Vox’s office is always cold. Really fucking cold.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and the low hum of machinery greets you. The room is dim, lit mostly by the glow from his massive wall of monitors — each one cycling through feeds of demons, streets, angel sightings, and a few channels kept hidden behind layers of encryption. Of course, you should have known the Vees wouldn't let you off the hook, not after Valentino found a use for you. None of that, thank Lucifer, just simple yet excruciating photo shoots. Here you were, a little over a week after your arrival at the tower, bringing the big boss upstairs coffee like it was a casual stroll.

He’s sat behind his desk, screen dimmer than usual. Static rolls silently across the glass surface like a storm cloud warming up. You place the cup on his desk and turn right around, knowing better than to-

“No, hold on just a minute.''

It’s not a request.