Hell was not what he expected. No, for a man like Alastor it was immeasurably worse. To reach the door of the "Happy Hotel," a mooncalf project if there ever was one, had taken him weeks. Weeks! Days spent hiding in terror, scarpering refuse or simply bearing the pangs of hunger. Countless ignoble deaths beneath the feet of fools. It burned at him worse than salt on blood or acid on flesh; in hell, he was nothing.

This moment was like any other in that regard. The doorbell, a triviality for the milquetoast sinners spared this curse, hung so far out of reach it may as well have been heaven. The door itself was thick, heavy wood, which meant he'd have no hope of ever budging it even if it were unlocked. And the thought of anyone hearing him hammer on the door with all his might? Pure comedy. No, he would need to once again debase himself to act the size he had been given, to sneak in through some crack or another.

Alastor sneered in disgust. God, Satan---whatever power that be may think him vermin, but Alastor refused to bend. Even as he meticulously studied the outer walls for the tiniest opening, even as he shredded his arms on the rusted metal of a basement window left ajar, even as every bone in his body shattered on impact with the dusty basement floor. Even then, his mind was turning behind grit teeth. How best to turn the empty-headed child of the most powerful being in hell into his pawn? What stories would engender sympathy and later, fondness? Which ploy would it be that he could make the one, small deal that would entangle her into his power forever?

By this point, he was so used to the agony of his bones scraping through burning flesh to blindly mend themselves that he truthfully didn't need distraction. The immortality of unlife had taught him to embrace pain. To use it to sharpen himself further.

Was it irony that in the "ring of pride," his tormentor had revealed their own hubris?

As soon as he could crawl, he did. Blood mixing with grime to leave a trail not unlike some slug's. In no time he was shambling towards the exit, its door loose in the frame enough that Alastor knew he could easily slip through the halo. And after too many stairs, and the final pains of a complete recovery, slip through he did.

Now with light to see by, Alastor found the hotel was as pitiable on the inside as it appeared from the outside. The ratty carpet bore innumerable stains, some dark enough to be confused with the shadows from the peeling wallpaper and defunct lamps, and the traitor part of his mind couldn't help but linger to see if any of the smaller ones bore a human likeness. A lifetime ago, it would've been the sheer size of the hallway---seemingly a mile long and too many stories tall---that would've stolen his attention. But he had long since gotten used to the new perspective. And so long as he did not forget what it was like to stand comfortably in spaces such as this, it was all the more power to him.

The too-familiar thud of footsteps broke him from his thoughts. While he would like to imagine they belonged to Charlie Morningstar, he could not risk such an assumption. Distant mind or not, Alastor always kept his bearings. He knew that at this point in the hallway, he had no hope of returning to the basement in time, and that his cover would be minimal. His only tactic would be to keep still and make himself small, counting on his colours to blend in-

"Another one?" The magnitude of the voice demanded attention, like an announcer at a stadium caring not for the immense distance between them. Alastor's eyes fixed upon the other's own, and he knew at once that it was not the youngest Morningstar.

In the span of a few racing heartbeats, the woman with grey-purple skin had cleared the distance with as many strides. As soon as her shadow and curtain of silver hair fell over him, she swept him up in a calloused fist---hard enough that the wind was knocked out of him and his shoulder threatened to pop. Although what was hard to him he knew now to be positively gentle; if she had grasped him with any real firmness, his shoulders would be a good bit less broad.

In truth, he would've preferred that she was firm. At least then he could hope that she was inexperienced.

Uncomfortably warm, humid air spilled past him as she spoke. "Looks like you need a bath, too." Despite looking directly at him, he knew she wasn't speaking to him. No, her remaining eye (for the other was presumably destroyed beneath the eyepatch) showed no hint of emotion or care, impassive like the rest of her visible face.

Having only had a second to gather his thoughts through all of this, he shouted as soon as he could feel her hand descending. "Wait!"

The nameless woman stopped and quirked an eyebrow at him. Like other sinners he'd had the misfortune of being with in the past, she was not amused. Thankfully, that same experience guided him in what best to say.

"Can I see Ms. Morningstar?" Short, to the point, and appropriately deferential. It made him sick.

A sudden gust of wind from an unladylike snort tussled his hair. Partially obscured by fingers that encircled him up to his neck, each as wide as he was, he found the ghost of a smirk on her face. "You will," she said, and left it at that by dropping her fist to her side and walking.

No care was given to him as she swung her arms with each stride. By reasonable standards, her pace and motion was sedate, but to Alastor, each swing was nauseating. The heat of her fist already had him sweating yet his own perspiration was immediately lost in hers. You can't appreciate how much the body sweats---even when you think it shouldn't---until you find yourself pressed against a giant's palm to see their individual pores like little springs and feel those waters spill beneath you. Only for it all to disappear as soon as you're separated because the amount is so insignificant that the air can steal it away with a whisper.

He was dropped in a sink, and no sooner than he realized that, the woman had turned on the water, the splash from her testing the temperature instantly soaking him. Unceremoniously, she picked him up and began to rub her fingers against him, dispassionately scrubbing away the filth as he coughed and sputtered under the onslaught. When she finished, she carelessly dried him with a rough cloth and dumped his limp, exhausted body-

right onto a pile of other sinners. Alastor would've liked to pretend this was a novel situation for him, but it was anything but. Like almost every other time, the vessel was steep and made of glass, and the sinners who found themselves trapped inside had naturally organised themselves into those who would be trodden upon, and those who reluctantly rubbed shoulders. His impact had knocked a few of the latter down, an advantage he was quick to leverage as he pushed his tired body to kick at an exposed head and stomp on the chest of another as he stood up.

A jackal sinner grabbed him by the shirt, snarling in his face at Alastor's affront. But Alastor simply retained his sneer, gripped their shoulder in return, and bashed his head into their disgusting snout. He could feel eyes watching him, but that was fine; it would save him trouble. With practiced ease from a life so long ago, he choked out the jackal sinner, and was left to stand alone as one could be in this situation. Everyone who could had returned their stares to the woman.

She was cooking. Alastor was tall enough to see that much through the crowd. The lack of panic told him that she at least wasn't cooking sinners, but depending on the chef, that could sometimes be the more merciful exit. With nothing to do, Alastor waited, watching the unambitious waste dirty her hands with labour and drinking in the sounds of despair from below him. If only it were by his own hands...