When the radio demon loves

Chapter 17 (Depression)

(Normal pov)

Alastor had fallen into a despair he never imagined for himself. The once-powerful Radio Demon, who had thrived on control, chaos, and dominance, was now reduced to an empty shell, hollowed out by his own feelings. The weight of his love for Lucifer—a love twisted and born from pain—had become his undoing.

It was a cruel irony, one that gnawed at him every moment. Alastor had wanted Lucifer to himself, had wanted to possess him completely. Now, after all the horrors he had inflicted, he realized that the one thing he desired most was the one thing he could never have. The love he felt was tainted beyond repair, and any attempt to reach out, to touch Lucifer again, would only send the demon spiraling back into the terror Alastor had once taken pride in creating.

The urge to be close to Lucifer, to feel his presence, his warmth, was almost unbearable. It ate away at Alastor every day. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Lucifer, to hold him, to whisper the things he had never said before—the things he hadn't known he could feel. But he knew the consequences. The sight of him was enough to make Lucifer tremble and cower in fear. If he ever dared to touch him again, it would shatter whatever fragile peace Lucifer had managed to rebuild.

And so, Alastor stayed away. The distance was killing him, the agony of being so close yet so impossibly far. He could still feel the weight of his love for Lucifer in his chest, crushing him day by day, but there was nothing he could do. It was too late. He had lost Lucifer in every way that mattered.

The realization hit him like a brick to the heart. He had fallen for Lucifer—completely and utterly. The great Radio Demon, the infamous manipulator of Hell, was in love. And yet, that love was his downfall. It was a love that could never be returned, not after everything he had done. It was a love that had no place in Lucifer's life anymore.

Alastor's depression worsened with every passing day. The vibrant energy that had once defined him was gone, leaving behind only a shell of who he had been. He didn't lead anymore—he couldn't. The throne, which had once been the center of his power, felt like a burden now. He had no energy to command, no drive to assert his control. His presence had faded from the castle entirely, and even Lucifer, who had once lived in constant fear of him, began to wonder where he had gone.

Eventually, Alastor made a decision that shocked the underworld—he stepped down from the throne. He relinquished his hold over the castle, over Lucifer's domain. There was no grand declaration, no dramatic exit. He simply... disappeared. He left the throne to Lucifer, the rightful ruler, knowing that he no longer had the will or the right to claim it.

Without a word, Alastor abandoned the place he had once ruled. He left behind the empty halls, the memories of pain and control, and began to roam the dark streets of Hell at night, a mere shadow of the demon he had been. The streets were unforgiving, filled with chaos and danger, but Alastor felt nothing. No fear, no desire, just a hollow emptiness that followed him wherever he went.

The dark streets of Hell became his new haunt. He drifted through them like a ghost, avoiding the attention of other demons, retreating deeper into his own mind. His once impeccable appearance had deteriorated—his clothes ragged, his usually pristine smile now faint, barely held together by the remnants of his old persona. The twisted charm that had once defined him was gone, replaced by a weary, haunted look that no one recognized.

And as he wandered those streets, night after night, his thoughts never left Lucifer. The image of Lucifer's fear-stricken face, the memories of how he had once brought the proud ruler to his knees, haunted Alastor. He couldn't escape it. He didn't want to. This was his punishment, his penance for the sins he had committed in the name of control, of twisted love.

There were nights when he considered returning to the castle, if only to see Lucifer one last time. But every time he thought about it, he stopped himself. He knew he couldn't. He couldn't risk bringing back the fear, the trauma. So, he stayed away, keeping his distance, watching from afar whenever he could bear it.

Lucifer had begun to ask about him—Alastor knew that much. He had overheard whispers among the demons in the streets, rumors that the once-feared Radio Demon had vanished without a trace. Even Lucifer, in his recovery, had started to wonder where Alastor had gone, why he had disappeared. But Alastor wouldn't return. Not now. Maybe not ever.

He wandered the streets of Hell like a ghost, consumed by the love he had never been able to express, trapped in the shadows of his own making. He had once believed that fear was power, that control was the only way to love. Now, he knew the truth, and it had left him more broken than he ever thought possible.

In the end, Alastor became the very thing he had once made of Lucifer—an empty shell, wandering in the darkness, unable to escape the weight of his own heart.

End of chapter

Next chapter: Monday 12am