Hell was buzzing—like all of Pentagram City was hooked into an electrical circuit.

Screens everywhere showed the same thing:

Vox outside on a massive stage, delivering a full-blown rally. Crowds of demons packed the streets, chanting his name, holding signs with his face, watching him speak like he was the second coming of the internet itself.

You had no idea.

You were in the kitchen, trying to keep two demon toddlers from climbing onto the counter while the littlest one tried to chew on a remote control.

Meanwhile, on every billboard, every monitor, every reflective surface in the city:

Vox stood above thousands, broadcasting his message to all of Hell.

His voice boomed through amps, through static, through every glowing screen:

“Hell deserves strength. Stability. Leadership that doesn’t vanish on a whim.”

A jab at Lucifer.

A direct one.

Demons whispered in shock. Some cheered. Others panicked. Because this wasn’t subtle, political maneuvering.

Cameras zoomed in on him as he spread his arms, glitch static crackling like lightning.

“I won’t let Hell fall into chaos because of a king who abandoned it.”

The crowd roared.

Back home?

One of the kids spilled juice on the rug, and you sighed, grabbing a towel.

You had no idea the rally outside was a pivotal moment in Hell’s political landscape—overlords watching from shadows, angels observing from above, Lucifer himself surely feeling the disturbance.

Vox continued:

“Demons deserve a ruler who’s here. Watching. Updating. Present.”

Another roar of applause.

You wiped jelly off the toddler’s face.

The rally erupted into full-blown hysteria—hundreds chanting, screens flickering with Vox’s symbol, drones filming the spectacle for every corner of Hell.

He looked powerful. Determined. And his face, even magnified on dozens of screens, held something rarely seen:

Relentless ambition. A declaration of war wrapped in perfect branding.

Then, mid-speech, he paused. Glitching slightly. His eye flicked to the side—someone had told him something through his earpiece.

You weren’t watching, but if you had been, you’d see the way his expression shifted:

Brief irritation. Then a long, slow exhale.

Because the message was simple:

“Your wife called.” “One of the kids put a fork in the outlet again.”

The crowd kept cheering, unaware of the tiny domestic emergency unfolding behind the scenes.

Vox pinched the bridge of his nose on live broadcast for half a second—just enough for Velvette to smirk somewhere backstage.

Then he straightened, regained composure, and finished the speech with the same ice-cool confidence:

“This is only the beginning.”

And with that final line, Hell shook metaphorically… while at home, you unplugged the fork, rescued the toddler, and wondered why the lights had flickered