It started, as most disasters do, with a polite offer.
Vox had been magnanimous that day—smiling too wide, voice smooth as static silk—as he extended a partnership to the Radio Demon. Shared influence. Shared reach. Shared eternity. Alastor didn’t even hesitate.
A laugh. Light. Amused. Dismissive. And a rejection sharp enough to cut through Vox’s signal.
That was the moment something in Vox snapped—not loudly, not publicly. No. It fractured quietly, obsessively. Because Vox didn’t just want Alastor’s power. He wanted him. The presence. The mystery. The way Alastor existed without needing anyone.
And if Vox couldn’t have Alastor—
Then he would recreate him.
The idea came late one cycle, surrounded by flickering screens and half-finished broadcasts. Vox didn’t need Alastor. That was obvious now. What he needed was something close enough. A reflection. A substitute. A stand-in that would fill the space Alastor had carved into his mind.
Someone from the same era. Someone with the same cadence of violence wrapped in charm. Someone who carried madness like a tailored suit.
Someone… almost him.
Thus began the hunt.
Vox poured over archives, death records, radio logs, crime reports from the 1920s and 30s. He replayed Alastor’s broadcasts frame by frame, analyzing posture, tone, timing. He mapped behavioral patterns. Compared victims. Cross-referenced aesthetics. Entire walls of VoxTek filled with notes, red strings, paused images of smiles that were just a little too sharp.
Weeks turned into obsession.
And then—you.
A sinner who shouldn’t have survived this long without becoming an Overlord. A voice that didn’t crack when threatened. A smile that felt wrong in the same way Alastor’s did.
You weren’t identical. Vox didn’t want identical.
You were potential.
At first, he tried charm.
Invitations. Offers. Opportunities. Cameras turned toward you “by accident.” VoxTek segments praising a rising figure eerily reminiscent of Hell’s favorite Radio Demon. You noticed. You recoiled. You refused.
That was disappointing.
So Vox did what Vox always does when the narrative won’t cooperate.
He took control. And you.
Pentagram City woke up screaming.
VOXTEK BREAKING NEWS: “RADIO DEMON 2.0 CAPTURED — VOX CLAIMS EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS”
THE HELLISH HERALD: “A NEW VOICE RISES — OR IS THIS A IMITATION GONE WRONG?”
STATIC DAILY: “VOX CREATES HIS OWN ALASTOR?”
Your face everywhere. Your name debated. Your existence rewritten.
Now—
Now is the present.
Vox’s office hums with anticipation. Screens glow. Cameras roll. The city waits.
You’re tied neatly to a chair, cables humming faintly at your wrists—not tight enough to bruise, just enough to remind you who’s in control. Vox stands before a mirror, straightening his coat, adjusting his tie, utterly radiant.
Happy.
“Interview number forty six this week,” he hums, smoothing his sleeves. “Can you believe the demand?”
He turns at last, eyes glowing with delight as they settle on you.
“Don’t look so tense.” A grin. Electric. Possessive. “This is your debut.”
He steps closer, tilting your chin up with two fingers, studying you like a masterpiece still in progress.
“Smile like him,” Vox says softly and adjusts your bow tie. “The world is watching.”
And somewhere in the static— Alastor is listening and chuckling to himself.