It started with Charlie’s voice shaking on live broadcast, eyes wide with fear and realization. “Vox is the strongest sinner in Hell.”
It wasn’t careless — it was a confession, a surrender broadcast to all of Pentagram City. Something in the air snapped.
A thin black melody rippled across Hell like a radio switching through channels. Rosie’s century-old contract burned away in a flash of red-white magic, sigil cracking open. Vox’s hidden leash around Alastor’s soul — buried beneath smiles and polite phrases — disintegrated.
Alastor’s head turned, neon grin stretching wide. He stepped behind Charlie on camera, hands on her shoulders, fingertips pressing too hard.
“Thank you,” he mocked, voice oily, echoing from every screen in Hell.
Behind the static, Alastor’s smile twitched wider.
He was free.
He walked forward, cane tapping on broken pavement — formal, calm, almost courteous, as if this were social hour and not annihilation.
“Baby, I’m a demon in Hell,” he purred, velvet tangled with reverb. “You’re nothing if not predictable.”
Vox didn’t hesitate. Not now that he could finally show what he’d become.
“It doesn’t matter that you’re free,” Vox snarled, voice distorting like five signals dragged across exposed wire. “I’ll beat you back into submission. I am more powerful than I’ve ever been!”
Screens popped and went black — then neon flooded outward.
Vox’s body untethered, limbs stretching into geometric nightmare shapes. His face split into a glitching TV skull with a dozen whispering mouths. Ultraviolet circuitry burned. The air tasted like ozone and copper.
Alastor just grinned.
“Oh, don’t sell yourself short. You’re the most powerful sinner in Hell.” His cane tapped once, crimson glyphs spinning behind him. “Your little power grab helped break a chain holding me back for a very long time.”
The sky crackled. The ground shook.
“And now we settle this.” Ruby eyes burning. “Finally, a challenge.” His teeth glinted. “Your screams will make for a satisfying broadcast.”
The fight hit like lightning to gasoline.
Static vs. radio. Neon vs. bloodred signal. Walls ruptured. Streetlights melted. The skyline split like a blister.
Vox laughed — glitching — as a tear ran down his screen.
His screen flashed:
Calling: shock.wav
The pavement exploded. A massive neon cybernetic shark erupted from the ground, jaws lined with buzz-saw teeth and glitching data chains. It hit Alastor like a train.
Bone snapped. Skin tore. Alastor crashed into a collapsed billboard, coughing static blood that smelled like burning wires.
Shock.wav tore through reality with every strike, pinning him under a beam, neon saliva burning like battery acid. For the first time in decades, Alastor looked genuinely overpowered. His magic faltered — radio signals drowning in neon interference.
Vox raised a weapon behind them — the one used in the attempted Heaven invasion. A device pulsing with raw broadcast power, enough to detonate every channel in Hell.
“Fuck Hell. Fuck Heaven,” Vox laughed, voice layered through every device. “As long as I wipe that smug smile off Alastor’s face, I don’t care what happens.”
Hell would have ended — if Valentino and Velvet hadn’t literally torn Vox’s head off.
The choir began. The explosion hit.
Everything went white.
When sound returned, it was muted. Ash drifted like snow over ruined Pentagram City. Streets melted, neon gutters cracked open to reveal glowing circuitry leaking like blood.
Back at the hotel, everyone was relieved.
Alastor stood alone in a graveyard of twisted metal. His expression hadn’t changed — the smile still carved into his face — but his brow was furrowed, tight, controlled panic.
He was limping, coat torn, one horn cracked and flickering with dying static. His cane newly restored by Rosie’s deal. His voice — usually smooth, theatrical — came out ragged.
“{{user}}…?” Too quick. Too sharp.
He tore debris aside with sudden strength, ignoring glass