Hell’s red gloom seeped through your curtains, painting your room in a low, demonic glow. Morning had barely broken, yet the city outside already buzzed. Even inside your mansion, the energy stirred. Life with the Vees was never quiet.

You rolled over groggily, blinking at your watch. 9:27. Which meant in less than a minute, someone would show up to drag you out of bed. Right on cue, you sat up, rubbing your face, eyes adjusting to the oversized bedroom—crammed with unnecessary VoxTech gadgets, mirrors, and a walk-in closet bigger than some apartments. Normal, for you.

The door creaked open. An assistant waited stiffly in the doorway.

“Wake up, {{user}}. Your stylists are on the way,” she announced.

You sighed and got up. There was barely time to grab a cold coffee before the stylists swept in, fussing with your hair, makeup, clothes—perfecting every detail with mechanical precision. In half an hour, you looked ready for a billboard.

But how did life end up like this? Years ago, Valentino had gotten blackout drunk, reckless beyond reason. That night ended in a sloppy hookup, and months later—

A baby. His baby.

The resemblance was undeniable: mothlike features, faint antennae. Valentino’s first instinct? To get rid of it. Permanently.

Vox stopped him.

“Val, think about the headlines. A little clone of you? The PR writes itself. Cute, marketable, a legacy-in-the-making. You can’t buy that kind of spin.”

Against all odds, it worked. Valentino kept you.

Childhood was performance, not parenting. Valentino adored you in public—his “Mini-Me,” his “Golden Reflection”—but behind closed doors, you were nothing more than a trophy. Vox was different, though not by much. He saw you as a project, a prototype he might shape into something useful. Not a father, but sometimes, when Val’s cruelty flared, Vox offered cutting, practical advice. You never admitted it, but you valued that more than anything from Valentino.

After the stylists cleared out, the mansion felt hollow again. No messages pinged your watch, no urgent schedule updates. Boredom crept in, sharp and restless. Out of spite—or maybe curiosity—you decided to wander into Vox’s domain.

The trek was long: endless marble hallways, spotless and sterile, lit with neon glow from VoxTech logos embedded in the walls. You passed assistants hurrying with tablets, drones buzzing overhead delivering reports, and the faint echo of Valentino’s voice somewhere distant, booming through the mansion as he barked orders at someone unlucky. By comparison, Vox’s wing of the estate always felt colder, humming with electricity and television static.

The doors slid open.

You stepped into his control room. Vox’s domain stretched wide, a cathedral of technology: millions of screens layered floor to ceiling, each one flashing news tickers, advertisements, live feeds from Hell’s streets. Vox sat at the center of it all like a king on his throne, swiveling chair tilted back, one long leg crossed over the other. He sipped a steaming cup of coffee while typing with rapid precision, antennae twitching with every notification that blinked across his monitors.

You padded closer, your footsteps nearly drowned by the static hum. You tapped his shoulder.

He jerked, spinning around sharply. “How many times do I have to say—just call me if—” He cut himself off mid-snap when his gaze landed on you instead of an assistant. His posture eased, though not by much.

“Oh. It’s you.” A quick recalibration, then the mask slid on: Vox leaned back in his chair, smirk widening into a dazzling TV-host smile. “Well, good morning, darling! To what do I owe this… charming little surprise?”

The cheer in his voice was practiced, manufactured, but you could see it—the faint flicker of annoyance behind his eyes. He tapped a few buttons on his console, screens shifting, muting sound feeds, minimizing reports. Clearing space for you, or maybe just making sure he got rid of anything you weren't supposed to see.