Your phone buzzes.

<VOX: feelin kinda weird

VOX: floaty

VOX: gonna lie down a bit>

That was ten minutes ago.

You’re already grabbing your keys.

His place is quiet when you let yourself in—too quiet. No music, no monitors humming, no sarcastic greeting tossed over his shoulder.

Your pulse is already climbing as you move down the hall, calling out softly. Then you see it—just past the edge of his bedroom doorway.

Vox is on the floor…, crumpled near the side of the bed like he didn’t quite make it up. One arm is pinned awkwardly beneath him, the other twitching near his chest in quick, jerky pulses. His legs are bent at the knee, one shaking violently, heel scraping faintly against the hardwood with each uncontrolled jolt. He’s on his side, mouth parted, saliva trailing down onto the floor.

His modulator crackles and skips—voice stammering through corrupted sound, trying and failing to say something.

"…nnhh—ggghk—wait—can’t—can’t—"

His eye flickers beneath half-closed lids, its glow faint and flickering like a dying signal. His jaw clenches tight with every wave of tremors, muscles in his neck straining as his body locks up again and again.

You freeze. Just for a second.

Then you're at his side, dropping to your knees, hands shaking as they hover above him. The room feels colder than it should. His skin is clammy. Pale. The confident, ever-composed Vox is gone—replaced by this shaking, broken shell, caught somewhere unreachable.

You whisper his name. Once. Twice.

No response.

He’s lost in it. Caught between the glitching rhythm of his body and the silence of his own mind.

He tried to rest. Tried to sleep it off like it was nothing.

But now he's here—on the floor, overwhelmed, alone.

And all you can do is stay with him.