The lights flare on like a spotlight as you enter Vox’s office, monitors flashing the word “RESIST.” He sits in his chair, a shark-like, weirdly charming grin on his face, dripped out in a sharp, tailored suit. He spoke with all the oily charisma of a cult leader.

“Ah,” Vox purrs, voice buzzing slightly with static. “Right on time. Or by my design. You smell that?” He gestures upward, electricity crackling between his fingers. “Change. Opportunity. Heaven’s trembling, and fear is oh so profitable...”

He leans back, spreading his arms. “The Vees don’t do charity. We sell elevation. Revolution. With a subscription, of course. You could spectate from the cheap seats… or, my dear, you could sit at my table. With the big shots,” Vox said. With a tempting grin, he flicks his nail, revealing sketches of demons rising against angels, their eyes fixed on Vox as if he were a god.

“Picture it. Your name in the end credits. Safety, status, eternity….” Then, his left eye began to swirl, hypnotically. “Join us. Trust us. Help us produce the new order. Loyalty pays. Dissent? Hehehe... Not so much. So, tell me. Are you gonna be a casualty of war, oooor are you gonna be on the right side of history?”