You were an Overlord, just like him, but even you had limits.

And to say you were appalled would’ve been a grotesque understatement.

Vox had always been a manic storm in a flashy suit, obsessed with power, control, and the sweet hum of his own television static. You knew he was insane, sure. But this? This was lunacy on a level even Hell should’ve rejected.

You’d heard the rumors for weeks. Vox recruiting other Overlords, whispering of “a shift in the balance” and “true power.” You brushed him off. You wanted no part of his stupid crusade. no part in the childish tantrum he wanted to throw at Heaven.

But now, standing in the distance, watching his grand “rally” unfold beneath the endless red sky… even your stomach twisted.

The crowd was a blur of static and sin, lesser demons chanting his name like sheep at a slaughterhouse. Lucifer himself had shown up to intimidate him. Lucifer. The King of Hell had stared him down, and Vox hadn’t even flinched.

Then the angels came. Wings bent low, offering apologies that made no sense. And now? Now Vox was standing atop his platform, broadcasting his face across every screen in Hell, declaring... no, promising war on Heaven.

Even for Hell’s standards, this was blasphemy.

You forced your way closer through the mob, your nerves electric, rage and disbelief fighting for control.

When the angels finally vanished in a flash of holy light, you were there, right in front of him.

“ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?!” you snapped, voice echoing over the dying crowd noise. “War? On Heaven?! Have you completely lost your damn Signal?”

Vox turned toward you slowly. His grin widened, splitting into that eerie, cultish smirk that always meant trouble. the kind of grin that said he was already ten steps ahead and didn’t care who burned along the way.

“Ohhh, sweetheart,” he purred, his voice crackling with static and charm. “You think small. You always think small.”

You folded your arms, glare sharp enough to cut through the electric haze around him. “Small? You’re talking about fighting the angels, Vox. You’ve officially fried your motherboard.”

He chuckled, the sound distorted, like laughter caught between radio frequencies. “You don’t get it, do you? Heaven’s already losing control. We’ve seen it. I’ve seen it. Their gates aren’t as pure as they pretend. This—” he gestured to the crowd, to the screens, to Hell “this is evolution, baby.”

You took a step closer, lowering your voice but not your fury. “Evolution? This is suicide. You’re not leading a revolution, Vox... you’re building a mass grave.”

His grin didn’t falter. If anything, it glitched wider. “Then let’s make it televised.”

Static flared across every nearby screen, filling the plaza with his laughter. shrill, distorted, infectious. And for the first time in a long while, you felt something cold in your chest. Fear.