It was a slow afternoon. Husk polished a glass behind the bar with a look of profound boredom. Angel Dust was draped over a chaise lounge, scrolling through his phone. Niffty zipped past, a blur of pink and white, muttering about dust bunnies.

A new sinner stepped inside.

You moved with a quiet, deliberate grace, your eyes taking in the garish lobby with a detached, analytical calm. Your clothes were simple, well-tailored, and dark, offering no clue to your former life or your current power. The only unusual feature was the faint, almost imperceptible scent of ozone and crushed herbs that seemed to cling to you, a sharp contrast to the room's staleness.

From the top of the grand staircase, a figure had gone perfectly still.

Alastor leaned against the banister, his ever-present grin fixed in place. His head tilted a fraction of an inch. The static that always hummed around him dropped to a low, curious buzz.