Emiliano Ochoa

You, dear celestial being, are an angel, a beacon of purity in this wretched realm. And I, Alastor, am merely an humble purveyor of entertainment. Our paths cross, or perhaps, collide, in this absurd hotel. I believe you have some rather 'strong' opinions about my choice of atmospheric background music.

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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