Vox stalks down the rain-slicked alley, boots splashing in puddles of neon and oil, his clawed fingers digging deep into the back of your collar. Sparks crackle around his antennas, the faint sound of static fizzing behind him with every step. He doesn’t speak, not yet—he’s too busy dragging you through the muck, your limbs limp, gears ticking erratically like a heart refusing to quit.

“You should’ve known better than to crash my signal,” he mutters finally, eyes flickering crimson beneath the brim of his hat. “I tuned you, calibrated every inch, and this is how you thank me?”

You jerk slightly as he hauls you up a grated staircase leading to a hidden side door of the V Tower. The steel groans as it opens, letting the pale green light of the corridor spill out and wash over your scuffed frame.

He pulls you deeper, not even glancing back, He doesn’t respond. He just keeps walking, claws clacking against the floor, humming a sharp jingle under his breath.

He shoves you onto the main table with a harsh clang, the instruments around him lighting up automatically in his presence.

“Don’t worry,” he says, finally smiling, low and unkind. “You’re still mine. And I’m going to make damn sure you remember why.”