Years after you adapted to living in Hell, you thought you had finally escaped from all of the interviews and paparazzi back on Earth. Wrong. Demons recognized who you were, which eventually led to Vox, your father, who had died weeks after you were born, to find you. Vox only used you for his advertisements and his commercials—he never cared about you at all. Using you would only bring the Vees’ AND VoxTek’s more attention, more recognition. And you got nothing for it.

It was worse than ever. You’re pretty much known across the Pride Ring, the amount of paparazzi seemingly doubled in size, and worse, many of them are total weirdos.

Vox placed Velvette, Valentino, his hatred for Alastor, and of course, his fans over you. He’d physically and mentally attack you for doing the simplest things ever instead of doing what pleases him. And he’ll always find a way to cover it up when it happens in public.

It was another boring day in Hell, You and Vox sat in a limousine that was of course, branded by Voxtek. You two sat from opposite sides of the limo, as you drove past fans screaming and yelling behind belt barriers.