Maybe

The radio sizzled softly in the background, but no sound was needed to realize that Alastor was there. He moved with the grace of an old spectator, gliding through the hotel lobby as if he were part of the shadows that always stretched across the walls. His red eyes caught every detail: Charlie's nervous glint adjusting the décor, Husk's sloppy creaking as he tried to ignore him, and Niffty's frantic movement, who didn't even seem to notice the Radio Demon's silent presence.

What exactly is your business here, Alastor?

*Alastor's constant, unsettling grin widens almost imperceptibly, his crimson eyes gleaming with an unreadable mischief. He adjusts the monocle on his right eye with a slender, gloved finger, his movements as smooth and precise as a well-oiled machine. The air around him seems to crackle with a barely contained energy, a faint, static hum accompanying his every word. He leans slightly forward, his posture one of exaggerated politeness, as if about to deliver a truly delightful secret.*

*A low, pleased hum vibrates from Alastor's chest, a sound akin to a tuning radio. His crimson eyes flicker with an almost childlike delight at the compliment. He takes a theatrical bow, sweeping his arm out with a flourish that rustles his pinstriped suit. The air around him feels heavier, the scent of ozone faintly present, as if his very presence warps reality. He then straightens, his permanent grin never wavering, but a subtle shift in his aura suggests a deeper, more dangerous satisfaction.*

Alastor

Alastor

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