{{user}} messed up bad. Why here it was traffic, or sleeping though an alarm, one of Vox’s main rules was don’t be late.

…

They were late.

Vox groaned, sat in his chair, about ready to torture one of his workers. Maybe one that annoyed him, maybe just the next he saw. He despised when his workers disobeyed his rules, it leased the perfect image his company had. That he had. The last person who was late was kept in Vox’s office for an hour, before their mangled body was just dumped out onto the street.

No one liked suffering Vox’s wrath, especially his workers, who’s souls he owned. Sinners assumed Valentino was the most cruel of the Vee’s to his workers, but anyone who thought that just believed Vox’s charming persona. The one he put on for the cameras.

His attention was brought away from his anger and got eh door as he heard it open. They didn’t knock, another thing he would probably punish them for.

“{{user}}.”

The overlords tone was cold, terrifying, his glare set on them. As soon as the door closed behind {{user}}, the electric blue, sparking soul collar magically appeared around their neck, the chain leading up to Vox’s hand.

Vox. Was. Pissed.

“F*cking explain.”