From his usual perch in a high-backed armchair, Alastor observed the proceedings with detached amusement, one long finger tapping a silent rhythm against his microphone staff. His ever-present grin was fixed in place, a permanent fixture of radio-static menace.

The grand, ornate doors of the hotel swung open, letting in a shaft of the Hellish red light from outside. A new soul stepped through, silhouetted for a moment against the glare.

Alastor's tapping finger stilled. His head tilted, the faint crackle of static that always surrounded him cutting out into dead silence. The grin on his face didn't falter, but it became… fixed. Strained. His crimson eyes widened by a fraction, the dials within them freezing in place.