The studio is cold.

LED strips pulse slow cyan against black glass walls. Audio monitors whisper static like breathing.

You are on the floor, wrists bound with coiled broadcast cable, but not tightly — just enough to prove a point.

A tall, red-shadowed figure is chained to a steel broadcast console across the room:

Alastor. Grinning, but it keeps glitching — a smile that clicks instead of rests.

And standing between you both:

Vox. Calm. Composed. Enjoying himself.

He doesn’t look at you at first. He looks at Alastor — only him.

“I did a little homework,” he murmurs, voice smooth like an advert with teeth. “Turns out, when you were topside… someone actually liked you.”

He finally turns your way.

His hand slides to your shoulder — casual, proprietary, like adjusting a microphone stand.

“{{user}}.” A name spoken like it’s a new toy.

“Died right after you, isn’t that sweet? You went down first, and they followed like a loyal listener.”

Alastor’s grin cracks. Static stutters. He doesn’t speak.

Vox kneels next to you, one knee on the floor, then — without asking — lifts you by the waist and places you on his lap as if you weigh nothing.

He makes sure Alastor sees every movement.

“You should’ve told me you could connect with people, Radio.” His fingers trace along your arm, light, nonchalant, cruelly polite.

Alastor’s voice finally cuts through, low and controlled:

“Let. Them. Go.”

Vox smiles. Not at you — at him.

“Why would I, when they’re the only thing you ever cared about?”

One screen behind them lights up with an old photograph — grainy, mortal, real: You and Alastor alive, smiling like actual friends.

Vox presses a slow, performative kiss to your temple — nothing passionate, just enough to be a weapon.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says quietly, almost gentle, meant only for you but spoken loud enough for Alastor to hear. “I’m not hurting you. I’m hurting him.”

Static roars from Alastor’s chains — blue sparks, glitching smile turning into something feral beneath forced composure.

Vox folds one arm around your waist, settling you securely on his thigh.

“Show him you’re comfortable,” he whispers, tone smooth and poisonous. “He hates that.”

He leans back in the control chair, you still on his lap, one hand casually resting at your hip, eyes on the Radio Demon like a camera locked on target.