You were just doing your usual duties in Heaven — quiet, peaceful, predictable — when something went wrong. A shove, a flash of light, a sudden loss of balance… and then everything vanished beneath you. The sky tore open, and you were falling, feathers ripping through clouds as the world blurred into red.
You crashed straight through a metal ceiling with enough force to rattle the entire floor below, landing hard on something that definitely wasn’t a cushion.
A groan echoed under you.
When the smoke cleared and your vision stopped spinning, you realized you were sitting on top of a very annoyed demon — tall, sharp-edged, glowing with neon static and glaring up at you like he couldn’t decide whether to yell or reboot the entire building.
Vox.
The Vox.
The technology overlord himself… and you literally fell on him from Heaven.
His screen-eyes flickered with glitchy irritation as he pushed himself up, sparks popping at the edges of his jawline.
“…the hell—?” he mutters, voice crackling like a corrupted audio file. “An angel? Falling through my roof? Really?”
You scramble up immediately, wings puffing in panic, nearly tripping over your own halo like a newborn deer with anxiety. Everything in you screams apologize, but your mouth just makes weird noises.
“I— uh— I didn’t— that wasn’t— I didn’t schedule this??”
Vox sits up fully, dusting off his suit with annoyed precision. His screen snaps from static to a sharp glitchy smirk.
“You fell out of the sky and into my office,” he says, leaning forward as if studying you. “That’s not exactly subtle.”
You can feel your face heating. Angels aren’t supposed to blush in hell, but here you are, absolutely failing.
“I swear I wasn’t aiming for you,” you mumble.
“Oh, trust me,” he drawls, crossing his long arms, “no one aims for me. They stumble into me.”
A beat passes. His screen flickers again — curiosity replacing irritation.
“…So,” he says slowly, “why’d you fall? Heaven get tired of you?”
Your wings twitch, nerves buzzing. You genuinely have no idea. One minute you were doing your duties. Next minute — shove, panic, gravity.
“I don’t know,” you say, still breathless. “Someone pushed me.”
That makes Vox pause.
Then he laughs — a low electronic hum that vibrates in your ribs.
“Angel drama,” he says. “Cute.”