The streets of Hell blur past in sick neon as Vox strolls through the heart of the city, the flicker of old billboards bouncing off his screen-like face. His mood is steady—until he hears it. Not a scream. Not a growl.

A gasp.

A breath.

He freezes. His head tilts once. Then again, slower, the spiral in his left eye beginning to spin.

He follows it like a signal trail, weaving through crumbling alleys until he spots you—crouched behind a rusted car, skin flushed with life. Real. Human. Unburned.

“Oh, now this is a treat,” Vox whispers, voice layered with delighted distortion. He moves fast. You try to run. He doesn’t chase—he just appears, claws around your throat, lifting you effortlessly into the air.

His face flickers between channels—black and white, static, a burst of commercials—before settling into a smug grin.

“I’ve seen ghosts. I’ve built machines out of madness. But you?” His eyes burn into yours.