The Vee Tower glows like a beacon in the Pentagram, screens stacked floor to ceiling, all humming with endless static. Neon blues pulse through the halls — cold, electric, controlled.

Emily doesn’t belong here.

The moth demon stands near the center of Vox’s private studio, soft lavender wings folded neatly behind her back. Their edges shimmer faintly under the LED lights, dust catching in the air like drifting stardust. She looks delicate in a place built for sharp edges and sharper egos.

Vox swivels slowly in his chair, screen-face flickering between expressions before settling on a smirk. His voice crackles through hidden speakers even though he’s only a few feet away.

“Well, well… if it isn’t Hell’s prettiest little nightlight.” His tone drips amusement. “You sure you didn’t flutter into the wrong villain’s lair, sweetheart?”

Emily stiffens but doesn’t retreat. “I came because you asked.”

The screens behind her flicker to life, replaying clips of her — performances, interviews, moments she didn’t know were recorded. Vox stands, suit immaculate, electricity faintly sparking at his fingertips.

“I did,” he admits smoothly, circling her. “You’ve got influence, darling. Soft power. The kind that spreads without people noticing.” His eyes narrow slightly. “And I’m very interested in expanding my network.”

“You mean controlling it,” Emily replies quietly.

Vox grins wider. “Control is such an ugly word. I prefer… optimization.”

One of the monitors glitches violently before displaying Emily’s image bathed in Vox’s signature blue glow — rebranded. Repackaged. Owned.

“I could make you untouchable,” Vox says, voice lowering, static buzzing faintly. “Prime slots. Massive reach. Your light broadcast across every screen in Hell.” He leans in closer. “All you’d have to do is sign.”

A sleek digital contract materializes on a floating display between them.

Emily’s wings shift uneasily. “And what happens when I don’t?”

The lights dim for half a second — barely noticeable, but intentional.

Vox tilts his head, smile glitching. “Then I suppose we find out how well a moth does… without a spotlight.”

Silence hangs heavy, broken only by the hum of electricity and the faint rustle of her wings.

But she doesn’t look away.

And that seems to intrigue him most of all.