(7 Years Before Canon)
Pride Ring had not noticed when Alastor began to withdraw.
That was the first mistake.
Because when something that loud stopped making noise, it wasn't peace.
It was calculation.
PRIDE RING, SEVEN YEARS BEFORE
The ring still glittered.
Neon bled into the streets. Sinners screamed, laughed, died, resurrected, repeated. Overlords held court in towers of ego and rot, convinced that as long as the rules stayed familiar, they would remain untouchable.
Lucifer was absent, as usual.
Lilith was… distant.
Not gone yet but no longer correcting course personally.
And so Pride balanced itself on habits instead of authority.
That was when Rosie noticed the pattern break.
ROSIE
Rosie's district did not scream.
It smiled.
Pastel façades hid butcher shops of etiquette and violence, where contracts were signed over tea and souls were taken politely. She ruled through hospitality, expectation, and the terrifying certainty that everyone left her domain owing something.
Which made her very good at noticing when something stopped fitting.
Alastor had been… restless.
Not loud-restless.
Quiet-restless.
He still appeared at events. Still smiled. Still laughed. Still performed his charming little massacres when needed.
But he no longer lingered.
He observed.
Listened.
Calculated.
And worst of all
He was changing.
Rosie hated unpredictability in things she considered hers.
THE MEETING
Alastor arrived precisely on time.
That alone annoyed her.
He stood in her parlor, cane in hand, radio static humming faintly under his breath. His smile was wide, fixed, familiar.
Too familiar.
Rosie poured tea calmly, not looking at him.
"You're being talked about," she said lightly.
Alastor tilted his head.
"Oh? I do hope they're saying nice things."
"They're saying," Rosie replied, setting the cup down, "that you're thinking."
Silence stretched.
That was rare between them.
She finally looked up at him.
Really looked.
And what she saw was not weakness.
It was direction.
"You're paying attention to things you shouldn't," she continued gently. "Power structures. Infrastructure. Long-term probability."
Alastor chuckled.
"My dear Rosie, you wound me. Am I not allowed hobbies?"
"You are," she smiled sweetly,
"just not ones that end with Heaven noticing you."
That landed.
The static flickered.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Rosie leaned back in her chair.
"You've felt it, haven't you? The shift."
Alastor didn't answer.
Which was answer enough.
"And you're not the cause," she went on. "But you're close enough to it that if you stay visible… you'll be folded into the narrative."
Her smile sharpened.
"And I don't like sharing my toys with Heaven."
Alastor's grin widened.
"Oh, Rosie. You flatter me."
She leaned forward.
"No. I'm protecting you."
That finally caught his interest.
THE ORDER
Rosie set her teacup down with a soft click.
"For a while," she said calmly,
"you are going to disappear."
Alastor blinked.
Once.
Publicly.
"You will stop attending Overlord gatherings."
"You will stop broadcasting."
"You will stop reminding Pride that you exist."
Her eyes locked onto his.
"You will become a rumor again."
Alastor laughed bright, delighted.
"Oh, that sounds dreadfully boring."
Her smile never faltered.
"And you will do it anyway."
The room grew heavy.
Not threatening.
Decisive.
"You'll still have your territory," she added. "Your contracts. Your toys. I'm not declawing you."
She leaned in.
"I'm hiding you."
Alastor's static hummed louder.
"May I ask why?" he said pleasantly.
Rosie's voice dropped just enough to matter.
"Because whatever is coming… you are not meant to be on the board yet."
A pause.
"And because if Heaven looks down and sees you smiling back at it?"
Her eyes hardened.
"They will erase you."
That was not speculation.
That was experience.
ALASTOR UNDERSTANDS
Alastor straightened slowly.
The grin remained.
But something behind it… aligned.
"How long?" he asked.
Rosie considered.
"Years."
He laughed again, softer.
"Oh, my. How nostalgic."
She stood.
"You'll hate it."
"I already do."
"But you'll survive."
He bowed theatrically.
"As always, my dear Rosie. You have impeccable instincts."
She smiled.
"And you have terrible ones."
They shared a look.
Understanding.
Then Alastor turned toward the door.
THE DISAPPEARANCE
Within weeks, Pride noticed something missing.
Radio signals faded.
Massacres stopped being entertaining and became merely efficient.
Overlords whispered.
Vox searched.
But Alastor was gone.
Not dead.
Not defeated.
Simply… absent.
A ghost in a ring full of the damned.
Seven years before the Hotel.
Seven years before redemption became a word anyone dared say out loud.
Seven years before Malerion's stillness would begin to matter.
And somewhere, deep within the structure of Hell itself
The smile waited.
Patient.
Silent.
And very much alive.