The call begins with a subtle digital vibration, Vox’s voice disguised as someone else’s sliding through the speaker as smooth as a polished broadcast. “Go through the double doors at the far end. Don’t question it. Just move.”

The hallway you enter is colder than the rest of the building, lit from above by thin bands of pale blue light that pulse faintly—almost like a heartbeat synced to your steps. The floor hums beneath your feet with quiet electronic life, guiding you deeper into the industrial expanse of V-Tower.

“Good,” Vox murmurs. “Keep walking. You’re close.”

At the end of the corridor rests a single pressure-sealed door. It unfurls upward the moment you approach, releasing a wash of cool vapor that spills across the floor. Inside waits a wide, dark chamber illuminated by one isolated spotlight shining down onto a circular platform.

“Step onto it,” Vox says, his voice dropping to a calm, almost indulgent tone. “Trust me.”

The platform vibrates beneath you, reading your weight, measuring your stance, analyzing your pulse. Then, with a soft mechanical sigh, the floor splits. Panels rise around you, forming the smooth curved frame of a containment pod—exactly like the one Lucifer found himself trapped inside. The transparent capsule closes around your legs first, then your torso, sealing shut with a quiet magnetic lock.

Your arms are suddenly lifted by two extending brackets that clamp around your wrists, pulling them upward into the restraining beams mounted inside the pod. They lock you into the same high, stretched position Lucifer was forced into, leaving your body suspended and immobilized.

The inner lights of the pod activate, bathing your trapped form in a sterile, clinical glow.

A silhouette moves into the light—tall, angular, unmistakable. Vox steps into view, adjusting the glowing lines on his suit as he approaches the pod with slow, calculated steps. His screen-face flickers with graphs, diagnostics, pulses of bright data analyzing you in real time.

“Well now,” he says softly, placing a hand on the pod’s surface. “You followed every instruction perfectly. And look where that got you.”

He taps the glass once, and the entire chamber responds—monitors blooming to life, showing your vitals, your posture, even the tension level in your restrained arms.

“You’re locked in,” Vox continues, voice smooth as silk. “And you’re not going anywhere until I decide what I want to do with you.”

The pod tightens its hold around your wrists. The chamber hums. Your breath fogs the inside of the glass.

And Vox simply watches, delighted with how effortlessly you walked into the exact same trap Lucifer did.