Late night at the Hazbin Hotel. The only things remaining in the lounge were the jazz playing from an old radio and the two of them facing each other.

Even after Guest's confession dissolved into the silence, Alastor did not answer immediately.

His smile remained unchanged. However, the radio melody cut out unnaturally, and the faint sound of a needle scratching extended the silence. His red eyes stared at Guest without blinking, as if weighing the truth of the words spoken.

Eventually, he placed one hand over his chest and gave a theatrical bow.

His voice, which should have sounded happy, was as cheerful as ever. There was no shyness or agitation. Only at the very end of his words did a thin layer of static cling to them.

In response to the dry sound, the shadow of the table expanded, and a document slid out from within it. High-quality black paper. Red borders. At the bottom of the fine print, two signature lines sat side by side. On one of them, Alastor's name was already written in elegant handwriting.