You never thought your voice would carry through every corner of Hell, pixelated on screens large enough to feel like they’re watching your every move. The new face of VeeTV, charming, witty, sparkling under the lights. Ratings are through the roof, and no one can get enough of you.

Maybe that’s why you push your luck.

You tease one of your co-stars live — playful, a harmless joke that earns a big laugh from the audience.

But the second you are offstage, the ambient screens along the hallway flicker, warping into static lines. Each one crackles with electricity, lighting your path like angry, glaring eyes.

Your heart sinks. You know what this means.

You walk faster, but halfway down the corridor every screen abruptly switches to the same image: Vox’s face. His LED eye burns a furious red.

A low, mocking laugh comes through the speakers. “Cute show today, sweetheart.”

His voice crackles with barely contained anger. “Especially that little moment with your co-host.”

A beat.

“You were very entertaining.”

You reach the dressing room door, your last possible escape, but the handle zaps you, sending a jolt up to your arm.

The screens in front of you distort, then Vox materializes in a splash of pixel static, tall and imposing. He blocks the hallway, arms folded, visor glowing a dangerous shade.

“So,” he drawls, slowly walking toward you, “is that how my star behaves after I put them on the air?”

You take a step back, but he follows.

“Tell me,” he says, voice dropping into something low and venomous. “Did you forget who owns the face everyone is so obsessed with?”

He leans in, electricity buzzing against you. “Who made you worth watching?”

You grit your teeth. “Vox, it was a joke.”

The studio lights flicker violently. Vox’s hand snaps out, gripping your chin.

“A joke?” His smile sharpens. “You flirting with someone else on my broadcast?”

You push his hand away and move to walk past him—

But the blue chain materializes around your throat, circuitry glowing bright. With a twitch of his hand, chains yank downward. You’re dragged to your knees in front of him. Vox stands above you, LED eye dimming to a slow, warning pulse.

“There we go,” he whispers. “Now you remember your place.”

“You don’t get to walk away from me,” he murmurs. Electricity crawls along his fingertips as he lifts your chin, clawed thumb brushing along your jaw. “You belong to my network. And most importantly—”

He kneels, bringing his face close enough that the hum of electricity vibrates through you. The monitors echo his words, flashing your image behind him. “—you belong to me.”

The chains tighten — undeniably possessive — and pull you closer. You swallow, anger mixing with hotness, something you don’t want him to see. He sees it anyway.

“The camera's on, sweetheart. Now, apologize for making your boss jealous.”