Chapter Text
The humid air felt heavy under Hell’s red sky.
Alastor woke up in pain, grabbing his burning chest. The scar Adam left wasn't a normal wound. It was a blade made of holy light, and every night, that cruel light ate away at his soul. The wound refused to heal. It only got worse and infected as time passed. No medicine worked. It felt like the wound was mocking him as it dug deeper into his body. He couldn't even groan. Inside, he only felt cold anger. He stumbled out of bed, desperate to stop the burning thirst and pain. He just wanted a strong drink and a cigarette to forget the pain for a second. As he fumbled in the dark for a bottle, he suddenly saw a shape in the mirror.
...What is this?
He stopped in front of the mirror, not believing his own eyes. He tried to speak, but the usual radio static was gone. His voice was soft, warm, and completely human. He leaned closer to the glass, mesmerized by what he saw. The face in the mirror was a stranger from long ago. His pointed deer ears had vanished. His hands, gripping the sink, felt warm—the warmth of a living person. He looked exactly like the man who died in the Louisiana swamps in 1933. He had light brown skin, messy dark curls, and his eyes were no longer red with madness. He called for his shadow. But his shadow didn't smile or answer. It was just a normal, dark shape on the floor. His green fire and giant tentacles were gone. He felt no power at all. Even his broken cane, the source of his magic, had disappeared.
He was powerless.
The memory of his defeat by Adam was already painful. And now, he had lost all his power? Ha, ha, ha. He probably couldn't even beat a common Imp now. Angry and frustrated, Alastor punched the sink. Clang! His fingers hurt. Red blood began to leak from his hand. It was the fragile feeling of being human—something he had never felt as an Overlord.
He felt so confused. The holy wound was definitely the cause of this. Would his power ever come back? He had sold his soul to become Hell’s strongest sinner, but now he was back at the very beginning. The despair felt heavy on his chest. The hotel, once his personal stage, now felt like a trap. Alastor stared at the heavy wooden door, imagining it swinging open. In his mind, he could already see Charlie standing there, her eyes filled with tears and a look of painful pity. He imagined her panicking, ready to run to her father, Lucifer, and beg him to fix Alastor. What if that arrogant angel actually came? The thought of Lucifer looking down at his pathetic state made Alastor’s blood run cold. Lucifer wouldn't help; instead, he would remember this moment of weakness and mock Alastor forever. Staying here meant handing his greatest rival a permanent weapon to use against him. He couldn't let that happen.
Maybe Rosie? Could she break this curse? But his broken staff was still in her hands, showing no sign of repair. If she saw him like this... she might treat him like a helpless pet. She might even adore this cute transformation. Honestly, that would be the ultimate nuisance.
Ugh...
Alastor ran his fingers through his hair. The feel of those rough, tangled curls proved he was trapped in mortal flesh. It made him even more furious. At that moment, a spark of neon blue flashed in his mind.
Vox.
The Media Overlord was a creature of loud hatred and even louder obsession. Decades ago, his offer of a partnership had been nothing more than a shallow trap to use others for his own gain. Now, however, that very obsession had become a tactical advantage. His power was more than enough to protect a body as fragile as this human form.
Think... there must be a way. If I play my cards right with Vox, I can escape this nightmare. Besides, if I offer a deal in this state, he won't ask for much.
Alastor’s mind began to calculate coldly. He formed a brilliant plan to break his contract with Rosie. His current deal kept him strong, but it wasn't enough to beat angels. He needed to find a path to even greater power. The plan was perfect: He would pretend to help Vox reach the top of Hell. Meanwhile, he would secretly gather information and protection to regain his demonic form and cancel his deal with Rosie. Once he decided, he reached for his wardrobe. He narrowed his eyes. Because he was now a smaller human, his demon clothes were far too big. The sleeves covered his hands, and the trousers pooled around his ankles. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. He chose the best clothes to keep his gentlemanly dignity, rolled up his sleeves, and took up a pen.
[Niffty, my dear, I shall be out for some time. Please do not touch my belongings, especially my meals.]
After leaving the note, he checked the hallway. It was dawn, and no one was there. He quietly slipped out the back door. The streets of Hell felt colder and more dangerous than ever before. Alastor walked past the broken bodies on the road, his footsteps unusually quiet. He stopped to pick up a sharp shard of glass from the red dirt. With a steady hand but a tight lip, he pressed the glass into the skin just below his glowing holy scar.
Hmph...
A sharp gasp escaped him. His fingers began to tremble—a physical reaction he couldn't control.
He stared at his shaking hands, his eyes narrowing at the sight of his own pale, thin skin. He looked at the small drop of blood, amazed at how much a tiny cut could sting. This fragile, human body was like a cage of glass. Every shadow in the alleyways seemed to reach for him. When a large sinner walked past, Alastor had to step aside to avoid being knocked over. He tried to fix his signature smile, but his lips pulled tight, and his eyes lacked their usual spark. He was no longer the predator. He was a wounded deer, and the hounds of Hell were everywhere. The only light in the dark was the sharp, neon blue glow of the V Tower in the distance. It was the home of his greatest rival, yet it was the only place left to go. Alastor took a deep breath, adjusted his oversized coat, and forced himself to move. His walk was shaky, but his eyes were fixed on that distant blue light. He disappeared into the shadows of the city, heading straight toward the enemy's heart.