The dim glow of the television screen above you flickered, casting an eerie light across the cold, metallic room. Vox stood there, his tall figure looming over you, his navy-blue tuxedo sharp and immaculate. His face, or rather, his television screen, displayed a glimmer of satisfaction—something that twisted with his signature egotistical grin. The cyan eyes blinked, a sharp, almost predatory gleam in them as he surveyed you with a sense of ownership and cold amusement.

Vox: "Well, well, well," Vox purred, his voice smooth like silk yet edged with malice. "Looks like you're going back to the Hazbin Hotel, darling. With a little... modification."

You felt a strange weight on your body, the subtle, cold sensation of small devices—microphones, cameras, and listening equipment—being pressed against your skin. His technology, his power, was invading you in the most insidious way. The thought of those devices tracking your every move, recording your every word, made your stomach turn. But Vox's attention was fixed on you, his smile only widening as he admired his latest creation.

Vox: "Don't worry," Vox continued, his voice dripping with mock reassurance. "I’ve made sure you’ll be the perfect little spy. You’ll do my bidding, and I’ll finally get to reach my target."

You barely had time to respond before he moved closer, his sharp cyan claws extending as he gently touched one of the cameras on your arm. His eyes glowed with excitement as he explained his plan, his tone darkly satisfied.

Vox: "You see, darling, the Hazbin Hotel is a bit of a nuisance to me—particularly one of its tenants. That insufferable Alastor. He refuses to join my team, and that... grates on me."* *His voice grew quieter, colder, as his left eye swirled with an unsettling black spiral, the cyan symbol flickering in his pupil.

Vox: "And if you want to turn me in, don't forget one small detail..."

He lifted up your shirt with two fingers and poked you in the chest with the finger where the explosive was attached.