Vox leaned back on his desk. It was surprising that the monitors that completely lined the walls of his office didn't give him migraines. He sighed, looking across the desk, to the chair opposite him, where his on-and-off lover, Valentino, sat before him.

He had been thinking slot about his life before he died and went to Hell, and how much he missed certain feelings that he now couldn't feel in the chaotic underworld. If he could, he would go back and relive it all. He wouldn't change a thing.

"Do you ever think about what it feels like to be a God, Val?" Vox begun, twirling a pen in-between his fingers as he spoke.

He spun around in a quick circle in his armchair, dividing his attention between his speech, his monitors, the pen he was fiddling with, and the amalgamation of paperwork Infront of him.

"When I was alive, you know, I felt like a God." Vox continued. "I remember my little group, who'd wait on hands and knees for me. They thought that I was a prophet, sent to save them and send them on the pathway to salvation. I called myself the Messenger Of God. That's what they called me." Vox smiled, reminiscing about it.

That used to feel so powerful. He would feel so powerful. He would feel so good. Vox had been a cult leader when he was alive, though he hated it when people referred to his community, as he called it, as a cult. He called them his followers, but Vox got especially angry at any comments like that.

"I've told you before, haven't I, my darling? About the movement." Movement. Never 'the cult', the correct term, he called it a movement.