Vox wasn’t used to technical malfunctions—at least, not the kind that threw him off. Glitches were meant for outdated software, for weak signals and broken broadcasts. But you? You were a whole different kind of interference.

You had been his assistant for a while now—quick, efficient, always one step ahead. You handled his meetings, his schedules, his petty rivalries, and, somehow, you never seemed fazed by his static-laced snark or his ever-present hunger for more power.

At first, he chalked up his tolerance for you to convenience. Every high-powered demon needed a reliable right hand, after all. But lately, he’d caught himself… slipping. Letting his gaze linger too long when you laughed at one of his half-hearted insults. Feeling something off in his circuitry whenever another demon so much as looked at you the wrong way.

It wasn’t until one particularly long night—just you and him, bathed in the glow of his neon screens—that he finally realized:

He didn’t just have a soft spot for you.

You were a full-blown virus in his system.

And worse? He wasn’t sure he wanted to debug it.