Chapter Text
“Will you fucking shut up?!” Vox roared from his room, his voice tearing through the walls and scraping up toward the floor above, where Valentino’s whores were clearly busy filming some new, “innovative” filth—loud enough to rattle the ceiling. Their shrill laughter and exaggerated moans blended with the cheap, metallic soundtrack bleeding through the vents, a chaos that only twisted the knife already lodged deep in Vox’s ego.
Everything pissed him off lately. Everything. Everyone. He used to have hell wrapped neatly in the palm of his hand, running his empire with smirking precision, and yet that smug bastard—the fucking Radio Demon—had tricked him yet again. The memory of Alastor’s stupid, condescending smirk flashed before him, the humiliation searing his pride like acid. He still felt the sting of that single tear he’d let slip in front of the entire damned population of Hell, and worse—in front of Alastor of all people. His ego lay in shards, his image shattered beyond repair. Now he was nothing but another pathetic sinner, a disgraced has-been hiding in his room because Hell had canceled him overnight, because even his own crew refused to risk their reputations letting him spiral again, because Alastor was able to brake him—again—after all this fucking time.
He pushed himself off the bed with a choked growl, the static around his antennas crackling out of control until he forced himself to breathe, slow and deep, working his jaw as his hands curled into fists. He just needed to feed Shock.wav and regain some semblance of order, but before he could take a single step, his door slammed open hard enough to shake dust from the frame. Velvet stormed in with her usual flair. “Ugh! What the fuck is that smell? Open a fucking window, you freak!” she shrieked, one hand dramatically clamped over her nose as if she were about to faint.
“This is my room. It’ll stink if I want it to stink,” he snapped back, his voice low and brittle. Velvet rolled her eyes so hard she nearly spun them out of her skull.
“Still playing boss, are we?” she said, folding her arms with a sour little pout. “You need to be thankful we didn’t throw your ass onto the streets.”
“You are not doing me a favor, Velvet!” he shot back, the static around him pulsing sharply. “You and that psycho moth ruined my entire fucking plan—so don’t you dare act like I’m the one to blame.” The words spat out of him like sparks.
“Your plan,” she repeated slowly, with that grating mixture of mockery and disbelief, “was to blow up all of Hell. Including me, Val, and you, genius. So maybe you should start by thanking us for saving your pathetic little life.” She turned toward the door as if the conversation bored her, but Vox couldn’t stand letting her leave with the final word.
“I was always better off without you two!” he barked, his voice cracking around the edges.
Velvet paused in the doorway, turning just enough for her glowing eyes to slice through the dimness of his room like neon blades. “Very well then,” she said, her tone sugar over venom, “no one’s holding you back. Leave… asshole.” She didn’t wait for his reply, didn’t even glance at him again, just stormed out and slammed the door hard enough to rattle every cheap frame hanging on the walls.
Vox stomped his foot in blind fury, the impact shaking through the floor as if he could stomp out the humiliation burning in his chest. His ego screamed louder than whatever was left of his logic, drowning out every thought except one. Before he knew it, he had grabbed his coat and marched out of the Vee Tower, stepping into Hell’s open air for the first time since the accident.
It was true he wasn’t in his best shape. His body still felt misaligned, like someone had reassembled him with the wrong set of screws. It had taken far too long to reconnect his screen to the rest of his body, and half his internal wiring still buzzed with unstable signals thanks to Alastor chewing through his fucking cables during the battle. But despite all that, he reminded himself that he was still an overlord. Still someone to be feared. That should have been enough to calm him, enough to steady the static thrumming unevenly around his frame. No need to be stressed, he told himself as he walked through the familiar streets he had once commanded so easily, streets that used to light up with respect—or at least fear—the moment he passed. Yet now… now something pressed tight against him, a suffocating weight settling on his chest as if the air itself resented him taking up space.
The longer he walked, the more sinners turned their heads, whispers multiplying around him like a spreading infection. “Isn’t that the TV man?” someone asked with a note of cruel amusement. “Aw, not him again—fucking liar,” another chimed in. “He’s fucking pathetic,” a third added, and Vox felt his jaw lock so tightly the static crackled across his screen.
“Shut up, you fuckers! I’ll destroy you!” he snapped, voice pitching into something desperate and unsteady. But not one of them flinched. If anything, they looked entertained, emboldened by the fall of someone they’d once feared.
“I liked you better when you were a damn tablet,” one sinner sneered, stepping forward before casually dumping a full cup of coffee over Vox’s head. The scalding liquid splattered across his screen, making his image glitch violently. “You fucking amateur!” Vox growled, electricity sparking off him, but before he could lift a hand to retaliate, the crowd surged.
A dozen sinners lunged at once, tackling him to the ground with humiliating ease. Hands tore at him from every direction, ripping out loose cables, yanking apart delicate connections, leaving jagged pain shooting through him with every pull. “Get off me!” he snarled, struggling against the weight of their bodies, but he was outnumbered and far too damaged to fight back the way he once could. They pinned him to the street like he was nothing, a broken novelty they could dismantle piece by piece.
It happened in seconds—the crowd flung backward all at once with a burst of bright, holy force that washed the street in harmless warmth. When Vox blinked through the glitching haze, the princess of Hell herself, Charlie Morningstar, was standing over him, offering a gentle hand toward his battered frame.
“Are you alright?” she asked softly.
Vox slapped her hand away and forced himself upright, swaying only slightly. “I don’t need your pathetic mercy, princess. Leave me the fuck alone.” He brushed at the dirt on his torso with stiff, jerking motions, trying desperately to look composed, but the coffee still dripped down the flickering surface of his screen, and several torn cables dragged along the ground like exposed organs.
Charlie didn’t seem offended. If anything, she looked even more worried, though she tried to mask it beneath her bright, determined smile. “Well,” she began gently, “I was going to tell you that we still have some… um… available VIP rooms at the hotel. If you ever need a place to stay, you know…” She rocked lightly from one foot to the other, hopeful despite his glare.
Vox snickered bitterly. “What makes you think I’ll join your tacky hotel? You think I’m that desperate? Pfft.” He crossed his arms, trying to project the smugness he no longer felt.
“Well, first of all it’s completely free,” she said with a shrug, “and the people there are really kind. No one will pick on you. And… Alastor is there.” She mumbled the last part as if she already regretted mentioning it.
The moment that name passed her lips, Vox’s eyes sharpened, glowing with something between betrayal and obsession. He froze, every flicker on his screen pausing mid-glitch. A long, quiet moment slipped between them before Vox’s lips curled into a thin, broken smirk.
“Sign me up.”
“Come on in… here’s your key.” Charlie dropped a small brass key into Vox’s hand, her smile bright and unshakeable as he stepped into the lobby. Vox barely acknowledged her; his eyes were darting around, taking in every corner of the hotel with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. Sinners milling around froze the moment they noticed him, lowering their voices to harsh whispers, their gossip flying through the air like static. But because Charlie walked beside him, no one dared say anything out loud—just those hushed, venom-laced whispers that pricked the edges of his pride. His screen buzzed with annoyance.
“Why are there so many sinners here?” he muttered, as if the very sight of them gave him a headache.
Charlie clapped her hands together excitedly, spinning around herself like a ballerina. “After we proved redemption is possible, lots of demons came to test their abilities! We’re helping so many people grow.”
Vox stared blankly at her, then looked down at the tiny key in his hand as if it personally offended him. “Where is my room?” he asked flatly, cutting off her hopeful speech without hesitation.
“Top floor, on the right,” she answered, still smiling even though his disinterest was painfully obvious.
“And where’s Alastor’s room?” Vox added immediately, his tone shifting from bored to laser-focused.
Charlie’s smile wavered. She let out a tiny, nervous laugh. “First floor… but he’s rarely there.”
Vox sighed hard enough that static rippled across the surface of his screen. “Then where is he?”
“In his radio tower, probably…” she admitted carefully.
“This fucker,” Vox muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m going to my room. Forget that I’m here.” He didn’t even give her a chance to add anything before heading toward the stairs.
Normally he would have teleported without a second thought, but he didn’t trust his powers—hell, he barely trusted his body to function properly without glitching out. So he trudged up the stairs manually, each step grating on his nerves. More sinners whispered as he passed, leaning toward each other with wild grins, gossiping freely now that Charlie wasn’t escorting him.
“Yes! It’s me, you assholes!” Vox snapped over his shoulder. “Never seen a TV guy before? Fuck!”
With that, he shoved open the door to the top floor and finally reached his room.
It wasn’t bad. In fact, annoyingly enough, it was nicer than he expected. The space was large, with high ceilings, polished floors, and a soft, ridiculously fluffy bed. A little smaller than his old room in the Vee Tower but still spacious enough to stretch in. Everything was clean, organized, decorated—sickeningly optimistic, but functional. Vox sat on the bed and exhaled, letting his static calm for a moment. At least here, he can make the place stink without Velvet nagging the shit out of him, he thought.
But it didn’t take long for the boredom to sink in—maybe ten minutes at most—before he found himself wandering down to the hotel’s bar, needing something strong enough to burn through the leftover humiliation choking him. He ended up chugging whiskey like water, his jaw clenched, his screen flickering every so often.
Across the counter, Husk watched him, unimpressed and slightly annoyed in that perpetual “I hate everyone” way of his. Vox downed another glass, then caught the bartender’s stare and snapped, “You gonna give me that look forever, or will you fucking get away from my face?”
Husk didn’t move. “Where’s Angel?” he demanded gruffly, and definitely not politely.
Vox rolled his eyes dramatically. “That stupid whore? How the fuck should I know? He’s Val’s piece of shit, not mine.”
He lifted the glass again, ready to drain it, when Husk suddenly grabbed him by the collar and yanked him halfway over the bar. The movement was so fast Vox didn’t even glitch—his speakers just blared an involuntary burst of static.
“Call him that one more fucking time,” Husk growled low, his claws tightening, “and I’ll feed you to Nuggets.”
Vox smirked in his face, clearly enjoying the reaction despite the danger. He opened his mouth to say something vile—
—but then the lights dimmed.
Shadows rolled across the bar like smoke, pooling on the floor, climbing the walls, swallowing the warm glow of the lamps one by one. A cold, dominating presence slid into the room, thick enough to silence every sinner in the building.
And then, that terrible, honeyed, filtered voice cut through the dark.
“Well, well, sweetheart,” the Radio Demon purred, stretching the word as shadows curled dangerously around Vox’s neck, “back for more?”