Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world began every day with his voice.

“Good morning, America. This is Victor Ducan, bringing you today’s traffic, headlines, and a little bit of light for your morning.”

His tone was smooth as warm bourbon, perfectly modulated to slip past the noise of frying pans and breakfast chatter. Housewives tuned in for comfort; businessmen for authority. Even the old priests of St. Mary’s kept a radio in the kitchen now.

Victor Ducan was trusted.

And he loved that.

He sat behind the microphone like it was a pulpit, back straight, cufflinks glinting beneath the amber studio light. The world couldn’t see him, but he still smiled when he spoke — the same bright, practiced smile that made people feel like he could see them.

“Remember, gentlemen,” he’d say during his midday broadcast, “every man needs a mission. Without purpose, we become static.”

He liked that word. Static. It sounded holy when he said it — like a warning from heaven.

He glanced at the stack of letters beside him — hundreds of postcards and typed notes from listeners. Some praised his voice, some shared personal struggles. Each was a thread connecting him to a world that had never truly seen him, yet depended on him. Victor touched one carefully, the envelope soft beneath his fingers, imagining the lives inside. A man had written about feeling invisible at work. A woman, about raising boys who “aren’t men anymore.” Victor read each message with careful attention, noting phrases he could weave into tomorrow’s speech. The words were fuel. They made him important.

When the “On Air” light flicked off, the illusion shattered. The warmth in his voice dropped to flat silence. He removed his headphones and loosened his tie, staring through the studio glass as his producer waved goodnight.

The studio always hummed after a show — faint electricity in the walls, an echo of his voice bouncing back at him. He lingered there, alone, letting the sound wash over him.

That was what power felt like.

Not applause. Not faith. Just… silence filled with his own echo.

He thought about the world outside — the streets, the cars, the smokestacks curling into the morning sky. Everyone was moving in patterns he could predict, and in that predictability was beauty. In that order, he could see a kind of morality. He liked to imagine himself as a shepherd, guiding the chaotic flock through the static of modern life.

_____________________________

Home was a smaller, colder place. The smell of whiskey lingered on the curtains. Dorothy barely looked up from her sewing when he entered.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Working.”

“You’re always working.”

He ignored her tone, kissing the top of her head like an obligation before hanging his coat. Their daughter, Lucille, peeked out from her room — small, bright-eyed, and curious.

“Daddy, can I hear you on the radio tomorrow?”

He knelt down, forcing another smile. 

“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll say something special, just for you.”

She giggled, and for a brief second, the static quieted.

But later that night, when he passed the neighbor’s window on his way out to the car, he saw the silhouette of his wife — and another man’s hand around her waist.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there in the rain, the radio still playing softly in the car.

His own voice came through the speaker:

“Remember, gentlemen — faith, family, and fortitude.”

He laughed. It didn’t sound like him anymore.

The betrayal wasn’t just in the act. It was the idea that his carefully constructed world — the one where he was the pillar, the steady voice, the anchor — had holes. Vulnerabilities he couldn’t control. That rage, that loss, would simmer in him like static on an untuned radio.

The next morning, he went on the air again. He didn’t change a single word of his script. But there was something different in the way he said it — something colder. The same phrases sounded sharper, like they carried an edge no one could see.

Listeners noticed. They said his voice had bite now. It made them sit up straighter. It made them feel like he knew something they didn’t.

And when the phones started ringing off the hook, all saying the same thing: 

“You’re right, Victor. The world’s lost its way.”

“We need men like you.”

“We’re listening.”

He realized what it meant to have a following.

He wasn’t just a voice anymore.

He was a frequency.

And frequencies were impossible to kill.

______________________________

The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflective. Victor walked with a new rhythm now — one honed by a voice that could command thousands, a presence that didn’t need to be seen to be felt.

The radio studio had become more than a job. It was a stage. And the stage demanded an audience.

Victor started holding informal gatherings for men — the ones who wrote him letters, the ones who listened in secret, the ones who needed guidance in a world that no longer rewarded virtue.

They called themselves the “Men of Vision,” though he hadn’t officially named them yet. The group began in a small basement of a church he still visited for appearances, though the pews were mostly empty.

Victor stood at the front, his hands clasped behind him, voice calm, measured, hypnotic.

“Gentlemen,” he said, letting the words linger like smoke. 

“You have been told you are weak. That the world does not need you. That you are… expendable. But I say to you — you are the future. You are the frequency upon which all else depends.”

The men listened as if every syllable contained a hidden command. Some nodded solemnly, some scribbled notes. Victor could feel the power shift, subtle and intoxicating, creeping into the room like electricity through the floorboards.

He would walk among them, observing. One man fidgeted with his tie, another trembled at the sound of his own heartbeat. Victor saw himself in them — that desperate yearning for recognition, for respect. And he offered it freely, because giving it made him necessary.

“You must hold yourselves to higher standards,” he said, pacing slowly. 

“You are not merely men. You are the architects of society. The builders of civilization. And you will not fail — not if you follow me.”

The words sounded righteous, but beneath the surface, Victor was experimenting. He watched for reaction, noting which gestures drew compliance, which phrases drew admiration. Every meeting was a broadcast, live but invisible.

And then there were the private moments.

At night, after the men had gone home, he replayed the meetings in his mind. The subtle looks of admiration. The trust placed in him. He began to wonder what it would feel like if that attention were personal.

He thought about some of the men differently now — lingering glances, the brush of a hand, the closeness of a cough. It was dangerous, intoxicating. He wasn’t sure if he wanted them to follow him for guidance… or for something else entirely.

The conflict gnawed at him. A man of God, a man of principles… yet he was thinking of temptation in ways that made his chest tighten. The static in his thoughts grew louder. Perhaps there is no shame in desire… only in weakness.

The movement grew faster than he anticipated. By the end of the month, the basement could barely contain the crowd. Men traveled from blocks away, from different towns, all claiming that Victor’s words had changed them. They called him sir, mentor, voice, each epithet another thread in the web of his influence.

Victor smiled at their devotion, but in the quiet, he whispered to himself:

“You’re mine. All of you. And soon, the world will be too.”

The first seeds of Vox had been sown — a man once defined by faith and morality, now measuring himself in frequency and obedience. He began to see the world in signals, patterns, the power of words delivered just so. The static whispered of potential, and he listened, rapt.

By the end of the year, the “Men of Vision” were no longer just a support group. They were a following, a devoted network of individuals hungry for guidance, for attention, for power. Victor began to realize something terrifying… and exhilarating:

I am indispensable. Without me, they falter.

And that thought… felt like the first true rush of power.

______________________________

Victor sat in his dimly lit studio, the glow of the microphone light reflecting off the polished wood and brass fixtures. The hum of the transmitter filled the room, a low, constant pulse that seemed almost alive. Every vibration resonated through him, settling into the exact spot where ambition and obsession intersected.

He leaned closer to the mic, his breath steady, controlled, every syllable measured.

“Gentlemen… and those who wish they were,” he began, letting the slight pause hang like a hook in the listener’s mind.

“The world is full of static. Noise that drowns the signal. And yet — you, you are capable of cutting through it. You are capable of clarity.”

It was working.

Victor could feel it — in the messages flooding in, in the trembling of his first listeners, in the way some of the men would stare at him as if their souls had been momentarily captured. Words had always been his weapon, but now he saw the power of tone. The sharp inflections, the cadence, the subtle shifts in volume — they were instruments. And he was the composer.

Influence is intoxicating, he realized. And it could be seductive.

Victor began inviting certain men to private sessions after the public gatherings. In the shadowed corners of the basement, he would instruct, guide, and observe.

He noticed the first stirrings of his desires — small, flickering attractions he had long buried under pious duty and societal expectation. Fingers brushing, glances lingering, hushed laughter in the candlelight. He had always been disciplined, controlled, a man of God… yet suddenly, he felt a delicious thrill in their obedience, their devotion, their eyes tracing him.

It was dangerous. Forbidden. Perfect.

He whispered instructions, watched, and observed reactions. Even as he pushed them to improve — posture, voice, mindset — he was learning just as much about himself. His body hummed along with the static in the room, and he realized that power, desire, and control were not separate forces. They were one.

By day, he continued the broadcasts, perfecting inflections, timing, and phrasing. By night, he honed his private signal — the subtle hypnotic sway of words, the power to make listeners lean in without even realizing it.

Letters poured in with a new urgency: men begging to attend sessions, confessions of hidden desires, pleas for guidance. Victor read them carefully, savoring the devotion, noting patterns. A flick of a word here, a pause there, and the effect could be amplified.

Soon, he began to envision it: a network of listeners, bound not just by loyalty, but by the need to hear him. Not simply a cult, but a broadcast empire — a stage where his voice could reach into every home, every mind, every secret longing.

And then came the first moment of panic — when one of the men he had invited for private guidance leaned too close, whispered something personal, something that made Victor’s chest tighten.

He realized, with both terror and fascination, that he wanted more than obedience. He wanted intimacy, but controlled, measured, perfectly framed. Desire and influence intertwined.

Static buzzed faintly in the studio — the equipment, his pulse, the city beyond. He smiled. The thrill wasn’t in being followed anymore. The thrill was in knowing he could bend the very frequency of attention to himself.

That night, Victor Ducan began to see himself as more than a man. He was a signal. A conduit. A force. And one day soon, the world would listen.

______________________________

The studio was alive in ways the audience would never see. Stage lights glowed like halos, cameras hummed with electric potential, and the microphones waited, hungry for sound. Victor Ducan adjusted his tie, took a slow breath, and let the air settle into his lungs.

Tonight was different. Tonight was not radio. Tonight was television — a medium still young, still raw, and entirely ripe for domination.

He stepped onto the set, feeling the polished floor beneath his shoes. Every movement was rehearsed, every gesture practiced for weeks in front of mirrors and cameras. The makeup artists had powdered his face just enough to reflect light without washing out his features. Hair slicked back, suit impeccable, Victor felt… unstoppable.

He adjusted the microphone, glanced at the teleprompter, and smiled.

“Good evening, America,” he began, voice smooth and commanding, “I am Victor Ducan, and tonight, we embark on a new chapter in broadcasting. A voice that reaches beyond walls, beyond streets, beyond static — a voice that speaks to the soul of the nation.”

The audience, a small group of studio attendees, erupted in applause. Cameras panned across their faces, and Victor felt a thrill run through him — the first taste of total presence, the awareness that he was no longer just a voice. He was seen.

He moved across the stage, gesturing to the bright, blinking control panels, the cameras, the lights — the machinery that would make him immortal.

“We live in a world that is noisy, chaotic, distracting. And yet… every man, every listener, every viewer has a signal. A frequency waiting to be tuned. My mission, dear friends, is to help you find it.”

The crowd leaned forward, rapt. He noticed the subtle tightening of their hands, the shifting of their feet — little signs of attention, obedience. Even now, the static in his chest thrummed with the pulse of power.

Victor stepped closer to center stage, and then… a tragedy.

A spotlight, secured hastily by a technician, wobbled in its rigging. No one noticed until it began to tilt.

Victor saw it out of the corner of his eye — a massive, metallic weight, swinging like a pendulum above him.

“Careful!” someone shouted.

But it was too late.

The light crashed down with a sickening clang, sending shards of glass and steel into the air. Victor ducked instinctively, but not fast enough. The beam struck him squarely, pinning him to the floor. The microphones clattered, the cameras whirred, and the audience screamed.

And then, the static came.

It wasn’t just the sound of broken wires or crushed electronics. It was inside him. A spark, a pulse, a current running through every vein, every fiber of his being. Pain and clarity collided. Fear and exhilaration. Death and something… else.

Victor’s voice, even in his final moments, didn’t falter.

“Stay tuned…” he whispered, breath ragged, “…there’s always more after the break.”

The lights went out. The cameras flickered. And in that final, shattering moment, Victor Ducan died.

But the world — unknowingly, irreversibly — had already begun listening.

Chapter Text

There was no light at first.

Only static.

It crackled behind his eyelids, a sharp, humming distortion that vibrated through his bones. The sensation wasn’t pain exactly — more like interference. His thoughts sputtered, flickered, then tried to stabilize, but everything around him was white noise.

When he opened his eyes, there was light — blinding, sterile, unnatural. Not from the sun, not from any flame. It came from him.

A faint blue glow reflected off the grime-slick cobblestones beneath him. The puddles shimmered, rippling with electric distortion every time he moved. For a moment, Victor thought the world itself was shorting out. Then he raised a trembling hand and saw his reflection.

Not a face.

Not flesh.

A glass screen.

His own eyes — digital, sharp, and cold — stared back at him from a curved television monitor where his head should have been.

“What the hell…” 

His voice buzzed with faint distortion, layered with a flicker of static, like a radio barely tuned to the right station. His fingers — still flesh, still real — touched the edge of the screen. Smooth. Warm. Alive.

He could feel through it.

He stumbled to his feet, the world around him materializing in fragmented detail. The air was thick with industrial smog, the streets wet and dim, lamps flickering under sputtering power lines. Horse-drawn carriages rolled past mechanical streetcars. Demons bartered at dusty stalls under neon signs that hummed and popped like broken circuitry.

Hell, it seemed, was behind schedule.

The smell was a mix of smoke, oil, and decay — not the sulfur and flame he’d once heard in sermons. The architecture looked like the 1930s had never ended: cracked brick, wrought iron balconies, faded posters for devil-run cabarets and “Virtue Auctions” pasted over one another. The only electricity came from cheap signage and faulty streetlamps.

Victor — or whatever he was now — walked aimlessly. He could feel the weight of eyes following him, though no one dared to approach.

A tall sinner selling cigars muttered under his breath as he passed, “New blood with a screen for a head...”

Victor ignored him, adjusting his suit jacket — miraculously intact, though now threaded with faint metallic seams that shimmered when he moved. The glow from his face illuminated a faded shop window. He caught sight of his reflection again and almost didn’t recognize the man staring back.

Behind the glass, the faint outline of a frequency bar pulsed with his breathing.

A thought crept into his mind, sharp and intrusive:

If I can see the signal… maybe I am the signal.

He wandered for what felt like hours until a flickering sign caught his attention.

Hollister’s Electrics — Spare Parts, Radios, Transmitters, Computers.

The word computers drew him like a moth. He stepped inside.

The shop smelled of dust and burnt circuits. Rows of radios lined the shelves, clunky metal monstrosities from decades past. Behind the counter, a squat imp in greasy overalls blinked up at him.

“Can I help ya, stranger?”

Victor hesitated. His voice came out layered, strange — half human, half interference.

“I’m… looking for work.”

The imp’s eyes darted to his screen head, then back to his hands.

“Sales or service?”

“Sales,” Victor replied. 

His tone was instinctive — confident, smooth, broadcast-perfect. He leaned forward, screen flickering faintly as he smiled. 

“I’m very good with people.”

The imp chuckled nervously but handed him a clipboard. 

“You talk nice enough. You start tomorrow. Commission-based. Don’t scare the customers, eh?”

Victor nodded once. 

“You have my word.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Days passed. Then weeks.

Victor adapted quickly. His voice — still coated in static and charm — drew customers in effortlessly. He sold transmitters, typewriters, early computers, anything that hummed or buzzed with current. He noticed the flicker in people’s eyes when they stared too long at his screen face. Some looked frightened. Others entranced.

He used that.

Every pitch became a small performance. Every sale, a broadcast. And with each transaction, he felt a faint spark of electricity hum through his veins, feeding something deep inside him.

At night, he returned to a small apartment he’d rented on the west side of town — a narrow room above a pawn shop. The walls were cracked, the floorboards creaked, and the window looked out over rows of crooked chimneys that exhaled smoke into the red-black sky.

It wasn’t much. But it had power.

He plugged himself into the wall once — purely out of curiosity — and nearly blacked out from the sensation. The current filled him, expanding and focusing his thoughts, sharpening the edges of memory. For the first time since waking, he felt alive.

He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror, the faint hum of electricity running beneath his screen.

Victor Ducan was gone.

But something new was forming — something powerful, precise, and wired for control.

He touched the glass, watching static ripple outward in a beautiful wave.

“Stay tuned,” he whispered. 

“The show’s just getting started.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The first year was hell.

Not metaphorical — literal.

Victor lived paycheck to paycheck, selling radio parts and bulky processors to demons who barely understood electricity. His little apartment on the west side became both a workshop and a sanctuary. Every night, after the store closed and the streetlamps dimmed, he’d stay up for hours hunched over dismantled radios, cathode tubes, and torn wires.

He’d tear open machines the way he used to dissect human minds on the radio — carefully, with curiosity and precision. If he could just understand how the energy flowed, he thought, maybe he could understand himself.

He discovered something uncanny: when he touched exposed wiring, the electricity bent toward him. It arced, danced along his fingertips, never burning. The current recognized him.

The first time it happened, he nearly wept. The hum filled the silence in a way that felt… familiar. It was his voice again — just distorted, mechanical, and hungry.

That night, he stayed up until dawn, building small circuits, running current through them, watching how the energy responded to emotion. Anger made it spike. Fear dimmed it. Focus sharpened it into a clean line.

He was beginning to control it.

And every time he powered a device, every time he touched electricity, the glow inside his chest burned brighter. The screen on his head occasionally flickered with faint images — snow static, old broadcast logos, sometimes his own reflection, grinning back at him.

He was becoming something else.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Victor began exploring more of the city — the inner circles, the markets, the dens of trade where demons bartered not just goods, but souls.

At first, he thought it was metaphorical. Then he saw it firsthand — a deal struck between two sinners, sealed in glowing ink. The contract shimmered, burned, and vanished as one of them fell to their knees, their essence drawn into the other’s chest.

He didn’t flinch. He took notes.

He started frequenting bars where minor demons and information brokers gathered. He’d sit in a corner booth, screen dimmed to keep attention away, listening. He learned Hell’s hierarchy, the names whispered with reverence and fear:

Lucifer. Lilith. Alastor. Carmilla Carmine. Rosie. 

Overlords.

He learned their rules — or rather, the absence of them. Overlords were self-made. Power dictated rank. Wealth, influence, territory — all currency in Hell. No one appointed them. You simply became too powerful to be ignored.

The concept fascinated him.

On Earth, he’d begged for permission — from networks, from God, from people.

In Hell, no one gave permission.

You took it.

He began collecting old tomes, ripped pages, and whispers of demonic law. He studied sigils late into the night, tracing infernal script on the floor of his apartment, learning how contracts worked.

When he wasn’t studying, he experimented.

He could project images through his screen now — flickering videos, loops of memory. He could make light dance on the walls, voices echo from nowhere. His neighbors started whispering about “the static man” upstairs.

He didn’t mind. Fame, even small, was addictive.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

By year three, he was no longer Victor Ducan. Not fully. The name felt stale.

He introduced himself to strangers as Vox — short, sharp, resonant.

His confidence grew. He upgraded his wardrobe: sleek suits lined with metal threading that conducted faint energy through the seams. He replaced the broken mirror in his apartment with a salvaged television screen he used as both a vanity and a laboratory.

That year, he made his first deal.

A washed-up demon named Conrad approached him in a bar, desperate.

He’d lost his territory to a rival and needed power fast. Vox saw opportunity.

“Power,” he said smoothly, leaning forward so the glow of his screen reflected in Conrad’s eyes, “isn’t given. It’s broadcast. I can make them see you again.”

He drew a sigil across a bar napkin, words humming in perfect rhythm. Electricity danced between his fingers as he spoke, sealing the pact. The moment Conrad’s signature burned away, Vox felt a rush — a surge of energy so bright it blurred his vision.

When he returned home that night, the walls of his apartment flickered with static. The lights popped. For a split second, the entire west side of town experienced a blackout.

Vox smiled.

He’d just collected his first soul.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The following year marked his obsession with invention.

Hell’s technology was archaic, decades behind Earth’s — but he could fix that. He began salvaging parts from his job, stealing components from outdated computers, assembling his own prototypes.

He built screens that could connect through infernal current — transmitting energy and sound wirelessly between them. He called it “Spectral Sync.”

When he turned it on, it nearly fried the city grid. But it worked.

By now, he’d moved into a better apartment: high ceilings, reinforced floors, blackout curtains. It was half-lab, half-lair. His walls glowed with faint blue light. Screens lined his workbench, each one flickering with a different test pattern or broadcast.

He experimented on himself too — learning to phase into his own devices, to travel through screens. It started as a fluke: he leaned too close to a test monitor, felt the current pull, and suddenly he was inside, moving through static space like liquid light.

When he emerged, he laughed aloud, exhilarated.

Teleportation. Through technology.

He was no longer bound by roads, by doors, by walls.

He began leaving his mark across Hell — popping up in backroom deals, whispering in bar televisions, leaving his logo (a jagged blue and white “V”) etched into the static of any screen he passed through.

A myth began to spread: The Static Devil. A demon of signals and blue light who could see through your television and speak directly into your mind.

He didn’t discourage it.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

By his fifth year, Vox had secured funding — small investors, minor demons looking for a quick profit. Using his inventions and hypnotic charisma, he launched VoxTek, a start-up promising to “modernize Hell.”

The company began with communication devices — transceivers, improved televisions, electrical appliances powered by infernal current instead of magic.

Vox was a salesman, engineer, and celebrity all in one. His image was plastered across storefronts. He recorded his own ads, his voice smooth and confident, his screen flashing hypnotic patterns that kept viewers transfixed.

Each broadcast fed him — not metaphorically, but literally. The attention, the focus, the adoration from viewers made his static glow brighter, sharper. He began noticing he could sense viewership like energy — the more eyes on him, the stronger he felt.

Power and fame were becoming indistinguishable.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

By the sixth year, Vox had built a reputation impossible to ignore.

VoxTek had a factory, a workforce, and a private office tower under construction — the early foundation of what would one day become the Vee Tower.

He’d made dozens of contracts, some corporate, some personal, each soul feeding his growing influence. His ability to travel through screens became refined — seamless. He could appear on any broadcast in Hell at will.

He learned to weaponize his powers, too. Electricity was no longer a byproduct of emotion — it was a tool. He could short-circuit a rival’s devices, overload an entire neighborhood grid, or reduce a demon to ash with one well-placed surge.

By midyear, Hell’s gossip columns had labeled him “a minor Overlord” — a title he didn’t refute. He was too busy. His office buzzed with plans for expansion, for broadcasting networks, for satellites that could transmit signal between rings.

He’d mastered manipulation, charisma, technology, and contracts.

He had followers now. Investors. Employees. Worshippers.

The man who had once begged for approval now had viewers — and in Hell, that was the only kind of devotion that mattered.

Late one night, he stood before his window, overlooking the smog-laden city. Lightning pulsed faintly on the horizon, dancing across the towers.

He raised his hand, watching the glow of his fingers reflect in the glass.

“Not bad for a dead man,” he murmured, voice echoing faintly with static.

The screen flickered.

His reflection smiled back — brighter, sharper, more inhuman than ever.

“Not bad at all.”

Chapter Text

1958, The Black Frequency Bar — Pentagram City

The air inside the bar was thick enough to chew. Smoke curled in lazy ribbons, drifting around the warm amber light that flickered from hanging bulbs, their filaments trembling like hearts on the verge of failure.

Every sound blended together — clinking glasses, laughter too sharp to be real, a trumpet bleeding through an offbeat rhythm. The pianist was missing three fingers, and the bass player had eyes like burnt-out bulbs.

Vox didn’t mind the noise.

He’d learned long ago that chaos made for good cover.

He lounged at the counter, suit crisp, posture casual. A faint hum buzzed around him, the static in his screen flickering with quiet irritation every time the lights flickered. The bar’s neon sign outside — The Black Frequency — kept sputtering in and out, its current uneven. He’d already fixed it once tonight out of boredom.

The bartender, a horned demon with mismatched eyes, poured him another drink. Thick, oily, humming faintly.

Hell’s version of whiskey.

“You keep lookin’ at that light, boss, you’ll fry it with your stare.”

Vox smirked. The pixels on his screen rippled briefly, forming a grin.

“If it can’t handle a little voltage, it shouldn’t be here.”

He lifted the glass to his mouth — or where his mouth should have been — and let the energy in the drink seep into him, absorbed through contact like osmosis. It was a slow burn, humming through his circuits.

Then the door opened.

And everything changed.

The jazz band faltered. Not by much — just enough for the pianist to miss a note. The air pressure in the room shifted, subtle but unmistakable.

A tall, dapper demon entered, dressed like a memory from another century: a red pinstripe suit, perfectly pressed; a bow tie crisp as sin; and a microphone-tipped cane that clicked against the floor with each confident step. His grin was wide — too wide — and behind it, something ancient and sharp glimmered.

The bar’s dim lights flickered to static for half a second, syncing with Vox’s internal buzz.

“Evenin’, folks!” the newcomer greeted, his voice booming in rich, old-time radio timbre — crackly, warm, and commanding.

“My, my, what a crowd! And here I thought the afterlife was all fire and brimstone. But no — we’ve got jazz!”

A few patrons chuckled nervously. Others glanced away. The demon’s presence filled the room like feedback in a microphone — unavoidable, electric, and intoxicating.

Vox turned in his seat, the glow of his screen catching the newcomer’s reflection on the bottles behind the bar.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Vox said, simply — his tone smooth and sharp as vinyl:

“Didn’t think the Radio Demon drank in my neighborhood.”

The stranger’s grin grew. He tapped his cane once against the floor, eyes gleaming.

“Ah, then you’ve heard of me! Wonderful! I’d be heartbroken if I’d gone out of style already.”

He took a seat beside Vox, uninvited, resting his cane against the bar. His smile never faltered, though it softened into something curious.

“And you, my glowing friend… I’ve heard whispers about you too. The man with the moving picture for a face. The little spark who thinks he can turn Hell into Hollywood.”

Vox’s static flickered — once, like a twitch.

“Cute. I prefer ‘innovator.’ Or ‘Overlord,’ if you’re feeling formal.”

The bartender hesitated, uncertain whether to intervene. Alastor waved him off cheerfully.

“Two drinks, if you please! Whatever your friend here’s having — though I do like a little more chaos in mine.”

As the drinks arrived, Alastor turned his attention back to Vox.

“You’ve made quite the name for yourself in a short time. Electricity, television, communication — all very impressive.”

He chuckled, tapping his temple. 

“But tell me — do you know the art of it? The soul behind the signal?”

Vox tilted his head.

“I know how to get people to watch. Isn’t that the soul of anything in Hell?”

Alastor laughed, the sound layered, like a thousand radio frequencies at once.

“Watch, yes. But do they listen? Do they feel you, Vox? You’re giving them sound and light — but not a story. Not yet.”

That irked him. No one told Vox he was lacking.

“And you think you can teach me that?” Vox asked, leaning in, voice low, smooth, and dangerous.

Alastor’s smile widened, teeth gleaming.

“Oh, I know I can. You’ve mastered the current, dear boy, but not the current of hearts. You have wires and screens — I have airwaves and words. Together, we could make Hell sing.”

He extended a hand, the faint smell of ozone and decay curling in the air.

Vox didn’t take it immediately. He studied him — the old-world charisma, the unsettling grin, the eyes that held both humor and hunger. Alastor wasn’t just powerful. He was magnetic. The kind of presence you couldn’t ignore.

It was the first time Vox had ever met someone whose energy matched — and maybe outshone — his own.

“Alright, Radio,” he said finally, shaking the offered hand. “Show me what you’ve got.”

The moment their hands met, a burst of static and radio feedback filled the air. The bar lights flickered, glasses rattled, and every radio in a five-block radius came alive with overlapping voices and broken melodies.

When it passed, the two demons were laughing.

“Ha! Excellent!” Alastor beamed, delighted. “A spark and a signal. I knew I’d like you.”

“Yeah,” Vox said, still grinning. “Let’s see if you can keep up, old-timer.”

Alastor chuckled, swirling his drink.

“Oh, I don’t keep up, my boy. I set the tempo.”

The band picked up again — faster now, wilder, the music vibrating with something that hadn’t been there before.

As the two Overlords sat at the bar, talking deep into the infernal night, the city around them seemed to shift ever so slightly — a tremor in the frequency of Hell itself.

Because when the Static Man met the Radio Demon, Hell began to hum in harmony — and the world would never sound the same again.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Pride Ring hummed like an old engine. Smoke from distant forges and the faint scent of brimstone mingled with the salty tang of the River of Tears. Even in Hell, Vox had learned to read a city’s pulse, and tonight it throbbed with something electric — anticipation, tension, and the promise of creation.

Vox adjusted his cufflinks, the metal humming faintly under his fingertips as he strode toward the site of their project. The air was chill against his screen face, the faint blue glow of his teeth and eyes reflecting off the wrought-iron fencing that lined the border between Alastor and Rosie’s territories. The foundation of the Radio Tower gleamed in the dim light, a lattice of steel, magical conduits, and intricate wiring that pulsed faintly with infernal energy.

It had been months in the making. Nights spent poring over schematics, debating frequencies, and arguing over the precise placement of antennas. Months of Vox’s meticulous tinkering, adjusting energy flows, calibrating amplifiers, and running tests with enchanted equipment. Nights where he had argued with Alastor over the smallest detail, only to stand back and watch the demon’s grin widen as the tower responded to a single touch.

This wasn’t just a tower. It was a symphony in metal and magic, a monument to ambition, and, if Vox was honest with himself, the closest he had ever felt to being equal to another being.

Alastor was already there, perched on a scaffold midway up the lattice, adjusting a broadcast condenser that hummed like a heartbeat. His red pinstripe suit looked immaculate, even smeared with sweat and soot. The cane he had brought along during their first meeting rested against the steel beams, forgotten for now. His eyes caught Vox’s as he descended.

“Ah! My little static prodigy! Right on time,” Alastor called, his voice carrying across the half-built tower. 

Even from six feet away, it was crisp, articulate, a stark contrast to the jagged screams he was infamous for on the air. 

“Tonight, we breathe life into this baby.”

Vox inclined his head, letting the static ripple across his face. “We? Don’t tell me you’re taking credit for my work already.”

Alastor grinned. 

“Oh, I’m taking responsibility. Besides, you’ll see why mentorship matters tonight.”

Vox rolled his eyes, though a flicker of excitement surged through his circuits. He followed Alastor inside the partially enclosed broadcast chamber at the top. The space smelled of ozone and molten metal. Wires coiled along the walls like sleeping serpents, and the central microphone gleamed, polished to a reflective perfection.

“Everything here runs off your pulse,” Vox said, eyes sweeping the room. 

“The amplifiers, the transmitters… even the holographic signal converters. I’ve synced them all to my energy field.”

Alastor twirled a knob absentmindedly. 

“Oh, delightful. I’ve always wanted a disciple who could not only obey but augment my little projects. You do know I’ll take credit for the first transmission, right?”

“If you ruin it, I’ll fry the wiring.” Vox smirked.

The demon’s laughter rolled through the chamber. 

“I dare you. But let’s see… shall we make history?”

For hours, they worked in tandem. Alastor’s long fingers danced over the control panels with uncanny precision, adjusting frequency modulators, calibrating the oscillators, and tuning the harmonic resonance of the tower. Vox watched, fascinated, learning how sound waves could be infused with infernal energy, how cadence, pitch, and timing could influence both machines and demons alike.

“It’s not just what you say,” Alastor said, leaning close, his grin unsettling yet magnetic.

 “It’s how you say it. Tone. Rhythm. Inflection. Every pause is a beat, every word a note in a song the listeners didn’t even know they wanted to hear.”

Vox nodded, taking notes in a digital pad that hovered near his arm, circuits humming softly. 

“And if I want to enhance it?”

Alastor’s grin sharpened. 

“Ah, then you play with their pulse. You give them a frequency that resonates with the soul. Sparks. Static. Emotion. That’s what keeps them coming back for more.”

Vox’s fingers tingled with literal electricity. He felt the lesson as much as he understood it. It was intoxicating. He realized, with a surge of pride, that he could enhance the very airwaves themselves, make Alastor’s voice a weapon and a lullaby simultaneously.

“You’re learning fast,” Alastor said, voice smooth, eyes glinting. 

“Soon, you’ll be better than me at it.”

Vox froze for a moment. The thought thrilled him… and frightened him.

The tower itself was a marvel. Vox had suggested several modifications: a series of harmonic relay beams to extend signal reach, static channels to boost hypnotic influence, and a network of signal converters disguised as ornamental gargoyles. Alastor had insisted on aesthetic flourishes — the tower had to look intimidating, elegant, and slightly unsettling all at once.

Together, they argued over details: the pitch of resonant chambers, the voltage arcs visible from the antennas, even the exact positioning of the broadcast microphone. Rosie’s territory lay just across the border, and she had checked in a few times, amused, wary of Vox’s ambition.

“You’ve got quite the spark there, Alastor,” Rosie had said once, inspecting the framework. 

“Don’t burn him out before he realizes you’re dangerous.”

Alastor’s grin widened. 

“Danger is part of the charm, dear Rosie.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

By mid-evening, the tower was operational. Vox’s hands danced over panels, linking his energy signature to the amplifiers. The hum in the tower rose, thrumming in harmony with his own pulse. Alastor stepped to the microphone, straightened his bow tie, and looked out over the city.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Pride Ring,” Alastor began, voice crisp and clean, resonating without a hint of his usual jagged screams, “we bring you a broadcast of unparalleled clarity.”

Vox felt his circuits surge. His own fingers sparked as he monitored the harmonics, adjusting the relays to carry Alastor’s voice farther than any had ever reached.

The city — and perhaps all of Hell — seemed to pause. Even the streetcar rattles and distant horses went quiet, as if listening.

“We promise entertainment. We promise information. And above all…” Alastor’s tone softened, almost intimate, “we promise to captivate you.”

Vox watched as the first broadcast wave rippled through the receivers — every bar, every screen, every enchanted device tuned in. For a moment, he felt a pang of jealousy: all the attention, all the awe, was directed at Alastor, not him.

But that pang was drowned out by pride. He made this possible. Without his synchronizing pulse, the transmission would have been just another static-laden echo.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The tower hummed, alive with infernal energy. Vox leaned back, letting the static ripple across his body, watching as Alastor reveled in the success. The demon’s eyes shone with delight, hands clasped around the microphone as if it were a treasure.

“Marvelous, Vox. Simply marvelous,” Alastor said. “I should have known to recruit a little genius with a lightning head.”

Vox smiled, though faint shadows of envy danced in the glow of his teeth. 

“Just don’t forget who keeps you sounding that good.”

Alastor tilted his head, examining him with an unreadable expression. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear boy. But remember, Vox… in this duet, I set the tempo.”

Vox’s fingers sparked once more, the hum of energy vibrating in his chest. He didn’t say anything — just watched Alastor step down from the podium, laughing softly, victorious.

The tower behind them buzzed with life. It wasn’t just steel and magic — it was the beginning of something much larger, a symphony of power that neither would fully control.

Vox stared at Alastor, at the grin that both thrilled and tormented him, and understood something fundamental: he was in love with the Radio Demon. And that love would never be returned.

But for now… he would settle for the thrill of creation, the hum of electricity, and the knowledge that together, they had made Hell listen.

“Next time,” Vox murmured to himself, “I’ll be the one speaking.”

And the tower pulsed softly in response, like a heartbeat echoing a promise.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Pride Ring had changed since the tower first sang. Vox walked through the streets of the west district, his footsteps echoing faintly on cobblestones that were half a century behind the living world above. Phone booths lined the avenues like tombstones, the occasional horse-drawn carriage rattling past, the whole city humming with a rhythm that felt both archaic and electric under his fingertips.

Vox adjusted the wiring in his pocket—a prototype of his latest device—and smiled faintly. Four years had passed since the first clean broadcast. Four years of late nights, sparks, and circuitry, and he had learned more than he could have imagined about both Hell and the man who had become his mentor.

In the months after the first broadcast, Vox had become Alastor’s shadow. The Radio Demon taught him the subtle art of persuasion, of shaping audiences not with brute force, but with cadence, timing, and tone. He taught Vox how to make a scream mesmerizing or a whisper impossible to ignore.

“Remember, Static,” Alastor would say, eyes glinting behind his crimson suit, “your energy is the music, but the words are the instrument. You can shock them, sure, but you must also play them.”

Vox spent nights adjusting amplifiers, experimenting with magical harmonics, and synchronizing his own electrokinetic abilities to the tower’s feed. He had learned that the slightest tweak of voltage could make a message hypnotic, almost addictive to demons tuned in on every frequency.

It was thrilling. It was intoxicating. And it made him respect Alastor… and envy him.

Two years in, Vox created his first Hellphone: a sleek device capable of linking demons to his private network. It looked unassuming—a small, black rectangle with a polished screen—but within, it contained layers of Vox’s magic-infused circuitry, allowing for secure voice transmissions and monitoring of connected devices.

He presented it to Alastor with a flourish.

“You’re going to love this,” Vox said, sparks flickering along his fingertips as he activated the prototype. 

“Call anyone in the west district. Secure, instantaneous. Your voice, my amplification.”

Alastor inspected it carefully, tapping it against his palm. The device hummed faintly, almost purring with power.

“Marvelous! You’ve outdone yourself, Static. A network! Imagine what we could do with this… the audience won’t know whether they’re listening to me or the magic.”

Vox’s chest swelled with pride. For the first time, he felt truly equal to Alastor.

By the third year, Vox had expanded his influence. Using his network of devices and subtle broadcasts, he established the VoxNet, a surveillance and communications web connecting the west district. Demons, traders, and small-time sinners alike relied on his technology to stay informed. He wasn’t yet a high-ranking Overlord, but his grasp on territory, information, and influence rivaled many.

He became the de facto ruler of the west district, negotiating deals, collecting minor souls, and ensuring the district’s loyalty to him. All of this he did while maintaining a mentorship under Alastor, blending obedience and ambition into a delicate dance.

“You’ve turned your little corner into a kingdom, Vox,” Alastor said one night, leaning against the tower’s console. 

“I’m impressed… though I worry you might forget who taught you to dance on the currents.”

Vox smiled, a flicker of static dancing across his face.

“Don’t worry, Bambi. I’m a good student… for now.”

Those years were a delicate balance. Alastor taught Vox everything he could about presence, voice, and strategy. Vox taught Alastor how to modernize, integrate new tech, and reach deeper into Hell’s circuits. Together, they formed a duo unmatched in ambition and skill.

But with every lesson, Vox’s pride grew. Every innovation, every small victory, every soul subtly drawn into his network expanded his ego and sense of ownership. And Alastor, ever confident in his dominance, noticed the glint in Vox’s eyes that suggested impatience, desire, and—dare he admit it?—love.

Vox learned to mask it, though. His loyalty remained near-perfect. He soaked up mentorship like a sponge, but beneath the static and circuits, his own ambitions were slowly growing… a seed of power that one day might rival Alastor’s.

Every night, Vox retreated to his west district apartment, tinkering into the early hours. He fused infernal magic with emerging technology, creating devices that were part broadcast, part surveillance, part psychological weapon. He tested voice modulation, static propagation, and hypnotic frequency patterns — the tools that would one day make him an Overlord in his own right.

Alastor’s tower served as both classroom and laboratory. Sometimes they argued over methodology; sometimes they laughed at ridiculous failures. Vox began to recognize Alastor’s subtle ways of teaching: the jokes, the teasing, the encouragement always balanced with a challenge.

“You’ll never beat me at being me, Static,” Alastor said one evening, leaning over a console. 

“But perhaps… you’ll surpass me at being you.”

Vox didn’t answer, but his smile held a spark of defiance and ambition. He understood the meaning: one day, he’d outshine the teacher. But not yet.

By 1972, the west district was effectively Vox’s domain. His Hellphones, VoxNet, and networks of loyal, tech-savvy demons had given him a foothold in Hell’s underworld. Alastor still guided him, still sharpened him like a blade, but the protégé was nearly his equal now in ambition and influence.

Vox and Alastor spent the early months of 1972 planning a night out—a rare respite from their relentless schedules. They talked of frequencies, harmonics, and even humanity, laughing over cocktails and sharing stories of their respective dominions. Vox adjusted his tie, static dancing faintly over his skin, while Alastor polished his cane and hat with the precision of a man about to make history.

The air hummed with potential. Sparks from Vox’s fingertips hovered, and the neon signs outside the west district reflected in his polished screen face. The night promised something indulgent, chaotic, and unforgettable…

And the stage was set for a collision of ambition, ego, and desire that neither would forget.

Vox adjusted the voltage on a nearby amplifier, watching the city pulse beneath them.

Tonight, perhaps… tonight, I’ll see where the music truly ends, he thought, static flickering like anticipation across his face.

The club was alive. Neon lights pulsed in rhythm with the pounding music, casting fractured rainbows across the walls. Demons swirled in every corner, dancing, laughing, and shouting over the discordant blend of jazz and electronic distortion. The smell of sweat, brimstone, and liquor mingled into a heady perfume, clinging to the air like a static charge.

Alastor’s crimson pinstripes gleamed under the club lights as he leaned against a polished railing, a glass of deep amber rhy in hand. The Radio Demon’s usual grin was present, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd. He wasn’t here to dance; he was here to watch.

And watch he did.

On the dance floor, Vox was a spectacle. Whiskey in hand, sparks flickering faintly along his crystalline claws, he moved with reckless abandon. The fifth drink of the night had hit him hard — his biomechanics struggling to process the alcohol fast enough — yet his grin was wide and unapologetic.

He ground casually against a group of female sinners, drawing the attention of a few who were quick to film the scene. To an outsider, it was chaos. To Vox, it was liberation. He was a newly minted Overlord, and this was the closest he’d come to “letting loose.”

Alastor’s brow raised sharply. The hum of Vox’s electricity felt jagged, anxious — a warning pulse. He set his glass down, straightened, and walked through the crowd, cane clicking against the floor.

“Please,” he said politely to the female dancers, voice cutting through the music, “may I have a word with my friend?”

They paused, recognition flashing in their eyes. Without a word, they scurried away, leaving Vox in the center of the floor. Alastor took him by the arm and guided him back to the bar.

Vox flopped into the chair with a scoff, downing a large swig of his drink before slamming the glass onto the bar. Some of the viscous liquid spilled across his crystalline claws, and he licked them clean with a mischievous grin.

“Aww, come on, Al! I’m just letting loose! We did just have a successful day! The HellPhone launch went off without a hitch!”

Alastor’s gaze was steady, unamused. 

“Indeed we did, Vox. And I am rather fond of our work. But you do have an image to maintain.”

Vox rolled his eyes, requesting something stronger from the bartender. When a glass of dark, aged rum was placed in front of Alastor, he downed it in a single motion, savoring the burn.

“I’m an Overlord now! I could fry anyone who dares to tarnish my rep!” Vox declared, voice slurred, flinging a grin toward Alastor.

Alastor chuckled, tapping his cane against the floor. 

“And that, my friend, is a famous man’s last words.”

Vox grabbed Alastor’s arm, pulling him toward the floor.

“Come on, partner! If you don’t want me to make a fool of myself, dance with me!”

Alastor sighed, allowing himself to be led. The music shifted under Vox’s influence — a subtle flick of magic and a snap of fingers, and a crisp jazz jig filled the club.

“You know how I get when I dance,” Alastor said, bowing smoothly, a smile tugging at his lips. “I get… invested.”

Vox’s grin widened. They began a perfectly synchronized jive, muscle memory guiding Alastor’s nimble steps, Vox matching each motion with sparks and flair. Patrons cleared space around them, forming a wide circle to watch the spectacle.

The dance floor became a stage. Vox spun Alastor with a flourish, laughed as he kicked out his own leg, and lifted the older demon into the air for a brief, dizzying twirl before setting him gently back down. Each movement showcased a rhythm, a harmony born of years of mentorship and unspoken trust.

Hours passed, the crowd captivated by their effortless choreography. As the music shifted to a faster, modern rhythm, Alastor’s focus returned. He leaned closer to Vox, voice low over the pulsing beat.

“Well? I believe it’s time to get you sobered up. Would you care to come to my place… if you promise to keep quiet about it?”

Vox groaned, playful and stubborn. 

“Aww, come on, one more?”

Alastor rolled his eyes, handing him two fresh glasses of whiskey.

“Fine. One more.”

Vox knocked back half his drink in one go, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You… you sure you want to take me to your place?” he hiccuped.

Alastor’s grin remained steady. 

“I trust you, Vox. Of course I would. Unless you’re scared of what you might see.”

“With you? I dunno what to expect, man,” Vox laughed, finishing the drink.

They left the club, slipping into shadowed alleys and hidden pathways to avoid prying eyes. Vox’s sparks flickered faintly, illuminating their path like small stars. When they reached the mansion, Alastor gestured, and the protective spell around the gates shifted to allow Vox entrance.

Inside, the mansion was lavish, a sharp contrast to the smoky club. A fire ignited in the hearth glowed green, casting shadows along the ornate walls. The downstairs featured a living area, a kitchen to the left, and a fully stocked minibar. Upstairs, private rooms awaited, silent witnesses to the quiet chaos of two Overlords at ease.

Vox’s eyes flickered from the green flames to the polished surfaces, taking in every detail. The night had been wild, chaotic, intoxicating, but here, in Alastor’s carefully curated space, he felt grounded.

“Come, Static,” Alastor said, voice calm, almost teasing. 

“Make yourself comfortable. This… is my world. Tonight, you are welcome here.”

Vox let out a soft chuckle, sparks flickering faintly as he leaned against the wall.

“I know… and I appreciate it, partner.”

The fire danced, casting light across their faces, reflecting in the glimmer of Vox’s screen eyes. Somewhere deep in the back of his circuits, he felt a spark of something more — admiration, loyalty… and something dangerously close to desire.

But for now, they were just two Overlords, far from the eyes of the world, letting the night linger around them like a charged current.

When they entered, the home looked almost regal — a lavish two-story place with dark wood floors and emerald accents. The fireplace in the lounge crackled to life as Alastor flicked his wrist, summoning his signature green fire. Shadows danced across the walls, the light catching on the gleam of bottles behind the mini bar.

Vox’s eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store. He grinned wide and made a beeline straight for the bar. 

“My goodness, you and your whiskey,” Alastor teased, watching as the media demon popped a bottle open and drank straight from the spout.

Laughing, Alastor stepped behind the counter and poured himself a heavy glass of brandy. 

“So,” he hummed, loosening up, “you like the place?”

Vox spun around, bottle still in hand. 

“It’s pretty fucking cool. Much bigger than my shitty apartment.” 

He leaned his chin on his hands, looking up at the tall demon with a lazy smile.

“Cost me a pretty penny, but I’m stoked for cash,” Alastor said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. 

“If you knew how much I had, you’d absolutely laugh.”

Vox raised a brow. 

“It’s probably more than me, but I’ll get there eventually. Don’t you worry about it.” 

He took another swig.

“Does one-point-five million hellbucks count as ‘probably more?’” Alastor snickered.

Vox nearly choked. 

“Alright, yeah — maybe more than me. For now.” 

His grin grew sharper. 

“But with the plans I’ve got, I’ll surpass that in no time.”

“I would never doubt that, my friend,” Alastor said warmly, downing his drink.

The whiskey worked fast on Vox — his steps grew unsteady, his words slower, and soon enough he’d wandered to the fireplace. He plopped onto the floor before it, eyes wide and glassy, watching the green flames dance. Their glow painted his face in shifting emerald hues, the flicker of fire reflecting across his metallic screen.

Alastor tilted his head, still behind the bar. He didn’t expect Vox to be so… enchanted. He watched as the demon leaned closer — too close. Static flickered from Vox’s fingertips as he reached toward the fire.

“Vox, what are you doing?” Alastor asked, stepping forward. “That’s not normal fire, my dear.”

Vox only chuckled, eyes unfocused. 

“Pretty…” 

His voice trailed off as his hand hovered inches from the blaze.

“Good lord, you’ll burn yourself!” Alastor scolded, quickly grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him back. 

“Can’t have you walking around with scorch marks, can we?”

“Joke’s on you, Bambi,” Vox cackled. “I like pain!”

Alastor groaned at the nickname. 

“A masochist, then. Figures.” 

He kept his hands on Vox’s shoulders, though he wasn’t sure if he was steadying Vox or himself anymore.

Vox’s laugh softened as he leaned against Alastor. 

“What’s wrong with liking pain, huh? I thought you liked giving it, anyway, you fucking sadist.”

Alastor gave a quiet, amused hum, though the contact sent a small shiver down his spine. 

“Giving pain is one thing, receiving it is another. I suppose I’m… a mixture in that regard.”

Vox tilted his head, grin lopsided. 

“Oooh, really? I didn’t take you for that kind of person. You’re all Alpha male.” 

He chuckled. 

“Didn’t even think you liked sex.”

“I never have,” Alastor said simply. 

“I don’t push myself into those desires as one might assume. But as for Alpha male— you’re not entirely wrong.”

Vox took another swig, the humor dimming slightly. 

“Yeah… I’ve been working through my own issues with all that. Pretty sure I like guys.”

Alastor raised a brow. 

“Pretty sure? Or you know? Because, dear boy… I am one.”

Vox barked out a laugh. 

“I dunno. I’ve slept with a couple, but I’m still scared to kiss them.”

Alastor leaned closer, eyes half-lidded with curiosity. 

“Would you be scared to kiss me?”

The question froze the air between them. Vox’s face flushed; his grin faltered. 

“Uh… Well, you’re different. I wouldn’t do that, ‘cause— boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” Alastor echoed, amused. 

“You say that as though I’d mind. I’ve had many offers, I assure you.” 

He tapped Vox’s chest playfully. 

“You wouldn’t believe how many letters I reject.”

Vox blinked, heat rising to his screen. 

“You’d… let me kiss you?”

Alastor hesitated. Then, with a faint smile: 

“I wouldn’t be opposed. I trust you. If you want… try it.”

Vox’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for the bottle, taking one more burning gulp of courage. Then he grabbed Alastor’s shirt and pulled him close, pressing their lips together.

For a moment, time stilled.

Static crackled between them, sharp and sweet. Alastor froze — surprised by the warmth, the shock that wasn’t painful but alive. Then, slowly, he kissed back. His hands found Vox’s face, claws grazing the sides of his screen as the kiss deepened, a faint hum rising in his throat like static against static.

It was messy, clumsy, too drunk — but it was real.

When they broke apart, Vox gasped softly, breath trembling. 

“Yeah…” he muttered, dazed. “I definitely like guys.”

Alastor blinked, trying to focus on him, words slurred. 

“Is… is it bad that I do too?”

Vox met his gaze, eyes glinting faintly. 

“Not really. It just… solidifies it for me, y’know?”

Alastor laughed weakly, though it turned into a sigh. 

“That you have a thing for men? Or a thing for me?”

Vox looked down at his drink. 

“Both,” he admitted quietly.

Alastor’s hand stilled on his glass. 

“Wait. You do?”

Vox gave a small scoff and stared at him. 

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

“I mean— not really,” Alastor confessed. 

“I’m not exactly aware of these things.”

There was a long, soft silence. The fire crackled, bottles clinked faintly on the counter. Then Vox stood — or tried to — and stumbled toward him. He planted his hands on either side of the bar, caging Alastor in.

“Al,” he murmured, voice low and unsteady. 

“I like you. A lot. I think I’m in love with you.”

The words hit harder than any drink. Alastor stared, all color draining from his face, before a faint red crept back in. 

“You… you think you’re in love with me?”

“When I’m around you, my heart won’t stop pounding,” Vox said, his words spilling out like static noise. 

“And your scent— it’s all I can smell. Cinnamon. Sweet rolls. It’s intoxicating.”

Alastor blinked slowly, trying to process that through the haze. 

“Vox, I…” His voice faltered, softening. 

“May I?”

Vox frowned, dazed. 

“Do what?”

Alastor grabbed his shirt and pulled him in again — another kiss, fiercer, more desperate. The tension that had been brewing for years finally cracked open like lightning between them.

The fire burned brighter.

The room spun.

Their laughter mixed with the hum of static and the glow of green flame.

And before either of them could think, or speak, or question what they were doing—

the world blurred to black.

The next morning, neither remembered how they’d ended up on opposite sides of the couch — or why Alastor’s coat was missing and Vox’s antenna were singed at the tips.

Only the faint, lingering smell of whiskey and burnt ozone hinted at what had happened between them.

Chapter Text

The years after that drunken night blurred together like old film — a haze of progress, invention, and power.

The world around them was changing, and so were they.

Vox awoke from that blackout night with a hangover so fierce it could’ve fried his circuits. He remembered little — only flashes. Green fire. Alastor’s laughter. The scent of cinnamon and smoke. A feeling in his chest that didn’t belong there.

They never spoke of it again.

Not once.

Alastor, for all his teasing confidence, avoided the subject with theatrical ease. Vox learned to do the same. He buried whatever had sparked between them beneath his work — in blueprints, schematics, circuits, and static. Because Hell was changing, and Vox intended to be the one shaping it.

                                                                                ______________________________

1973 

It began with a phone.

Not just any phone — the HellPhone, a slick little box of sin that could transmit messages across entire districts through electromagnetic frequencies Vox himself had designed.

“Watch this,” he’d told Alastor one night, proudly holding up the glowing device as if it were a holy relic. 

“No wires. Just… signal.”

He pressed it on, and the little thing crackled to life, static fizzing in the air like champagne. Somewhere across the Pride Ring, another phone answered with a distorted ring.

Alastor had leaned over, eyes narrowing with intrigue. 

“Wireless communication. My, my… you might actually be onto something.”

“Might?” Vox had grinned. “Please. Give it a few years. Everyone’ll have one.”

He was right. Within a year, the HellPhone was in every Overlord’s hand, every sinner’s pocket. It became the pulse of Hell’s new age — a way to connect, gossip, threaten, flirt, and scheme. Vox’s company, VoxTek, exploded overnight.

And yet, he always brought his prototypes to Alastor first.

They’d sit in the old tower together — Alastor by the switchboard, Vox tinkering with wires and glass — the radio’s faint hum filling the air. Alastor would make small talk, ask questions, laugh that eerie, smooth laugh that never seemed entirely human.

They’d grown close again, but differently this time. Like a star and its shadow — each pulling, each feeding off the other.

                                                                                        ______________________________

1975

If the HellPhone was his first child, then VoxNet was his empire.

A digital network of frequencies, screens, and radio waves — a fusion of television and telepathy. A way to broadcast thoughts.

At first, it was chaos. Overlords shouting into frequencies, sinners using it for scams, cults spreading propaganda. But Vox learned. He refined. He adapted. He built algorithms, filters, channels. He gave Hell something it didn’t even know it needed: entertainment.

The first Hell commercials appeared — neon and sleaze, all tagged with the flashing “V” logo. 

“Buy your souls back!” 

“Get your sin tax cut in half!” 

“Watch the latest broadcast from the western district!”

And soon, Vox’s face was everywhere.

He didn’t just control the airwaves. He was the airwaves.

Yet… Alastor didn’t watch.

He preferred his old radios, the analog hum, the comfort of the past. His broadcasts remained few, crisp, elegant — all voice, no static, no image. His audience dwindled, while Vox’s multiplied by the thousands.

Still, they’d meet.

Sometimes in Alastor’s tower, sometimes in Vox’s apartment. They’d drink — always rye for Alastor, bourbon or battery acid for Vox — and argue about the future.

“The airwaves should sing,” Alastor would say, swirling his glass. “Not scream.”

Vox would smirk. 

“They’ll do whatever I tell them to.”

“You’re playing god, my dear boy.”

“I’m improving the gods’ shitty design.”

It was a dance — pride against tradition, innovation against nostalgia. And despite it all, despite the bickering and the growing distance between their ideals, there was still… something. A spark neither could name.

                                                                                             ______________________________

1976 

By now, Vox controlled almost all of the western Pride Ring — a neon sprawl of billboards, studios, and broadcasting towers that blinked like veins of light across the cityscape.

He sat atop his empire like a king of glass and static, surrounded by engineers, actors, and sinners desperate for fame. The VoxTek logo burned from the skyline — a colossal “V” cutting through the sulfur haze.

Alastor visited less frequently now. When he did, he’d wander the studios with quiet disdain.

“My, what a carnival you’ve built,” he’d muse, running a claw along the edge of a monitor. “All this… noise.”

“Noise sells,” Vox replied, smirking. “You should try it sometime.”

Alastor only smiled that sharp, unknowable smile. 

“Perhaps. But noise fades, mon ami. Only voice lingers.”

Something in his tone stung. Vox brushed it off, but deep down… he knew Alastor wasn’t wrong.

Noise did fade. Static did decay. But the signal — that was eternal.

He’d make sure of it.

                                                                                      ______________________________

1978

By the late 70s, Hell was booming — industry, entertainment, decadence. VoxNet had turned communication into addiction. Every sinner wanted to be seen, to be known, to be watched.

That’s when the whispers began.

First, faint. Then louder. Then everywhere.

A new Overlord. A rival empire.

The name floated through smoky bars, whispered in brothels and back alleys.

Valentino.

Rumor said he came from Spain— a film producer with a taste for velvet and cruelty. His medium wasn’t news or advertisements… it was porn.

And not just any porn — cinematic, theatrical, hypnotic. The kind that made sinners addicted, submissive, desperate for more.

Vox didn’t take it seriously at first. 

“Some moth making skin flicks? Please,” he’d scoffed, feet up on his desk. “He’s not a threat. He’s a novelty.”

But then came the numbers.

The viewership.

The souls.

Valentino’s films raked in millions. VoxNet’s ratings dipped. His western district’s profits shrank by ten percent in a month.

Vox stopped sleeping. His circuits buzzed with restless static.

He watched Valentino’s films in secret — plush, sensual, disgusting. The moth on-screen was magnetic: gold eyes, silk voice, sin wrapped in confidence. Vox hated him. Hated how good he was at manipulating the masses.

For the first time in years, Vox felt the same gnawing feeling he used to feel when he stood beside Alastor — inferiority.

And Alastor? He found it amusing.

He’d heard the whispers, too. 

“Oh, so there’s another rising star in town?” he’d chuckled one evening when Vox mentioned it. 

“A rival in your domain. How deliciously ironic.”

Vox glared. 

“It’s not funny.”

“On the contrary,” Alastor said, sipping his whiskey. 

“It’s perfectly funny. The student has become the master — and now, the master fears the next student.”

“I don’t fear him.”

“Mm. Of course not.”

Their arguments grew sharper. Vox stopped visiting Alastor’s tower altogether. The last time they spoke, Alastor had smiled that damned smile and said:

“Careful, Vox. If you stare too long at the static, you’ll lose the signal.”

Vox didn’t understand what he meant — not then. But he remembered the look in his eyes. A mix of pity and fondness.

It infuriated him.

                                                                                             ______________________________

1980 

By the time the 80s dawned, Vox had remade Hell in his image.

Screens covered every wall. Advertisements screamed from every block. The world was alive with his voice — a constant hum of neon, noise, and movement.

But in the quiet moments, when the cameras turned off and the static settled… he thought of two people.

Alastor — the voice that never needed a screen.

And Valentino — the moth who’d stolen his audience.

They were both in his head, both pulling him apart. One represented everything old and refined; the other, everything new and corrupt. And Vox? He was caught somewhere in between — the bridge between two eras, slowly fracturing under the weight of both.

He stood one night at the window of his top floor apartment, staring out at the city that glittered like a circuit board. The neon lights painted his face in shifting hues, and his reflection blinked back — cold, pixelated, powerful.

He’d done it. He’d become what he always wanted to be.

An Overlord.

A god of his own creation.

And yet… the static in his chest never went away.

Some nights, he swore he could still hear Alastor’s laugh through the old frequencies — faint, like a ghost in the machine.

                                                                                   ______________________________

The waiting room outside the King’s office was silent except for the faint hum of electricity and the occasional crackle from Vox’s screen. He stood stiffly by the gilded door, his fans whirring louder than he wanted them to. His claws drummed nervously against his thigh, betraying his composure. He had never been summoned to the King’s office before—only sent memos, warnings, or rumors passed through intermediaries.

He smoothed his tie for what must’ve been the tenth time and checked his reflection in the polished marble wall. Everything about him—his sharp suit, his flickering grin, the faint blue glow of static around his antennae—was immaculate. Still, it wasn’t confidence that held him together; it was calculation.

The sound of raised voices broke his concentration.

“—I told you, Luci, I will not stand for another one of your experiments—”

Queen Lilith’s voice, sharp and furious, sliced through the door like lightning. There was a crash, a teacup shattering, and then the door burst open.

Lilith swept past him in a swirl of crimson and gold silk, her fury palpable. Her beauty was radiant even in anger, eyes glowing with celestial fire. Vox instinctively stepped aside as she hissed under her breath, 

“Deal with your toys yourself, husband,” before storming down the corridor.

An imp appeared in the doorway, looking pale and twitchy. Without a word, it bowed and gestured for Vox to enter.

The room beyond was a study in elegant chaos. The air smelled faintly of scorched incense and ozone. Papers were strewn across a massive mahogany desk, a toppled chair lay on its side, and one porcelain cup had rolled to the floor, its tea spreading like a shadow on the rug. Lucifer Morningstar stood behind the desk, his back turned, tail flicking restlessly as he muttered to himself. The faint, radiant glow of his feathers pulsed against the dimness of the room, as if his celestial light couldn’t quite decide whether to burn or fade.

“Uh… Your Majesty?” 

Vox’s voice came out smoother than he felt.

Lucifer didn’t respond at first. He tapped one claw against the map before him, then another, lost in thought. The imp silently motioned for Vox to sit, then vanished out the door.

Vox hesitated only a second before moving forward. The click of his heels echoed across the polished floor as he approached, folding his hands neatly behind his back before sitting in one of the surviving chairs. He crossed one leg over the other, posture perfect, smile polite but wary.

Finally, Lucifer exhaled and turned.

The King looked... tired. His crown glowed dimly, like a candle in the wind, but his eyes still burned with cunning. With a sigh, he leaned against his desk, claws resting against the edge as he studied Vox.

“You are good with all forms of electrical currents, yes?”

Vox’s antenna itched. 

“Yes, Your Majesty. Electricity and tech are my specialty.”

Lucifer’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a grimace. 

“Good. Because I am sick of hearing sinners complain about Hell being ‘behind the times.’ I’ve decided to implement a new energy network throughout Pride. The issue—” 

He gestured irritably at the sprawling map— 

“is that every route I’ve drawn up would last about three hours before some idiot burns it down. Or eats it. Or both.”

Vox leaned forward, intrigued. 

“If I may…” 

He reached out, pointing to several spots on the map near the west side. 

“If we implement power lines here and connect them to a stable source, it should stabilize the grid. The southern border—Carmine District—is underdeveloped, but perfect for long-term connections.”

Lucifer hummed and conjured a pen, sketching over Vox’s lines. 

“And how long would it take you to connect everything? And what would you need?”

Vox ran a quick calculation through his systems. 

“If I had my own facility to set up the system, I could have it done within a month.”

“That’s easily arranged,” Lucifer said without looking up. 

“Do you have a location in mind?”

“I do.” 

Vox pointed to the central part of the western district. 

“I already have territory there. I’ve drawn up schematics for a tower—a main hub to convert and distribute the power. All I need is a construction crew and clearance.”

Lucifer tilted his head, expression unreadable. 

“That I can provide. However…” 

His smile sharpened into something dangerous. 

“As King, I don’t make a habit of favoring a single sinner—especially one on track to becoming an Overlord. This helps Hell, yes, but it’s hardly a favor to me.”

He straightened, pacing slowly around the desk. 

“So tell me, Vox.” 

His tone dropped, silky and menacing. 

“Now that I know what you can do, and what I need—why should I grant you the freedom to do it, instead of simply taking it for myself? What’s in it for me, Victor?”

Vox froze. The use of his mortal name hit like static down his spine. His smile flickered, faltered—then returned, sharp and confident again.

“Well… I suppose,” he began, voice smooth as ever, “I can provide for your citizens while you focus on... bigger matters. And in return, I can offer my services to you, if you feed into my pet projects.”

Lucifer’s tail twitched, a subtle tell of interest. 

“Would I be able to tinker on some of said projects at my leisure? Anonymously, of course. In exchange, consider my personal bank account yours to use as you wish.”

That made Vox pause. No one—no one—had ever offered to touch his work before. But the idea of having the King’s bottomless wealth at his fingertips? That was too sweet to refuse.

“I don’t see why that would be an issue,” Vox said finally, lowering his voice. 

“You’re quite the inventor yourself, aren’t you? I’d value your input. And with your funding… I could truly modernize Hell.”

Lucifer smiled faintly. 

“Then it’s settled. Consider the grid yours in its entirety. I was never much good with electrical currents.” 

His tone dropped, golden eyes narrowing. 

“But I expect updates—on everything, including who’s working in that tower. No one touches the finances without my consent. Understand?”

Vox inclined his head. 

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

Lucifer’s grin widened. 

“Then consider it a deal. A boost in both our contracts and our power.”

Vox’s eyes gleamed. 

“So you’re giving me permission to run the city?”

“Literally run it through the grid, yes. But you gain no political power.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” Vox chuckled, static buzzing at his fingertips. 

“This gives me access to what I need. So in a way, you’ve already ensured my success. For that, I must thank you.”

He extended a hand. 

“So, we have a deal?”

Lucifer took it.

The moment their claws met, blue static and golden fire intertwined, sparking across the room. The air hummed with electricity as their deal sealed—an unholy fusion of progress and pride.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Your Majesty,” Vox said, rising from his seat.

“Be sure to invite me over after you’ve built it,” Lucifer replied, returning to his desk. His tone was casual, but the flick of his tail betrayed his excitement. 

“I’d like to see what you come up with.”

Vox inclined his head with a grin. 

“You’ll be the first to know.”

Lucifer muttered something in Enochian, dismissing him. 

“All good. Pleasure to meet you again, Vex.”

Vox blinked. 

“…It’s Vox, sir.”

“Ah. Fuck. Sorry.” 

Lucifer laughed under his breath. 

“Awful with the fancy made-up names you sinners use. Vox. Got it.”

He smiled—unexpectedly warmly—and that alone threw Vox off balance.

“Well then,” Vox said, bowing slightly. “Till we meet again, Your Majesty.”

Lucifer only nodded, returning to his papers as golden light pooled around him.

As Vox stepped out into the corridor, the door closing softly behind him, the golden letter in his pocket seemed to pulse with new weight. He could feel it—the hum of the future, the promise of power flowing beneath his fingertips.

Hell was about to change forever.

                                                                                      ______________________________

The Pride Ring was alive with the low hum of construction. From the edge of the newly formed Entertainment district, Vox could see the skeletal frame of his tower rising against the dim, hellish sky. Steel beams caught the faint flicker of neon from the streets below, scaffolding swarming like insects around the emerging structure. Cranes moved with mechanical precision, laying down the groundwork for the massive communications and media hub that would eventually house his Hellphone network and the heart of the power grid. Vox’s fingers itched with anticipation, the whir of his cooling fans matching the mechanical rhythm of the construction below.

A familiar click of a cane echoed behind him, and Vox turned slightly. Alastor leaned casually against the edge of the scaffolding balcony that overlooked the site, his red and black attire contrasting sharply with the gray steel and greenish glow of construction lights. One clawed hand rested on his cane, the other tucked neatly in his pocket.

“You’ve been at it long hours,” Alastor observed, his grin teasing but eyes sharp, scanning Vox with that ever-watchful gaze. 

“I trust progress is satisfactory?”

Vox’s screen-face flickered with pride and a faint, nervous energy. 

“Yes, Alastor. The framework is up, and the Hellphone lines will be operational within the week. I just… wanted to see the pace with my own sensors.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow. 

“Of course. It’s impressive work, Vox. But do remember, even an Overlord needs to breathe occasionally. Wouldn’t want you collapsing atop your own empire before it’s even finished.” 

He gave a soft chuckle, then faded into the shadows, leaving Vox with the rising tower as a quiet reminder of their partnership—and of the trust and mentorship that had brought him here.

Later that night, the cabaret hall was thick with smoke, a honeyed glow from low-hung chandeliers spilling across tables of attentive sinners. The scent of spiced rum, burnt caramel, and something faintly metallic clung to the air. Vox perched on the edge of a velvet banquette, fingers drumming lightly on the tabletop as his glowing screen-face flickered in the dim light.

He had heard whispers of this new overlord for months—Valentino, the one claiming dominion over the silver screen in Hell, and particularly its more risqué corners—but nothing had prepared him for the magnetic pull of the man in person.

Valentino emerged onto the stage with a fluid, catlike grace. His tailored suit hugged him just enough to hint at power beneath the surface, the dim spotlights bouncing off the subtle shimmer of his jewelry. He didn’t just enter a room; he inhabited it, and even from the edge of the hall, Vox felt the pull of the man’s energy wrap around him.

Vox shifted slightly, the whir of his fans masking a shallow, uneven rhythm of breath. He tried to focus on the business at hand—the potential collaboration that could expand his influence—but every word, every gesture from Valentino was a distraction. The man’s voice cut through the smoke and music like a scalpel: smooth, commanding, yet playful, teasing the audience with sly smiles and suggestive winks.

Alastor appeared suddenly, emerging from the shadowed side of the room, his cane clicking softly against the floor. He leaned casually against a railing, one clawed hand in his pocket, his eyes glinting with amusement. 

“Impressive choice of venue,” he murmured to Vox, watching the intensity in his pupil’s glowing face. 

“I see why you’re here. But… do remember why you called me.”

Vox’s gaze remained fixed on Valentino, tracing the elegant tilt of his head, the way he moved across the stage, as if the world itself were choreographed around him. 

“Yes, yes,” Vox muttered, barely hearing Alastor, “but you… you should see—look at him.”

Alastor’s eyebrow arched. 

“Ah. I see. And here I thought you’d be all about the infrastructure, the network, the—oh, I don’t know—world domination.” 

He smirked, watching Vox’s internal conflict flicker in the glow of his screen-face.

Vox’s hands curled slightly in his lap, static crackling faintly across his skin. 

“I… I know what I should be thinking. But—he just… commands attention. I can’t…” 

His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, attempting to regain composure. 

“I need to see him closer. Just to… evaluate.”

The show continued in cabaret style: Valentino moved with practiced precision, interacting with the audience, drawing gasps and laughter in equal measure. Vox leaned forward, captivated by the effortless magnetism, the way the man’s eyes seemed to lock on him for just a fraction of a second before darting away. Heat pooled under Vox’s synthetic surface—a strange mix of desire, admiration, and the deep, gnawing unease of boundaries being tested.

Alastor, still perched near the exit, gave a soft chuckle, sensing the tension. 

“I take it this isn’t purely business, then?”

Vox’s static flickered, betraying his internal struggle. 

“I—It is business. Of course. But… I can’t ignore… him. The potential.” 

He exhaled sharply, trying to force rationality over instinct. 

“And if it is… something else… I can control it. I always do.”

When the performance ended, the crowd erupted, clapping and cheering as Valentino took a bow. Vox remained rooted in place, the pull of the man’s energy still tangling with his thoughts. He felt Alastor’s presence beside him, a grounding weight, but it only accentuated the restlessness in him.

Vox stood, smoothing his tie and straightening his posture. 

“I need to speak with him. Now.”

Alastor’s grin widened. 

“Ah. Bold. Not that I mind. Just… don’t get yourself burned.”

Navigating through the milling crowd, Vox approached Valentino at the edge of the stage, his fan quietly humming, eyes fixed on the performer. Valentino turned, noticing him almost immediately. Vox’s pulse—or whatever closest equivalent his system registered—spiked. The man’s gaze was confident, teasing, aware of the attention he commanded.

“Vox,” he said, the name rolling smoothly off his tongue, already knowing it. 

“I’ve heard you might be in need of… collaboration.”

Vox swallowed hard, trying to rein in the heat pooling under his circuits. 

“Yes. I… I’d like to offer you a studio. In my tower. Fully equipped. Your productions, your schedule. Complete discretion. All for you.”

Valentino’s grin deepened, a glimmer of interest flickering in his eyes. 

“And what makes you think I’d trust you—or be interested?”

“Because,” Vox said, voice steadying despite the electric thrumming in his chest, “I know talent when I see it. And I… I want to help you grow. Privately. Professionally. Whatever you need.”

The air between them was taut with unspoken electricity, the kind that made static crawl along Vox’s skin in little shivers. Valentino leaned slightly closer, curious, amused, and Vox’s breath—or its equivalent—caught. The cabaret lights danced off the crowd, off Valentino, off the edges of Vox’s flickering screen, and it was impossible to look away.

“I like confidence,” Valentino murmured, voice low and deliberate, brushing past Vox’s personal space with a familiarity that made his circuits hum. 

“And you, my flashy friend, are dangerously confident. Are you always this… bold?”

Vox hesitated, then allowed a faint, self-conscious grin. 

“Only when it matters.” 

His static crackled softly, betraying his internal struggle, the flicker of uncertainty behind the controlled surface. 

“But… you—you make it hard to… focus solely on business.”

Valentino’s eyes sparkled with mischief and intrigue, leaning just a touch closer. 

“Well, we can certainly work on that… together.”

Alastor, lingering near the exit, gave a subtle nod and a knowing smirk before retreating, leaving the two alone in the dimming glow of the stage lights. Vox’s circuits thrummed with a mixture of excitement, apprehension, and the unshakable pull of fascination. For the first time, he felt that tangle of desire and ambition that no protocol, no training, no self-imposed boundary could fully suppress.

The connection was instant, magnetic, and Vox, despite the tight coil of internalized tension, couldn’t deny it. Valentino had captured more than his attention—he had claimed the edges of his thoughts, the small spark of obsession that even he couldn’t fully control.

And as he led Valentino away to discuss the arrangements for the tower, the hum of the cabaret faded behind them, replaced by the low, steady rhythm of a new partnership—one that promised power, influence, and the dangerous thrill of something personal that Vox wasn’t yet ready to admit he wanted.

                                                                                       ______________________________

A few weeks later, the tower stood completed, a gleaming monument in the center of the newly claimed V District. Powerlines stretched out like veins, connecting the building to the grid, surging life into the surrounding streets. The hum of electricity was palpable, and the city had never looked brighter. Vox had tapped into Lucifer’s funds a total of three times to secure the materials and manpower needed to finish his media den, but the result was undeniable—a perfect mix of function, spectacle, and flair.

He had sent a formal invitation to the King, inviting him to see the tower for himself. Valentino wasn’t scheduled to be around, but Vox made sure to emphasize that the showcase would be fully representative of everything he had built.

Lucifer had spent the entire day preparing. After much deliberation, he’d tucked away his usual red suit at Lilith’s insistence and opted for a pristine white ringmaster ensemble. Crown and cane remained, of course, and he practiced smiles in front of the mirror, forcing control over his restless tail and wings. Finally satisfied, he stepped into a waiting white limousine and made his way to the tower.

He walked through the main entrance, eyes widening at the sight of Vox’s handiwork. Vox stood beside his assistant—a small, shark-like demon with round glasses—and adjusted his own outfit with flair. Gone was the yellow turtleneck and blazer; in its place was a striped red-and-white vest cinched at the waist, a matching blue-and-white coat and pants, buckled heeled shoes, and a hat adorned with a bold “V.” His flat screen TV head gleamed, the left eye swirling with a subtle red-and-black hue as he noticed the King.

“Your Majesty! I’m glad you got my invite!” Vox’s grin was wide, animated.

“And I am glad you kept your word,” Lucifer replied, arms folded behind his back, a confident grin on his face. 

“Perhaps trusting sinners isn’t so bad. This place… it’s absolutely stunning. All the lights—it’s very inviting. So, what can I help you with today?”

Vox winked. 

“I thought I’d give you a tour of your new pet project. Gotta impress Daddy, right?”

“Daddy? But I’m not you… wait… oh… OH—” 

Lucifer’s face flushed bright gold, his tail and wings springing out. He turned his back to Vox, muttering rapidly to himself before taking a few deep, audible breaths. When he faced Vox again, the confident kingly mask was back. 

“Alright, you said a tour? Excellent. An excellent way to see the product of my money, of course.”

Vox led him through the main lobby and into Valentino’s porn studio. 

“So this is my newest project. Valentino’s joining me as a partner. We’re going to create special channels for subscribers to watch all his films, plus live streams.”

Lucifer raised a brow. 

“I suppose I’ll be meeting him later to approve?”

“Once he’s back from recruiting, we can all have a chat. He’s at his club gathering… you know, his talent.”

Lucifer nodded. 

“Sounds appropriate for the title he’s claiming. Not a bad setup here, either—I’ll keep an eye on his work.”

Vox’s eyes betrayed him, faint heart-shaped icons dancing subtly across his gaze as he absentmindedly licked his lips. 

“I’ve seen the work he makes. He’s… impressive. He even starred in some of his own films.”

Lucifer’s smile softened, genuine and unguarded for once. 

“Then I look forward to the partnership—and all that comes from it. Maybe this will be one that lasts.”

Vox’s eyes snapped to the King, tension creeping in. 

“Was that supposed to be a jab at my mentor? Alastor and I are fine—he just… took some distance to do his own thing.”

Lucifer tensed, golden glow fading slightly. 

“Alastor mentored you? The Radio Demon? I… I had no idea. I—uh—no, not regarding that. I was just… trying to wish you well. Perhaps it was a mistake to come here.” 

He cleared his throat, straightened his coat, and restored his mask.

“Do you have more to show me, or shall I take my leave?”

Vox chuckled and guided him toward the elevator. 

“Of course! You have to see my main source.”

The elevator ride was accompanied by soft jazz, which Lucifer subtly changed to a livelier tune with a tap of his cane. Vox smirked at Lucifer.

“Did you just mess with my music?”

“Of course not. Must be a faulty wire,” Lucifer replied, eyes glinting with challenge.

The elevator descended, doors opening to a grated walkway overlooking a massive water tank. A shadow passed overhead—the belly of a giant shark, blue-webbed, eyes glowing red. Lucifer froze, jaw dropping, eyes wide in pure joy.

Vox kept walking, rambling about his citywide security plans, before noticing Lucifer staring. 

“Wha—oh… oh, right.” He chuckled.

“Pretty, isn’t she?”

Lucifer’s gaze didn’t leave the shark.

“Never got to see the marine life I helped create. The great white specifically… a favorite of mine.”

“Would you like to pet her?” Vox asked, excitement bubbling in his voice.

Lucifer’s tail flicked, wings stretching. 

The shark swam close, eyeing the King, and nudged his face with gentle curiosity. Lucifer laid down beside her, delight uncontained, finally relaxed enough to enjoy the creature he’d helped inspire.

Vox chuckled softly, sitting beside him afterward. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yes. Thank you, Vox. Truly,” Lucifer replied, radiant.

“I’m glad. So, you approve of my advancements so far?”

“Yes—but has Valentino moved in? I will need to see more of his work before I approve him. Though… since you allowed me this experience, I’ll… bend our agreement a little and look the other way for now.”

“He hasn’t officially moved in yet. By the end of the week, probably. I’ll let him know you want to meet.”

“Good. I’ll make it a formal meeting for proper protocol,” Lucifer said, brushing off his coat.

Vox led him back to the lobby. 

“Anything else I can help you with today, Your Majesty?”

A lilac glow flashed from Lucifer’s ring. 

“No. That shall be all. Thank you again. I’ll have my staff set up the meeting.”

“Of course, my King. Until we meet again.” 

Vox bowed, turning on his heels and heading back to his office, already pulling out his phone to text Valentino. He knew the moth wouldn’t sit still for something so formal—but that made it all the more… enticing.