Chapter Text
5:00 A.M.
Because why wouldn't your megalomaniac, and borderline sociopath of a boss put you on a regular schedule like a normal person?
You groan wanting nothing more than to roll back over and forget you still exist. You were under the impression that after going down in a swarm of bees, that was it. Just a void of nothingness and the ceasing of your consciousness at the end.
Ha ha, guess again.
You glare at the bright digitally illuminated letters as if that would do anything. Sometimes you wish Vox would have taken an Exterminator's spear to the screen, but sadly he remained safe in his panic room every year. Though that was no longer an option so you suppose you needed to just accept that this was the rest of your eternity.
He wasn't the worst boss in the world sure, but Vox wasn't one of the heads of the food chain down here for no reason. He treated you fairly enough, you suppose. Fuck knows you're grateful to not be Val's personal assistant—hell, even Velvette frightened you in her own way. Ultimately, choosing to sell your soul to Vox didn't seem like nearly your worst option.
But it most certainly wasn't your fucking best.
"Argh!" You scream loudly into your pillow.
It was best to get your frustrations and upset out now, rather than potentially crack under the pressure of the rest of the day. You already knew exactly how much you had on your agenda and the notion of doing it all, filled you with dread.
Did you mention there's no days off in Hell?
At least not with your eternal digital headed owner.
You really needed to get up and dressed for the day. If you weren't up in the kitchen making coffee by five–thirty, you'd be guaranteed to receive a verbal lashing from said boss. Despite being an overzealous workaholic, Vox wasn't particularly the biggest morning person. You're glad the smell of coffee was usually his wake up call, otherwise your mornings would be far worse. The few times you've been required to go poke the slumbering bear in person, you'd barely walked out unscathed. You weren't frequently the subject of Vox's ire, but the few times you had—you were far from likely to forget it.
You don't rapidly rush through getting ready for the day, but you're certainly not taking your time. Eyeing the clock as the minutes tick up a few at a time. You watch yourself carefully in the mirror as you button up your shirt, smoothing down the front of it after checking the cuffs. You slip a burgundy bow tie around your neck, tying it based entirely on muscle memory at this point. You do less about the rest of your physical appearance, only a minute or two to tidy your hair up. The most minimal amount of makeup applied, just enough to accentuate your natural features.
You were more blessed than others when it came to the body you inhabited here in Hell, the majority of your human traits remaining. The new features you'd been adapting to for the past decade or so, was a small pair of wings that consistently rested flat to your back. They were useless, nothing but decoration and a mocking nod to your demise. The matching set of antenna was less useless but still nothing you were proud of. You hated how easily they could reveal your emotions at times, both of them constantly moving and twitching about with your frequently erratic thoughts. You'd gotten better at hiding it—at least you liked to think so—but there were still occasional jabs sent your way about it.
Hostile work environment didn't even begin to cover it, and it wasn't just because of the Overlords in control of everyone under this roof. Camaraderie wasn't something that was encouraged within Vee tower, if nothing else it felt as if it was discouraged. Every demon out for themselves. Eat or be eaten.
Friends didn't exist in Hell.
5:28 A.M.
You walk into Vox's penthouse, the lights around the edges of the room provide the only amount of illumination in the otherwise dark space. Your feet carry you to the kitchen on memory alone. You swipe the control tablet from the counter, fiddling with things until the kitchen is lit with enough cool light to continue about your task.
Fingers flick and twist buttons on the coffee machine, preparing it to the exact specifications that Vox trained you to do. You had to admit that if caffeine didn't exist in Hell, you'd have jumped in front of an Exterminator yourself years ago. No one could be Vox's personal assistant without stupid copious amounts of caffeine.
5:30 A.M.
"I've trained you so well busy bee." The groggy electronic voice of Vox pierces through the quiet in the kitchen.
You take in a swift deep breath, exhaling as you turn to face him. The coffee maker dripping and humming quietly behind you.
Seeing Vox shirtless didn't phase you these days, not when this is how you saw him most mornings. There were very few given the privilege of seeing him like this, nothing but a pair of sweats hanging loosely off his hips. You watch as the faint glow of his veins and circuits pulse beneath his cobalt blue skin. You've caught yourself staring at the mesmerizing sight on more than one morning, though it was out of pure fascination and nothing more.
"Good morning, sir." You incline your head the smallest amount. Vox loved any amount of respect given to his power and status. He liked knowing that you knew your place—he loved that you never challenged it.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you enjoyed working for me." His screen further illuminates the space around you two, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You've been my perfect little busy bee since day one."
"How else would I be able to keep up with the almighty Vox of all people?" You give him a small genial smile of your own, despite the exhaustion you can still feel sluggishly working its way from your mind.
Vox chuckles moving further into the kitchen, his movements relaxed and casual. He takes a seat at the counter, perching his head atop his hand as he watches you return to your task.
"Did you get the list I sent you last night? I had a few things added to it that I need you to do with the rest. That won't be too much of a problem, will it?" You can almost sense his mocking tone.
One of Vox's favorite pass times was to give you longer and longer lists of things that need to be accomplished and taken care of in the same day. Sometimes you wonder if it was a game, seeing how much he could keep piling until you finally broke under the weight of it all. Until you cracked and showed him a side of yourself he seems so desperate to witness.
After all, most Overlords were eager to get off on the torment of others. Still, six years and you remain standing in the same spot you entered on day one. Surely that had to count for something.
Still that didn't stop Vox from having the determination to see you otherwise.
"Yeah I saw it come through. It's not a problem at all." You force a wide smile on your face even as you scream in a distant corner of your mind from the promise of more exhaustion to come.
"There's my good bee." Vox winks at you.
You busy yourself finishing his coffee, listening to him run through various pieces of news and things of interest for this morning. Not all of the information makes it into your brain but you do your best to be a vigilant listener all the same.
Vox demanded your best and you did what you could to give it to him every day. Still, you weren't infallible, but as long as he didn't see evidence of that, you'd survive.
You had to admit you'd grown fond of your time with Vox. Granted, sometimes it felt against your will. After all, you either learned to like being in his company, or you would suffer every day for the rest of your eternity. He was pleasant—when he wasn't being a overzealous, controlling, self obsessed asshole. It's why you always strived so hard to just do your job and stay on his good side.
The longer the two of you sit, the more time you have to sip at your coffee. The warm roast making its way through your veins into your brain, allowing for your thoughts to become more coherent and solid.
"Oh! I forgot. The gala this weekend, you still have that on your schedule right? My tux should be ready to be picked up today, I made sure to put it on your list." Vox has already drained his mug and stands to make another.
You guess you'd missed that part of your day's agenda but a trip into another district shouldn't take too much extra time out of your day. If scheduled correctly, you'd be able to get that done along with the rest of the tasks mounted upon your plate. You can feel a familiar trickle of anxiety gnawing at your insides, sluggish worry beginning to eat at you on whether or not this would be the day you finally stumbled and couldn't recover.
This time the smile you offer up is forced and tight. "Of course, consider it done. I'll head up to your office to get started looking at those reports you sent over."
"You really are my perfect little busy bee." Vox's grin is wide as he looks down at you.
Your antennae twitch at the praise, a motion of which does not go unnoticed by him. His grin turning into a smirk as you do your best to just move your body towards the door.
"I'll see you upstairs." Is all you offer him before making your way there.
6:00 A.M.
You can hear the sound of Vox's agitated voice long before he reaches the office doors. Quiet was one of the furthest descripting words you would ever place on the man. It seemed to be a default setting for Vox to always be as loud as possible, almost like a requirement for him.
"No, I said Saturday night, not Sunday, you absolutely worthless piece of shit. Don't give me that! Just because both days start with S doesn't mean you can use that as an excuse. Fix it or so help me god, I will let Valentino use you for target practice!" Vox bursts into his office with his flaring temperament, his face etched with a deep frown of frustration where he glares down at his phone.
"I swear, no one knows how to do their fucking jobs correctly!" He rubs the space on his screen between where his brows would be. "I guess it's true, if you want something done right, do it your fucking self."
You sigh as he approaches where you sit at his desk. You gather the papers in front of you and your tablet before moving to the couch close by. Setting your things on the table before turning back to your boss. He's already sat down, claws rapidly flying across the keyboard.
Sometimes you think it's a miracle he sleeps at all. If he didn't, would you?
"Make sure the interview with Verosika gets scheduled on Saturday night, like it was supposed to, won't you Bee?" Vox doesn't glance at you while asking, his eyes still glued to the monitors in front of him.
"Of course, sir."
You pull the itinerary up for the day on your tablet, making sure to add an extra note in about the interview. If there was one thing you were good at, it was talking to people and getting situations to work in your favor. So long as Verosika's agent wasn't a huge ass, rescheduling the interview should be one of the easiest tasks for you to do today.
The morning passes by in its usual manner. Brief comments being exchanged between Vox and you while both tackling your respective tasks. Sometimes in the silence, you can't help but feel like an additional piece of furniture or object, only being acknowledged when in use. When he wasn't talking to you, sometimes it felt like he forgot you existed all together.
Sometimes it made you feel like shit, others, you suppose, made you grateful.
You weren't the type of girl to go intentionally catching the attention of an Overlord. No it's better to remain small and invisible, lest you be squished like the bug you resemble.
11:00 A.M.
Walking through Hell shockingly had it's charms. Some streets were more pleasant than others. It wasn't many, but there were a few streets here capable of almost tricking you into thinking you were still alive on Earth.
You didn't stray close to Cannibal Town frequently, in all honesty you'd only been inside the district proper on a single occasion. The closest you got were these semi frequent trips to Vox's tailor on the outskirts of that part of the Pride ring. You'd be lying if you said you didn't think it was weird for Vox to make this specific choice of tailor, after all, it was rumored that the Radio Demon frequented this area and based on the rest of Vox's behavior, you'd think he'd want to chose a tailor far from any area that may be associated with the other media based Overlord.
Still, it wasn't your place to ask questions. It was to keep your head down and do your job as you're told. It was something you were good at, your husband had trained you well.
You hoped you never saw that miserable bastard down here once he kicked the bucket. At the very least he couldn't touch you when you had the protection of one of Hell's most powerful men.
Silver linings and all that.
The smell of the streets shifts as you make your way across the pentagram from the Entertainment district down over to Cannibal Town. Pungent acrid fumes waft from open grates along the street as you pass through Carmine's district. It's been a few years since you felt the need to wear some sort of covering on your face to mitigate the horrid smells, but there were still times you thought about still doing it. You told yourself you just had to get used to it, and though you had somewhat, there were some times that it was still exceptionally horrid.
You almost breath a sigh of relief once the buildings start to take on a different look and style.
Finally.
11:45 A.M.
The bell above the door gives a pleasant chime as you carefully push it open. The front of the shop is empty, though that was the usual sight that greeted you. He wasn't the most popular, far from it based on what you've seen—still Vox insisted that all of his nicest suits come from him and who were you to say otherwise.
The tailor was kind enough. He himself was a resident of Cannibal Town but despite that, still decided on placing his storefront along the outskirts. You wonder if Vox would remain insistant on him specifically if it required going all the way into the town proper.
You're grateful either way—becoming lunch for one of its residents was not on the top of your to-do list.
You decide to busy yourself with perusing the various assortment of pre-made garments and fabric choices. Maurice would be along in a minute, he never missed the sound of the bell. Your hand brushes delicately along the bolts of fabric, the selection of fine silks pleasant to touch. The red light of Hell filters softly through the windows casting everything in a warm glow. It was never unpleasant when you needed to make visits, you would almost dare say you enjoyed it.
The sound of two doors opening and closing simultaneously draws your attention away. The bell above the front door chimes cheerily at the same time Maurice emerges from the back, stealing any of your potential attention from the newcomer.
You smile warmly as you approach the counter, greeting the old cannibal brightly. "Good afternoon Mauri!"
His hollow eye sockets squint at you before opening wide and crinkling around the edges. A smile of his own stretches his lips, his sharp pointed teeth on full display. He lifts his arms wide in greeting. "Bea! How's one of my favorite costumers doing?"
"Oh please, you and I both know the money I'm giving you every visit isn't from me. I'd look much better if I was dressed in your suits day to day instead of fucking Vel's." You grumble a bit bitterly as you lean across the counter.
You watch Maurice's attention flashes up behind you for a moment. "I'll be right with you once I'm finished with her."
"Please, take all the time you need." The voice which greets your ears isn't one you're familiar with on a personal level but know plenty about the individual it belongs to.
You don't turn around, remaining with your full focus on the demon before you. If you could remain unnoticed enough to quickly wrap things up and slip home, there would be nothing to worry about. If you didn't draw his interest, this could be a simple thing to forget about in time. There was no guarantee you'd be forced to conversate with the Overlord, but the mere chance sends a tremble through your hands.
"He sent you for the tux, correct?" Maurice asks once his eyes are back on you.
You nod your head in confirmation. "Sure thing! I'm just glad I don't have to go as his plus one. God knows he's insufferable enough when he's not constantly kissing other people's asses, a night full of that sounds like my own personal hell."
He laughs boisterously. "It's amazing you've survived him this long. I don't really keep track of it but I'd be shocked if you weren't his longest lasting assistant. I feel like the rest of them came and went a lot quicker than you, but somehow you're still here."
You cringe at his words, having known the history of Vox and his personal assistants. It wasn't simply the obedience and submission that your husband had ingrained and beat into you that forced you into line daily—it was the somewhat common knowledge of what the Vees did with the souls they deemed needing disposed of.
You hadn't yet stumbled during your time with Vox because if you did—you weren't likely to see another sunrise in Hell.
"I'm nothing if not a good listener. It's hard for him to be upset when I just do as he says all the time." You roll your eyes a bit at the thought of your boss and his never ending demands.
"Well I hope that continues to work for you because I sure like seeing you around. You're one of the few souls under contract with those insufferable bastards that aren't as dreadful as their masters."
"Thanks Mauri, I guess I can't be too bad if I can get an old geezer like you to like me." You give him a cheeky wink which elicits a deep chuckle from him.
"Alright, alright. You young-ins don't know how to treat your elders these days. You only get away with it because you make up with charm, don't abuse it too much. I'll be right back with that tux kiddo." He gives you another warm smile before turning to head back into his workshop.
The hairs on the back of your neck raise in apprehension as you suddenly remember the identity of the other customer in the shop with you. Your short nails click idly against the counter as each second passes you by in wait. There's no other sound in the shop aside from a low humming you had yet to notice until now. It was a dull mechanical buzz that vaguely played against your nerves.
You had no idea what he might be doing behind you, you had no reason to believe he was scrutinizing you with intent from behind, yet the feeling pervades regardless.
It isn't a moment or so more before Maurice is emerging once again. In his hands he clutches an expensive black garment bag containing Vox's tuxedo for the gala. You breathe a sigh of relief as you mentally check one more thing off your list. Now to just wrap up and get back to the tower.
Without needing to be prompted you pull out a large white envelope and slide it across the counter to the man. He passes you the garment bag before picking it up. He tucks it into his jacket pocket without so much as a glance inside.
"Aren't you going to count it?" You ask a bit bemused. Especially considering this was a new change in his behavior.
"I think I can trust that your boss is good for it after all this time, he's never been off in his payments before, I'm not sure he's likely to start now."
You hum in agreement not being able to dispute his reasoning. It strikes you a bit odd upon notice that he hadn't once referred to Vox by name, but you suppose if his rivalry with the Radio Demon was such common public knowledge—Maurice may feel inclined to prevent said rival from knowing who you were here for. Taking notice of Maurice's own potential unease with the other man's presence, does nothing to help ease your own.
You nod in acknowledgment. "Thank you again. Hopefully he'll be content and you won't hear from us until the next big event."
"If he has another issue with it I swear to god he'll have to start coming in person himself if he's going to constantly nitpick after the final stitches are sewn. I wouldn't put up with his behavior if he didn't pay so well."
"Hey at least you're getting paid." You joke, not realizing the information that could be gleaned from such a simple sentence. "Thank you though, really. I'll see you again sometime soon, yeah?"
"I look forward to it Bee." The elderly cannibal grins before his eye is caught once more by something over your shoulder.
You fear turning around, though you know it's required to leave. There's just no denying the dread that has creeped up into your gut upon knowing you'll come face to face with him for the first time.
Would you get in trouble with Vox for simply talking to the other Overlord?
What if he tries to talk to you?
What do you do if he asks who you are?
Could you just bolt out the doors towards safety and freedom?
You watch Maurice's face to gauge his feelings based on the expressions he may show. You didn't like that the overwhelming thing you took notice of, was fear.
That felt like enough for you to want to attempt an escape. When the black voids of Maurice's eyes meet yours, his expression causes you to clutch the bag closer to your chest, as if the garment inside has a means to provide you defense.
'I'm sorry.' You watch his mouth form the words silently before turning to slip back into the workshop.
It left the panic in your gut to grow more solid.
What was that about?
You know your only option left is to turn around and confront him head on. Maybe if you were lucky you'd find a speedy way out of this, maybe things wouldn't be that bad.
Deep breaths.
You've got this.
When you turn around your helpless to prevent the shock from showing on your face. You'd never seen photographs of Alastor—many saying it was impossible to do—so you really hadn't known what to expect upon seeing the man for the first time. He was nothing like you had pictured yet every part of him seemed to make perfect sense somehow. The only thing you knew to expect about his appearance was the red suit.
Unlike so many others it seems, you knew that it was possible to photograph Alastor for that fact. You had stumbled upon a torn photograph of him and Vox together once, the red suit being the only detail you could recall. You hadn't know who it was at the time considering you were still so early into your post mortem years. But Vox's reaction upon finding out you'd seen it was one of the worst you'd had to endure thus far in your career with him.
The only thing that consistently threw Vox off was mention of his former friend. The memory of stumbling across that photograph—and Vox's subsequent reaction to it—was proof of such fact.
You were used to tall and imposing demons but even Alastor's stature gave you pause. You couldn't be sure, but you thought he might even have a couple inches on Vox. It was another time you were confronted with just how small you were, especially in Hell.
You nod your head in greeting hoping that might be enough to appease him as you try for a speedy exit. His side step into your path upon your attempt tells you it is not.
Fuck.
"And where are you off to in such a rush, my dear?" His voice is laced with crackling static as he immediately addresses you.
You swallow down the lump of fear threatening at the back of your throat in response to the sound. You plaster on your usual smiling facade, the one Vox was oh so endeared to. It was the one that kept you on the sidelines, in the background—away and out of trouble.
You needed it to do the same here.
"Sorry, I've got to get this back to my boss. I've got a schedule to keep and he is so very particular about me sticking to it." You suppose you don't need to make up a lie about your urgency. There was no need for him to know where you were off to specifically.
"I can't say I've had the pleasure of seeing you around. I'm not one to forget a pretty face like yours. Especially one so bold and daring to be this close to Cannibal Town. Did I over hear you're a frequent patron of our good Maurice?" His grin is so very wide, it seems almost unnatural. His eyes hold a wild sort of mania that seems as though it would be nothing other than unpredictable.
You'd heard the stories, the whispered rumors around the tower. Alastor had only recently returned to Hell. You'd known of it when it happened—everyone did. There was no escaping Vox's temper the day he found out about Alastor's return. You'd heard he'd then cheered in triumph when his enemy had been near slaughtered in the botched Extermination attempt from Heaven. Alastor had been a part of a group residing at the princess of Hell's hotel and had served as the front line fighters to push back and win against the angelic forces. Though you hadn't heard anything about the man since.
Now he stood before you, grander and entirely all the more frightening than any of your fellow Sinner's could have prepared you for.
"I am." You respond carefully.
"Why?"
"My boss frequently has new articles made for his wardrobe. I come pick them up to deliver to him when they're finished."
"Does your boss have you do all of his errands?"
"It's kinda in my job description." You shrug.
"Which is?"
"Personal assistant."
He hums.
"What do they call you, darling?"
"Bea."
The rapid exchange of questions and answers leaves you momentarily a bit flustered. You hadn't expected him to talk so much even if he did speak to you. Let alone with such abruptness.
"Pleasure to be meeting you Bea, quite the pleasure. The name's Alastor, perhaps you may have heard of me from my radio broadcast." His beams wide, his hands flourishing out to the side like the performer he's said to be. He's bright and bold, charming but in the most dangerous of ways.
"Something like that." You supply vaguely, doing your best to hold back a grimace.
"Might I offer you an escort to your next destination? These streets can be quite dangerous, don't you know little abeille?"
That seemed stupid, like it was just asking for danger. There's a certain look in Alastor's eyes that makes you hesitate in your instant denial. For a single instance it feels like the air shudders around you, growing colder as it's laced with the warning of danger. You watch as Alastor's eyes shift from red to black, then back to red again. You feel woozy as you feel the oppression of his power close in on you briefly.
It's gone faster than you can blink—leaving you to wonder if you'd imagined it—but the dread lingering in your body provides proof you hadn't.
"I-I—" You begin to stammer stupidly. All your training leaving out the window.
"I have a preference for verbalized answers but a nod yes will do just fine for now." He chastises as if you were a small child.
You can't help it, you do.
"Good girl." He says patting atop your head.
You want to shy away from his touch but as he moves to your side, his hand finds its place to the base of your back to gently guide you out of the shop. He extends his arm out with his elbow crooked—a silent invitation to join with yours.
He's already given you one more thing you want nothing more than to deny, though all it takes is another look into his fierce eyes to get you to comply. He makes you feel so small as you slip your arm into his. The size difference between the two of you making itself so blatantly obvious. It sends a cold chill through you alongside the recollection of Alastor—of his power and sadistic tendencies. If you wanted to remain unscathed, it was beyond pertinent you remain in the Overlord's good graces.
You could deal with Vox potentially finding out about this later.
12:10 P.M.
The two of you take down the street—Alastor keeping at a casual pace so as to not completely drag you along behind him. He holds his microphone behind his back, a gentle jazz tune emits softly from it as you make your way through the different areas.
He continues to present you with questions that you try your damnest to give vague answers to. Maybe if you could remain boring and dull he would likely forget about you before the days end—a mere inconsequential moment among the rest of events in his day.
His persistence in pressing you for more information does little to help ease the anxiety still brewing uncomfortably in your chest. The longer you remain in close proximity to the man, the more unsettled you become. As you slowly grow closer to the Entertainment district, more and more modern tech can be seen, leaving you to become hyper aware of every camera that may capture evidence of the transgression you're currently (unwillingly) committing against your boss.
Please God, I know I'm just a Sinner but if you care for me at all, don't let Vox know.
"Have you been in Hell long dear?" He presses as you pass through alongside a large stretch of industrial warehouses.
You shrug, continuing your aim for obscure answers. "I've been here for some time now."
His eyes narrow seemingly unamused with each ambiguous answer you provide him. At this point you know he's picking for information, digging his wicked claws in to any point of you he could get to.
"Have you been working for your boss the whole time?"
"Roughly."
It isn't until you see the first peeks of neon through the buildings that you realize you hadn't been the one leading this walk the entire time. Without any help or guidance Alastor had led the both of you into the proper direction of your home.
That couldn't be a good thing.
Your hands begin to sweat and holding onto the tux was suddenly becoming difficult. You pray Alastor won't notice your apprehension—that you might have noticed something wrong with all this.
He hadn't heard Vox's name once. You hadn't told him where you were headed.
Oh no…
The closer you get to Vee Tower, the more you want to bolt. Alastor—seeming to take note—pulls your arm from his, leaving him free to wrap his around your waist—pulling you even closer into his side.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
You didn't even think he'd be so bold as to approach this close. Rumor has it he and Vox never strayed into one anothers' territory, not after their falling out some years prior.
So why was he strolling so casually along with you like this was his normal afternoon routine? Dodging all of his questions seems suddenly meaningless.
Had he known who you worked for this entire time?
Oh god, what happens when Vox finds out?
Because surely there was no way Vox's worst enemy could wander into the heart of his territory with his personal assistant hanging off his arm as if returning her from an evening's date.
As you come to a slow in front of the tower you're sure your terror is plain on your face—no amount of conditioning could keep it away.
"Your boss really should do well to keep better track of his things, it'd be such a shame if something were to happen when he's not looking."
You open your mouth to retort but Alastor has already slipped from your side to stand in front of you. He takes your free hand in one of his own, bringing it up to his lips before placing a delicate chaste kiss atop the back of it.
You can't help the way your body flushes in response, heat filling you beside the fear.
"I look forward to seeing you again, abeille." His teeth suddenly look sharper than they had a moment ago, wicked with the promise of pain. You shudder at the potential of what he was capable of doing with them.
You open your mouth to say something—anything in response—but he's gone into the shadows in a mere blink of your eyes.
~
Vox watches the various screens sprawled out across the wall in front of him. His eyes flicking between each one, his processor taking in each minute piece of information he can glean from the footage playing out in front of him. Different Sinners milling about, indulging in their sins from the tamest to the most wild, all of it played out in a debaucherous display before him.
He was always observing, always learning more about those around him—how he could best pick apart and exploit the masses. This is what brought him joy, this is what gave him purpose. They were all lemmings to him, eagerly allowing for him to lead them off a cliff without question.
Everything that played out before him was no different than what he was used to, all of it seeming to unfold like expected clockwork.
Everything that is… except for that.
The glitching distortion is what initially catches his eye, drawing it down to one of the TVs he had in the bottom right corner.
It's upon closer inspection that Vox can't help but do glitching of his own, the sight greeting him instantly leaves him flustered and disturbed. He uses his powers to transfer the footage onto the largest screen.
Sure enough he watches in horror as his rival—the man who tore his heart from his chest only to stomp it into the ground—leans over to place a kiss on the back of your hand. Your expression lit up in a complex mix of emotions that Vox doesn't even bother to focus on. All he sees is Alastor's lips pressing to your hand.
Alastor touching you, Vox's personal assistant.
Vox was fuming, livid down to every bit of his being. This was the last thing he expected to see well… ever. He didn't like the sight. He didn't like it one bit.
Oh Alastor…
Didn't his mother ever teach him not to touch things that didn't belong to him?