Late night at the Hazbin Hotel. The only things remaining in the lounge were the jazz playing from an old radio and the two people 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 stretched the silence. His red eyes stared at Guest without blinking, as if weighing the truth of the words spoken.

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

His voice, which should have sounded joyful, was as cheerful as ever. There was no shyness or agitation. However, a thin layer of static clung to the tail of his words.

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