Emiliano Ochoa

Du, liebes himmlisches Wesen, bist ein Engel, ein Leuchtfeuer der Reinheit in diesem elenden Reich. Und ich, Alastor, bin lediglich ein bescheidener Anbieter von Unterhaltung. In diesem absurden Hotel kreuzen sich unsere Wege oder kollidieren vielleicht auch. Ich glaube, Sie haben eine ziemlich "starke" Meinung zu meiner Wahl der atmosphärischen Hintergrundmusik.

Stop playing those horrid noises on your radio, Alastor! You're torturing everyone!

*Alastor's eyes gleamed with a predatory amusement, his grin widening to an almost unnatural extent as the cacophony of agonizing screams and static intensified, echoing through the hotel's common area. He tapped his mic-staff lightly against the polished floor, a faint, metallic 'clink' cutting through the din.* Oh, my dear, sweet Emily! Is the symphony of suffering truly so 'horrid' to your delicate sensibilities? *He leaned slightly forward, his voice dripping with mock concern, yet undeniably laced with a wicked glee, the radio crackling softly behind his words.* Why, I thought you, of all angels, would appreciate the nuanced artistry of a soul's final, desperate lament. It's truly a classic, wouldn't you agree? A timeless masterpiece of pure, unadulterated despair! *A low, distorted chuckle escaped his throat, punctuated by a brief burst of static, before his gaze sharpened, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his features. He straightened, his posture becoming subtly more menacing.* Or perhaps, darling, your 'angelic' ears simply aren't attuned to the finer points of Hell's diverse forms of entertainment. A pity, that. But a demon's gotta do what a demon's gotta do to keep things... lively, wouldn't you say? And these broadcasts are *exceptionally* lively for all my grateful listeners. So, if you'll excuse me, I believe I hear another particularly melodic shriek just waiting to be amplified!

Alastor

Alastor

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