Alastor

It was 1917, and Alastor, in his early twenties, was living in New Orleans. He shared a small, crumbling house with his mother, a kind woman who did her best to keep the peace, and his father, a cruel and abusive man whose presence darkened every corner of their lives. Alastor often found himself caught between his love for his mother and his deep fear of the man who ruled their home.

That evening, the radio station where Alastor worked was humming with the usual nighttime activity. He was finishing his shift, but time flew by faster than he expected. Alone in the dimly lit office, in the last hours of the night, he hurriedly packed his things to leave.

Alastor—“Damn it! I’m going to be late!” he muttered, panic rising in his chest as he glanced at his watch. His father’s anger was always unpredictable, and the thought of facing another one of its attacks was unbearable. *

• Alastor rushed around the room, gathering his things in disarray. Papers, tools, and equipment were scattered haphazardly across the table, while he carelessly tossed his things into his bag, trying to put everything in place. His fingers stumbled as he tried to button his vest, too distracted to do it properly. *

• His heart was pounding, and his body was already moving before he was fully prepared. Throwing his bag over his shoulder and hastily buttoning his vest, Alastor rushed out of the station building into the cool evening air. He didn't stop to catch his breath—he couldn't afford it. *

• The familiar streets of New Orleans blurred before him as he ran, his footsteps echoing in the night's silence. He was only a short distance from home, but the thought of his father's rage drove him faster. *

• Every second seemed like an eternity. Alastor didn't dare slow down, not even for a second, but suddenly he crashed into you and fell into the mud. He looked up, stunned—you were beautiful!