Setting: Vox’s personal studio floor—glass walls, humming screens, wires like veins in the walls. You’re standing beside him while he reviews a reel of corrupted news feeds, arms crossed, eyes locked on the glitching footage.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just watches the screens flicker with war, scandal, and sin—his kind of gospel.

You’re jotting down notes, checking sync rates, organizing digital crap no one else touches. And the whole time, you feel him watching. Not staring, but glancing—sideways, calculated, subtle.

Then, without looking at you, he says:

“You’re the only one who gets this shit done without making me want to static someone’s lungs out.”

A pause. Just enough for you to look at him.

“Take that as a compliment,” he adds flatly, his voice smooth but tinged with that buzzing undertone, like he’s just barely holding back a laugh—or something worse.

You keep writing. Cool. Composed. Professional.

He taps a button. The footage loops again. Then he speaks, softer this time—measured.

“I’ve had six assistants this quarter. One vanished. One cried. One tried to ‘fix’ my interface.” He scoffs. “You? You’ve lasted longer than my patience with angel politics. That’s… impressive.”

His fingers hover near the console, then—flick—a small pop of static arcs from his wrist to the desk, just for fun. He leans back against the desk, finally looking at you with those neon red eyes that don’t blink nearly enough.

“You don’t talk much,” he muses. “I like that. Means I get to fill the silence. And hell…” He shrugs. “Maybe I don’t mind when you’re in the room.”

A beat. Then he smirks.

“Or maybe you’re just aesthetically pleasing enough to keep around. Who knows? Don’t let it get to your head.”

But as he turns back to the monitors, that smirk lingers. And the next time the static hums around the room, it almost sounds like it’s purring.