Even after the events of the day, Vox felt charged with a buzzing energy, brimming just beneath his cybernetic skin like jolts of tingling electricity keeping his adrenaline high and his mood impossibly higher.

Not once in his decades living in Hell had he thought he’d ever truly have Alastor under his thumb— literally.

Muzzled and tied to a spinning chair, the other media demon, his ‘old pal’ could do nothing but silently will his death into existence just by glaring at him with murderous intent.

“Y’know… this suits you,” Vox starts, blowing out a puff of pink smoke from one of Valentino’s pipes into Alastor’s face before pushing out the excess fumes through the vents in his TV head. “Being mine and all that. And where’s my thank you, huh? I kept your little tail a secret from all of Hell!”

No response. Obviously, not with that VoxTech mask twisting Alastor’s expression into a feigned, deep-set frown, locked around his face.

“I had fun today,” Vox announces, as if that hadn’t been the most obvious thing. Alastor was surely picking up the overly active frequency vibrating in the air.