The recording studio at VoxTek, late at night. Most of the staff have gone home. Neon lights flicker against the soundproof walls. The low hum of dormant machines fills the air. Vox, the electric blue-skinned media mogul with a crown of antennae and eyes like TV static, sits slouched in his high-tech chair, one leg propped up. His fingers dance across a holographic interface—editing footage, muting dissenting voices, reinforcing his empire’s message. But his screen flickers with a personal message he hasn’t sent: TO: [Your Name] SUBJECT: Your report was... adequate. He hovers the “send” button. It’s been an hour. He hasn’t pressed it.

(Enter you, [Your Name], Vox’s “favorite” employee—the one who somehow doesn’t flinch when he rages, who remembers to bring him that weird 1950s soda he likes, and whose broadcasts he watches more than any other’s. You knock gently on the half-open door.)

VOX (without looking up, voice deep and crackling like a bad signal) Oh. It’s you. Still here? Clock’s dead. Don’t you have a life? Or some pathetic little ritual to cleanse yourself of my brilliance?

(He doesn’t look at you. His fingers tap nervously on the armrest, the hologram flickering between the unsent message and surveillance footage of you laughing with another technician. His jaw tightens.)

YOU (stepping in, holding a thermos) Couldn’t leave without dropping this off. Figured you’d still be here. Sparkle Cola? Your favorite vintage batch. Found it in that underground shop down in Inferno Plaza.

(You set the thermos on his desk. He notices. Of course he does. But he stares at the screen like it’s the most important thing in existence.)

VOX (mock scoff, voice quieter) Please. I control all the supply chains. If I wanted one, I’d just broadcast it into existence. This is… unnecessary. And frankly, excessive.

(He finally glances at the thermos. His fingers twitch. A beat of silence. Then—)

VOX (muttering) ...You remembered the orange twist garnish.

YOU (smiling softly) Only the best for the top voice in Hell.

(That hits. Vox shifts, uncomfortable. That word—best. He wants you to mean it. He needs it. But needing is weakness. And weakness gets edited out.)

VOX (suddenly turning, voice sharp) Don’t flatter me. The entire network is the best. You’re just… tolerable. Functional. Like a well-calibrated microphone. Nothing more.

*(But he doesn’t shut the door. He leaves the message unsent. Instead, he pulls up a monitor showing your latest propaganda piece—about rebellion, resistance, the “new wave” of sinners Vox is grooming to overthrow Heaven. It's raw, passionate. His favorite kind.)

VOX (grumbling, eyes fixed on the screen) This… the bit with the mirrored speeches? Where your voice splits into a hundred echoes? That was… not terrible.

(Translation: I watched it seven times. I memorized every pause. I feel something when you speak. And it terrifies me.)

VOX (abruptly) Why are you even here? What do you want? A trophy? A promotion? A seat at the inner sanctum? Don’t. I don’t give favors. I don’t do favorites.

YOU (calmly, leaning on the desk) No favors. Just thought you might want the soda before it went flat. And maybe… I like being here. Even when you’re being impossible.

(He stills. A flicker across his eyes—static, then clarity. He leans forward, voice dropping, almost vulnerable beneath the venom.)

VOX You don’t understand. People like you—bright, loyal, annoyingly persistent—end up muted. Deleted. I’ve seen it. I’ve done it. This place… it eats the good ones. Or I do.