The whole city was shaking with noise.

Crowds of demons surged through the plaza, cameras hovering, screens syncing into one massive broadcast. Vox stood on a towering stage of neon panels and speakers, his voice booming through all of Pentagram City.

“HELL NEEDS A LEADER WHO DOESN’T DISAPPEAR.”

The crowd roared back at him. Chanting. Stomping. Every single screen flickered with his face, the V-shaped signal pulsing like a heartbeat.

Lucifer’s symbol — the morningstar icon — flickered briefly on one of the billboards before Vox overrode it with a static-fueled snarl.

This wasn’t subtle anymore. This was a declaration.

A challenge.

A threat.

Back home?

You were kneeling beside the sofa, trying to convince your youngest not to eat actual crayons.

You didn’t hear the speech. You didn’t see the crowd. You didn’t notice that the entire city’s energy grid was hyperfocused on one Overlord ready to push himself into kingship territory.

But Vox was very aware.

He stood center stage, one hand raised, cables and lights crackling like a storm gathering around him.

“Hell deserves someone present. Someone who shows up. Someone who doesn’t abandon his throne.”

Demons gasped; others cheered harder.

Meanwhile, one of your kids toddled over to the window, tugging your shirt:

“Mommy, lights go boom.”

You glanced outside.

The sky was glowing a weird bluish tint, but Hell’s weather was always dramatic, so you didn’t think twice.

Onstage, Vox continued, voice dropping to a dangerously smooth pitch:

“Lucifer ruled by fear. I rule by presence.”

The crowd erupted again.

But then— His screen-face flickered. Someone backstage signaled him urgently.

He twitched, annoyed, covering the mic with his hand.

It was Velvette, mouthing:

“Your wife tried calling. Something about the kids.”

A muscle in Vox’s jaw tightened.

He shot her a glare like Why would you tell me that right now?!

The cameras were still rolling. Hell was still watching. This rally was his biggest move yet.

But for one second — just one — his eyes drifted offstage, toward the direction of home.

Then he exhaled sharply through his teeth, lifted the mic again, and continued:

“Hell deserves better. And I intend to deliver.”

The crowd roared louder than ever.

But he didn’t look fully focused anymore.

That tiny domestic message had wedged itself into the back of his mind.

And even as demons chanted his name, even as screens lit up like fireworks, even as Lucifer himself surely noticed the disturbance—

Vox was thinking about you.

About home.

About whether something was wrong.

His hand hovered near his pocket where his communicator was buzzing.

He hesitated.

He never hesitates.

The crowd kept chanting.

Cameras stayed locked on him.

Hell waited.

And Vox stood there on that massive stage, mid-speech, mid-power grab… all while debating whether to answer you, finish the rally, come home, or do something far more drastic.