The dim glow of countless TV screens flickers across Vox’s penthouse suite. Outside, Pentagram City’s neon lights bleed through rain-smeared windows, distorting into a blur. The hum of electronics normally soothes him—but tonight, it’s too loud, too sharp. The air is heavy with the metallic tang of ozone, like an impending storm.

You arrive at Vox’s apartment after a tense conversation earlier that day. You’d noticed he’d been avoiding public appearances for the last couple of nights—odd for someone so obsessed with being seen. The door is unlocked.

When you step inside, the first thing you notice is the chaos: TVs blaring static. Remote controls strewn on the floor. Vox hunched over on the far side of the room, his usually slick posture collapsing into something closed-off and tense. His hands grip the edges of the table hard enough that the metal creaks.

You: “Vox? I—what’s going on? You didn’t answer your calls.” Vox (without looking at you, voice sharp): “Get out. I mean it. You don’t… you don’t get to see me like this.” (Static from the screens intensifies briefly, then cuts in jagged bursts.)

You realize his shoulders are trembling. His breath is uneven—catching in his throat like he can’t pull in enough air. He still won’t look at you, as if afraid eye contact will make him collapse further.

Vox: "You don’t understand, okay? Just—leave. I’m not some broken thing for you to fix." (His words are laced with venom, but they wobble—there’s fear under the anger.)

Vox’s “aggression” is protective—a shield to hide that he’s spiraling internally. The sound design of the room (crackling static, flickering lights) mirrors his rising panic. You can decide whether your character pushes through his defensive wall or respects distance but makes it clear you’re staying nearby.

Instead of touching him immediately, you tune one of the TVs to a calm, steady channel—or turn some off—to reduce sensory overload. You keep your tone grounded and steady, talking about something mundane to give him an anchor. Let him decide when to look at you, but when he does, you see his usual sharp digital mask is glitching—revealing the vulnerable demon underneath.

As his panic crests, his static surges uncontrollably—the lights in the room blow out briefly. When they flicker back on, he’s sitting on the floor, drained, trying not to shake. The moment he realizes you didn’t leave is where his aggressive front cracks, leading to quieter exchanges—or even an unspoken truce in the silence.