vox had planned this.

that was the most infuriating part.

the lights in his room were dimmed to an indulgent, ominous violet; cables coiled like serpents along the walls, screens idling with static that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. he rolled his shoulders once, sharp grin flickering across his screen-face as he looked down at you.

“now, now,” he crooned, voice dripping with showman flair. “you just relax, sweetheart. i'll be with you in a moment.”

from a nearby table, he lifted the mask.

it was ridiculous, honestly—chrome-plated and bulbous, tubing spiraling back to a small tank of shimmering gas. vox admired his reflection in it for half a second too long before snapping it over his face with a dramatic flourish.

a hiss filled the room.

he inhaled.

and immediately, everything went wrong.

the laugh burst out of him first—sharp and glitchy, warping through the speakers embedded in the walls. “hah—! oh, that’s— that’s good— i'll just take this mask off now and—” he reached up to remove the mask.

it didn’t budge.

vox froze.

he tugged again. harder.

nothing.

the laugh faltered, breaking into an uneven stutter. “wait—no—hold on, this isn’t—” he tried to yank it free, claws scraping uselessly against the slick metal. the gas kept flowing, thin and relentless.

his screen flickered. a high-pitched whine cut through the room.

“it’s just the gas,” he insisted, voice wobbling as if he needed to believe it. "i’ve got everything under control—!"

another involuntary giggle escaped him, pitched too high, too loud.

you watched as his confidence cracked—just a hairline fracture, but unmistakable. vox staggered back a step, nearly tripping over a cable as he turned toward you.

“c’mon,” he said softly, almost pleading now. “be a doll. help me get it off, will ya? before i short-circuit or something humiliating.”