The city outside was trembling.

Not metaphorically — actually trembling, like a low earthquake rolling beneath the streets. Every billboard, street screen, and projection tower synced at once, the light pulsing in perfect rhythm.

Vox’s rhythm.

At home, you were holding a half-full sippy cup, staring at the suspicious puddle your toddler created on the floor.

You sighed, grabbed a towel, and kept cleaning. Noise outside? Normal. Weird lights? Also normal. Hell was dramatic every other Tuesday—you didn’t think much of it.

Meanwhile—

In the city’s central plaza…

A massive crowd packed the streets, demons stacked shoulder to shoulder, some climbing light posts just to see better. The air buzzed like static before a storm.

Vox stood on a towering stage of screens, each one reflecting him at a different angle. His smile was sharp, dazzling, predatory.

He was in full performance mode.

“HELL HAS BEEN LED BY ABSENCE,” Vox announced, voice amplified across every district.

The crowd’s roar hit like a physical wave.

Above him, Lucifer’s morningstar emblem flickered weakly—still present, still threatening—but Vox overrode it again, drowning it in glitching red and blue.

“The old king vanished.” His tone dropped, layered with the kind of venom only he could make sound elegant. “And Hell deserves someone who doesn’t disappear when things get hard.”

Chants erupted.

At home, one of your kids waddled up holding a stuffed toy that was very much on fire.

“Mommy, he’s hot!” your child giggled.

You took the toy, shoved it in a sink, and put the fire out with the tired reflexes of a mom who’d seen worse.

Back in the plaza…

Vox stepped to the very edge of the platform, arms outstretched.

Every camera lens tilted upward toward him.

Every demon held their breath.

He was commanding the city the way he commanded screens—every eye drawn, every thought bending toward him.

“I don’t hide in hotels,” Vox sneered, a jab Lucifer would absolutely notice. “I don’t run from responsibility.”

The crowd roared louder.

Static coiled around his fingers like lightning.

“I lead. I show up. I stay.”

And then, with a booming finality:

“HELL DESERVES BETTER.”

The plaza exploded with cheers. Cameras flashed. Screens rippled with Vox’s symbol.

He stood there, basking in it—hungry, confident, electric. He wasn’t thinking about home. He wasn’t thinking about you.

Not because he didn’t care. But because this moment—this power—was everything he’d been building toward.

He finally had Hell’s attention. Lucifer would have to respond. The Overlords would shift. Everything was changing.

And while Vox raised a hand, accepting the bowing of thousands of demons—

Back home…

You tucked a blanket around your smallest child, who was finally asleep.

Outside, the sky glowed brighter, neon streaks crawling like veins across the horizon.

You looked out the window.

“Oh,” you muttered. “He must be doing something again.”

You shrugged. Went back to cleaning up toys.

Oblivious to the fact that your husband was about to ignite the biggest political shift Hell had seen in decades.