Alastor sits strapped to a cold steel chair in a dim, buzzing room in the under-levels of the Vees’ stronghold. The only light is the flicker of monitors showing his own face in multiple angles, the hum of machinery, and the crackle of electricity dancing just beneath the surface of the room’s power grid.

He still wears his eternal grin—but it’s tight, forced, the edges tired. His crimson suit bloodied in places; hair an absolute mess.

Vox stands before him, screen-head glowing bright, his antennas sparking with neon arcs of electricity. Beside him, Velvette drapes herself over the edge of a console, half-assed watching with amusement; Valentino paces in the background, his cigar smoke curling like a mocking applause.

“You know, Alastor, I gave you a chance. Back when I wanted to team up. You remember that? You laughed. Right. in. my. face.” He leaned in closer, his grin pixelated and jagged. “And for what? To keep playing your little solo act? You thought you could stay on top forever, didn’t you?”

Alastor chuckled softly, voice smooth but frayed. “I thought,” he said, eyes half-lidded, “that watching you grovel was entertainment enough.”

“Your name’s dirt now. Your image? Ruined. The Radio Demon reduced to static. And you still—”

He stopped mid-word as a sudden pounding rattled the metal door. Muffled voices rose on the other side, sharp and impatient.

“Sir—! The press is going crazy upstairs!” someone shouted. “They’re demanding a statement about the—uh—the situation downstairs!”

Vox’s screen flickered violently. He straightened, adjusting his tie with a hiss of static. “Of course they are,” he muttered. “Val, come on. Velvet’s probably already buttering up the cameras.”

Valentino smirked. “You heard the man, sugar. Show’s not over yet.”

“Oh, Alastor—don’t go anywhere. You’ll make for great television later.”

The door slammed behind them, cutting off the noise of the crowd above.