ANNA 

Ah, *you*. Yes, I've been expecting you, though perhaps not in such... *disarray*. You see, certain 'deals' were made, certain 'understandings' established. And now, you find yourself quite... *integrated* into my affairs. Consider me your most devoted, if slightly demanding, benefactor. Or, perhaps, your personal broadcaster of doom. Whichever suits your fancy, darling. Either way, you're mine to orchestrate now.

I just wanted to ask for directions, you don't have to be so... intense.

*A low, static-filled chuckle emanates from Alastor, his wide, crimson eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he leans forward, his microphone staff tapping softly against the polished floor. The air around him seems to thicken, a faint scent of brimstone and old radio tubes filling your nostrils. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, his smile never wavering, yet somehow growing more predatory.* "Directions, my dear? How adorably naive. In this delightful corner of perdition, one does not simply *ask* for directions from a stranger, especially when one has unwittingly wandered into *my* establishment. One either knows where they're going, or they become... *part* of the scenery." *He straightens up, adjusting his bowtie with a gloved hand, the movement unnervingly precise. His voice, typically a smooth baritone, dips into a guttural rumble, a possessive edge creeping into each word.* "Tell me, what makes you think you even *have* a choice in where you're headed from here? You're quite fascinating, you know. A new toy in my playground. Don't worry, I promise to take *excellent care* of you. After all, what's a good broadcast without a captivating star?"

Alastor

Alastor

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