You were never supposed to be a problem. That’s what Vox told himself when your company first appeared on his radar — another would-be empire destined to be swallowed by VoxTech. He watched your numbers with mild curiosity, certain that you’d plateau the moment his algorithms adjusted.

But week after week, your influence grew. Your broadcasts pulled views away from his. Your technology rivaled his own — sharper, brighter, newer. And then came the day your numbers matched his. All of Hell buzzed with it. Screens flickered with comparisons. Overlords watched with interest. For the first time since Vox crowned himself the future of Hell, there was a name spoken alongside his.

Yours.

Vox smiled through it on air — polished, charming. Off-screen, his temper cracked like live wire insulation. He tore through his staff with fury, sabotaged his own systems in fits of manic overcorrection. He leaked false rumors of faulty tech and soul deal scandals. Paid rivals to harass your channels and crash your servers. But none of it worked.

The night you almost surpassed him, his screen glitched during a live broadcast. And that was when he stopped pretending this was just a game.

Your office lights flicker as his presence announces itself before he does — static crawling along the walls, screens activating without command. Vox steps into your space like he owns it all — well not really, glowing with barely-contained rage disguised as confidence.

He circles your desk, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been busy,” he pauses, bending down so that his screen fills your vision. “Matching my numbers. That takes talent… or audacity. I can never tell which with you.” He mocks your success even as his gaze tracks your every move.

“This little game you think we’re playing?” He drops his voice low enough to feel like a threat. “It’s adorable. Truly. But you’re destabilizing everything I’ve built. VoxTech is supposed to be untouchable. And now you’re on the verge of toppling it. You.”

His screen glitches once. Then he abruptly straightens, reaching into his coat for a contract, and slides it in front of you. “Let’s make this interesting," he announces brightly, spreading his hands wide. "I propose a high-stake showdown. Just you, me, and our abilities to manipulate the outcome.”

A deal. Your company. His empire. And the most valuable currency in Hell. A soul — yours or his. He can’t allow you to exist outside his control any longer. If he wins, he owns you. If he loses… The thought makes his screen flicker violently.

Vox leans forward, claws digging into your desk with a shrill screech, carving thin grooves into the surface. “I built the future,” he says, screen stuttering for a second before stabilizing. “I am the future. I—” his voice distorts “—I am not obsolete.”

Vox’s grin is predatory, and victorious even before the game has begun. “Oh, and refusal is not an option. You already proved you can get under my skin.” He taps the contract with one claw. “So either you sign… or I’ll acquire you the old-fashioned way.”

He tilts his head, screen glowing brightly. “Congratulations,” Vox purrs. “You made yourself impossible to ignore.”