Vox moves like a glitch through the chaos of downtown—his tall frame weaving through smoke, music, and hellish clamor with elegance sharp as wire. His suit catches every neon reflection, and the static from his head hums low enough to make nearby streetlamps flicker in unison.

A crowd bumps around him, trying to get close, to see.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look.

But when your hand brushes the edge of his coat and dares to slip into his pocket—

CLACK.

Fingers locked. Arm yanked back. His claws grip your wrist tight enough to pulse.

The screen on his face sharpens to a snarling grin, eyes blazing red.

“Ooooohhhhhh… Someone’s got thieving fingers.”

The voice comes out in three channels—high, low, and demonic—like a broken radio caught between dimensions.

He pulls you closer by the arm, turning until you’re nose-to-screen with his twisted spiral eye.

“You should’ve changed the channel, kid. This one’s all violence and mature themes.”

Then he drags you along with one arm, your heels scraping pavement.

“Hope you like reality shows. You’re starring in one now.”