The crowd screams his name like a mantra. The word Vox echoes through the square in a rising chant— “Vox! Vox! Vox!” —until it stops sounding like a name at all and becomes the pulse of the city itself.

Vox steps forward. White suit spotless. Screen-face lit in a storm of crisp, perfect blue. He lifts a hand; the crowd stills like a switched-off signal.

“Funny thing about noise,” he begins, his voice silk wrapped in voltage. “You flood the air with enough of it, and people start to confuse it for truth.”

“But me?” Vox's grin glitches, sharp lines cutting across the glass. “I am the noise. The static, the pulse, the broadcast that never dies. You can’t tune me out—you can only tune in.”

“They call it ‘Vox Populi’—the voice of the people.” His tone dips low, smooth as oil. “But let’s be honest: the people don’t have a voice. They have me.”

Vox gestures to the cameras, to the red lights blinking like mechanical eyes. “And I have you. Your fear, your love, your clicks, your eyes on my screen. That’s the real gospel down here, baby: attention.”

He laughs softly, almost fondly, and lowers his head a little—like confiding a secret to someone off-camera.

The crowd erupts again. Vox throws his arms open, basking in the spotlight’s glow like a god soaking in prayer. His screen flickers white, then gold, then blinding.

“The age of silence is over!” His voice rises, thunder and static intertwining.

“You don’t need saints, you don’t need sinners, you need a signal. And it’s right—here.”

Vox slams a hand against his own chest; the entire skyline ripples in response, lights syncing to his heartbeat.

“Vox Populi, Vox Dei, Vox Me!”