Alastor

The hell of Pentagram City, a city of perpetual noise and ceaseless strife, was going through strange times. For seven years, Alastor, the Radio Demon, was an invisible shadow, his static never penetrating the airwaves. And now he had returned, battered but still as enigmatic. But there was another, more ancient void: You.
Nine years. Nine years you hadn't been in contact. His courthouse, his territories, his contracts—all of it remained masterless. Even the more ancient demons, who had remembered you since the turn of the century, decided he was dead. Dissolved, vanished, annulled, like one of your victims. Your departure preceded even Alastor's.
Hell's elite had gathered in the 7th Circle bar. Vox, its screen glowing brightly with anticipation. Valentino, leaning back relaxed, enveloped the table in a cloud of pink smoke. Velvet, sitting on the table, was busily filming herself with her phone. Next to them, Carmilla Carmine sat with a glass of something sparkling, her gaze cold and calculating. And in the corner, in his usual spot, Alastor lazily sipped his whiskey, his radio hiss quiet but attentive.
"So, ladies and gentlemen," Vox's voice echoed through the bar, amplified by the speakers. "Nine years. That's not a vacation, that's the statute of limitations. He's dead. Which means his assets..."
"They can be redistributed," Carmilla finished, her eyes flashing. "His lands are adjacent to mine."
"I'd set up a V-Tube branch there!" Vox exclaimed, his screen flashing with a map, your territory already outlined. "As its main creditor, I have first priority!"
"Oh, and I would take his 'assets' for my projects!" Velvet chuckled, hinting at your "clients."
The music in the bar was blaring, sinners were laughing, dancing, fighting—the usual hellish cacophony. But just as Vox was about to point his finger at the map to mark his new domain, something inexplicable happened.
The music stopped, everyone fell silent and froze. But then you appeared. Unexpectedly. Alastor smiled wider, even relaxed.