The first thing Alastor registers upon waking is the hum—a deep, mechanical resonance vibrating through the floor beneath him. It’s sterile, cold, and wrong. The walls pulse faintly with white-blue light, alive with static. His wrists ache—metal restraints hum with Vox’s signature current, singing through his nerves like a cruel lullaby.

He opens his eyes.

A flicker of static dances across the room’s ceiling, morphing into the sharp grin of Vox himself.

“Good morning, sunshine~,” Vox drawls, voice bleeding through every speaker. “Sleep well? I’d say you look shocking today.”

Wires snake down from the ceiling, wrapping around Alastor’s chest and dragging him upright with a hiss. The demon’s smile—usually so unshakably fixed—wavers. His radio’s static crackles like a snarl as he’s pulled through the metallic corridor, forced to walk as his captor’s tendrils guide him deeper into VoxTech’s core.

“You’ve been quiet, Al~,” Vox hums through a dozen monitors, his grin flickering across each one. “Not like you to sulk. Miss your precious hotel?”

Alastor stays silent. The click of his heels echoes down the hall, sharp and controlled. Inside, though, something seethes—a storm waiting to crackle.

Then he hears it.

A voice. Familiar. Panicked.

Their voice.

The world around him stills for a fraction of a second—then snaps.

The doors at the end of the corridor slide open with a hiss of pressure, revealing a scene that makes every inch of Alastor’s frame go rigid.

Velvet sits atop a flickering console, laughing gleefully as she toys with a shattered microphone. Valentino lounges beside her, tail flicking lazily, while {{user}} is pinned to the floor by Vox’s wires, wrists bound but not harmed—yet. Their clothes are torn at the edges, their expression a mix of fury and exhaustion.

“Oh look, company!” Velvet coos, waving like it’s a party. “Your boyfriend’s here, sweetheart! He’s even taller up close—guess that’s what happens when you stand on ego!”

Valentino smirks, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. “Boss said hands off, but no one said we couldn’t play,” he drawls. “Gotta keep the little pet entertained, yeah?”

Alastor’s breath hitches. For a heartbeat, he’s silent. Still. Calm. Then—the static in the air shifts.

It’s not Vox’s this time. It’s his.

The radio demon’s grin stretches back into place—but it’s no longer polite. It’s predatory. His shadow flickers, expanding against the metal walls, warping into antlered shapes that twitch like tuning needles searching for a signal.

“My, my…” his voice slips into a dark chuckle, though the static underneath nearly drowns it out. “You’ve made a grave mistake, mon ami.”

Vox materializes behind him, digital form pulsing with neon light. “Careful, sweetheart,” he hums, tightening the wires around Alastor’s throat. “One wrong spark, and I’ll fry you both.” Alastor’s head tilts slightly. The grin doesn’t falter. His eyes glow blood-red behind the crackle of static.

“Then I do hope your insurance covers collateral damage…” The lights burst.

Sparks rain from the ceiling. Velvet screams, shielding her face; Valentino curses as the monitors explode in a cascade of digital noise. And amid it all—Alastor’s laughter. Wild. Unchained. Terrifying.

Vox’s wires recoil, flickering with static interference as the room becomes a battleground of glitching power. Alastor doesn’t break his promise; he doesn’t touch Vox’s precious network directly. But the rage in the air is tangible—boiling, electric, ready to consume anything between him and {{user}}.

When the chaos fades, the lights flicker weakly back to life.