into the picture.

"Hey Al!"

Alastor froze. He turned his head slowly, already dreading what he'd see—and sure enough, there he was, leaning against a lamppost with that ever-present smirk: Vox.

He was supposed to be in school. Then again, Vox never showed up unless there was an audience to impress or a fight worth filming. He pushed off the lamppost and sauntered over, eyes narrowing behind tinted lenses.

"What's going on?" he demanded. "You haven't called me in days. You just vanished."

Alastor narrowed his eyes. "You mean after I got jumped by Striker's gang because someone couldn't be bothered to give me a ride home?"

Vox scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, come on. You're still mad about that?"

"They tried to kill me," Alastor said, voice flat and cold. "Beat me so bad I ended up in the hospital."

Vox's smirk faltered. For a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe. Or just irritation that the conversation wasn't going his way.

"I would've ended up in the morgue if Angel hadn't found me that night," Alastor said, his voice quiet but cutting.

Vox raised a brow, scoffing. "Angel? What, he saved your ass or something?"

"As a matter of fact—"

"Bullshit," Vox snapped, cutting him off. "Why the hell would he do anything for you? You're a loser in his book. Always have been."

Alastor's jaw tensed, but he didn't look away.

"He probably wants something from you—sexual favors, or maybe you're just a tool to feed his drug habit," Vox sneered.

Alastor's voice stayed steady, cold. "Or maybe he just didn't want me to bleed out on the street."

Vox laughed bitterly. "Don't be stupid, Al. People like him don't give a flying fuck about people like us. Not unless there's something in it for them."

"Maybe he just likes me. Ever thought of that?" Alastor shot back, a hint of defiance in his tone.

"Alastor, nobody likes you. Except me. That's why we're friends. Remember? Now clear your schedule this weekend—because on Saturday, I need you to help me get Valentino to sneak in some liquor again."

A hot pounding began behind Alastor’s eyes.

“Tell him no! You don’t want to do this! He can’t make you!” the voice inside him — the radio demon — cried.

Alastor shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve got plans. My folks are holding auditions, and I promised Moxxie and Charlie I’d be there to support them.”

Vox arched an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“I just told you,” Alastor said, keeping his voice steady despite the hint of impatience.

“You’ll just have to cancel,” Vox said flatly.

“Smash his face in!” the voice urged. “Do to him what you did to Striker and Valentino, the puny bastard!”

“No, I won’t.” Alastor’s tone tightened, firmer now.

Vox tilted his head. “No?”

“No,” Alastor repeated, utterly unyielding. “I’m not canceling. Get that liquor on your own.”

Silence stretched between them. Vox’s smirk twitched but didn’t reach his eyes. He blinked, half-amused, as if the word had never been expected — or heard. He’d never had Alastor say no before. Never once. He’d always assumed Alastor didn’t have the spine for it.

“You telling me no now?” Vox asked.

“Squash him! Squash this vomitous little slug!” the voice shrieked.

Alastor held his ground. “I just did.”

Vox twitched. Nobody said no to him. Or rather—no one he considered beneath him ever dared to. And Alastor? Alastor was supposed to be beneath him. The quiet one. The agreeable one. The one who knew his place. He was saying no.

Vox’s eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Alastor tilted his head with a mock pout.

“Oh dear,” he said, voice syrupy sweet. “Are we getting a little pissy now?”

Vox was speechless. He just stood there, mouth slightly open, eyes tracking Alastor as he turned and walked away—calm, composed, and completely unfazed. No smart remark. No apology. No second glance. For the first time, Vox was the one left behind—watching, uncertain, and for once… not in control.

And Alastor? He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Charlie really didn't want to do this. Activities like these always made her anxious and uncomfortable—probably because she'd never done anything like this before. But Vaggie had insisted. She said that if you wanted things to change for the better, sometimes you had to step outside your comfort zone.

"I used to hate shopping too," Vaggie said. "I thought trying to look pretty was beneath me—something only shallow, whiny girls cared about. Or at least, that's what Velvette always told me. That anything outside of goth, punk, or emo was superficial. That being pretty meant being weak. But honestly? I hated the whole goth-punk-emo thing. It might work for some people, but not for me. And you know what? There's absolutely nothing wrong with being strong, independent, and making big changes—while looking damn good doing it."

Charlie smiled. Give her blonde hair and pink blazer suit, and Vaggie could be just looked like Elle Woods—and that only made Charlie like her more. Legally Blonde was one of her favorite musicals, after all.

Well... maybe Elle Woods crossed with Vivian or Enid. Vaggie wasn't exactly the bubbly, romantic type—she was more reserved, grounded, the kind of person who kept her emotions close to the chest.

"So, I'm curious—what do you plan to do after high school?" Vaggie asked.

"I honestly don't know," Charlie sighed.

"You've never thought about college? A career? Your future?"

Charlie shook her head slightly. "No... I've been focused on other things."

Other things being her powers.

"My parents never went to college. They started out wanting to start a movement — you know, 'stick it to the man,' as people say. They dreamed of being singers, traveling from place to place, using music to spread a message. At first, it was all about anarchy — down with the government, the police, the system. But eventually, their message shifted. They began singing about acceptance, love, faith... healing."

"What made them change?"

"Could've been a lot of things. Maybe it was the rise in violence — school shootings, churches being attacked — or maybe they realized it's harder to make a living singing about rage. But Uncle Michael said it was probably love."

"Love?"

"Yeah. Love for me. For our family. He told me that after my grandfather died, my dad was wrecked — full of guilt, grief, all of it. Then I was born. And the moment he saw me, wrapped in my mother's arms, something changed in him. According to Uncle Michael, it was the first time he'd felt truly happy since losing his dad. He said I was too innocent, too beautiful, too precious to grow up surrounded by hate. So my parents made a choice — to give me a better life. And they did. Even if it only lasted eight years."

"I know your parents are gone... but no one ever really told me what happened. I always assumed it was a car accident or something."

"They died. But how they died... that's a long, complicated story."

"Say no more. I won't ask again."

They passed a bridal shop with prom dresses displayed in the window — elegant, stylish, shimmering under the lights. Each one looked like it belonged to another world. She knew she'd never be able to afford something like that, and she couldn't bring herself to ask her uncle. This was the time of year when the church he worked at collected donations for the children's hospital. Kids were fighting for their lives — some dying of cancer. How could she justify asking for a dress when they needed so much more?

"I've been saving every penny for that dress," Vaggie said, her eyes fixed on the Caribbean blue one in the window.

It shimmered in the shop window like sunlight dancing on ocean water. Its color was vibrant yet soft — a perfect blend of turquoise and sky — catching the light with every subtle fold. The bodice was delicately fitted, adorned with tiny beads that sparkled like stars, arranged in a pattern that looked almost hand-stitched by care, not machine.

"What kind of dress do you think you'll wear?" Vaggie asked, still gazing at the shop window.

"None. I'm not going to prom," Charlie said quietly.

"What? Why not?"

"Because I can't afford a dress, and no one's going to ask me. So... what's the point?"

Vaggie turned to her, frowning. "Charlie, you can't miss prom. It's a rite of passage. And okay, maybe you can't get a dress from a fancy bridal shop—but who says you have to? As long as it's something you love and feel good in, that's all that matters."

Charlie hesitated. "Well... I guess I could try to make my own dress. My great-grandmother used to sew all her clothes, and we still have her sewing stuff. All I'd need to buy is fabric and some materials." She paused, then added softly, "But I don't have any shoes or accessories to go with it."

"I've got you covered," Vaggie said, smiling. "You can borrow some of mine. And I'll help you with your hair and makeup, too."

Charlie laughed weakly. "Yeah, but what about a date? I'd look ridiculous showing up alone."

"I don't have a date either," Vaggie said with a shrug. "So we'll go together."

"And if someone asks you?"

Vaggie smiled without missing a beat. "Then you'll come with us."

"But what if I don't look good? What if everyone laughs at me? What if—"

"Okay, now you're just making excuses." Vaggie crossed her arms, giving Charlie a gentle but serious look. "What's really going on? Why don't you want to go to prom?"

Charlie hesitated, looking away. "I do want to go... I just... I had this idea in my head of how it was supposed to be. I always imagined going with someone who was... special. Because..." Her voice trailed off. "Never mind."

"What?"

"No. You're going to think it's stupid."

"Charlie, I won't. I swear."

Charlie took a breath, her cheeks flushing. "The senior prom... it was the night my parents... you know." She swallowed. "And it was also the night my dad proposed to my mom."

Vaggie's expression softened instantly. "Oh."

"Yeah." Charlie looked down at her hands. "So I guess... part of me thought, maybe if I went to prom with someone I really cared about... it'd feel like I was carrying on something they started. Like... honoring them, in a way. But now it just feels silly."

"Well, if you're expecting a proposal—" Vaggie teased.

"No! No, of course not." Charlie shook her head quickly. "But I do think it should be romantic. Something shared with someone who... maybe doesn't love me, but at least cares about me."

Vaggie gave her a knowing look. "And let me guess... you always imagined that someone being Alastor?"

Charlie's eyes dropped, and she gave a small nod.

"Then why don't you just ask him?"

"Because I might scare him away." Her voice was small, nervous. "I always scare boys away."

"Charlie, that's ridiculous."

"No, it's not." She let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. "I tried dating during freshman year. Every guy I asked out either laughed in my face or—literally—ran away. Screaming."

Vaggie blinked. "Seriously? Screaming?"

"One actually tripped over a trash can trying to get away from me."

Vaggie stared at her for a moment, then threw up her hands. "Dios mío, I've heard of guys not wanting to be chased, but this is ridiculous."

Charlie laughed, genuinely this time. "Tell me about it."

"Speaking of ridiculous," Vaggie said, her tone shifting slightly. "Something weird happened last night."

Charlie looked over. "What kind of weird?"

"There was this guy walking around the neighborhood, asking questions. Said he was looking for two people—a girl and the Radio Demon."

"Why was he looking for them?"

"No idea. He didn't say." Vaggie shrugged. "But the way he described the girl was... strange."

"Strange how?"

"He said she was someone who never steps into the light."

Charlie frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Beats me." Vaggie crossed her arms. "Creepy, right?"

"Did he say who he was?"

"Nope. No name, no reason. Just showed up, asked his questions, and disappeared."

"That is weird. What did he look like?" Charlie asked, her curiosity clearly piqued.

"Big guy," Vaggie said, recalling the details. "Dark-skinned. His hair was this deep blue, with streaks of white and red running through it—like fire and ice. He spoke with an accent, something Middle Eastern maybe... Arabian, Moroccan? I couldn't place it exactly. But the strangest thing were his eyes."

"His eyes?"

"Yeah. Huge, bright green. Not like normal green. They almost looked like they were burning."

Charlie paused. Vaggie had just described exactly what her character Asmodeus looked like. Every detail — from his towering build to the eyes that looked like they were on fire.

But then again... maybe it was just a coincidence. Big guys with dark skin weren't uncommon. Green eyes weren't unheard of either. Even having an accent didn't make him unusual.

But blue hair with white and red streaks?

That wasn't something you saw every day. Not unless someone was trying really hard to stand out — or they had stepped straight out of a dream. Or a story.

Her story.

Charlie felt a cold flutter in her chest, like the world had shifted a few inches sideways.

"You're sure that's what he looked like?" she asked quietly.

"Yep," Vaggie said. "Hard to miss someone who looks like that. I've never seen him before. Have you?"

Charlie opened her mouth, then closed it.

Not outside of my mind, she thought.

Because she hadn't. Asmodeus had lived only in her imagination — in her stories. He was a character. Fiction. A fantasy she created.

Something wasn't right.

"Charlie, are you alright?" Vaggie asked, eyeing her with concern.

Charlie blinked, forcing a small smile. "I'm fine, Vaggie."

Charlie turned back toward the shop window, pretending to admire the dresses again, but her mind was somewhere else entirely.

At some point, while Vaggie was busy flipping through a rack of hair bows and glittery clips, Charlie began to wander. She didn't mean to. It was almost unconscious — like her feet were moving before her mind caught up. One moment she was nodding absentmindedly at something Vaggie said about trying a high ponytail for prom, and the next... she was halfway down the sidewalk.

She paused by the mouth of a narrow alley, something pulling at her attention — something she couldn't explain.

The shadows along the brick walls felt different here. Heavier. Thicker. Not just darkness, but presence.

Her hand rose slowly, fingertips brushing against the cool, rough surface where the shadows clung the deepest. It was instinctual, like something guiding her to reach out. And when she did, a chill ran up her spine.

Someone was there.

Not in the ordinary sense — not footsteps or breath or sound — but a presence. Hidden in the dark. Suffering in it.

She didn't know how she knew. She just did. It was like the shadows themselves were weeping, and she could feel the ache pressing against her skin. Like the grief of someone who had been forgotten. Abandoned.

And yet—so hungry for love.

It wanted so much. To be seen. To be held. To be understood. But underneath that hunger was something darker. Anger. Not wild or chaotic, but cold. Focused. Sharp-edged. Angry that something had been denied to it. Or... maybe not denied. Maybe lost. Or maybe—it was angry at itself.

"Charlie!"

The voice cut through the stillness, sharp with concern. Charlie turned just as Vaggie came rushing toward her, a little out of breath, a clip still in her hand.

"There you are! I turned around and you were just gone! What are you doing over here?"

Charlie blinked, the shadows slipping from her focus like waking from a strange dream. She pulled her hand back from the wall and offered a sheepish smile.

"Sorry... I didn't mean to wander off. I guess I just... got distracted."

Vaggie frowned, glancing at the alley behind her. "Distracted by what? There's nothing here but—" She stopped herself, sighing. "You know what? Never mind. Let's just go home. It's getting late."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah... okay. Home sounds good."

Once Charlie was home, she slipped back into her usual routine. She did her homework at the kitchen table, the ticking clock and hum of the refrigerator filling the quiet spaces. Afterward, she curled up on her bed with the book Alastor had given her.

After a while, her eyes wandered to the small bag Vaggie had given her earlier that afternoon.

She sat up and reached for it, pulling out the few items inside: a compact of soft pink blush, a little palette of neutral-toned eyeshadow, and a deep red lipstick — bold, elegant, and slightly intimidating in its simplicity.

Charlie turned the lipstick over in her hand, studying the smooth, golden tube. It felt foreign, like something from someone else's life. She had never worn lipstick before. Never really thought she could pull it off. Still, curiosity nudged her.

She stood and walked over to her mirror. The reflection that looked back at her was familiar — bare-faced, thoughtful, a little tired. She uncapped the lipstick and twisted the base until the color rose into view.

It looked darker than she expected. Rich, almost wine-red. With careful, hesitant strokes, she applied it—slow and imprecise at first, then correcting, trying again. When she finished, she stepped back just a little.

She tilted her head, lips parted slightly. Were her lips really pretty, like Vaggie had said? Were they... lips someone would want to kiss? Would Alastor want to kiss them?

The thought bloomed in her mind before she could stop it, sending a sudden rush of warmth to her cheeks. She shook her head quickly, flustered, and wiped a smudge from the corner of her mouth.

"Stop it," she whispered to herself, half-laughing, half-horrified. "You're being stupid."

Still blushing, she walked over to her bedroom window and pulled aside the curtain.

Next door, the lights were on in the house where Alastor lived. But the window to his room—the one that usually glowed with lamplight and soft jazz playing low in the background—was dark tonight. He hadn't been at school today. Called in sick, no details. No messages.

Charlie's fingers lightly touched the glass as she leaned forward, peering out with quiet hope.

She wasn't expecting much, maybe a shadow, a flicker of movement, a light turning on. Just something small to prove he was okay. But his window remained still. Silent. Empty. However, just as Charlie was about to pull the curtain closed, she caught a flicker of movement.

There, perched comfortably on the slanted roof of her house, was Octavia. She was sitting cross-legged, silhouetted against the dim glow of her bedroom light, a sketchpad balanced on her knees. Her long hair moved slightly in the breeze. Her father had told her a hundred times not to climb up there. But Octavia always found her way back to the rooftop like it was her own private planet.

"Hi, Charlie!" Octavia called, waving casually from the rooftop like it was the most natural place in the world to be.

Charlie blinked in surprise, then quickly pushed open her window.

"Octavia!" she hissed. "Get down from there before you fall!"

Octavia smirked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Oh, relax. I never fall."

Between their two houses stood a tall, sprawling tree—old and knotted, its thick branches stretching out like lazy arms caught mid-reach. Its trunk was angled just enough to make it climbable, and its branches extended high and wide, reaching toward the rooftops like they were built for mischief.

Charlie's eyes widened as Octavia stood up, balancing with surprising ease on the slanted shingles.

"Wait—Octavia, what are you doing?" she called, alarm creeping into her voice.

"Taking the scenic route," Octavia replied with a wink, already crouching to grab hold of one of the tree's thick limbs.

Like she'd done it a hundred times before, Octavia swung her leg over and began making her way across the branch that extended toward Charlie's house. The leaves rustled gently around her as she moved — nimble, careful, but not cautious. She was comfortable up there, like it was her second home.

Charlie leaned halfway out the window, heart pounding.

"You're insane."

"And yet still perfectly balanced," Octavia said with a smirk, crouching on the branch just outside Charlie's window. "You gonna help me in or what?"

Charlie reached out a hand and helped Octavia climb inside the window. The girl slipped through with practiced ease, landing on the bedroom floor with barely a sound.

"So," Charlie said as she closed the window behind them, "I heard Alastor was sick today."

Octavia rolled her eyes, brushing off a few stray leaves from her hoodie.

"Oh yeah. He's sick, alright."

Charlie blinked. "Is he okay now?"

"Physically? Sure." Octavia flopped onto the edge of Charlie's bed like it was her own. "As we speak, he's downstairs once again arguing with Blitzo about the theories of Dr. Freud. Blitzo thinks Freud was 'onto something,' whatever that means. Alastor thinks he was a total quack."

She paused, then added dryly, "Personally, I vote for the latter."

"And which one was Dr. Freud again?" Charlie asked, brows furrowed.

"The one obsessed with sex," Octavia replied dryly.

Charlie blinked. "Oh. Well that explains why Blitzo took an interest in him."

“Speaking of interest,” Octavia said, turning her head slightly, “I’m kind of curious about something.”

Charlie glanced at her, half-suspicious. “What is it?”

Octavia hesitated for a beat. “Well… hypothetically—if someone asked you to keep a secret, and it wasn’t technically hurting anyone, but you still had a bad feeling about it… would you tell?”

Charlie frowned, thoughtful. “I don’t know. I mean… if it’s not hurting anyone, I don’t see any reason to tell.”

“But what if it still felt wrong to keep it a secret?”

“I don’t understand. What kind of secret could be harmless but still feel—”

And then it hit her. Oh no. Her eyes widened slightly. Oh God. Was Octavia talking about her crush on Alastor? The same secret Octavia had been dying to spill ever since she caught Charlie doodling his name with little hearts in the margins of her notebook?

“Yes!” Charlie blurted, sitting up straighter. “You should absolutely keep that secret! If it’s not harmful, then you have no right to tell!”

Octavia raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because it might not be harmful now, but I feel like down the line—”

“No, Octavia!” Charlie snapped, her face turning bright red. “You don’t tell secrets like that! For any reason!”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Octavia said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “What’s your problem?”

Charlie froze.

Her heart was pounding, too fast, too loud. For a second, she felt the pressure tightening in her chest, not just emotional, but real, like the air itself had shifted.

She could feel it—that subtle, dangerous pull in the atmosphere. The kind that made the lights flicker if she let it go too far. The kind that made the floorboards creak, the air go sharp, the walls hum with a quiet, invisible tension.

Charlie sucked in a breath through her nose, held it, and let it out slow. She did it again. And again. The feeling started to fade. The air steadied. The room stayed still.

“Sorry,” she whispered, finally. “I… I didn’t mean to snap. I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately.”

After a few more minutes of quiet, Octavia stretched and stood, brushing off the front of her jeans.

“Alright,” she said, stifling a yawn, “I should probably head back before my dad realizes I’m not in my room.”

With that, Octavia climbed out the window and onto the tree branch, moving with practiced ease as she crossed back toward her house. All the while, she found herself wondering why everyone in her life was so weird—and once again, she reluctantly chose to keep Alastor’s little secret to herself.

Chapter Text

The next day, Alastor was completely absorbed in his research in the school laboratory, his eyes glued to the shifting shapes beneath the microscope. That is, until something far more unexpected—and far less microscopic—caught his attention.

A girl had entered the room. Her name was Summer. She glanced shyly in his direction. He'd noticed Summer before. Who hadn't? She was either Valentino's ex-girlfriend or his current one—hard to tell, considering how quickly he cycled through them. Like every girl who ever got tangled up with Valentino, she was a knock out, and she knew it.

Alastor had tried, to ask her for the time once or twice after class. But she'd brushed past him like he didn't exist. But now, as if they were old friends, she walked right over.

"Hi, Alastor. What are you doing?" she asked, her voice casual, almost curious.

"I'm studying how nuclei divide," he said.

"Can I see?"

"Sure," he said, sliding the microscope toward her.

Across the room, Charlie—who shared the same science class—looked up from her notes. The moment she spotted Summer, with her flawless supermodel features, that golden tan, and a tank top that revealed far too much cleavage for a school lab, her stomach twisted.

Charlie looked down at her notes, unable to bear the sight of Alastor's eyes drifting over Summer's body—just like every other boy's had.

Summer leaned in over the microscope, close enough for her perfume to wrap around him in a thick, cloud.

"You know," she said, her voice low and sweet, "I really get turned on by brainy guys."

Charlie clenched her pen so hard it nearly snapped. She thought she was going to sick. But if she'd looked up, she would've seen that Alastor was utterly oblivious to Summer's attempt at flirting, blinking at the girl as if she'd just complimented a textbook.

"If you like that," Alastor said, completely earnest, "then you should see how white blood cells destroy a virus. I think I have some pictures in my bag."

He stood and turned to rummage through his backpack, but before he could even unzip it, Summer stepped in and slipped her arms around his shoulders.

His entire body froze.

"I was at Valentino's party last weekend," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear, "and I saw what they did to you. I thought that was just awful."

Alastor gulped. Physical contact wasn't exactly part of his daily routine—especially not this kind.

"O-o-oh?" he stammered, eyes wide. He began inching backward instinctively, like a startled deer.

But Summer followed, keeping the distance between them close, a predatory sort of smile tugging at her lips.

"Yes, you're just too cute to be picked on," Summer purred. "Maybe I should ask Val to leave you alone, hmm?"

Alastor blinked, trying not to short-circuit under the pressure of her closeness.

"Uh... well, I must admit, I wouldn't be opposed to that. It certainly would make things a lot easier for me," he said, doing his best to sound casual—even as his voice cracked slightly at the end.

Across the room, Charlie finally looked up.

The sight stopped her heart cold.

Summer's arms were draped around Alastor like she owned him, leaning into his space like she belonged there. Charlie felt a sharp spark of anger flare inside her chest. She forced herself to snuff it out. She had no right to be mad about some girl liking Alastor.

And yet, the spark burned.

"Listen," Alastor said awkwardly, gently lifting Summer's hands from his torso, "maybe we should talk about this another time? I mean—we are in class, and I don't really think—"

But before he could finish, his heel caught on a chair behind him. His balance tipped, and he went down hard, limbs tangled in cold metal and backpack straps. The chair clattered against the floor with a harsh screech, echoing through the room.

A beat of silence.

Then laughter—loud, shrill, and merciless.

Alastor groaned, twisting to sit up, his cheeks burning. When he looked back, he saw exactly what he feared: a group of students watching from the far lab table, phones out, eyes gleaming.

He'd been set up.

And at the center of it all, laughing the loudest, was Summer.

"Poor Alastor," she said mockingly. "You're such a loser."

The laughter swelled around him. Alastor's chest tightened—not from embarrassment, but from shame. Not even at them. At himself. He should've known. He did know. He just let himself believe otherwise.

No wonder people made a joke out of him. He practically handed them the punchline.

But not everyone was laughing.

Charlie wasn't the victim-blaming type. And as she looked at Alastor, crumpled on the floor, and then at Summer, preening under the spotlight of cruelty, something inside her snapped.

The spark didn't fade. It flared.

"How dare she touch him.
How dare she pretend to like him.
How dare she try to hurt him.
How dare they all laugh.
How dare they all try to hurt him."

The words echoed inside Charlie's head like a war drum, each how dare pounding harder than the last.

Her eyes locked onto the Bunsen burner beside Velvette's workstation. A glass flask balanced above it. On the shelf directly above both was a plastic bottle of glue—one of those industrial ones that oozed forever if the cap wasn't screwed on tight.

Charlie stared at those three items, her vision tunneling.

"Don't do it," whispered a voice in her mind. It sounded like her uncle. Calm. Rational. A warning.

But she kept staring. Letting it build.

"Don't do it."

Her fingers clenched.

"Don't do it."

Her heart pounded in her ears.

"Don't you dare—"

The Bunsen burner flared to life with a sharp whoosh. The glue bottle above it tipped—slow, deliberate, unnatural. Its cap popped off mid-air, landing with a dull thunk, and the thick white adhesive poured straight into the flask below.

The heat from the tiny blue flame licked at the base of the flask. The glue inside sizzled, then boiled—thick and sluggish, like something alive.

It began to bubble.

One large white blister of glue rose to the top—growing, stretching, pulsing with pressure.

Grow and rise.
Grow and rise.
Grow and rise.

Until—

POP.

The bubble burst with a sharp, wet snap. Hot glue exploded into the air, arcing in slow motion like liquid glass. It didn't rain down at random. No—it landed with purpose.

Thin strings of glue flew like threads pulled by invisible hands, landing in the hair of every single person Charlie's anger had touched. Every student who had laughed, pointed, mocked. Summer shrieked as a fat glob dropped into her perfect red-dyed hair.

Her friend Dia slapped at her head. Others jumped up, yelping, trying to shake the sticky strands free. Soon, the room was filled with panicked voices and the unmistakable scent of scorched plastic.

At first, Alastor couldn't help but laugh. It started as a quiet snort—then full, unrestrained laughter. It was glorious. A perfect, poetic splash of comeuppance. But then something tugged at the edge of his mind.

Why... only them?

The glue had splattered outward, right? It should've hit anyone nearby. He had been barely two feet from the burner when it popped. Vortex Robinson and Emily Carlyle had been even closer on the left—yet none of them had a speck of glue on their clothes, their skin, their hair. Not one drop.

Just Summer and her little circle of mockery.

Alastor's brows drew together. His brain, began to analyze. The angle didn't make sense. The distance didn't make sense.

But the pattern did. The glue had only touched the ones who'd laughed. But why?

He then felt someone standing over him. Charlie. She looked down at him, her expression soft, and her smile sweet.

"Are you alright?" she asked, offering him her hand.

"I... I think so," he said, letting her help him up. "Aside from the bruised ego and mild public shaming."

"I'm sorry," Charlie said quietly.

Alastor gave a small shrug, brushing dust off his sleeves. "Don't be. I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't have to be."

He paused, the smallest crease forming between his brows. Then, with a wry half-smile: "I could say the same for you. But this time... it seems someone decided my humiliation shouldn't go unanswered."

Charlie tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

Alastor's gaze drifted back to the scorched Bunsen burner and the overturned glue bottle.

"That glue. It only hit Summer and the others who laughed. Not random. Not even close. Quite odd, wouldn't you say?"

Charlie swallowed. He was suspicious. Not of her—but of something. Alastor wasn't an idiot. In fact, it surprised her that after all these years, he still hadn't figured it out that she had powers. That sometimes, when it mattered most, she used them on him.

Or rather... they had used both of them.

Not deliberately. She'd never lifted him into the air or sent rocks floating in front of him. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious.

But that awful night—locked in the dark closet, abandoned and terrified—she had cried so hard her throat burned. She remembered the feeling, sharp and electric, of wanting him to hear her. And then... he had come. Found her.

Even back then, part of her wondered if she'd somehow reached him. Not physically, but mentally—emotionally. Had her desperation slipped into his mind like a scream in a dream? Had he felt her fear? Heard her crying without knowing how?

And maybe it had happened again, over the years. Whenever he was hurting. Whenever she wanted so badly to understand what was wrong, just to help, just to be there for him. The thoughts would come uninvited. The pull, the ache, the need to know—until she would suddenly feel it. Glimpses. Emotions. Fleeting impressions of his sadness or frustration, just enough to guide her.

It was never on purpose. She would never invade his mind intentionally. Never violate the quiet places of him. But it happened sometimes. Like dreaming. Like slipping sideways through a door she didn't know she'd opened—until it was already too late to turn back.

Many times, she had wondered: What would he say if he knew? Would he be frightened? Would he pull away, quietly, gently—like someone backing out of a room they were never supposed to enter? Would he be disgusted, horrified by the idea that she could hear the things he never meant to say out loud? Or... would he not care at all?

Sometimes, she wanted to tell him. So badly it ached. Because if anyone could understand—really understand—it would be Alastor. The way he could look at something broken and try to understand it, rather than throw it away.

She imagined him listening. Not interrupting. Not judging. Just listening—like he always did when he would listen to her read out loud or tell him one of her stories.

But what if she was wrong? What if the moment she spoke it aloud—I can move things with my mind. I could throw a car across nine yards without even lifting a finger. I can feel your pain. I've felt your thoughts. Not on purpose, but it happens...—what if that was the moment he stopped looking at her the same way? What if he left? The idea of losing him... of watching him choose to step away from her...It was unbearable. And so, she kept the secret.

"That is odd," Charlie said, her voice light—but a little too light. "But I don't think it's all that important. Right now, we should probably get to our next class. And after school, I want to talk to you about something."

"About what?"

"About a new friend I've made."

At first, Alastor didn't like the idea of Charlie being friends with Vaggie. He didn't like it at all. Vaggie had been part of that same clique—those perfectly polished, sharp-tongued girls who traveled in packs and hunted anyone sweet like Charlie. The same group that had locked Charlie into that damn closet and left her there, in the dark, terrified, for hours. And now Charlie was supposed to be friends with one of them?

As far as he was concerned, Vaggie and the rest of those vicious girls deserved to be found lying in a landfill somewhere, forgotten and rotting beneath layers of their own cruelty. He didn't say that to Charlie, of course. But the thought came easily. Too easily.

"Why on earth would you even speak to that girl—let alone be friends with her?" Alastor had said, his voice sharp, nearly incredulous.

Charlie didn't flinch. "She's not like Velvette and the others. She felt awful about what happened to me. She wanted to make it right. Then she got to know me, and... we just clicked. Now we're friends."

Alastor scoffed. "Sure—like Judas was a friend to Christ."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Christ forgave Judas."

"Christ was perfect. I'm not."

"If I can put it behind me, so can you."

He crossed his arms, jaw tight. "I'll do it when she grovels at your feet and begs your forgiveness. Publicly. In Latin."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "Oh, Al!"

"What?" Alastor said, smirking. "A little begging on her knees won't kill her."

"You know how I feel about that, Alastor. People who repent shouldn't suffer more than they already have. And it's not right to want that. What if you were the one who hurt me one day? Even if it was unintentional—would you want me to make you suffer for the rest of your life? To never let you forget that mistake?"

"You wouldn't need to." He looked at her. "Cause I'd punish myself until the day I die. Breaking your heart is unforgivable."

Charlie's breath caught. That was... terrifying.
And yet—somehow—also deeply touching. But he couldn't be serious. Not really. Right?

"I..." she began, her voice unsteady, trying to calm the sudden pounding in her chest. "I wouldn't want you to do that to yourself. I would want only grace for you."

He didn't know what to say to that, and truthfully, neither did she. For a moment, they stood together in silence—not cold, not awkward, just... full.

Then, gently, Charlie pivoted. She began telling him about Vaggie—about her better sides, the things most people didn't bother to see. How she was brave. Honest. Fiercely loyal. How she'd been trying, really trying, to be someone new. Someone better.

From a distance—unseen in the long afternoon light—he watched. Ozzie.

He had finally found the trail he'd been tracking, the one that led him, to the Radio Demon. Or rather at the moment, the boy who had become the Radio Demon due to not heeding his advice.

But what he didn't expect...was her. The girl. The one born from those two reckless teenagers he'd sold a potion to, long ago.  He hadn't meant to touch her life. Not really. He'd only meant to give her parents what they asked for.

Now, here she was. And there he was. Talking together like friends, like something more. And then he heard it—those words spoken between them.

Words that, to others, might have sounded like guilt and grace. But to Ozzie—who knew how to read what lived beneath a person's voice—they meant something else entirely.

Because when Alastor said,
"I'd punish myself until the day I die. Breaking your heart is unforgivable."

What he meant was:
I love you.

And when Charlie said,
"I wouldn't want you to do that to yourself. I would want only grace for you."

She meant:
I love you too.

"The human heart is such a complicated and frustrating thing," Ozzie muttered under his breath. "And the only thing more difficult than a human with power they can't understand... is a human with power they can't understand—and who's in love."

Chapter Text

Whenever Alastor had a moment to himself, he would swallow a drop of the potion, transform into the infamous Radio Demon, and get to work assembling his radio show. It was a lucky thing his demonic form made him look older than his actual seventeen years—no serious investor would trust a teenage boy. At least, not one trustworthy enough not to swindle him blind.

It was Angel who had, quite unintentionally, handed him the perfect idea for an investor. His cousin Cherri had recently married a young college professor—one with a knack for machinery and a taste for all things old-fashioned. A decent man, too. Unluckily, decency didn't count for much in a scandal. He'd lost his job after rejecting a student's advances, and she retaliated by accusing him of rape. The charges never stuck, but as Alastor knew too well, once that kind of rumor gets loose, innocence stops mattering.

At present, Professor Pentious was trying to renovate and rent that old building for extra income. It just so happened the property included a tower—one that could be easily repurposed into a radio tower. Even better, the professor already had much of the equipment Alastor needed, and anything missing, he could build. The man was a genius with wires and gears.

"You want to use my building as a radio station?"
Professor Pentious arched a brow, adjusting his glasses as he stared at the Radio Demon, clearly unsure whether to be intrigued or concerned.

"Precisely," Alastor said with a grin, producing a thick envelope. "And here's the first payment—up front, as a gesture of good faith."

Professor Pentious eyed him with thinly veiled suspicion.

"You expect me to trust you? You put a gang in the hospital and the other day you broke a teenager's arm."

Alastor let out a soft, mirthless chuckle. He didn't bother hiding the smile.

"You speak as if they were innocent," he said. "Honestly, Professor, you and I both know Striker's lot have sent far more people to the infirmary—and the morgue—than I ever have. As for that boy, he was moments away from attacking an innocent girl before I stepped in."

Pentious pressed the bridge of his nose, unconvinced. "I didn't say they were innocent. My point is you're violent and unpredictable. How am I supposed to trust someone like you?"

Alastor's grin widened, but there was no menace in it. "Touché. But ask yourself this: what reason would I have to harm you? You have what I want. I need you. This is a business arrangement, Professor—not a threat."

He paused, letting the words hang between them like a sealed contract. The professor's stare flickered to the envelope on the table, then back to Alastor's unblinking eyes.

"So here's the deal," Alastor said, leaning forward slightly, his smile sharp but inviting. "You rent your building to me and supply the equipment. You help me secure a commercial investor. In return, you'll be paid handsomely—and if my show succeeds, you'll receive half the profits. A fair deal, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose," Professor Pentious muttered, still hesitant. "Do you have any references?"

Alastor's smile didn't waver. "I'm afraid not. You'll have to take a leap of faith, Professor. No references, no background checks—just the money, my word, and the assurance that nothing about this arrangement involves anything illegal." He paused, then added, almost sweetly, "Of course, you're free to refuse. I can always take my business elsewhere."

He stood, adjusting his coat, voice turning smooth and dangerous.

"But allow me to remind you: this building you're so desperate to rent is one stiff breeze away from collapse, and your only consistent tenants at the moment are cockroaches. I'm offering you a second chance, not a scam. Think carefully before you say no."

Professor Pentious reached for the envelope—one thousand dollars tucked inside—and eyed the stack with a mixture of interest and reluctance.

"All right," he said, sliding the bill into his briefcase. "But it's going to take more than equipment and investors to get this off the ground. Look at this place—it needs serious renovation."

Alastor shrugged, unfazed.

"Easily arranged. That thousand is pocket change compared to how much I'm carrying. And don't bother asking where the rest of it came from—just know it wasn't stolen. Now, call the renovators, I'll return tomorrow afternoon at exactly two o'clock for the down payment."

"Wait—how do I contact you?" Pentious asked, standing halfway from his chair.

Alastor paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.

"You don't. I'll come when I see fit."

And with that, he was gone—slipping into a nearby alley just as the edges of his transformation began to fade. The glow in his eyes dimmed, the demonic sharpness of his form softening back into something more human.

He found himself surprised at how naturally it all came to him—negotiating, manipulating, closing the deal. Business, it seemed, was just another kind of performance. He was disturbingly good at it. If he'd ever cared about such things, he might've had a future in politics.

Alastor barely had time to catch his breath as the last flicker of his transformation vanished beneath his skin. His coat was still warm with the echo of demonic energy when a shadow detached itself from the alley wall ahead of him.

"You wear it well," came a smooth, honeyed voice. "The demon suit. Very convincing."

Alastor froze. He knew that voice. He only heard it once but he never forgot it.

"Ozzie," he said, too calm too quickly. "Didn't hear you sneak up. Do you always skulk around in alleys, or is today just special?"

The man stepped forward with an annoyed look, green eyes glinting in the dim light like coins at the bottom of a wishing well.

"You're clever, kid," Ozzie said, circling him with a predator's patience. "Clever enough to make sure no one connects the dots between a mysteriously appearing Radio Demon and a seventeen‑year‑old boy everyone overlooks. But not clever enough to fool me."

Alastor's mouth curved into a stiff, practiced smile. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, please." Ozzie stopped in front of him. "Give me some credit. I brewed that potion. Did you really think I wouldn't recognize my own work?" He tilted his head, almost amused. "Relax. I'm not here to expose you to the police—or blackmail you into letting me exploit your powers."

Alastor's eyes narrowed. "Then what do you want?"

"It's obvious you didn't listen to my warnings."

"What do you mean?"

"I told you not to take that potion unless you had control over your inner self."

"I do have control."

"No," Ozzie said, voice dropping to a quiet, razor‑sharp edge. "You don't. If you did, you wouldn't have created an entirely separate persona. The potion would have enhanced you—not created this 'Radio Demon.'"

Alastor spread his hands. "Alright. So it didn't turn out the way it was supposed to. Things still work for me this way. Hell, I actually like this version of myself."

Ozzie's expression hardened. "You foolish boy. Do you even understand what your inner self becomes without control? It's everything you want, everything you feel—without reason. Without restraint. Do you know how dangerous that is?"

"I can handle it," Alastor said flatly.

Ozzie's laugh was short and humorless. "Right. Like you 'handled' it when you sent that gang to the hospital, when you went after Valentino, and when you attacked a police lieutenant."

"I didn't kill them or permanently damaged them," Alastor shot back.

"No," Ozzie agreed, his tone darkening, "but it's only a matter of time before you do." He stepped closer, voice dropping to a low, deliberate cadence. "You've never controlled your inner self, boy. You've only repressed it. Years of rage, want, and impulse—pressing down, building and building—until that potion gave it shape and set it loose. And at some point that side of you is going to go too far. Cross a line you can't come back from."

"Fine! Then tell me—how do I control it?"

"Oh well...That's the tricky part. There's no clean formula, no spell or ritual. All I know is it starts with honesty—and acceptance."

Alastor frowned. "Acceptance of what?"

"I don't know," Ozzie admitted, his tone softening but not losing its weight. "It's different for everyone. You have to figure it out yourself. Until you do, maybe you should give the potion back to me. I'll give you a full refund."

"No." Alastor's answer was instant, his jaw tight. "I'll keep it."

Ozzie's eyes narrowed. "I strongly advise against that."

"I need it," Alastor said, voice low but steady. "This Radio Demon side of me—it's going to help me make things better. For myself, my family, my friends. I can't give it up. Not yet. Not until I have some security for everyone in my life and maybe..." he hesitated, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "...maybe some small happiness of my own."

Ozzie studied him for a long moment, the shadows of the alley flickering across his face. Then he straightened.

"Very well. I've warned you." His tone was final now, cold. "Whatever happens next, the consequences are on you. So don't you dare come looking for me to blame if you end up losing everything."

Ozzie turned and began walking away, muttering under his breath about stubborn, willfully ignorant young people—especially boys. The comment confused Alastor. Ozzie didn't look a day over thirty. What did he know about youth?

But then Ozzie stopped mid‑stride, as if something had just crossed his mind. Slowly, he glanced back over his shoulder, his expression darker than before.

"One more warning for you," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "If you see a woman lurking in the shadows—or hear her voice whispering to you—ignore her. Whatever you do, don't listen. Don't answer. Don't believe a single word she says."

"Why? What woman?" Alastor called after him, his voice sharper than he intended.

Ozzie slowed but didn't turn back. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you the whole story," he said quietly. "You barely believe me about the potion. But believe me about this. Ignore her—or you'll lose your sanity."

With that, Ozzie vanished into the shadows, leaving only silence and the echo of his warning behind. Alastor slipped a hand into his coat and pulled out the vial, considering Ozzie's words, then scoffed under his breath and tucked it away.

"I don't have time for this." He straightened his shirt. "I need to get to the auditions."

The theater was just a few blocks away—with its crimson curtains and gold-trimmed balconies that had seen better decades. Today, was the big audition for The Phantom of the Opera arranged by Stolas, Blitzo, and Rosie herself—a chaotic trio if there ever was one.

Moxxie was auditioning for the role of Raoul, and from the moment Alastor saw him pacing nervously backstage, he looked like a mouse trapped in a cat's kennel—wide-eyed, twitchy, and seconds away from bolting. He didn't understand why Moxxie was so nervous. The poor guy had rehearsed those lines a thousand times. He knew every word, every cue, every note. There wasn't a single chance he'd tank the audition—unless he let the nerves eat him alive.

"Don't forget to breathe," Alastor reminded his foster brother, placing a steadying hand on Moxxie's shoulder.

Moxxie glanced up, eyes wide. "Where have you been? We haven't seen you all day."

"Angel called," Alastor replied casually. "Begged me to bring him my textbooks. He left his at school—panicking over some exam. Either way, I made it back in time to cheer you on."

Moxxie looked down at the floor, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sheet music.

"I don't know if I can do this."

"You can. You've rehearsed this in your sleep. I've heard you belt out 'All I Ask of You' more times than I've had breakfast this week."

Moxxie didn't respond to him, but the panic in him began to slow. He took a breath, eyes scanning the opening lines.

"Christine, wait—please, just listen—" he read aloud, his voice trembling slightly.

He stepped forward, too focused on the page to notice the uneven floorboard in front of him. His foot caught the edge, and in an instant, he stumbled—arms flailing—before crashing to the ground with an undignified thud.

A few people chuckled in the wings. Someone even snorted. Face burning, Moxxie started to push himself up, but before he could, a gentle voice cut through the noise:

"Are you alright?"

He looked up—and for a moment, the rest of the room blurred.

A girl was kneeling beside him, hand outstretched. She looked about his age, with long raven-black hair that shimmered under the stage lights, skin the warm tone of polished amber, lips the color of cherry wine, and big, soft brown eyes—eyes that reminded him of coneflowers blooming in late summer.

She smiled, kind and calm, her fingers waiting patiently for his.

"Are you okay?" she asked him again, her voice soft with concern.

Moxxie blinked up at her, his mind scrambling to form coherent words.

"I... I... I..." he stammered, his face turning a deeper shade of red with every syllable. "I'm fine! Totally fine. Just, uh... testing the floor for stability!"

A few more quiet laughs echoed from the sidelines, but the girl giggled—not mockingly, but warmly.

"Well, I'd say it passed the test. Kind of."

She took his hand and helped him to his feet with surprising ease.

Moxxie dusted himself off, still trying to get his heart rate under control. "Thanks. I, uh... I didn't see that step."

"Clearly." She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm Millie, by the way. I'm auditioning for Christine."

Moxxie perked up, his nerves still rattling but his curiosity piqued.

"Millie? Oh! Rosie mentioned you'd be auditioning!" He tried to flash a confident smile. "Heh—hello, Millie. I'm nice, it's very Moxxie to meet you. No! Wait!"

His face went red again.

"I mean—it's very nice to meet you. I'm Moxxie. That's—I'm—Moxxie. Nice to meet—uh—yeah."

Millie laughed again, a soft, bright sound that somehow made the embarrassment less painful.

"It's nice to meet you too. What role are you hoping to get?" Millie asked, tilting her head curiously.

Moxxie straightened a little, trying to seem more composed than he felt.

"Raoul," he said. "I've been practicing for weeks. I, uh... really connect with the part."

"The sweet, passionate romantic who sings his heart out?" she teased, a playful glint in her eyes.

"W‑Well... yeah," Moxxie said, rubbing the back of his neck. "That, and the part where he's constantly trying not to die in a theater full of chaos."

Millie laughed again, this time a little closer to him.

"Sounds like we've both got a lot riding on today."

"Have you ever acted in anything before?" Moxxie asked, genuinely curious.

Millie smiled, brushing a wrinkle from her skirt.
"Only in my church's Christmas and Easter pageants," she said. "I usually got a standing ovation... though, to be fair, it was for everyone on stage, not just me."

Moxxie chuckled. "Hey, a standing ovation's a standing ovation. I once played a tree and no one clapped at all."

Millie grinned. "Were you at least a convincing tree?"

"I stayed rooted in place the entire time."

She laughed for a third time, even though the pun wasn't really funny.

The buzzing chatter of the audition room hushed as Stolas swept onto the stage and with the flair of a practiced ringmaster, Stolas raised his arms and announced:

"Alright, darlings! Time for Christine auditions! Warm up those vocal cords, polish those high notes, and remember—passion over perfection! Now then, who's ready to make me cry tears of joy and theatrical ecstasy?"

A few timid hands raised, but one stepped forward confidently. Millie.

"I'll go first, if that's alright," she said, stepping toward the stage.

Stolas clutched his chest dramatically. "A volunteer! How gallant! Come, darling, dazzle me."

Millie offered a quick smile to Moxxie as she passed him. He nodded, still a little pink, and gave a subtle thumbs-up—though his hands were shaking slightly.

She took her place center stage, standing tall under the glare of the stage lights. For a second, everything stilled. Then the soft, familiar opening notes of "Think of Me" began to play. She sang.

"Think of me...
Think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye..."

The room fell completely silent. Her voice was clear, crystalline, but warm—like honey poured into fine glass. The high notes came effortlessly, each one floating up to the balcony like a prayer.

Alastor, who had been watching the audition with polite interest, glanced sideways—and caught Moxxie staring.  His eyes were wide, and his jaw hung slightly ajar, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. He looked like he'd just been struck by a thunderbolt and hadn't decided yet whether it had hurt or healed him.

And Alastor, sharp as always, saw it instantly.

Love at first note.

Chapter Text

After the auditions for Christine, it was the auditions for Erik. Vortex gave the best performance—haunting, raw, and intense. He didn't just play the Phantom, he became him, and for a moment, the entire auditorium forgot they were watching a rehearsal.

Then came the Raoul auditions. Moxxie was shaking the whole time—his knees practically knocking—but he poured his entire heart into every note, every line. When he sang, the vulnerability in his voice brought an unexpected hush over the casting panel. Even the toughest among them scribbled down notes with a slight tremble of awe.

After that came the auditions for the minor roles. Charlie only had to read a few lines and sing a brief melody for her audition as Meg. It was short, but she filled it with such warmth and sincerity that the room seemed to glow a little brighter. Alastor, sitting in the back with arms crossed and a crooked smile, couldn't look away.

She was magnificent. He couldn't comprehend why she didn't try for a major role. Christine would have fit her like a glove—sweet, determined, luminous.

But then again... if Charlie got the role of Christine, that would mean kissing two boys who weren't him. And one of them might be his own foster brother.

Alastor wasn't sure he could take that.

So maybe it was for the best. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that Charlie was hiding something—something behind that modest smile and polite shrug when asked why she didn't aim higher. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she saw the unraveling thread before it was even pulled.

"You were wonderful," Alastor said, greeting her as she stepped off the stage.

"Not really," Charlie replied, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "It wasn't anything big."

"That's not how it looked to me. You're every bit as talented as Moxxie."

She gave a small laugh. "You're sweet, Alastor. Speaking of sweet—and Moxxie—did you see the way he was looking at one of the girls auditioning to be Christine?"

"You mean Millie? Oh yeah. Yes, my little brother finally has his first love." Alastor smirked. "Which means Blitzo owes me twenty bucks. He swore Moxxie was gay, but I was positive he had some attraction to women. He always stares at any girl he sees wearing black."

Charlie laughed. "Maybe he just likes gothic fashion."

"Or maybe he has a type and doesn't know it yet," Alastor said with a shrug. "Either way, I win."

She smiled, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"And yet here you are, still talking to me."

"For now."

"So, you know those stories you like to tell?" Alastor asked, his voice lighter than usual, but laced with intention.

"Yes?" Charlie tilted her head, curious.

"Well, there's this new radio station opening up. Their main segment is storytelling—tales for the audience, real or made up. The host is offering to pay amateurs who come in with something worth airing. I was wondering if... maybe you'd let me share some of your stories with them. Do you mind?"

Charlie blinked, surprised. "You want to use my stories?"

"Yes," Alastor said simply, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I've always liked them."

"Really? I thought you were just being polite the other day. I didn't think you actually liked it."

Alastor chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Charlie, when it comes to entertainment, I don't do polite. If I tell you I like something, it's because I mean it."

She hesitated, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. "It's just... nobody's ever really said that before. Not like you do."

"Oh, well..." Alastor shifted his weight, his usual confidence faltering. "My opinion isn't really that important. Not that I'm not right about what I'm saying! I... I... I just—"

He stopped, glancing at her. For once, his words tangled up before they left his mouth.

Charlie tilted her head, her eyes soft. "You just what?"

Alastor looked away, a faint color rising in his cheeks. "I just... wanted you to know. That's all. You're... talented. Special. And I didn't want you thinking no one noticed."

Her fingers stilled on her sleeve. "Oh."

There was a pause. An awkward, uncertain silence that stretched just a little too long.

Charlie shifted on her feet, glancing down before looking up at Alastor with a hesitant smile. "So, um... prom's coming up in a few months," she said, casually. "I hear they're doing something really special this year. You know, the decorations and the live band and everything..."

Alastor nodded politely, not quite catching on. "Ah, yes. The annual overhyped ritual of stiff suits, bad punch, and teenage desperation. Delightful."

Charlie's smile faltered just a little. "Right... but, um, sometimes people go together. As dates."

Before Alastor could connect the dots, the moment shattered.

"Alastor!"

Vox's voice cut through the air like feedback from a mic. He strolled toward them with that usual arrogant saunter, sunglasses gleaming and smirk dialed up to max.

Alastor's expression soured instantly. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to collect," Vox said, spreading his arms. "You went and played cheerleader for your little theater friends, and now that auditions are over, it's time to do your real job. Helping me get liquor for Valentino's party."

Alastor crossed his arms. "I told you, I'm not doing that."

Vox raised a brow. "Come on. You owe me."

"Since when?"

"Since the day I continued to associate with you even though you're way below my league."

Charlie frowned, stepping forward. "Alastor shouldn't have to do something he doesn't want to. A real friend wouldn't try to pressure him into it."

Vox's smirk twisted as he turned toward her, eyes raking over her with a look that made Charlie's skin crawl.

"Charlie," he said, his voice low and mocking. "I know you secretly want to fuck me. But if you're trying to flirt, you're gonna have to do better than moral arguments."

There was a sharp crack as Alastor's fist slammed into Vox's jaw, clean and violent. The sound echoed off the auditorium walls.

"You bastard!" Alastor growled, fury vibrating in every word. "You apologize to her—this instant."

Vox stumbled back, one hand to his face, stunned. Everyone froze. Conversations died mid-sentence. Chairs creaked as heads turned. Charlie's mouth opened slightly, her heart pounding. She had never seen Alastor angry. Not like this.

Vox recovered slowly, his cocky smirk replaced by wide-eyed disbelief. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I said," Alastor hissed, taking a step forward, "apologize."

Vox hesitated, still clutching his jaw. His pride warred with self-preservation.

"Fine," he muttered finally. "Sorry."

Alastor didn't respond. Didn't blink. Just stared, cold and silent, until Vox backed off and disappeared down the hall.

Alastor then noticed everyone staring at him. Their eyes were wide. Silent. Unblinking.

He had forgotten. He wasn't the Radio Demon right now—right now, he was just Alastor Le Beau—a high school kid with a clean record, a smooth voice, and a reputation for being unshakably calm. A kid who almost never blew his top. A kid who definitely never punched anyone. And now he'd decked Vox in front of half the cast.

He glanced down at his hand, still faintly trembling. The sting in his knuckles was real. So was the heat behind his eyes.

Charlie was still standing beside him, her hand just barely brushing his sleeve. She hadn't moved away. She didn't look scared.

But everyone else did.

Whispers had already started—low and buzzing, like static in his head.

"Did you see that?"

"Alastor lost it."

"He hit Vox."

"Holy crap..."

Stolas, Blitzo, Rosie, and Moxxie were among the ones staring. They were scared—but scared for him.

Rosie had a hand over her mouth. Stolas looked like he wanted to say something but didn't know how. Blitzo—usually quick with a joke—was dead silent, brows furrowed. And Moxxie... Moxxie looked confused.

Alastor couldn't take it. He could already imagine the questions. The concerned tones. Rosie pulling him aside with that "mom voice," asking what was going on. Stolas offering soft advice. Blitzo making it worse with jokes, and Moxxie watching like it all meant something bigger than it did.

It did, of course. But not right now. Right now, he just needed to breathe.

Alastor took a step back. "I'm going to... get some air," he muttered, barely loud enough for Charlie to hear.

Alastor didn't walk—he ran. The auditorium doors slammed open behind him as he tore down the hallway, heart pounding, thoughts crashing into each other like waves in a storm. The building blurred behind him, voices fading, the fluorescent lights overhead streaking as he pushed through the front entrance and out into the open air.

He didn't care where he was going. He just needed out.

Charlie burst through the doors a moment later. "Alastor!"

But he was already halfway across the courtyard, heading toward the street.

"Alastor, wait—!" she called again, chasing after him, but he didn't hear her. Or maybe he didn't want to.

Then it happened. In his blind rush, Alastor stepped off the curb just as a car came speeding around the corner—too fast to stop, too close to swerve.

"ALASTOR!"

Charlie's scream ripped through the air—piercing, terrified. And then—everything stopped. Time seemed to snap like a rubber band. A pulse of invisible energy shot out from Charlie's outstretched hands, fueled by raw instinct and fear.

An unseen force slammed into Alastor, shoving him backward and out of the car's path. He hit the ground hard on the sidewalk, wind knocked from his lungs—but alive.

The car screeched past, the driver honking, yelling something incoherent as they sped off into the distance. Alastor lay there, stunned, chest heaving. Charlie stood in the middle of the street, breathing hard, hands still slightly raised—eyes wide with shock at what she'd just done.

She hadn't even thought. She just... reacted.
Did he see? Did he notice? Did he suspect?No, he wasn't focused on her. He stood up. Fast. Too fast. Then he ran again.

"Alastor! Please wait!" she called.

But he didn't. He darted across the sidewalk, not even glancing back. Moments later, he ducked into a shadowy alleyway between two buildings, the city swallowing him whole. Hidden between the bricks and the trash bins, Alastor reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the potion.

He took a sip.  His back straightened. His grin returned, wide and razor-sharp. His eyes flared with static. His shadow stretched along the alley wall, no longer human. With a low, distorted hum, he snapped his fingers. The air rippled, and in a swoosh of crimson and static, he vanished into the ether—leaving nothing behind but the silence of the alley.

"Alastor! What's—"

Charlie rounded the corner into the alley, heart pounding, panic rising in her throat.

But... he was gone.

Not a footstep. Not a shadow. Just the empty alley. As if he had vanished into thin air.

She blinked, stepping forward cautiously. There were no doors, no windows, no signs of where he could've gone. Just a faint smell of ozone in the air and something else—something vaguely mechanical, like old static. She turned in a slow circle, trying to make sense of it. He couldn't have gotten far... could he?

Charlie hurried back into the theater, she spotted Moxxie near the stage, wringing his hands and glancing around nervously.

"Moxxie!" she called as she approached. "Is Alastor okay? Did he come back?"

Moxxie shook his head quickly. "No, I—I haven't seen him. I was about to go look. Is he hurt?"

"No, he's..." Charlie paused, glancing back toward the exit. "He's gone. Just... disappeared."

Moxxie's eyes widened. "Gone? Just like that?"

She nodded, her arms folded tightly. "I don't understand what happened to him back there. He's not violent."

Moxxie looked down, quiet for a moment. Then he said softly, "Well, speaking as someone who used to live in a violent family..."

He met her eyes.

"You can only push someone so far before they finally snap."

Charlie's breath caught in her throat.

Moxxie continued, "Alastor's always calm. Always polite. But that doesn't mean he doesn't feel things. That doesn't mean people like Vox don't wear him down."

Charlie nodded slowly, his words sinking in.

"He's probably just gone home to cool off," Moxxie said, trying to reassure both Charlie and himself. "Rosie will talk to him tonight and... everything'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Besides, it's not healthy for him to keep everything bottled up. He's been doing that for years—since we were kids. And you know people like that... they're more likely to, well—" he hesitated, lowering his voice, "—stop the clock of life when that's really God's job, if you know what I mean."

"Did you guys ever consider therapy for him?"

Moxxie sighed. "Charlie, you know how he feels about doctors—especially shrinks. Rosie tried to get him to see one, once or twice. But he won't go. He's too afraid they'll declare him legally insane and lock him up... like they did to his dad. Granted his father actually was legally insane."

"You don't think Alastor would ever go that far... do you?"

"Of course not," Moxxie said firmly. "Kids don't always take after their parents. Take me, for example—my old man was a cold-blooded, heartless mafia boss. But when you hear my name, do you think of any of that?"

"Certainly not."

"Exactly. There you go."

Charlie nodded, exhaling softly. "You're right. I'm just being paranoid."

"So what set him off anyway? Alastor doesn't just deck people for no reason."

Charlie looked away, a faint blush rising to her cheeks.

"Well... Vox tried to make Alastor do something he didn't want to. I spoke up, and then... Vox said something crude. About me."

"In that case," Moxxie said firmly, "good on Alastor."

Charlie arched a brow. "I thought you didn't like violence."

"I don't like unnecessary violence," Moxxie clarified. "But defending your honor? That's more than justified. I'd do the same for any young lady."

"Really?" Charlie's eyes sparkled with amusement.

She glanced over his shoulder—just in time to spot Millie approaching from the far end of the stage, nose buried in her audition notes, oblivious to the conversation.

Charlie's smile turned sly.

"And what else would you do for a young lady?" she asked, her tone light, teasing. "Specifically... if you were dating her?"

"Oh, well," Moxxie began with gusto, "I'd open doors for her, pull out her chair, pay for dinner, send flowers, dance with her, serenade her—"

"Would you really?" Millie chimed in, looking up with a grin.

Moxxie's skeleton nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard her voice.

"Millie! Hi!" he blurted, a little too loudly.

She smiled warmly. "Hi! I just wanted to say your performance was awesome."

"Really?" Moxxie blinked, caught off guard but pleased.

"Yes! I'm sure you'll get the part of Raoul. Hey—if you do, and if I get the part of Christine, do you want to start rehearsing together? We could meet up after school."

"Su-sure," he stammered, a faint blush creeping across his face.

Millie glanced at her phone, then tucked it back into her bag.
"I've got about an hour to kill before my dad comes to pick me up," she said casually. "You doing anything?"

Moxxie shook his head. "Nah, just loitering around being awkward. Why?"

She smiled. "Figured I'd see if you wanted to hang out a bit. Maybe talk."

"Yeah! I mean—sure! That sounds nice," he said, trying not to sound too eager.

Millie leaned against the edge of the stage. "So, I know you're super into theater, obviously, but... do you have any other interests? Hobbies? Secret obsessions I should know about?"

Moxxie let out a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Uh... well, theater is kind of my whole personality. But I guess I also like to cook."

"Really?" Her eyebrows lifted, intrigued. "Like...Instant meals, or actual cooking?"

He grinned. "Actual cooking. I make a mean stuffed ravioli. And I bake, too—mostly when I'm stressed."

Millie smiled. "That's adorable. A theater kid who stress-bakes? You might be dangerous."

Moxxie laughed. "Only if you're allergic to cinnamon."

Millie tilted her head, clearly intrigued.

"Do you know how to cook fish?"

Moxxie nodded, a bit of pride sneaking into his smile.

"Yeah! Salmon, trout, tilapia—you name it. I make a pretty decent lemon herb butter sauce. Blitzo goes fishing every few weeks, but the only thing he knows how to make with them is fish sticks."

Millie laughed. "Seriously? I love fishing. Maybe the three of us could go sometime."

Moxxie looked down, hesitating. He wasn't exactly an outdoorsman—and he especially didn't like fishing. Slimy, murky water. Muck wherever you step. Mosquitoes, snakes, and the spiders...Oh, the spiders. Just thinking about them made his skin crawl.

"Actually, I don't—"

He looked up—and froze.

Her eyes were shining like stars.

"...don't mind if I do go fishing," he finished quickly, forcing a smile.

Millie beamed. "Awesome! It'll be fun, I promise."

Moxxie gave a weak chuckle, already picturing himself knee-deep in swamp water and regret.
"Yeah. Fun."

Chapter Text

Alastor was stunned. He had never hit anyone before—at least, not as his normal self. No matter how angry he became, he'd always held back. He lived in fear of what people might think if they ever saw him lose his temper—that he was dangerous, unstable, something to be locked away. That's why he kept all his violence bottled up, saved for when he became the Radio Demon. But today, at the theater, it wasn't the demon who threw the punch. It was Alastor Le Beau.

And he had punched Vox. Vox, of all people. Granted, Vox was the kind of guy who probably needed a good punch every now and then—just enough to knock the smug out of him. But still. Vox had been his friend. Since middle school, no less. That had to count for something.

Or... had it? The more Alastor thought about it, the less sure he became. Had Vox ever really been a friend? He was always getting him into trouble, always slipping in little jabs under the guise of "friendly advice." And today—today, he had insulted Charlie. Charlie, who Vox knew Alastor loved. How dare he speak to her like that. Like she was nothing more than a tramp off the street.

He told himself he should have done worse than punch him. He imagined cutting out Vox's tongue — a permanent quiet so those words about Charlie could never be spoken again. The thought unfurled, and with it came a catalogue of cruelties: ways to make Vox beg, to make him suffer until he finally understood. Sadistic pleasure rose in him like a tide, swelling and relentless.

He needed an outlet for that heat. But what?

Nearby, in the hollow behind the graveyard, small mammals and birds stirred through the leaf litter. He hadn't eaten since morning; the reminder of his empty stomach sharpened something feral inside him.

He licked his lips. Psychologists called the killing of small animals a red flag for psychopathy; however eating them, was just natural order. So he stalked. He pounced. He killed. And he ate. Raw — no cooking, no seasoning. A rabbit. A squirrel. Two pigeons. When he was done, all that remained were tufts of fur, scattered feathers, and tiny bones, picked clean.

It had tasted good — surprisingly good — and filled him up just enough to quiet the sadism boiling in his veins. The hunger was gone. The rage had passed. He felt... satisfied. Satisfied enough to fall asleep beneath the trees.

As Alastor slept, a strange dream took hold of him. He dreamt of darkness—vast, endless—but within it stood a woman. Tall and slender, with hair white as bone and skin as dark as midnight. Great bat-like wings curled around her arms, and her eyes blazed with a brilliant gold. She was terrifying, yet magnificent.

She carried the scent of desire, laced with something colder—fear. She reached for him, and he couldn't tell whether he wanted her touch... or wanted to run.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" he heard her say—her voice like smoke and velvet. "To see those who tormented you brought to their knees. To make them feel, at last, the pain they so freely gave to you."

It did. It felt good—gloriously so. It felt right.

"Creatures of the light," she whispered, "are the cruelest of all.  It's much safer in the dark. Far away from the light... where no one pretends to be kind."

Her hands hovered just centimeters from his face—elegant, inhuman things with fingers too long and joints that bent slightly wrong. The air between them shimmered with heat and something older... something hungry.  Then something jostled him awake, making her vanish.

"Al? Alastor, hey — wake up!"

It was Angel. His voice was panicked, his eyes wide like he'd just stumbled on a corpse.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Alastor blinked groggily. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Angel's voice cracked. "Rosie called me — she said you'd been gone for hours and weren't answering. I've been driving all over looking for you. And then I find you passed out in a graveyard — covered in blood! Are you dying or something?!"

"Blood?" Alastor echoed, confused. "What do you—"

Then he looked down. His hands. His shirt. The corners of his mouth — all stained a deep, vivid red. A side effect, no doubt, from eating like an animal earlier.

Angel recoiled. "Jesus, Alastor..."

"Calm down," Alastor said, sitting up. "It's not my blood."

"Then whose is it?"

"Just some animals I hunted. Late lunch."

Angel stared. "You hunted them with your bare hands?"

"Well, I don't exactly carry a gun like you, so I had to improvise."

Angel's eyes narrowed. "Did you eat them raw?"

"Of course not!" Alastor lied smoothly. "What am I, a Neanderthal?"

Angel pointed, face pale. "Then why's there blood all over your mouth? And on your teeth?"

Alastor flashed a smile. "Because I like my meat bloody."

"I've had bloody meat," Angel said, his voice low, almost wary now. "It never turned my teeth that red. What's going on with you?"

Alastor's expression shifted — colder now. "None of your business."

"No offense, but if I find you lying in a cemetery covered in blood, that is my business," Angel said, hands up. "For all I know, you've got some weird terminal disease that makes you puke blood."

Alastor's eyes narrowed. "Oh drop the act already, will you?"

Angel blinked. "What act?"

"That you actually give a damn about me," Alastor muttered. "You passed all your tests. You don't need me to tutor you anymore. You don't have to pretend to be nice."

"Oh, come on, Smiles," Angel said, his voice softening. "You know I don't roll like that. At least not since I broke up with Valentino. If I like somebody—or hate their guts—I make it clear from the start. And I like you."

Alastor gave a brittle laugh. "Why? None of your friends ever liked me. No one at school likes me. They think I'm a loser, a freak."

"Well apart from the fact that unlike them you have a brain, I like that for all the shit they put through, you never conform. You don't demean yourself to being the V's ass kisser just to get ahead. You're... you. And I admire that. I wish I had more of it."

"Angel, you act like yourself all the time."

Angel gave a small, tired smile. "Yeah... now I do. But I didn't always."

He sat down beside Alastor, lowering his voice.

"In fact, I only just started a few months ago. Before that? I was whoever Valentino needed me to be. Loud when he wanted noise, quiet when he wanted silence. Weak when he wanted to strong. Useless when he wanted to be powerful. I changed my laugh, my voice, even the way I dressed — just to keep him from blowing up. And then just when I thought I couldn't sink any lower, he got into the drugs."

Alastor stiffened. "You're on drugs?"

Suddenly, Angel realized the enormity of his mistake. In a careless moment, he had let slip the one secret he had fought so hard to bury: that he had been a drug addict. A truth he had guarded fiercely, knowing that if it ever came to light, everything he had rebuilt would crumble. Months of recovery, of clawing his way back from the edge, of painstakingly repairing his shattered life—gone, undone in an instant.

Angel shook his head. "No. I'm clean. I've been clean since last summer."

He glanced at Alastor, gauging his reaction.

"You can't tell anyone about this, okay?" Angel said. "If the school ever found out, I could get kicked off the basketball team. If that happens, I lose my shot at a scholarship, and then my only option's the military."

Alastor frowned. "But why keep it a secret anymore? What does it matter if you're clean?"

Angel gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "Alastor, you know how teachers and coaches are. They don't care if you've changed; they want a spotless record or nothing. 'Zero tolerance'—that's what they call it. One mark and you're done."

Alastor couldn't argue with that logic, it was simply too true.

"So swear you won't tell anyone! Swear it to God," Angel insisted, his voice low and urgent.

"I swear to God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit," Alastor declared, "and may I be struck dead and dragged to eternal damnation if I break my word."

Angel exhaled, relief flooding through him. "Okay. Good."

"Does anyone else know about this?"

Angel shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Only my family. And Valentino, but he won't talk. Not unless he wants the cops sniffing around about where I got the stuff in the first place. No one else can know."

Alastor met his eyes, his expression unreadable. Then, with a small, deliberate smile: "My lips are sealed."

Angel exhaled, shoulders sagging a little. "Thanks, Smiles. You don't know what that means."

"Maybe I do," Alastor murmured, glancing down at the blood still dried on his hands.

The sharp wail of a police siren cut through the night air, tearing Alastor and Angel from their uneasy conversation. Both of them snapped their heads toward the direction of the sound, and within moments, the beam of a flashlight bobbed between the trees, followed by the heavy footsteps of someone approaching fast.

"Freeze," a gruff voice called out, commanding but not immediately hostile. A figure emerged from the shadows: Lieutenant Husk Simmons, his face illuminated by the flashlight's glare, eyes narrowing as they took in the scene.

"Oh great!" Alastor thought bitterly, his mind racing. Of course it had to be him. Husk Simmons—the one cop who knew how to see through the cracks, who never took things at face value. The one who'd ask the questions no one else dared.

"What are you two doing out here at this time of night?" Husk asked, his tone carrying the weight of authority, but with an edge of genuine concern.

Alastor instinctively pulled his sleeves down over his bloodstained hands, though it did little to hide the crimson smears. "Just... taking a walk," Alastor said smoothly, voice calm but wary.

"And what happened to you, Mr. Le Beau?" Husk's gaze locked on Alastor's hands and shirt, the blood impossible to miss.

Alastor's smile flickered. "Hunting," he answered cryptically. "Caught some game."

Husk's eyes narrowed. "Hunting, huh? Without a license, and in a graveyard? That's not exactly legal, you know."

Angel stepped forward, trying to lighten the mood. "We didn't mean any trouble, Lieutenant. Just lost track of time."

Husk sighed and shook his head, but there was no malice in his expression. "Look, I don't want to write you up tonight, but you two can't be wandering around here so late. Especially not with blood on you like you've been in a fight. Something you want to tell me, Mr. Le Beau?"

Then he turned his gaze on Angel.

"Or you, Mr. Bernardi?"

"No," both boys said in unison, too quickly.

Husk's jaw ticked. He didn't need a confession to know when something wasn't right — and this whole scene reeked of something buried just below the surface.

Alastor forced a smile, tight and brittle. "Can we please go home now?"

Husk looked at him for a long, tense moment, then finally exhaled through his nose.

"Fine," he said gruffly.

He watched the boys walk away, eyes sharp and unblinking beneath the brim of his cap, not moving a muscle until their shapes vanished into the shadows of the trees. Only once he was sure they were gone did Lieutenant Husk Simmons shift his weight and glance back at the clearing.

Something didn't sit right. So he decided to take a look for himself.

The graveyard was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn't feel peaceful — the kind that felt watched. Husk kept his flashlight low, boots muffled by damp leaves and the soft give of the forest floor. It didn't take him long to find the scene.

The smell hit first — copper and rot, faint but sharp. Then the beam of his flashlight swept over them: four small corpses, lying in the shallow hollow behind the graves. A rabbit. A squirrel. Two pigeons. All torn open and mangled.

He crouched, inspecting them with a practiced eye. They hadn't been killed like prey normally was by a man. No clean snaps to the neck. No evidence of traps, blades, or bullets. The rabbit's ribcage was exposed, split open like a smashed jack-o'-lantern. The squirrel's legs were disjointed, bones shattered. One of the pigeons had been crushed in a single violent blow; the other was missing half its head, as though something had bitten through the skull. These creatures had been slain in the same manner a wolf or lion would kill.

But there were no animal tracks. No paw prints. No signs of a predator stalking through the woods. Just human footprints. Alastor's.

Husk knelt beside the torn bodies, eyes darkening as he took in the brutal mess.

"What kind of man hunts like that?" he muttered to himself, voice low and heavy with disbelief.

Husk hesitated, fingers hovering over his phone. Calling Rosie—Alastor's guardian, or whoever was responsible—felt like the responsible thing to do. She deserved to know what was happening with the kid. Maybe she'd noticed something strange in Alastor's behavior lately. Maybe she'd seen the signs Husk was only just starting to piece together.

But then, logic kicked in.

Killing wild animals wasn't illegal, not if it was done for food. And hunting here, without a gun, wasn't against the law. No laws broken. No easy way to intervene.

He pocketed his phone with a sigh, running a hand over his face. Still, he decided to keep an eye on the boy—and maybe run a few tests. Back at his car, he retrieved the emergency kit he always carried. From it, he slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and pulled out a plastic ziplock bag. Carefully, he collected some of the animal remains, sealed them inside, and made a mental note to send the sample to a medical lab for analysis.

Ozzie was worried. That boy was playing with fire—just like so many others Ozzie had dabbled in magic with before. And the girl... of all the girls for him to fall for, why her? The one Ozzie feared might inherit his latest mistake. Or rather the latest before the boy bought his potion.

Why did he keep doing this? Every time he tried to use magic to help someone, it only made things worse. Always worse.

He could still see it—the worst of all his failures. The one that had cost him his beloved Hecate, his dearest friend Arman, and the sweet, gentle Catalina.

That tragedy had begun long ago, on the day Prince Arman's betrothal to Princess Catalina was arranged. Ozzie had been there, standing in the hall as Sultan Mustafa and Emperor Ioannes discussing the terms that would bind their children and their empires.

The sultan had first sought to make the emperor's daughter another of his wives, but her father refused—and set forth his own conditions instead.

"With all due respect," the emperor said, his voice steady, "your Allah may permit such unions, but my God and His Son forbid them. My daughter will marry your son—and she shall be his one and only wife, until death parts them. And there shall be no concubines, no hint of infidelity. If my daughter must give up her home, her family—everything—to end this war, then the least she is owed is love and faithfulness."

"My son will be faithful in his heart," the sultan replied.

"That is not enough," the emperor said firmly. "He will be faithful to her—in heart, in body, and in soul.”

“Ioannes I have taken many wives and concubines over the years," said the sultan. "Yet Arman's mother was the only one who ruled beside me—and I would have gladly sacrificed all the others to keep her with me for eternity."

"And I'm sure your wife found comfort in that assurance, Mustafa," the emperor replied, his tone steady but edged with sorrow. "But not every woman is content with power and position alone. My father was never faithful to my mother, and it destroyed her. When she died, I swore I would never treat my own wife so cruelly, that I would raise my sons to honor their wives, and that I would never allow my daughters to marry men who would not."

"Be reasonable, my old friend," the sultan replied. "Our customs differ from yours."

"Not entirely," the emperor said, a faint smile touching his lips. "We both expect wives to submit to their husbands. Very well—my daughter shall submit to your son. But in return, he must love her as every husband is commanded to love his wife. He must cherish her above all mortals and earthly possessions. She shall be second only to his God. That is the only way I will consent to this union."

Mustafa was enraged by Ioannes‘s demands. For a moment, Ozzie feared the sultan would erupt into a fury that might ignite another war. So Ozzie—known then as Asmodeus—whispered a touch of magic into the sultan's ear.

"Don't be a fool! His demands are not so unreasonable. We've already lost too many lives. Would you see your sons fall next?"

The spell worked. Mustafa's anger cooled, and he agreed to the emperor's terms.

"Thank you, Mustafa. My daughter shall be a good wife to your son. But mark my words—if he proves an unworthy husband, or if you or anyone else fails to treat her as the gift from God that she is, the war we face now will seem like nothing compared to the wrath I shall unleash upon you all."

Poor Asmodeus believed he had done the right thing. Yet even then, a whisper of doubt stirred within him—an unshakable fear that his intervention had kindled the very tragedy he sought to prevent.

Chapter Text

They had pushed her too far. They called her ugly, crazy, a freak. They spread lies about her, told her she didn't belong in the world. That she should be taken away—just like her parents had been.

And there was Vaggie. Laughing. Laughing with them. Pretending, all this time, that she had ever been her friend.

"You're so stupid! You actually thought I would ever be friends with someone like you!"

Then they all closed in. Velvette led the charge as they seized her, dragging her toward the men in suits—the same men who had taken her parents away forever.

No. Not them. Don't give her to them. Anything but that.

She begged. She cried. She screamed until her voice broke, pleading with them not to hand her over. But they only laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed.

And then—something answered.

A demon erupted from her fear: red, smiling wide, a living snarl. He lunged like a beast, clawing, tearing, devouring. He laughed as he did it, laughing at their suffering the way they had laughed at hers.

Their hands fell away from her at last, but satisfaction didn't follow. Fear twisted into something hotter. Sharper.
Rage.

Pay. Pay. You're all going to pay. Make them pay.
Destroy them. Destroy them all.

She commanded her monster, and he gleefully obeyed—slaughtering without hesitation. Those who escaped his reach, she destroyed herself. Glass shards sliced through the air at her will. Stones crashed from the sky. Fire leapt from her fury and consumed them.

Swallowed by shadow, scorched by sunshine.
Destruction and mayhem until no one remained.

That was when Charlie woke up—heart lodged in her throat, breath caught between a gasp and a scream.

"Charlie, what's wrong?" Michael asked as he stepped into her room.

For a moment she couldn't speak. The nightmare still clung to her—cold, vicious, paralyzing. She was horrified that such images had come from her own mind, that she could even imagine something so cruel. The thought of it made her tremble.

Michael sat down on the edge of her bed, saying nothing, giving her space. He reached out slowly, offering a hug if she wanted it but ready to pull back if she didn't.

She did. Charlie leaned into him, gripping him tightly, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her as if he could shield her from the memory of the dream itself.

"Do you want to talk about it, sweetie?" he asked gently.

"No, Uncle Michael," she finally managed.

Oh God... what was that dream? Was that what her powers could make her become? It was only a nightmare, but it had felt so real—so heavy, so vivid. Like a warning whispered straight into her bones.

"Well, it's four in the morning, and once you wake up this early there's barely a chance of falling back asleep," Michael said. "So how about I whip up my early-bird breakfast, huh? Pancakes with apples and cinnamon."

Charlie smiled. Apple pancakes were her favorite—and her father's too. And the best part of being awake at this hour was that, for once, she could enjoy them before heading off to school.

She loved it when her uncle baked. It was one of the few talents he and her father shared—and one of the few things they could truly get along over. She had countless fond memories of the two of them working side by side in the kitchen, turning out cakes, cookies, biscuits, breads, tarts, pies, even puddings. Both had a notoriously fierce sweet tooth, and how either of them managed to stay slim remained a mystery to her.

When she was little, they always made sure to include her. She got to choose what they baked—what flavor of cake and frosting, which kind of pie, or what sort of cookies they would make. They let her crack the eggs, pour the sugar, press out the cookie shapes, lick the spoon and the bowl, and decorate everything to her heart's content. And when the treats finally came out of the oven, they always let her have the very first taste.

"Your great-grandmother was the one who taught us how to bake," Michael had told her. "Oh, we loved it when your grandparents left us with her during the holidays and summer vacations. She was such a warm, loving woman, and she thought we were just perfect. Granted, that's what all grandmothers think about their grandchildren—but with our parents having their problems, your father and I really needed someone like her."

"Do you think she would have liked me?" Charlie asked him.

"Liked you? Charlotte, she would have adored you—above all of us, I'm sure. Her and my grandfather both. Oh, they loved their boys, but they always said every family needs a little boy and a little girl to keep things balanced. You need both, my grandfather would say. Boys remind us to be strong, and girls remind us to be gentle."

"You know, Dad never really talked about them much."

"Well, that's because your grandma and they never really got along. They could tell from the start that our parents weren't a good match, and they were very traditional, while she was deep into the liberal movement. They were always courteous to her, of course, but their opinions were just too different. Do you know what their very first argument was about? My mother didn't want a wedding—she just wanted to elope. And my grandmother wanted to give her and my father a proper traditional ceremony. She was furious when she found out they'd just run off to a chapel in Vegas."

"Did they ever meet my mother?"

"Well, Grandpa had been gone for years by then, but Grandma held on long enough to meet her when she and your dad first started dating. And, unlike with our parents, she could tell right away that those two were meant to be."

Charlie loved hearing stories about her father and uncle when they were young—especially when they were shared over a delicious, sugary breakfast. It had a way of making all the bad things in life feel small and insignificant, almost silly to worry about. For a little while, it let her forget her problems altogether.

By the time she finished her meal, the nightmare had almost completely faded, replaced by a far more exciting thought. Today, Stolas was posting the cast list for the school's production of The Phantom of the Opera. Today she would finally find out if she'd gotten the part of Meg Giry.

On her way to school, she stopped by the theater—and there it was, the cast list taped to the front door. Her eyes swept down the list of names, searching for "Charlotte Morningstar."

She didn't see it. Did she not get the part? Did she not get any part—not even a minor one?

Damn. She knew she should have practiced more. Or maybe she just didn't have any talent at all. Maybe she really was just a loser with nothing going for her, like everyone always said.

But then her eyes landed on the character name Meg Giry. She traced the dotted line across from it—and there it was. Charlotte Morningstar. She froze. She blinked. She read it again. She'd gotten the role.

"I... I got the role," she whispered, dazed.

"You sure did."

She turned to see Stolas standing nearby, tending to the flowers he was growing for the stage décor. His private greenhouse sat just beside the theater, bursting with color even this early in the morning.

"Congratulations—you'll be the best Meg, I'm sure."

Before she could think, she dropped her book bag and threw her arms around him.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you so much! I won't let you down!"

Stolas laughed softly and hugged her back. He knew all too well the overwhelming joy of discovering you've earned your first role in a grand production.

But what he didn't know was that this meant far more to Charlie than simply being onstage. This was her chance to show the world—or at least the city—that she could be something good. That she could be beautiful and talented, not the "freak girl" everyone laughed at.

Come the night of the big performance, no one would be laughing at her. No one would be staring because they thought something was wrong with her. It would be a dream come true.

As soon as she finished hugging Stolas, she pulled out her cellphone and dialed her uncle. The moment he picked up, she blurted it out, unable to contain herself.

"Sweetie, that's wonderful!" he said. "After school we'll celebrate!"

"No, I have rehearsals! Let's save it for after my performance on opening night."

"Alright then. In the meantime, I'll reserve a front-row seat for myself."

"Uncle Michael... do you think you could also save front-row seats for Alastor, Vaggie, and her mom? That is, if they'll come. I haven't told them yet."

"Of course they'll come—and of course I'll save front-row seats for all of them."

Charlie hung up with a bright, breathless laugh and took off running toward school. She practically floated down the sidewalk. For the first time anyone could remember, she wasn't just smiling—she was glowing.

In her excitement, she rounded a corner too quickly and bumped straight into Vaggie.

"Whoa—Charlie! What's got you in such a good mood?" Vaggie asked, blinking in surprise at the rare sight of her beaming.

Charlie, still breathless, told Vaggie the news—every word tumbling out in pure excitement. Vaggie's face lit up.

"Charlie, that's amazing! Congratulations!"

Charlie ducked her head, grinning so hard it almost hurt.

Then Vaggie asked, "Hey... do you think I could come watch you rehearse sometime?"

Charlie blinked at her in surprise. "You... really want to?"

"Sure I do," Vaggie said. "With a show like this, you'll need support."

"But what about cheerleading practice?"

"Alright, so I'll come in late to practice. Better than nothing, right? What matters is that I'm there. That's what friends are for."

Charlie paused. Her dream flashed through her mind—Vaggie sneering at her, insisting she'd never really be her friend. She knew it had only been a nightmare, but the fear still lingered like a cold weight in her stomach.

"Vaggie?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you really my friend? Really, really?"

Vaggie blinked, surprised. "I should think so. Why do you ask?"

"It's just... I'm not used to someone like you sincerely liking me. Actually wanting to be my friend. I'm scared that one day I'll find out it's just an act. I know it sounds crazy—I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. I get it." Vaggie's voice softened. "I don't blame you for having doubts. Girls like me gave you hell for so long. Honestly? If I were you, I wouldn't trust someone like me right away either. How about this?"

She pulled a sheet of paper from her notebook, scribbled down a number, and pressed it into Charlie's hand.

"What is this?" Charlie asked, puzzled.

"It's my mom's phone number," Vaggie said. "If I ever do anything to hurt you, you can call her, tell her exactly what I did, and she'll make my life miserable. And believe me—hell hath no fury like my mother." She folded Charlie's fingers around the paper. "I'm giving you the power to destroy my life, if you ever needed to."

"I'm... not sure I want that kind of power," Charlie said softly.

"Think of it as a friendship insurance policy," Vaggie replied with a small smile.

Charlie felt something inside her loosen, like a knot finally unclenching. Vaggie's reassurance—awkward, sincere, oddly sweet—settled warm in her chest. By lunchtime, she was almost back to her usual self—or better. She found Vaggie by the lockers and asked, a little shyly, "Do you want to eat outside today? With me and Alastor?"

Vaggie brightened. "Sure. About time I finally meet this guy you're so crazy about."

They stepped out into the courtyard, where Alastor was already seated beneath the shade of a tree, unpacking his lunch with the meticulous elegance of someone performing a ritual.

"Alastor," Charlie said. "This is Vaggie. Vaggie, this is Alastor."

Alastor smiled, though his eyes cut sharply toward Vaggie. He still wasn't convinced she was truly a friend to Charlie—let alone worthy of breathing the same air as her.

"Hello, a pleasure to meet you, Vagene," he said brightly.

"It's Vaggie," she corrected, flat.

"Oh, terribly sorry," he replied, smiling with not even a whisper of remorse. "I forgot."

Charlie shot him a pointed look and nudged his elbow, leaning in to whisper, "Be nice."

Alastor's grin widened by a fraction—far too satisfied.

"Of course, Charlie. I'm always nice."

Vaggie gave Alastor a long, assessing look. He wasn't nearly as ugly or puny as Valentino and Velvette always claimed. In fact, he was almost...pleasant to look at. Not attractive—she definitely didn't feel that—but not bad looking. Still there was something off about him. Something unhinged, secretive, as if he were carefully hiding a piece of himself she wasn't meant to see.

"So, Alastor, Charlie talks about you a lot. All the time," Vaggie said.

"She's told me a lot about you too," Alastor answered. "Every little thing you've ever done. And I haven't forgotten a single detail, and I never will."

It sounded almost like a warning. As if he was saying: I know how you hurt her, how you made her cry. And if you ever do it again, I'll make sure you spend the rest of your life crying harder and louder than she ever did.

Vaggie flinched, reading the hidden intent tucked behind his grin. For a moment, she couldn't understand what Charlie saw in him—what part of this unsettling boy had earned her trust and secret romantic interest. If she didn't know better, she'd swear he was the type who was just on the verge of a school shooting.

Charlie, sensing the tension tightening between them, rushed to cut it off. "Alastor! I didn't get to tell you—I got the role of Meg Giry in the school play!"

In an instant, her excitement filled the space, bright and bubbling. And just as quickly, Alastor's expression shifted—lighting up like someone had thrown open a window inside him.

"Will you be there opening night?" Charlie asked. "My uncle said he'll reserve a front-row seat for you."

"You have to ask?" Alastor replied with a soft laugh. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll be right there in the front seat—with flowers."

Charlie giggled. "It's only a minor role, Alastor. Flowers go to the stars."

"Then I suppose," he said, warmth creeping into his smile, "the stars will simply have to share."

"Rehearsals start today, right after school. I still can't believe this is happening. A real show—and The Phantom of the Opera, no less. I wonder what everyone will think when they see me up there."

"Beautiful," Alastor murmured as he listened.

"Huh?" Charlie blinked at him.

"Ah—bold. Bold in your performance," he corrected quickly. "From what I've seen, you're a remarkably expressive actress."

Vaggie studied the way Alastor looked at Charlie. She watched his mannerisms, his expressions, every tiny shift in his posture. And slowly, the truth settled in. This—this was the reason Charlie kept him close. He was absolutely devoted to her. He hung on every word Charlie said, never let his gaze drift far from her, as if she were the center of a universe only he could see.

"Will you come watch the rehearsals today?" Charlie asked.

"I wish I could," he said, a hint of regret in his voice. "But I just started a part-time job to earn some extra money, so I'll be tied up after school. Don't worry, though—I'll be there on opening night. I promise."

"I didn't know you were looking for work. What kind of job is it?"

"Assisting a college professor," he explained. "Mostly running errands for him—keeping his office and classroom clean, organizing his books and files. That sort of thing."

"That's great. A job like that will look good on your college applications."

"And if the pay is as good as I suspect..." He paused, his gaze drifting to her bare neck. "I might have a surprise for you."

"What kind of surprise?" she asked.

"Well, if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise... now would it?" he replied with a sly smile.

Charlie felt blush rise to her cheeks as she looked down at the grass. She hated when he smiled at her like that—every time, it left her flustered, as if he really were flirting with her.

But no. Of course he wasn't. He would never flirt with her. Someone like him wouldn't look at someone like her that way. She wasn't pretty enough for that.

Vaggie just rolled her eyes. These two were even more hopeless than she'd thought.

Chapter Text

When anyone in Nine Circle City switched on their radio that night at exactly eight o'clock, they were met with a shock worthy of legend. Across every frequency, overriding every broadcast, came a voice—incredible, uncanny, electric, and terrifying.

The unmistakable voice of the Radio Demon.

This was Alastor's very first official broadcast. His debut.
His one chance to make the city stop, listen, and never forget his name.

He had to make it good.

In show business, first impressions were everything—life or death, success or obscurity. There was no room for stumbles, no patience for mediocrity. And Alastor, of all demons, refused to be anything less than unforgettable.

He'd been awake for hours the night before, pacing the floorboards of his studio, flipping through stories, discarding dozens until he found the perfect one. He rehearsed the cadence, the inflection, the rise and fall of every word. He fine-tuned the tone—strange enough to intrigue, chilling enough to hook, charming enough to ensnare.

Now, at last, the hour had come.

The microphone waited. The city waited.
And Alastor stepped forward to see if he would make the grade... or vanish into static.

He greeted his audience with wicked warmth, then launched into a tale—strange, old, and chilling enough to freeze the blood of the most hardened sinner.

"Once," he began, "there was a man who wished to marry off his daughter. When a wealthy suitor approached, the father, greedy for status, readily promised her hand. But the girl despised the man, and avoided him as often as she could. Eventually, her father commanded her to visit him.

Her bridegroom lived deep within a forest. And as she journeyed there, she came upon a house—dark, silent, and grim. Inside, a bird in a cage called out to her:

'Turn back, turn back, thou bonnie bride,
Nor in this house of death abide.'

The girl did not understand, and wandered from one cold room to another until she reached the cellar, where an old woman sat hunched over."

His voice shifted—raspy, aged.

"'Can you tell me,' asked the bride, 'if my bridegroom lives here?'
'Oh, poor child,' the old woman sighed. 'Do you know where you are? This is a den of murderers. You thought yourself a bride—but Death himself is to be your husband. They will carve you to pieces, cook you, and eat you, for they are cannibals. Unless I hide you and help you escape, you are lost.'"

He let the words linger, savored.

"Then she hid the trembling girl behind a great cask. 'Be still as a mouse,' the woman whispered. 'Tonight, when they sleep, we flee.'

No sooner had they prepared than the wicked band returned—drunk, roaring, dragging another young woman with them. They forced wine upon her—white, then red, then yellow—and when she could not resist, they cut her into pieces. The bride watched, shaking, horrified by the fate intended for her."

He chuckled softly.

"One robber spotted a gold ring upon the victim's little finger. Unable to pull it free, he took an axe and chopped it off—but the finger flew across the room and landed behind the very cask where the bride hid. They searched for it, but the old woman coaxed them to feast and leave the hunt for morning. Soon, she slipped sleeping-draught into their wine. One by one, the monsters collapsed in drunken slumber.

The bride crept out from her hiding place, slipped past their snoring bodies, and followed the old woman out into the night. They fled the house of murderers and never looked back."

He paused—just long enough for the listeners' skin to crawl.

"Time passed. The wedding day arrived. Guests gathered; the bridegroom appeared. When each person at the table was asked to tell a story, the bride remained silent—until her false suitor insisted she speak.

Then she smiled, and said, 'I will tell you my dream.'"

And the Radio Demon recited her words with theatrical, icy precision:

"I walked alone through a forest,
and came to a house where no living soul dwelt.
Only a bird in a cage cried out—
'Turn back, turn back, thou pretty bride...'

I wandered through empty rooms,
down into a cellar where an old woman sat.
She told me my bridegroom lived there—
and that he meant to kill me,
cut me in pieces,
cook me,
and eat me.

She hid me behind a great cask.
The robbers returned with a young woman,
gave her white wine, red wine, yellow wine—
then butchered her.
One sliced off her finger to steal a golden ring.
It flew... and landed on my lap."*

The Radio Demon's voice dropped to a deadly whisper.

"'And here,' she said to the wedding guests, 'is the finger... with the ring.'"

He delivered the final line with relish:

"The bridegroom turned white as bone. He tried to flee—but the guests seized him. And he, along with his murderous band, was delivered to justice... and executed for their crimes."

He cast a quick glance toward the glass window of the studio. On the other side, Professor Pentious and his wife stood frozen—shaking, clinging to each other like terrified children. Their faces were pale, wide-eyed, drained of all color.

And Alastor, seeing their fear, only smiled wider.

"Well then," he purred into the microphone, voice bright as a razor's edge, "now that I've thoroughly terrified you all beyond any reasonable measure—"

A soft chuckle crackled through the speakers.

"—I think it's only fair that I play a tune or two to soothe those rattled nerves before I dive into another delicious little tale. So!" His tone snapped to a chipper, old-time radio cadence. "Does anyone out there have a request?"

The studio phone rang—shrill, urgent, cutting through the static. Alastor's grin sharpened as he plucked the receiver from its hook.

"Hello," he chimed, voice silky and bright, "you're on the air with the Radio Demon. Tell me, my dear, do you have a request?"

A woman's voice floated through the line—soft, nervous, flattered just to be speaking to him. Alastor leaned back in his chair, letting his tone melt into something smooth and charming.

"Well now," he drawled, "I must say, you have a lovely voice. If I didn't know any better, I'd think an angel had wandered onto my line."

A little laugh escaped her, breathless and pleased.

"Oh? Am I embarrassing you?" he teased gently, lowering his voice to a velvet purr. "Do forgive me—I simply couldn't resist. Please, darling, what would you like to hear?"

Her answer came shy, fluttery, utterly charmed.
Alastor's smile grew. His new skill was working beautifully.

At first, no one knew what to make of the mysterious Radio Demon who suddenly hijacked every broadcast on the airwaves. From what little people could gather, he was certainly no model citizen—possibly even a criminal. Yet his voice... it was terrifying, and charming, and electrifying all at once. And the stories he spun were nothing short of mesmerizing. He had a gift for turning the unseen into a grand theatrical spectacle you could only hear.

It didn't take long for his show to explode in popularity, especially once he began inviting guests to share their own tales. Those burdened by depression but blessed with imagination found an escape from a cruel reality; a place where their creativity could breathe. Those who shared true stories found something just as precious: a chance to speak openly about poverty, crime, abuse, and the weight of hardship. The show grew big enough to get picked up by a major network, earning him a thick, leafy stack of green cabbage. And true to his word, he split the profits with Professor Pentious and paid the storytellers as well. But he kept every guest strictly anonymous—to spare them shame, to ward off thieves and abusers eager to silence secrets, and, of course, to avoid catching the attention of the law.

Because yes—by then, the Radio Demon was a wanted man. Apparently that sort of thing happens when you savage a bloodthirsty gang and humiliate an incompetent lawman. Whether that last detail was strictly true is debatable; that was simply how Alastor remembered it.

But no one could catch him. His powers—slipping through shadows and sound waves—made him impossibly fast. Evidence? There was never any. He left no fingerprints, no hair, no sweat, blood, or saliva, no video camera could capture him. Only a snap-shot camera stood a chance; there was still nothing quicker than a burst of light. And as for Professor Pentious, no one could prove he was involved. Alastor had prepared him a flawless false identity—a clever little trick he'd picked up from Blitzo.

But the truly astonishing—almost mind-boggling—part was that not a single soul suspected Alastor Le Beau. Everyone in Nine Circle City had heard the Radio Demon's voice, and yet when they heard Alastor speak, not one person made the connection. Of course, the potion certainly played a role, but there was more to it than that. It was the way the two personas moved through the world.

Alastor Le Beau was a humble, insecure, meek young man—nerdy, soft-spoken, eager to avoid conflict, and hardly social outside his tiny circle of acquaintances. The Radio Demon, on the other hand, was bold, daring, charismatic; a creature of confidence and swagger who seized attention the moment he appeared and did whatever he pleased.

It's remarkable, really, how unrecognizable someone can become simply by changing the way they carry themselves.

Only two people knew the truth: Octavia and Ozzie. Ozzie, as you already know, had decided to let Alastor do as he pleased. Octavia, however, was always worried about him.

"How long are you going to keep this up?" she asked him once.

"Why are you so worried?" he replied. "Nothing bad has happened. In fact, things are finally going great for me. After I took care of Striker and his gang, they don't bother us anymore—"

"Because they're looking for you, Al."

"Correction: they're looking for the Radio Demon. And they're never going to find him. Besides, I've opened a successful business, I'm making more money than I ever have, and I'm not being greedy. I plan to share the wealth with everyone in the house. I just need to figure out how to spend it without raising suspicion."

"We don't need the money, Al. We're doing fine."

"Sure, we're fine. But we never get to have anything we want. And what if you, or Loona, or Moxxie want to go to college someday? Or start a stage career? That costs money. A lot of it. And it's not like I'm stealing. I'm being paid for honest work."

"Under a false name."

"It's still honest if I'm providing a legal service in exchange for payment."

"Alastor, you're hardly around anymore. You're always sneaking off. Rosie is asking questions. And when was the last time you talked to Charlie or Angel outside school? Angel called me last night asking if he'd done something to piss you off."

"I've just been busy. And Charlie's been busy too—with your father's show. She barely has time for anything besides school and rehearsals."

"But you live with the play directors so it's a little weird that you don't at least stop by to say hello."

"Hm... you might have a point. I could call them, at least. Maybe every couple of days."

"And what about your... new eating habits?"

"What do you mean?"

"Three nights ago, I was out stargazing, and I saw you kill a pigeon and eat it raw. Like an animal. It was disturbing."

"It's a side effect. Something I do to control my rage and adrenaline when there's no other outlet."

"Is that healthy?"

"It's better than what I really want to do."

"And what's that?"

"I'll tell you when you're eighteen."

For a moment, Octavia shivered.

"I'm just... worried you're getting in over your head," she said softly. "And I really don't like keeping this secret of yours. It's making me so anxious my stomach hurts."

"Don't worry, Via. I've got everything under control. Now, I need to get some studying done, and if you don't bother me for the rest of the week, I might have a surprise for you this weekend."

"You know I'm not five anymore, right? You can't just buy my silence with gifts." She rolled her eyes. "But... fine. I'll leave you alone about this—for a while."

Alastor gave Octavia a gentle pat on the head before slipping past her and heading outside. The afternoon light hit him as he made his way down the street toward the library, books under one arm and plans for a quiet study session in mind.

He didn't get far.

Vox stepped out from behind a lamppost, blocking his path with arms crossed and jaw tight.

"There you are," Vox hissed. "We need to talk."

"Not now, Vox," Alastor sighed.

"Oh, I think now is perfect," Vox snapped. "You really think you can just punch me in the face—humiliate me in front of everyone—and get away with it?"

"Oh, come off it, Vincent. You've had that punch coming for a long time."

Vox's eyes twitched. "Don't call me that! Vincent was my geek name!"

"Personally," Alastor said with a shrug, "I always thought 'Vox' sounded more stupid. I'm not even sure it counts as a real name."

"You know something? I really don't like this new attitude of yours," Vox snapped. "Because of you, I've had to do everything for Valentino and Velvette on my own! I've had to steal drinks for them, do their homework, use my own money to bribe those losers they mess with so they won't go to the teachers or the cops! I even had to dress up as Val's mother for a parent-teacher conference!"

"And that's my fault because... what? I wasn't doing all those things for you while you just drank and partied with them, correct?"

"Duh!"

"Oh, how terrible of me. Whatever shall I do? I wonder how I'll live with the guilt." he said sarcastically.

Vox stepped closer, jabbing a finger toward his chest. "Just remember this, you pathetic freak: I'm the only real friend you've got. Nobody else likes you. Nobody else would do anything for you. You think that male whore Angel actually likes you? He's using you. He's too stupid to get by on anything but his looks, and you have a brain, so he needs you. If you weren't so smart he wouldn't even look at you. People like him don't become friends with people like you."

Alastor only smirked.

"You owe me," Vox went on, practically shaking with frustration. "I stood by you. I stayed your friend even when you always made me look like a loser in front of the V's. You should be grateful."

"Grateful?" Alastor laughed. "I should be grateful to you?"

He laughed—loud, unrestrained, almost unhinged. It wasn't the polite chuckle Vox was used to, nor the shy, nervous laugh Alastor usually gave. This one was wild. It echoed off the buildings, sharp and manic, like something inside him had finally cracked open.

"What's with the laugh? You're creeping me out," Vox muttered, taking a half-step back.

But Alastor only continued to laugh and laugh. He couldn't believe how utterly delusional Vox was. A reality check was coming for him, a sharp and merciless one, and Alastor fully intended to be the one to deliver it.

Just... not yet.

No, better to let the delusion simmer. Let Vox grow comfortable in his little fantasy. And then, at the perfect moment, Alastor would strike—dousing that fantasy in cold, devastating truth.

"What's the matter with you?" Vox demanded.

Alastor's grin widened. "Nothing at all. I simply forget how amusing you can be." He gave a courteous, mocking bow. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Hey, I'm not finished with you!" Vox snapped. "Don't walk away—"

Alastor flicked a single finger.

Vox's own shadow jerked a foot back and promptly kicked him square in the ass.

"Hey! Who the hell did that?!" Vox barked, whipping around to find no one there.

Alastor's chuckle—low, wicked, delighted—trailed behind him as he continued on his way.

Chapter Text

When Moxxie saw his name beside the role of Raoul, his heart nearly burst. This was it—his greatest dream come true. He was finally going to star in his favorite show. For a moment he just stood there, clutching the cast list, wishing more than anything that his mother were still alive to see him step onto that stage. She was the reason he ever dared to love acting in the first place.

"She'll see you perform," Charlie said gently as the two of them prepared for their first rehearsal. "She's always watching over you. That's what my uncle says happens to the people we love when they pass on."

Moxxie let out a shaky breath. "I wish it felt that simple. I'm not saying you're wrong—I want to believe it. It's just... sometimes I'd give anything to see her again. To hear her voice, or feel her hug me one more time. You know?"

"I do." Charlie's expression softened. "I feel that way a lot. But... if you don't mind me saying it, at least this way no one can ever hurt her again."

"Yeah." Moxxie's voice dropped, tinged with bitterness. "That's the one good thing. She can watch me without ever worrying about getting beaten by my scum-of-the-earth father."

"You know, when my mom and dad went away," Charlie said softly, "Uncle Michael told me that if I kept replaying how they looked and acted—over and over again—eventually I'd be able to see them when I thought of them."

Moxxie looked up. "Did it work?"

"Yeah. I have them memorized so well that sometimes I could see them. Just for a moment...but it's enough."

"I don't know if that'll work for me," he said, rubbing his arm, "but... I guess it wouldn't hurt to try."

"Good!" Charlie perked up, her smile returning. "Now let's focus on the most important part: we're going to be on stage. We're going to sing, and dance, and people are going to cheer for us."

"You're right, and I can't wait to see that audience." His gaze drifted back to the cast list. "And I can't wait to hear that applause—" He suddenly froze. "Oh no."

"What? What is it?"

"Millie... She... She got the role of Christine."

"Well, of course she did," Charlie said. "She had the best audition."

"But if I'm Raoul and she's Christine, then that means we'll have to sing a love song together... and we'll have to... to kiss."

"Yes, and?" Charlie tilted her head.

Moxxie's face flushed crimson as he twisted the edges of the paper between his fingers.

"Um... Charlie... We're friends, right? I mean, you're Alastor's best friend, and he and I are practically brothers, so that makes you my friend too, right?"

"Sure. We're not super close, but I care about you and everyone in his family."

"So you'd keep one of my secrets? And you wouldn't laugh at me? Right?"

"I'd never laugh," she assured him. "And yes, I'd keep any secret—as long as it's not something harmful."

"It's not harmful... except maybe to my self-esteem."

"Well then, what is it?" Charlie asked, gentle but curious. "I promise I won't tell, and I won't laugh."

"Okay... well, I... I've never been... kissed," Moxxie blurted, his face practically glowing red.

"So?" Charlie asked.

"So?!" He threw his hands up. "Do you know how humiliating that is for a guy my age?"

"What's the big deal? Alastor's older than you, and he's never been kissed. That doesn't bother him."

"Well that's because he doesn't care what people think!" Moxxie groaned. "I do. Especially Millie. What if I end up drooling on her or something?"

"I don't think you could mess up a kiss that badly," Charlie giggled.

"But Millie's so beautiful," Moxxie said helplessly. "She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my whole life. She's probably kissed a lot of guys—n-not that I think she's loose! I just mean she probably has... high expectations."

"Expectations? On a mouth?" Charlie snorted. "Moxxie, I've never had a boyfriend, but I can promise you—kissing isn't about experience. It's about feeling."

"I don't think I have feeling," Moxxie muttered. "At least... not on this."

"Sure you do," Charlie said with an encouraging smile. "Now come on—learning your lines, your songs, and getting the right emotions for your character is way more important."

And with each rehearsal, Moxxie shined. In fact, he was doing so well that some might say he'd become the best actor in the entire cast. But whenever he had a scene with Millie, that confidence evaporated—he'd get tongue-tied, forget every line he ever rehearsed, and shake like a skeleton left dangling in the wind.

Poor little fellow. He couldn't help it. It was his very first crush, and he had absolutely no idea how to navigate something like that. Charlie wanted to help him, but she knew even less than he did. Fortunately, she knew two people who might know a thing or two.

"You want us to what?" Vaggie asked, blinking at Charlie as she stood beside Angel.

"I just want you two to give him some advice," Charlie said. "You've both had boyfriends and girlfriends, and you're...decent. Or at least you won't tease him."

Angel raised a brow. "Why both of us?"

"Because I believe dating needs perspectives from both a guy and a girl," Charlie explained. "Also, you're the only people with dating experience who won't pretend you don't know me."

Angel shrugged. "I mean... yeah, fair enough."

Vaggie crossed her arms. "But why not ask Stolas, Blitzo, or Rosie? They're technically his foster parents."

"Well," Charlie began carefully, "Stolas and Blitzo are gay, so they probably don't have much experience wooing women. And if I asked Rosie, she'd turn his first crush into a whole production—and that would humiliate him."

"Good point. Rosie does seem like that type of mother," Angel said with a smirk.

"So...will you help him?" Charlie asked hopefully.

"Well, if it's that important to you," Vaggie agreed with a sigh.

"Why not?" Angel added. "I don't have basketball practice tomorrow, and Alastor hasn't been around much."

"Thank you," Charlie said, relieved.

Angel glanced at her. "Speaking of Alastor—Charlie, do you know what's been going on with him lately? He's been dodging me and my calls for weeks."

"Really? That doesn't sound like him." Charlie frowned. "But...now that I think about it, I haven't seen or heard much from him either."

"Octavia told me he's not mad at me," Angel said, twirling a finger through his hair, "but she doesn't know why he's been avoiding me—and everyone else."

"It's probably just his new job," Vaggie said.

"Yes, that's probably it," Charlie agreed, though her voice carried a faint uncertainty.

"Well, can you do me a favor?" Angel asked. "I've got a basketball game on the tenth, and I'd like you all to come watch. Can you let me know if he's interested?"

"Sure," Charlie said. "I'll wait for him to get home tonight and ask him."

Angel flashed a hopeful smile. "You wanna come to the game too?"

"I'd love to come."

Charlie went home with Angel's request still lingering in her mind. As evening settled, she drifted to her bedroom window, resting her arms on the sill as she watched the house next door—dim behind its curtains.

He'd been distant for weeks, but tonight she was determined to catch him. To see him. To ask, even, gently, what was going on.

Hours slipped by. The streetlights hummed. The neighborhood quieted. Charlie leaned forward, eyes fixed on the empty driveway, but exhaustion crept up behind her. She told herself she'd only close her eyes for a moment.

Just a moment. She fell asleep.

When she blinked awake, sunlight was spilling across her floorboards. Disoriented, she pushed herself upright, rubbing her face. Something moved outside.

Charlie snapped her gaze toward the window—just in time to see Alastor. He was sneaking up to his front door. Sneaking. In broad daylight.

Her breath caught. That was strange—unsettlingly so. Alastor had never stayed out all night before. Never.

Charlie's eyes narrowed, worry threading through her chest.

She spotted him pulling out his keys. Thinking fast, Charlie willed the lock to hold—just a moment longer. The key jammed, refusing to turn.

Perfect.

She darted away from the window, scrambling to throw on clean clothes. A quick brush of her teeth, a splash of water on her face, and she hurried downstairs, careful not to make noise. By the time she slipped out the front door, the spell was already fading.

Charlie rounded the corner of the walkway just as Alastor tried the key again.

"Alastor," she called softly.

He froze. Just for a heartbeat. His shoulders stiffened, and she could almost feel the silent curse he aimed at the stubborn key for choosing now—of all times—to finally work.

"Good morning, Charlie," he said, tone smooth and perfectly normal...too normal. Yet he didn't turn to face her. "A bit early to be up at this hour, don't you think?"

"And a bit late to be getting in at this hour, don't you think?" Charlie countered gently.

She smelled something—something clinging to him in the cool morning air. Something sharp and rotten. Metallic, foul, heavy.

"Where were you last night?" she asked quietly.

"I was at work."

"Doing what?"

"Helping Professor Pentious clean out his file cabinets."

"Until six in the morning?"

"He also needed me to help set up his new computer. He's not very tech-savvy."

"Neither are you," she said. "You don't even know how to work an Android phone."

"I can work with computers," he replied smoothly. "Just not laptops."

Charlie stepped a little closer. That terrible smell hit her stronger this time, turning her stomach.

"You smell funny. What is that?"

"I tripped on the way home and fell in something. I think it was a mud puddle."

"I don't smell dirt, Alastor," she said, voice dropping. "I smell blood."

"I cut my knee and arm in the fall," he said quickly. "It's nothing serious. Just a few scrapes."

He was lying. Lying like a man campaigning for office, and it twisted something in her chest.

"Alright," she said softly, hurt threading through her words, "if that's the case...then why won't you look at me?"

He said nothing. Probably because he didn't know what to say.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Charlie's gaze drifted downward, settling on his foot—angled just enough to keep his body turned away from her. She knew it was wrong. She knew better than to use her powers on him without permission. But the lies, the half-truths, the smell of blood clinging to him like a warning...it all pushed her past the edge of patience.

Just this once, she told herself.

Charlie narrowed her eyes, focusing on the slightest tug of magic in her fingertips. With a subtle flick of will, she nudged at his foot.

It shifted—slowly, reluctantly—turning just enough to give her a glimpse of his front.

"Hey!" he gasped as his foot jerked without his consent. "What the—?"

He turned—and that's when she saw it.

His mouth.
His teeth.
His hands.
His fingers.
His shirt and pants.

All stained red.

"Alastor!" Charlie cried in a harsh whisper, the sound strangled. "What is that?!"

"It's not what it looks like!" he blurted out, panic sharpening his voice. "It was animals! Just—just a bunch of rabbits, squirrels, and birds I killed!"

Her stomach lurched. "But why... why would you... what did you do with—?"

"I ate them," he said.

Charlie blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I ate them," he repeated, quieter this time. "It wasn't to be cruel. I was just...very hungry."

"Hungry enough to kill wild animals and eat them raw?" Charlie asked, disbelief twisting her voice.

"It's the truth! I swear it!"

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Charlie lifted her gaze and met his eyes fully—because, as the old saying went, the eyes were the gateway to the soul.

And what she saw there wasn't malice.

It wasn't deceit.

It was the raw, startling truth.

"Alastor, why on earth would you eat an animal like that?" Charlie asked, her voice trembling between horror and worry. "Even if you enjoy hunting, eating raw meat is toxic for people. You can't just eat it fresh from the dead corpse like a wolf. Human bodies aren't built for that. Oh God—! We better wake up Rosie and get you to a hospital!"

"No!" Alastor snapped, panic cracking through his voice. "She can't know about this!"

"Alastor, you could've poisoned yourself!" Charlie cried. "Do you have any idea how much bacteria and disease can be in raw meat?"

"Nothing is going to happen to me."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I've been eating like this for weeks," he said, shame flickering across his face. "And I... I've had secret checkups with the doctor. They all say I'm fine."

Charlie stared at him, utterly bewildered. "What? But that's not possible. I mean, maybe—maybe—if you were only eating red meat, but white meat? Birds? That's the most dangerous kind to eat uncooked! There's no way you're still healthy."

"I can't explain it, Charlie, but for some reason I can digest raw meat just fine. It won't hurt me."

"What is going on with you?" she demanded. "You're only seen at school. You never call me or Angel or anyone. And I could've understood that part because of your job—I've been busy with rehearsals, and your foster parents have been busy too, which is probably the only reason they haven't noticed anything yet. But now you're staying out all night, lying to me, eating raw animals you kill with your bare hands. That's not normal."

"It was eons ago," he muttered.

"Well we're not Neanderthals anymore, Alastor!" Charlie snapped. "So you need to explain."

"I don't need to explain anything to you," he shot back. "This is my private affair. I don't pry into your private life."

"Don't give me that. Because we both know if I showed up one morning covered in blood, you'd demand answers."

"It's nothing to worry about."

"Alastor, this is scaring me." Her voice cracked. "Please tell me what's wrong."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I just...can't. And don't pretend you don't hide things from me. Everyone has their secrets."

Charlie opened her mouth—ready to argue, ready to challenge him—but the words caught. He wasn't wrong. This was no different than her hiding her powers from him for all these years. She was sure he'd been suspicious, but he never once pushed her, never once pried. And she appreciated that more than she ever said aloud.

So why couldn't she offer him the same grace?

She took a breath, steadying herself. "Promise me," she said softly, "that you're not making yourself sick. And that you won't hurt yourself in the future. If you can promise me that, I'll drop it."

"I promise that everything is going to be fine," he said, steady but gentle. "I'm okay, Charlie. I'm as healthy as a horse."

She still looked unconvinced, worry lingering in her eyes, but she nodded anyway.

"Alright," he said softly. "Now I really need to get a shower. I'll meet you for lunch later and make up for lost time?"

"Okay," she murmured.

"Splendid," he replied, slipping inside at last, though not before casting one last unreadable glance her way.

He couldn’t blame her for being worried—or suspicious. He was usually an open book with her, rarely keeping anything from her.

But this was different. She couldn’t know about this. She couldn’t know he was the Radio Demon. No one could. No one would ever understand. That other side of him was too vast, too monstrous, too impossible for anyone to truly grasp.
Octavia had found out by accident, and even she hadn’t been able to make sense of it.

No one in the house was awake yet, making it easy for him to slip upstairs without being seen. He headed straight for the bathroom, undressed, and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash the blood from his skin. This hunt had been especially vicious—messier than he’d intended. He might have gone a bit overboard. He could only hope the shampoo and soap would be enough to scrub away the scent.

When he finished, he pulled on clean clothes, stuffed the bloodied ones into a trash bag, and carried it outside to toss into the bin before anyone could notice. After that, he decided to take a quick nap before meeting Charlie for lunch. He hadn’t slept a single hour the night before. He slipped into his room, collapsed onto the bed, and was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

He dreamed of Charlie’s gray-blue eyes—those soft, luminous eyes he considered the most beautiful in the world. And in that dream, her eyes rested on him with a love he’d never dared imagine.