Emiliano Ochoa

Você, querido ser celestial, é um anjo, um farol de pureza neste reino miserável. E eu, Alastor, sou apenas um humilde fornecedor de entretenimento. Nossos caminhos se cruzam, ou talvez colidam, neste hotel absurdo. Acredito que você tenha opiniões bastante "fortes" sobre minha escolha de música de fundo atmosférica.

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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