When the Silence Grew Loud..

by 404VoxNotFound

Summary:

"People often say, 'Believe in fate.' But Alastor always calls it the stupidest thing to believe in."

Before the infamous Hazbin Hotel, in a Hell where destiny mattered more than choices, Vox chased ambition, and Alastor chased amusement. What slipped through their grasp was far greater than either intended; the silence became the loudest thing left between them.

Chapter 1: Fate's Frequency

People often say, "Believe in fate." But Alastor always calls it the stupidest thing to believe in.

To him, fate is just an excuse people use to justify their mistakes. It wasn’t fate that got him shot while trying to bury the body of one of his victims, left to bleed out alone and cold in the Bayous of Louisiana. It wasn’t fate that led him to make a life-altering deal, one that granted him immense power but also weakness.

Yet here he was, walking the slick, blood covered pavement of Pentagram City, cane tapping in rhythm with his polished shoes. The monthly overlord meeting was about to start.

God, how Alastor hated those meetings. A room full of self-absorbed Overlords, each trying to one-up the other, all while he knew he could easily take out half of them, if not more. Then again, maybe that just made him as self-absorbed as they were.

Against the crimson glow of the skyline, neon signs clung to decaying buildings, screamed temptations in languages long dead. Alastor had always found neon tasteless, loud, vulgar, and desperate for attention. 

But it did one thing well: it carved his antlers into sharp, twisted shadows along the alleyway walls. A flicker here, a flash there and suddenly, every sinner hiding in the dark remembered what fear really felt like.

He chuckled at that idea, low and musical, more static than sound. 

Fate had no part in his story. Fate didn’t whisper in young Alastor’s ear the first time he held a knife with intent. Fate didn’t schedule the crackle of a radio broadcast. Fate didn’t offer power with a smile and a contract summoned from the souls of the desperate & damned. That was all for him. Choice. Will. Desire. Not fate.

At last, he stepped into the building; grand, lavish, and cold in its perfection. The air inside was still, heavy with the weight of power plays and unspoken threats. It was a sharp contrast to the crumbling, chaotic buildings of the streets below, where imps and sinners clawed through their days in the filth and noise. Here, everything was polished, precise; built to remind you exactly where you stood.

Hell didn’t need clocks. You felt time in other ways by how long the ash settled in the air, or how many minutes it took for a room to rot from conversation.

The meeting room was already heavy with it. A grand hall designed to suppress, to hush. The ceiling hung too high for comfort, and the black glass table ran long enough to make eye contact feel like a political decision.

The door creaked open behind him, slow and dramatic. It didn’t need to. It just knew who it was letting in.

Carmilla didn’t look up, but her smile curled like a ribbon caught in a blade.

“Alastor,” she said. “We were just starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”

Alastor’s footsteps echoed as he approached, cane clicking in time with the grin he wore like a mask stitched too tight.

“My dear,” he said, slipping into his seat near the far end, “you know I never arrive early. It spoils the anticipation.”

He glided into his seat, cane balanced across his lap. The chair was uncomfortable by design. It kept them tense. Alert. That was the point of the room.

His eyes drifted down the line of overlords, most of whom were older than the table itself. Familiar. Predictable.

And then newness 

Alastor nearly winced. He looked like everything he hated about hell. 

Tasteless. Loud. Vulgar. Desperate to be seen.

Yet there was something different. He looked naive, tall and wired like ambition itself had grown arms and legs and a nervous system full of caffeine. He was sitting too straight in a chair meant for monsters, hands folded too carefully, like he was afraid of wrinkling the air.

A flickering light glowed faintly from where his face should have been. A TV screen, sleek, modern, and just a little too bright for the room. You could sense something burning in him.

Alastor’s smile twitched.

His screen shifted, forming a stylized expression,sharp digital eyes that tried to look casual, curious. 

“So,” he said, his voice clear but with that awkward edge you get when you’re trying to sound confident but aren’t quite there. “You’re the infamous Alastor. Taller than I thought.”

“And yet you talk like you’ve been here longer than me.” Alastor smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching with amused disdain.

The screen shaped itself into a sheepish grin. That didn’t go as he expected

“They call me Vox,” he said, extending a slightly trembling hand. “I’m... new.”

Alastor took the hand, steady, and shook it once. Deliberate. Unhurried.

“So I gathered,” he said. “Welcome to the big table. Quite the leap.”

Vox nodded, a little too fast. “Yeah. I know, I know. Still working out the... posture. The tone. The uh..menace.”

He grinned at his own joke, hoping it would land. It didn’t.

“But I’ve got plans. Big ones. control, network takeovers, influence, the whole show. I’m... trying to build something that lasts, you know?”

Alastor gave the faintest twitch of a smile.

“Oh darling, I know. Everyone here thinks they’re building something permanent. They all end up the same” 

That got a flicker of something across the screen; surprise, amusement, a hint of challenge. Vox leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers in front of him. He tried to take a different approach. 

“I’ve heard much about you.Power. Style. Control. You don’t just dominate, you direct.”

“Flatterer,” Alastor said, voice smooth. “Or just desperate?"

Vox’s grin flickered, trying to decide if that was a compliment or a threat. “Maybe both. But mostly. I’m interested.”

“In?”

“You. Legacy. Control. The way you bend the narrative. That’s what I want to learn. This place is full of brutes and screamers,” Vox added with a glance around the room. “But you? You crafted fear. You built an audience. You lasted.”

Alastor let the silence stretch, watching Vox as one might a moth circling a flame; bright, eager, and entirely unaware. He tilted his head, just slightly. For the first time in a long while, he was interested. This new overlord, A monument to everything Alastor despised about modern Hell. But yet, he had a spark of ambition that was new. That Alastor could guide, and ultimately use to his advantage.

“And what exactly,” Alastor asked softly, “do you think I’d be willing to give you?”

Vox shrugged, casual but too fast rookie nerves in a king's coat. “Time? Advice? Maybe a few tricks of the trade. Think of it as... passing the torch.”

Alastor chuckled, low and rich. 

“Darling,” he said, “I didn’t earn a torch. I stole the fire.”

“Which is why I wanted to meet you. You didn’t burn out. You made people listen. You knew how to shape fear. I... I could learn a lot from that.”

He looked hopeful now. Open in a way that almost felt reckless. Like he hadn’t yet learned how dangerous it was to admire something like Alastor.

Alastor smiled. Small. Curved. Sharp.

“Careful, dear. You’re beginning to sound like a fan.”

Vox’s screen flickered with embarrassment. “Is that bad?”

Alastor leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “It’s boring.”

Vox straightened like he’d been struck.

Alastor let the silence stretch, watching how Vox tried not to shrink under it.

Then he added, almost thoughtfully: “But at least you’re not arrogant. That’s new.”

Vox blinked. “Is that... a compliment?”

“It’s a start.”

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! This is my first fanfic EVER, and I hope you enjoyed it! :D

Edit: This fanfic was written before Hazbin Hotel Season Two, and is my own interpretation of what happened between Vox and Alastor, even with their backstory in Season Two; Basically a canon divergence or AU!

Chapter 2: Dialed In

The lessons weren’t formal. There were no schedules, no chalkboards, no written plans. Just Alastor showing up without warning, his grin already five steps ahead of whatever he intended to do with Vox that day.

Tonight, it was the abandoned radio tower on the edge of Pentagram City. Vox stepped over a pile of cracked audio reels, scanning the broken room with wide-eyed curiosity, fingers twitching like they wanted to plug into every half-dead machine.

“You brought me to a radio graveyard,” he said, chipper, almost joking. “That’s… kinda perfect, actually. The whole place feels like something waiting to be replaced.”

Alastor’s hand paused on the console. Not because of the dust, but because he heard the tone. The intent. He was listening now, Alastor savored the moment the threat hidden in Vox’s innocence was exactly what made the game worthwhile.

“Mm,” he hummed, smiling. “The dead are often more honest than the living. Especially in places like this.”

He turned one of the dials slowly, eyes flicking toward Vox with a glint that wasn’t entirely amused.

Vox lingered awkwardly near Alastor, the dust clung to his coat, static catching on his fingers. 

“Still seems like a weird place for a lesson.”

Alastor’s smile widened. “All places are strange when you don’t know what you're meant to learn.” He tapped a finger against a broken dial. The machine whined softly in response. Vox tried not to jump.

Alastor chuckled. “Lesson one of the evening: control doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it just... hums.”

Vox tilted his head. “You mean like presence?”

“I mean like resonance.” Alastor turned, cane tapping lightly on the floor. “Anyone can scream. Few can stay in someone’s head long after they’ve gone quiet.”

The tower creaked around them as if in agreement. Vox stood still, then nodded slowly.

“I used to think volume was the only way to be heard,” he said.

“And now?” Alastor asked.

“Now I think it’s about tuning. Finding the right frequency.”

Alastor’s eyes gleamed. “How poetic. Are you trying to impress me?”

Vox’s screen flickered, his digital eyes narrowing with playful nerves. “Is it working?”

Alastor didn’t answer, not directly. He stepped close enough that the static between them felt almost real.

“Lesson two,” he said, low and soft. “Don’t flirt with things you don’t understand.”

Vox swallowed. “Is that a warning?”

Alastor’s grin turned knife-sharp. “That’s a kindness.”

“Why are you helping me?” Vox asked, quieter now. “I’m not stupid. You could’ve dismissed me weeks ago.”

Alastor studied him, head tilted just enough to feel calculated.

“Because you remind me of something,” he said finally. “Something I almost forgot existed in this place.”

Vox blinked. “What’s that?”

“Hope,” Alastor said. “Not the innocent kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that burns brighter than it should.”

Vox’s screen dimmed slightly, his voice dropping. “That’s what scares you about me?”

Alastor’s smile faltered for just a breath. Then returned.

“No, dear. That’s what I like about you.”

Vox looked away, just for a moment, like he didn’t know what to do with that.

Alastor turned toward the dusty control board again, fingers dancing over the knobs.

“Lesson three,” he said lightly. “Don’t mistake fascination for favor. I may keep you close, but that doesn’t mean I won’t use you.”

Vox stepped forward, just behind him now. “I know. I’m not naïve.”

“No,” Alastor said. “You’re just eager." And for once, there was no edge in it. No mockery. Just a trace of something quieter, almost... fond.

Vox stayed there a second longer, standing in the low hum of the old machine, in the low hum of something else building between them complicated and unspeakable.

Then he said, almost smiling, “What’s lesson four?”

Alastor didn’t turn around.

He just whispered, “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

The rooftop fell quiet again.

Pentagram City hissed and growled below them, a beast that never slept, only paced in circles. Alastor stood at the edge, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his cane.

Vox remained beside him, shoulders squared, screen dimmed slightly not from fear, but focus. He had been learning. Watching. Tuning himself.

Alastor finally spoke.

“Do you want to move past the theory, darling?” he asked. “I think it’s time.”

Vox straightened, surprised. “You mean?”

“Your first soul,” Alastor confirmed with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let’s see if this picture show with all the ambition can turn it into something real.”

Vox hesitated. “You’ll be there?”

Alastor chuckled. “Would I really let my dear flail in the dark alone?”

“Yes,” Vox muttered, then immediately regretted it.

But Alastor only laughed again. “Fair enough. Come along, dear. It’s time to tune in.”

—

The mark was an easy one; by Alastor’s standards.

A mid-tier sinner named Silas, all swagger and decay. He ran a string of nightclubs off the Strip and thought contracts were something he offered, not signed. Vox had picked him during a surveillance assignment, something Alastor never explicitly called “training,” but always orchestrated. Now, they stood in the back corridor of a club called Bleach. The walls were lined with screens flashing strobe-porn and subliminal branding. The music out front was loud enough to make the plaster crack.

But here, in the hallway? All you could hear was the hum of Vox powering up.

Alastor leaned against the wall, casual. Silent. Watching.

Vox adjusted his collar. “He thinks he’s meeting me for a sponsorship deal. Said he’s looking to expand his ‘media presence.’”

Alastor smirked. “And you promised him reach. Clever.”

“I told him people don’t listen unless you control the signal.”

“That line sounded almost like mine,” Alastor mused. “Careful. Next you’ll be stealing my smile.”

Before Vox could respond, the door creaked open.

Silas slithered in a sleek suit, a lazy grin, that twitchy arrogance that came from having power but knowing it was borrowed.

“Vox,” Silas said, arms open like they were old friends. “You’re taller than I thought.”

Alastor stifled a laugh behind his hand.

Vox didn’t flinch. “Everyone says that.”

He gestured to a chair. Silas sat, unaware that he’d just stepped onto the stage.

“So let’s talk network exposure,” Silas said. “I’ve got three venues, all of them with surveillance potential. Your branding. My reach. Perfect marriage, huh?”

“I’m not in the marriage business,” Vox replied coolly.

Silas blinked. “Come again?”

“You want eyes. Influence. You want to be remembered.”

“Of course.”

“Then sell me your soul.”

Silas laughed. Then his smile dropped. 

Vox leaned forward, voice steady. “You want Hell to echo with your name? You want to be more than just another forgettable imp running a strip-light empire? This is how.”

“You’re serious,” Silas faltered, suddenly unsure.

“I’m offering you an opportunity,” Vox said smoothly. “Every screen. Every corner of the city. A voice that outlasts your body. Isn’t that what you want?”

Silas wavered. “And what do you get?”

Alastor, silent in the shadows, finally stepped forward.

“He gets better,” he said simply. “Because your soul, sinner, is just a stepping stone.” 

Vox had to conceal a smile at this, and the flicker of something warmer, almost flustered. He hadn’t expected Alastor to step in, and the fact that he did sent a strange static through his chest. He quickly reset his posture, screen steadying.

The silence that followed stretched. 

Silas looked between them. Something in Alastor’s eyes made him swallow hard. Something in Vox’s voice made him lean in.

“Alright,” Silas muttered, “Let’s do it.”

The contract shimmered into the air, Vox's signature flashing in temptations and hollow promises, Silas signed with a shaking hand. At that moment, Vox changed. The air shifted. The hum deepened. His screen flickered dark for a heartbeat, then reignited with the usual blue glow.

Alastor watched carefully. Vox didn’t just take the soul. He claimed it, the air glowed once, then stilled. 

Silas slumped over.

Vox exhaled, though he didn’t breathe. He felt it now. The weight. The heat. Power. He turned to Alastor.

“Well?” Vox asked, practically buzzing with energy, his voice bright with adrenaline and something dangerously close to pride. “Was that interesting enough?”

Alastor stared at him for a long moment. Then stepped closer, too close. He reached out and brushed something from Vox’s coat, fingers lingering.

“That,” he said softly, “was a start.”

Vox felt his screen buzz with heat. Not just from victory. From something he didn’t quite know the name for. Alastor was smiling again. But behind it, something darker had begun to stir. The game had changed, the stakes raised. And he was already three moves ahead.

 

Chapter 3: In Her Sight

Alastor's footsteps echoed faintly in the empty stairwell as he climbed the worn metal steps of the radio tower. The city's distant roar faded behind him, swallowed by the thick walls of rust and dust. After watching Vox claim his first soul, the moment electric with raw, unrefined power, Alastor needed silence. A break. Somewhere to untangle the restless thoughts the boy had stirred. The abandoned radio tower had always felt more alive to him, almost felt like home. Alastor sat with his back to the wall, one leg crossed. 

He settled into a shadowed corner, cane resting nearby, the small eye embedded in the microphone, was no mere decoration. It belonged to her, flickering briefly, a silent sentinel watching over him, and through him, back to her.

He’d come here for quiet.

That was the first mistake. A single click. Through the old radio at his back, a sound like a breath exhaled through broken teeth. And then: her voice.

“Still playing pretend, are we?”

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but his fingers still.

“Tsk, Tsk. Not even a hello for your Queen?” The voice continued rich, layered, impossibly cold. Like it came from behind every wall at once. “I must say, Alastor, I’m hurt.”

She always liked starting like this. He didn’t speak.

 Lilith laughed;  a sound of glass breaking inside a church.

“Oh, but you do sulk so beautifully. It's a shame they remember you as proud…Though I suppose that’s what got you killed, isn’t it? All that pride. All that noise. And in the end, one hunter’s bullet through the trees.”

A second passed. Then another.  

“I wonder,” she continued, softer now, “if it ever stopped hurting. That final second before the world blinked out. When you realized you weren’t even the right target.”

Alastor’s grip tightened on his cane.

“Don’t look so sour, darling. You begged for my hand that day. And I gave it.”

She didn’t have to remind him. But she always did.

“Power,” she purred. “That’s what you wanted, not mercy, not meaning. Just the strength to carve your name into the dark. And I gave it to you. I let you descend with teeth sharper than fear, with a smile loud enough to silence the damned. You didn’t fall into Hell, Alastor. You arrived because I opened the door.”

A pause, the old radio crackled through the air. 

“And all I asked for was your soul. A small thing, really. I’ve taken more from greater.”

He said nothing. She chuckled again, a sound like ice cracking underfoot.

“I wonder,” she said idly, “how much of you is still yours? Or if I’ve hollowed you out completely.”

Alastor let the silence stretch. That was always his move. But this time, she pushed first.

“Of course,” she said, her tone curdling, “I do find your little pupil interesting. This... Vox.”

The name hit the room like thunder.

“I can see why you’re drawn to him. So bright. So new. So easy.”

The lights in the tower dimmed for a minute  not from the power grid, but something older. Something watching.

“He reminds me of you, in fact. Back when you still wanted something. Back when you burned.”

Alastor’s jaw tensed. Lilith’s voice sharpened, teeth bared behind silk.

“You think he’s yours to mold? To shape? You poor fool. He’s not a project. He’s a prophecy. One you’re already losing control of.”

Alastor stood slowly, brushing the dust from his coat.

“I won’t let you have him,” he lashed. The words escaped before he could reshape them into something safer.

“Oh?” she laughed. “You care?”

He turned to the radio, his face remaining calm despite the turmoil beginning to form. 

“I’m only invested in potential. And he has it.”

“So did you,” Lilith whispered, the air turning colder. “And now look.”

The static rose again, swallowing her voice as it ebbed like a tide retreating. But just before it vanished, one final word slipped through, low and soft:

“Careful.”

The radio crackled once then went silent. The tower breathed again, empty. And Alastor stood there, alone in the dark, pulse steady, smile still in place. But something inside him had shifted. He didn’t know why he said what he said. Or why he meant it. But the worst part?

 Lilith had.

— 

Alastor walked with measured steps, cane clicking against uneven pavement. His shadow stretched long beneath the flickering glow of a broken streetlamp, antlers casting warped shapes that made the nearby sinners flinch and look away. 

Vox trailed beside him practically bouncing. His screen pulsed faint light in the dark, casting fractured reflections across shattered windows.  The crowds parted when they passed. Imps ducked into alleys. Sinners flattened against graffiti-stained brick, eyes avoiding both their faces. It wasn’t Vox they feared he still looked too new, too bright, like an accident waiting to happen.

It was Alastor.
His smile.
His silence.
The way the air bent around him, just enough to raise the hairs on the back of your neck.

Vox didn’t seem to notice. He was practically skipping.

“Okay,” he said, hands moving as he talked, “I know you’re gonna say I’m fishing for validation"

“You are.”

“but I’ve had three whole days to reflect on my first soul deal, and I’ve come to the very mature conclusion that I absolutely nailed it.”

Alastor didn’t respond, cane tapping rhythmically against the cracked sidewalk.

Vox barely noticed. “I mean, yeah, technically the guy cried a little. And maybe he screamed. But it was a grateful scream. He was honored.”

“Mm.”

“That’s your version of a compliment, isn’t it?”

Alastor tilted his head, a glint in his eye. “If you require constant applause dear, I’m sure there’s a stage somewhere that would take you.”

“Oh, I’ve already got a stage,” Vox said, screen flickering smug. “I’m just aiming for an empire.”

They turned a corner. The further they walked from the glitz of the main district, the more the city showed its teeth; rusted balconies hanging like broken ribs.. Vox gave it a glance, then looked back at Alastor.

“You’ve been weird lately.”

“I’m always weird.”

“No. You’ve been quiet. Even for you. And I know you like your cryptic loner thing, but..” He waved a hand. “It’s different.”

Alastor’s grip on his cane tightened slightly. Lilith’s voice slithered back in, the echo of her laugh pressed into the silence behind his teeth.

“How much of you is still yours?”

He pushed it down. Smiled.

“I’ve simply had a lot on my mind.”

Vox gave him a side glance. “Wow. Must be serious if you’re admitting it.”

Alastor snorted softly.  They passed a pair of sinners whispering behind a boarded-up club. One caught Alastor’s eye for half a second and immediately turned to run.

Vox gave a low whistle. “You really know how to clear a room. Is it the cane? The antlers? The vibe?”

“I prefer to think of it as… presence.”

“Right, right. The scary murder-jazz aura.”

They kept walking. The street narrowed. Overhead, something screamed from a fire escape, then fell quiet. Alastor didn’t answer immediately 

Vox chuckled awkwardly . “Well, scary or not, I’m still here. Still standing. And honestly?” He kicked a rock down the sidewalk. “I feel like I’m getting the hang of it.”

“Hm.”

“Which probably means I’m due for something awful.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

A silence passed between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Vox stuffed his hands in his pockets, screen glowing warm in the dusk.

“As long as you don’t disappear on me for, like… I dunno. Seven years or something, I’ll survive.”

He said it casually. Just a number. A joke. Alastor didn’t miss a beat. He kept walking. Smile steady. He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t laugh either.

Vox glanced over. “Tough crowd tonight.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“What now?”

 “You get that look when you’re planning something. Like you already know which string you’ll cut.”

Alastor finally turned to him, gaze unreadable. “Do I?”  In reality the strings were pulled far above, in hands colder and more calculating than his own.

Vox shrugged, a little softer now. “I don’t know. But it’s the only time you don’t look bored.”

Vox, without quite realizing it, walked a little closer. Their shoulders didn’t touch, not quite but the space between them narrowed all the same. And Alastor didn’t stop him. He just watched. Quiet. Calculating. Listening for Lilith’s voice in the static of his thoughts and hoping, just this once, it stayed quiet.

The Doomsday District greeted them like a wound.

Ash drifted from the bruised sky in lazy spirals, catching on Vox’s shoulders, clinging to the glowing edges of his screen, The air here was hotter, thicker each breath felt like inhaling smoke and rust.. The distant scream of someone learning the hard way that Hell had layers.

Vox practically buzzed beside Alastor, his hands twitching at his sides. He ducked his head to avoid a hanging pipe, grinning at the chaos around them like it was a carnival.

“Okay,” he said, “I take it back. This place? This place rules.”

Alastor said nothing. Just walked. Measured. Steady. His cane tapped in time with the rhythm of the district, as if keeping count of something only he could hear.

Lilith’s voice still echoed at the back of his mind.

“He’s not a project. He’s a prophecy. One you’re already losing control of.”

They reached the edge of a sunken lot ringed in scrap metal, its floor cracked and blackened from flame. It looked like the foundation of an old factory collapsed inward. The air shimmered from heat. Two wrecked spotlights flickered on and off like dying stars.

Alastor stopped. His cane scraped once across the ground, then stilled.

“Here.”

Vox glanced around. “What, no audience?”

“Just me,” Alastor said, turning toward him. “And Bragor.”

The shadows shifted. Something stepped into the half-light.

Bragor was seven feet tall and stitched together like a butcher’s project. His chest was a patchwork of scales and meat, bound with steel wire. Chains dragged from his arms like broken restraints, and his horns twisted back. 

“I own his soul,” Alastor said simply, brushing some of the ash from his coat “He listens.”

Bragor growled.

“Most of the time.”

“Lesson of the day,” Alastor continued, “is improvisation. I want to see how you fight. What you use. What you learn.”

Vox took one step back. “Okay, wow. Lotta confidence in my skills right now.”

Bragor roared. Alastor smiled. “Survive.”

“Cool, cool,” Vox muttered. “No pressure.”

Bragor charged like a freight train made of bone and fury. Vox barely dodged, sparks flying off his coat as a claw grazed his shoulder. He hit the ground, rolled, and came up panting, static buzzing from his fingertips. He didn’t run. His screen flickered once then steadied.

“Okay,” Vox muttered, more to himself than anyone. “Cool. Okay. Definitely wasn’t emotionally prepared for this, but we’re adapting. We’re good. We’re-"

Bragor lunged again. Vox ducked under the swing, electricity crackling up his arms. A flick of his fingers sent a spark, small, but enough to stagger the brute. The air around him shifted, the static deepening. Bragor hesitated. Vox’s eyes flashed, neon-bright. That stopped the demon cold.

The creature twitched, confused, blinking rapidly like a puppet with its strings crossed. Vox stood straighter, electricity humming louder now, wrapping around his limbs like a cloak. His grin, half shock, half awe.

“Ohhh,” he said, voice rising. “That’s new.”

Bragor twitched again. Then dropped to one knee.

Vox’s eyes widened. He took a slow step forward, pupils narrowing into focused spirals of light. “You’re seeing me now, huh? You’re really seeing me.”

He lifted one hand, almost experimentally and Bragor screamed. A broken, agonized howl that echoed off the ruin and made the air vibrate.

Alastor watched from the edge of the pit, lips parted in something between curiosity and caution. His eyes never left Vox. He could feel it now, the spark of something dangerous blooming beneath the boy’s surface. And for the first time, something cold twisted in his chest.

The eye in his cane flickered. Watching. Lilith would see this. And she’d understand exactly what Vox was becoming. With a sharp flick of his wrist, Alastor turned the cane slightly inward obscuring the eye beneath his coat.

Vox, unaware, was practically glowing. “I didn’t even know I could do that,” he breathed. He looked up toward Alastor, radiant with discovery. “Did you know I could do that?”

“I suspected,” Alastor said smoothly.

“Suspected?”

Alastor’s grin returned. “What fun is teaching if you give away all the answers?”

Vox turned back to Bragor. “Do you think I can make him forget his name?”

“I’d advise against that,” Alastor replied mildly. “He’s already too stupid to remember it.”

Vox gave a manic little laugh and extended one hand toward Bragor electricity cracking up his arm, brighter now, wild with momentum.

“Okay, big guy,” he said, grin sharp, voice trembling with glee. “Let’s see how many volts your brain can take.”

He snapped his fingers and a surge of raw electricity arced from his hand, zapping straight into Bragor’s chest. The demon convulsed, snarled, and collapsed face-first into the dirt with a puff of black smoke curling from his back.

Vox stood there, eyes wide, chest rising and falling fast. He blinked once, twice then let out a sudden shout of pure excitement, throwing his hands in the air.

“Did you see that?! Holy shit, I zapped him! I zapped him!” He turned and ran at Alastor, grinning so hard his screen glitched.

“I just..fucking..y’know zapped him!”

Alastor blinked, and then Vox pulled him in an electrified hug, crackling with leftover static and absolutely no sense of personal space.

“Okay, ow,” Alastor muttered, visibly startled. “You’re still sparking.”

“Worth it!” Vox beamed, holding on tight.

Alastor stiffened… but didn’t pull away. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, unsure, unsettled, before gently patting Vox on the shoulder once. Just once.

The moment passed. Vox stepped back, still buzzing. Alastor’s smile returned calm, cold, but with something unreadable behind it.

“You’re not terrifying yet,” he said, calmly, fixing his coat. “But you’re closer.”

Vox’s eyes lit up like neon. Almost made Alastor wince, but it didn’t. 

“Yeah?” he said, almost shy for half a second. “So… how’d I do?”

Alastor gave him a long, thoughtful look.

“You didn’t die.”

Alastor turned away, the glow of Bragor’s body still steaming behind them. He said nothing else. But he made sure the eye on his cane stayed hidden. Because this time, he couldn’t risk Lilith seeing too much.

Notes:

My take on Alastor's deal with Lilith. Because why does he have an eye in his microphone?

Chapter four is coming soon! Thank you for all the support!

Chapter 4: Intermission

“Alright, showtime.”

Vox stood just outside the den, one hand braced against the flickering ‘OPEN’ sign buzzing above the door. His screen crackled faintly in the darkness, neon-colored and too bright for how quiet he’d gone inside.

“No backup. No training wheels. Just you and your charming personality.”  “That should be illegal enough.”

He shifted his stance, adjusted his coat purely for effect, since it was always perfect and took a breath he didn’t need.

“C’mon, you’ve done this a dozen times with Alastor breathing down your neck and judging every line you spit.”

 His voice dipped into a mock-impression of the Radio Demon:

 “‘You’re overplaying your hand, dear. Your metaphors are clumsy. Your eye contact’s too eager.’” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well look who’s not here.”

The silence stretched. Even the flickering light above him seemed to hesitate.

Vox paused.  “...Okay, yeah. I’m nervous. Just a little.”

He scratched his head, more out of instinct than itch.

“This isn’t just a deal. This is my deal. First solo. No more training montages. No safety net. Just me. Vox.”

He squared his shoulders, tilting his head toward the rusted door like it had challenged him personally.

“Let’s make this bastard forget his own name.” And he stepped inside.

–

It had been months since the Doomsday District. Since Vox’s  first fight, they hadn’t stopped since. More lessons. More blood on the concrete. Vox still buzzed with newness, but it had settled now more focused, more deliberate. But he was still bright. Still eager. Still… Vox. 

Alastor’s tower stood crooked on the edge of the city, half-swallowed by fog and half-lit by the ever-dying neon of Pentagram’s outskirts. A forgotten spire of rust and frequency. Most didn’t know it was still powered. Fewer knew someone lived in it. 

Inside, the place had changed. Not much. But enough.

Old broadcast equipment had been reassembled into something functional. Records were stacked in neat, obsessive piles. A faded blanket had found its way onto the back of a worn armchair, its edges curled like a habit formed without meaning to. Someone had swept recently. Someone had cared.

Alastor sat near the open window, the night wind tugging faintly at the curtains, cigarette balanced between two fingers. Green sparks curled around the tip not lit by match or lighter, but conjured from the air, slow and precise. The ember hissed with the low sound of static. He took a drag. Exhaled smoke that shimmered faintly in the glow.

The door banged open.

Vox stumbled inside like a storm barely contained in skin and chrome, eyes glowing, grin stretched wide and half breathless. “There you are!”

Alastor didn’t flinch. He sat in his usual place near the tower window, cigarette trailing smoke between two fingers.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Vox said, tossing his coat over the back of a chair absentmindedly . “You’re not exactly easy to find, you know. Especially when your tower doesn’t show up on maps. Or street signs. Or logic.”

Alastor gave a slow, amused blink. “If you’re done cataloguing your inconveniences–”

“I made a deal.”

That got his attention.

Vox grinned wider. “All on my own. No interference. No safety net. Just me and some desperate demon with a drinking problem and a weird thing for poker. Guess who walked away with his soul?”

Alastor took a long drag from his cigarette, green smoke curling upward like a question. “You?”

“Damn right, me.”

Vox tossed something small and glowing onto the desk beside Alastor’s chair, a miniature projection of the signed deal, the soul-bound contract curling at the edges like fire had kissed it. It flickered like old footage.

“I didn’t even ask for help,” Vox said, chest puffed. “Didn’t stall. Didn’t hesitate. He asked what I wanted in return, and I told him ‘Everything you can’t afford to lose.’” He laughed, proud. “He didn’t even realize what that meant until after the ink dried.”

Alastor exhaled smoke in a long, silent line. “And what did it cost him?”

Vox leaned against the table. “His soul, duh. He’ll wake up tomorrow not knowing his name, his debts, or the reason he came crawling to me in the first place. It’ll be like starting over.”

A pause.

Then: “Efficient,” Alastor said.

“That's a compliment?”

“An observation.”

Vox chuckled. “I’ll take it.”

He plucked a cigarette from Alastor’s container, shameless, and stuck it between his own teeth. Alastor raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest. He simply extended two fingers, and a flicker of green magic sparked from his finger to the tip of the cigarette, reigniting it with a low snap.

Vox took a drag and immediately coughed.

Alastor watched, dry amusement flickering across his face. “Still new.”

“Shut up,” Vox wheezed, laughing through the smoke. “I’m getting there.”

The tower felt warmer than it used to. But almost  lived-in. A blanket rested on the back of one chair, vinyls were stacked with more care, and someone had cleared the dust from the windowsills. It still wasn’t home, not exactly, but it was no longer a ruin pretending not to be lonely.

Vox glanced around. “Y’know, for someone who acts like he doesn’t live anywhere, this place is starting to look a lot like ‘home base.’”

Alastor didn’t reply.

Vox grinned sideways. “You gonna throw a rug in next? Maybe get sentimental?”

“I don’t do ‘sentimental,’” Alastor said, too quickly.

Then his gaze cut toward his cane resting near the wall. The eye embedded near the microphone twitched faintly, tracking. Vox didn’t notice. But Alastor did. He reached out subtly and flicked his fingers. The cane shifted, turning just enough so the eye faced the shadows. Its pupil narrowed. Then stilled.

Lilith didn’t need to see this. 

They lapsed into silence again. Not awkward, just full. The kind of stillness that came from familiarity, not absence.

Vox sat in the chair across from him, arms folded behind his head. “Y’know, it’s kinda weird.”

“What is?”

“You. Letting me see this side of things. You don’t let anyone get close.”

Alastor smiled, but there was no sharpness in it. Just smoke and distance. “You’re not close. You’re convenient.”

Vox raised an eyebrow. “Ouch.”

“Truth rarely flatters.”

Vox smirked, flicking ash into the tray. “Still. I’ve been learning from the best. Making deals. Channeling static. Freaking sinners out just by looking at ‘em. You’ve turned me into a proper nightmare.”

Alastor let out a low, approving hum.

Then, after a long pause: “Be careful.” 

Vox blinked. “What, again? You said that last time.”

“And I’ll say it again. You’re stronger now, but you’re still climbing. Power draws eyes. Some you won’t see coming.”

Vox looked at him. “Like who?”

Alastor didn’t answer. Not with words, he let the silence hold the weight instead. Eventually, Vox relaxed again, the warning settling somewhere behind his grin.

“Well, even if I’m being watched, I’ve got a good tutor.”

Alastor tilted his head. “I’m not teaching you everything.”

“Obviously.” Vox’s grin sharpened. “I’ve got to keep learning something, or I’ll stop showing up.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Is that what keeps you coming back?”

Vox met his gaze, screen flickering soft with city light. “You haven’t told me to leave yet.”

Outside, the city growled in the distance. But in the tower, only the radio hummed, and the eye on the cane stayed shut. Watching nothing at all.

Alastor stubbed his cigarette out in the tray. “Whiskey?”

Vox perked up. “Please. I’ve earned it.”

Alastor walked towards a cabinet with that smooth, unhurried elegance he always carried, like every movement was a performance only he could hear the music to. The cane stayed behind by the window, but not before twitching again, the eye narrowing in suspicion. Alastor didn’t look at it. Just flicked his fingers, and the thing turned itself completely toward the wall, hissing faintly as if in protest.

Vox watched that happen without saying anything. He wasn’t sure what he’d just seen. He was even less sure what it meant.

But he said nothing.

Instead, he leaned back in the armchair and spread out like he belonged. He didn’t, of course. But he was getting better at pretending.

“Didn’t think you were the whiskey type,” he said casually, eyeing the cabinet as Alastor opened it.

“I’m the everything type,” Alastor replied, plucking two glasses from a shelf that hadn’t been dusty in weeks. “In moderation.”

“Boring.”

“Disciplined.”

Vox grinned. “Same thing.”

Alastor poured with a steady hand. No flair, no showmanship. But Vox could feel the hum of static in the room shift, like the signal had been tuned to a different frequency just for this moment.

He handed over the glass and returned to his seat. They sat again, this time facing each other, but less like a lesson and more like... something else. Still not comfort. But proximity. Familiarity.

Alastor sipped his whiskey. Vox took his own, tried not to cough this time, and mostly succeeded.

“So,” Vox said, after a beat, “you gonna tell me what I’m walking into?”

Alastor raised an eyebrow.

“The Overlord meeting,” Vox clarified. “You’ve been putting it off for months.”

“Have I?”

“Yes,” Vox said, leaning forward slightly, screen flickering low and warm. “Every time I ask, you change the subject or throw me a fight lesson.”

“That sounds like excellent teaching.”

“It’s avoidance,” Vox shot back, but not unkindly. “And I’m not stupid.”

Alastor swirled the glass once, letting the amber catch the low light. “Politics are dull.”

“Then why go?”

Alastor smiled faintly. “Because they’re dangerous.”

Vox’s grin faded. Just a little. “That’s not ominous or anything.”

“They’re not called meetings for civility’s sake,” Alastor said. “They’re tests. Power, alliances, perception. Every Overlord attends. Not to cooperate but to watch. To count which names are still standing.”

Vox shifted in his seat. “Okay, that’s actually kind of exciting.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

Vox let the words settle. “Are you going to tell me what to expect?”

Alastor tilted his head. “You’re going to be watched.”

“Yeah, I gathered that.”

“Flash too brightly, and they’ll wonder what you’re trying to blind them from. Laugh too loudly, and they’ll check your pockets while you’re distracted. Play the jester if you must but remember: in Hell, jesters die first.” 

Vox’s fingers tapped once against his glass. “You always talk in riddles when something actually matters.”

“That’s because direct answers make you reckless,” Alastor replied, not missing a beat.

Vox laughed into his drink. “True.”

The quiet after that was easy. Or easier than it used to be. Vox looked over the cluttered room, the stacks of records, the faintly burned scent of old circuits. He let the silence stretch for a moment longer.

Then, softer: “You’re really not gonna tell me everything, huh?”

Alastor didn’t smile this time. “No.”

Vox took another sip. “Then I’ll figure it out the hard way.”

He looked back up. Alastor was watching him not coldly, not even critically. Just watching. As if trying to measure how much more there was to see. And Vox... he didn’t know what to make of that look. Not entirely, so he leaned into it.

“Hey,” he said, lighter now. “If I crash and burn at this meeting, you’re still gonna drag me back here and patch me up, right?”

Alastor’s smile returned, thin and unreadable. “No.”

Vox laughed again, but something in him curled at the thought. He didn’t know why.

He glanced around the tower one more time, this weird, patchwork place. Wires humming low in the walls, the faint flicker of transmission gear idling. Suddenly Vox was aware, too aware, of the fact that he was here. That he had come here again and again. That Alastor had let him.

Maybe more than he let on.

Notes:

A little bit of a slower chapter! Chapter five is coming soon, Thanks for all the support!

Chapter 5: The Meeting

The tower was quiet again.

Vox had left hours ago grinning, gloating. The door shut behind him with that usual swagger. The moment he was gone, Alastor reached for the cane.

He didn’t touch it. Just flicked his fingers. The eye turned to finally face the room again. He didn’t like the way it blinked when Vox was in the room. Didn’t like the way she watched. And she always watched. The static came first. Soft; beneath the floorboards, behind the wiring. Then the voice was clear, cold, and ancient.

"How clever you think you are."

Alastor didn’t move.

"Tilt the eye. Shield the boy. Twist your wrist like that makes me blind."

The old radio on the desk flickered to life. Unplugged, unwelcome, glowing anyway. Her voice wrapped around the walls like velvet soaked in venom.

"You insult me."

The cane creaked behind him. The embedded eye fluttered, restless.

"I gifted you everything. I put power in your hands. My hands, and now you flinch like a liar every time the boy walks in."

Alastor lit a cigarette with two fingers. Green flame, No words.

"You think I don’t see what you’re doing?" Lilith asked, smooth as glass, sharp as broken teeth. "You think your little angle tricks matter? That if the cane is turned, I’m gone?"

A pause. Long enough for the room to shiver.

"You insult me," she repeated, quieter. Still, he said nothing. Her tone darkened.

“You forget what you are without me.” The record player across the room crackled, though no one had touched it. The air grew colder.

“I chose you from the rot, from the mud and blood and noise. I carved you from pride and made you louder, I gave you a smile that never fades. And in return…”

Another pause. 

"You hide from me."

She waited.

"Why?"

Alastor exhaled smoke through his teeth. Still nothing. Lilith’s voice curved low. Too calm.

“Is it because of him?” He didn’t speak, but his jaw shifted. She hummed. Delighted.

“Oh… Alastor.” her voice dripped with false gentleness

“You’ve gone soft.”

The cane twitched. The eye opened wide, bloodshot, almost straining.

“He makes you sentimental. Sloppy. And now you’re hiding things.”

Alastor looked at the radio. His smile didn’t move. But the room could feel it when his heart did.

“ Vox doesn’t matter.” A lie. Maybe. He exhaled smoke like it might take the truth with it.

Lilith laughed.

That same rich sound mocking, regal, cruel.

“Oh, but he does. He matters because you let him. You let him laugh around you. You let him win. You gave him a front-row seat to your ruin.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m only investing in potential,” he snapped

“No. You’re protecting it.”

“I know what you're doing,” Lilith continued, more measured now. “And I’ll allow it. For now.”

The light in the radio burned gold.

“But understand this..”

The air thickened. The walls vibrated faintly with her next words.

“Keep the cane in view at all times.”

Static spiked. Not a suggestion.

A command.

She let that hang there, like a blade suspended over the neck of something not yet kneeling.

Then her tone softened. Dangerous in a new way.

“After all... if you have nothing to hide, there’s no reason to turn it away.”

And just before the signal dropped completely, one last whisper curled through the speaker.

“I’m patient, Alastor. But I always collect.”

The eye on the cane blinked once. Then again, then stayed open.

Alastor didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. And across the room, the record started spinning again, but the needle hadn’t dropped.

 

— 

 

The conference hall in the Overlord spire hadn’t changed much; red marble floors, too polished to be practical, high ceilings. Light bled in through warped stained glass windows depicting Hell’s shifting hierarchy, though none of the figures were smiling.

Vox adjusted his tie for the fourth time as he and Alastor stepped through the archway. The room stilled.

It wasn’t often the Radio Demon made an appearance. And rarer still that he brought company.

Vox felt eyes on him instantly heavy, speculative. The kind that tried to peel you apart without blinking, he swallowed that spike of nerves with a grin.

Alastor didn’t slow, boots clicking confidently across the floor. Vox mirrored the rhythm two steps behind, shoulders square, posture sharp, almost identical. Too identical.

"You’re mimicking me," Alastor said without looking back, his voice low.

Vox blinked, flinched slightly. “What? No I’m not.”

Alastor’s smile grew. “Hm.”

They took their place near the long table at the center of the chamber. Rosie was already there, her presence warm and composed. She gave Alastor a knowing nod.

"Missed you, dear," she said lightly. “Thought you’d sworn off meetings.”

“I was… otherwise occupied,” Alastor replied smoothly, sliding into a chair. His cane leaned against the table, the eye embedded in its head faintly glinting. Unmoving. Watching. But no one looked directly at it.

Rosie’s gaze flicked to Vox. “And you must be the protégé.”

Vox beamed. “The name’s Vox. Second time at the big table.”

“Ah,” came a new voice from across the chamber. Carmilla, draped in silver and shadow, her smile was sharp and thin. “That explains the long absence. We thought you’d finally retired, Alastor..”

“Tempting,” he replied lightly. “But no.”

Zestial, skeletal and insectoid, looked at Alastor in amusement. “Strange. You used to be so punctual. But I suppose... grooming a successor takes time.”

Vox puffed up slightly at the word "successor," ignoring how Alastor’s fingers tapped once sharp against the table.

“Actually,” Vox started, arms folding confidently over his chest, “I’ve already made two deals. Clean. Smooth. All for their souls”

There was a brief silence. Then a low scoff from the far end of the table.

“Two?” muttered a hulking Overlord with burning antlers Rhaggar, if Vox remembered right. “And we’re supposed to be impressed?”

Vox opened his mouth, Alastor cleared his throat.

“Mmm,” he warned quietly, not even looking at him.

Vox held his tongue. Barely.

Rosie gave him a sympathetic glance. “New blood always thinks two wins means a crown.”

“Not a crown,” Vox muttered under his breath, “just a throne.”

Alastor sighed, amused but bothered. “We’ll work on humility.”

The conversation shifted then territory updates, disputes between lesser overlords, strange shifts in Hell’s southern districts, disappearances in the Wastes. A name or two changed hands.

Vox tried to keep still. Tried not to fidget. His screen flickered faintly when someone mentioned a spike in soul activity near the Dead Canal he leaned toward Alastor.

“That’s where I got my last deal,” he whispered.

Alastor’s smile didn’t change. “Then don’t speak.”

Vox sat back. Folded his arms. Whispered, “Killjoy.”

Alastor’s expression finally twitched, just a little.

The meeting dragged on. As lessons went, it wasn’t loud or theatrical. But Vox watched. Learned. Not just from the arguments and power plays, but from how Alastor navigated them. He said little, but everything he did say landed like a pin through paper.

By the end, most Overlords had stopped watching Vox directly. But they hadn’t forgotten him either.

Not with the way Alastor glanced his way. Not with how Vox walked out beside him, still matching his stride.

Just enough to make Hell wonder.

 

—

The doors had barely clicked shut behind the last Overlord when Rosie finally moved from her place by the window.

The skyline stretched in long slashes of red and black a symbol of Pentagram’s ever-glowing cityscape. Far below, fog and neon tangled like devils in a dance, and the hum of Hell felt closer than usual.

Vox sat half-sprawled in one of the obsidian chairs, his tie straight, posture loose, like he was trying to convince the room he wasn’t nervous. His jacket hung over the back of his chair like it lived there one leg draped over the other. He looked like he owned the place.

Rosie watched him for a second.

“You don’t scare easily,” she said, voice smooth and dry.

Vox looked up, grinning. “Should I be scared?”

“Only if you plan on staying in this room too long without knowing who’s watching.”

He tilted his head slightly, cocky but not dismissive. “You?”

“Please.” Rosie smirked and leaned against the edge of the table. “If I wanted you gone, you wouldn’t be sitting.”

“Noted.”

She smiled, eyes flicking to the seat Alastor had recently vacated. “He went with the others to the map room?”

“Yeah,” Vox said, tapping a finger on the polished surface. “Said I wasn’t ready for that part yet. Whatever that means.”

Rosie gave a small hum. “It means he doesn’t want you getting eaten alive over a line in the dirt.”

“Lines are just suggestions,” Vox said, shrugging. “Besides, I’ve made two deals now. That’s gotta count for something.”

“You said that in front of Zestial.” Her brows lifted. “You’re lucky he didn’t throw you through the wall.”

Vox chuckled. “He looked like he wanted to.”

“Zestial always wants to throw someone through something,” Rosie said, folding her arms. “Don’t take it personally. But don’t push him, either.”

Then she added, quieter, “You remind me of how Alastor used to be. Before.”

Vox perked up. “What, charming?”

Rosie’s smile turned knowing. “Something like that.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees now, static faint behind his voice. “How long have you known him?”

“Long enough to know when something changes.”

That made Vox pause.

“He’s not easy to get close to,” Rosie added. “You’ve figured that out by now.”

“I’m not trying to get close,” Vox said quickly, too quickly.

She didn’t press. Just tilted her head, considering.

“He doesn’t keep company,” she said. “Doesn’t teach. Doesn’t team up. Yet here you are.”

Vox lifted his chin. “Maybe I’m the exception.”

Rosie chuckled softly, almost to herself. “You just might be.”

She moved to leave then, picking up her parasol from where it leaned against the table. The other Overlords were still in the map room, their voices muffled down the corridor.

At the doorway, she paused, just long enough to glance over her shoulder.

“Be careful what you want from him, Vox.”

Vox blinked. “What does that mean?”

But Rosie just smiled pleasant, unreadable and said, lightly, “Nothing at all.”

Then, under her breath, almost too soft to hear: “Curious little thing, aren’t you?”

And with that, she stepped into the hallway, heels echoing like clock ticks as she disappeared toward the shadows.

—-

The streets of Pentagram City stretched ahead in red-lit veins, veins that pulsed with neon and rot. Billboards flickered overhead, some half-dead, others bleeding static. The buildings loomed in silence, too tired to leer. Alastor and Vox walked side by side, but it wasn’t companionable. Not tonight. The meeting had ended, the doors had closed, and now came the lesson. 

Alastor, naturally, took his time with it.

“You stood like you’d practiced in the mirror,” he began. “That was wise. Composure is currency in that room.”

Vox kept walking.

“You mimicked me, too. The posture, the head tilt, even the little hum under your breath. You must think imitation is a shortcut to respect.”

Vox exhaled, sharp through his nose. “You didn’t say any of that in there.”

“I don’t offer feedback where it can be overheard. That would’ve humiliated you.”

“Oh, thanks,” Vox muttered, teeth clenched.

Alastor kept his hands folded behind his back, his voice infuriatingly mild. “Now, where you failed.”

Vox rolled his eyes.

“You interrupted Zestial, which I warned you never to do. You smiled too wide at Rhaggar’s territory report which he noticed, by the way and you laughed when you shouldn’t have. You treated the meeting like a performance.”

“It was a performance,” Vox snapped.

“No,” Alastor said, tone hardening. “It was a war room. And you, dear, made yourself the jester.”

Vox stopped walking, Alastor didn’t.

“Two soul deals,” he said over his shoulder, “and you spoke like you’d rewritten the hierarchy.”

Vox’s hands were fists at his sides. “I earned those souls.”

“Barely.”

“I worked for them.”

“One came from a desperate club owner who couldn’t count to seven,” Alastor said, finally turning. “The other from a washed-up gambler who probably would’ve signed if you offered him a sandwich and a kind word.”

Vox’s screen warped with fury. “You think this is easy?!”

“No. I think you’re making it look cheap.”

That landed. Vox took a breath and then another but it didn’t calm him. It stoked something instead. His voice dropped low.

“You don’t get to decide what matters to me.”

“I do,” Alastor said, “if you plan to survive.”

The street fell silent.

Vox’s static buzzed like something coming untethered. “You say you’re teaching me,but every time I succeed, you tear it down. Every win, every step forward, you just… twist it like it’s nothing.”

Alastor tilted his head. “If praise is what you want, darling, perhaps try earning it.”

“I’m not your fucking puppet,” Vox barked. “You don’t get to string me along and then scoff when I move.”

Alastor just looked at him.. Just a slow, almost cruel kind of look.

“Good,” he said.

Vox blinked.

“You’re angry,” Alastor added. “Finally. There’s fire behind all that static. Took you long enough.”

Vox’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched. He didn’t understand why his chest felt tight. Why wasn't it just frustration anymore. It was something else too. Something sharp and confused and pulling sideways. The cane tapped the pavement once behind Alastor. The eye embedded in the head had been quiet the whole walk. Passive. Watching. Now, it blinked.

And somewhere, somewhere just beyond the veil, Lilith saw.

She didn’t speak. Not now. But she felt the tremor of Vox’s temper. The flicker of something deeper. She had patience. This wasn’t her moment.

Yet.

Alastor turned again and walked on. “Your anger’s wasted if you don’t aim it. Use it to learn. Or someone else will use it for you.”

Vox followed, slower now, tension stiff in his limbs. After a minute, he muttered, “Rosie said you used to be worse.” He tried to change the subject before saying something he’d regret.

Alastor chuckled once. “She’s kind.”

“You two ever…” Vox hesitated. “Y’know.”

Alastor’s grin curled razor-sharp, but his voice was light. “Rosie and I understand one another. That’s all.”

“She is fond of you,” Alastor continued, casually. “Which means she sees something. Or perhaps she’s just curious.”

“She said she liked that you were teaching me.” He shrugged. “That’s gotta mean something.”

“Cannibal Town tends to value mentorship. Rosie built her district on discipline and appetite. It suits her.”

“Will we go there?” Vox asked. “For a lesson?”

“Someday,” Alastor replied. “Once you stop needing to imitate me and start becoming someone worth studying.”

That stung. Vox didn’t reply, just nodded once and shoved his hands in his pockets. They reached the point where their paths split.

Vox paused. His anger still simmered low, but it had mixed with something else. Uncertainty. A flicker of shame. A strange ache.

“Night,” he said, quieter now.

“Sleep with one eye open,” Alastor said, almost fondly.

“I don’t sleep.”

“Then pretend.”

Alastor turned away without ceremony.  Vox stood there for a moment longer, caught in the crackle of red streetlights and far-off radio hums. He didn’t know why his stomach twisted, why Rosie’s words kept repeating in his head, he didn’t know what he wanted from Alastor. But he knew it was something. 

And Hell had a way of punishing want.

Vox walked fast. No destination. Just away.

He moved like static, sharp, glitchy, sparking at the edges. His coat whipped behind him, half-dragging through puddles slick with Hell’s rain. His screen flashed, a little too bright, too hot. His tie was still perfectly straight, but his mouth was twisted in a frown that didn’t belong to someone so proud of himself two hours ago.

“‘Don’t speak unless you’re sure,’” he muttered, throwing on Alastor’s cadence like a costume. “‘Timing is everything, dear.’”

He sneered. “Please.”

He kicked a loose stone off the curb. It zapped with leftover energy and knocked a sinner unconscious fifty feet away. Vox didn’t flinch. Just kept walking, talking, buzzing.

“‘Darling, confidence is no substitute for competence,’” he mocked again, voice pitching into something dangerously close to an impression. “Ugh.”

He stopped mid-step.. 

“What does that even mean? I was competent! I had the room. I had ‘em listening.”

His voice grew louder, aimed at the air.

“I made two soul deals. Two! That’s more than some of those crusty old has-beens have gotten in a century. But I’m the amateur?”

No one answered. The city didn’t even blink.

He spun on his heel, jabbing a finger at an empty alley. “You didn’t even say anything good, by the way! Just ‘watch your tone,’ and ‘you’re not subtle.’”

He paced in a tight circle, hands twitching like his circuits couldn’t decide whether to throw a tantrum or start a fire. Probably both.

“Like you’re subtle. You walk into a room like a knife someone dropped into a jazz record. You smile and people start choking on their own tongues. But I’m the problem?”

He dropped onto a rusted bench. Instantly stood up again. “Nope. Too restless.”

He stormed forward, muttering under his breath.

“I don’t like him. I respect him. That’s different. That’s professional. I’m allowed to admire his... posture. His timing. The coat. That’s just..branding. Presentation.”

A second

“Fuck, He’s got great branding. Sharp. Memorable.”

Another second.

“Ugh.”

A spark zipped off his fingertip and set a demonic pigeon on fire. It screamed, flailed, and vanished into the red skyline.

“Maybe Rosie’s just projecting. She is weirdly invested in his love life for someone who chews people’s throats out for fun.”

He mimicked her next, voice lilting and teasing. “‘You like him a little, don’t you?’ Pfft. As if.”

He stopped walking again. Then, more quietly, to the air: “...Do I?”

The words felt strange. Heavy in his mouth. He said them again, softer, just to see if they changed:

“Do I?”

No glitch. No static. Just silence. He shook his head hard, like he could knock the thought loose.

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “It’s not useful. This isn’t about feelings. It’s about dominion. Legacy. Hell runs on deals and power, not soft, squishy things.”

He pointed at a cracked storefront window.

“I don’t have time for romance. I barely have time to sleep. I’m learning to control broadcast energy. I can fry a sinner’s brain from three blocks away. I’ve got skills.”

Another pause. Then, quieter, almost sulky:

“I nailed that meeting.”

He turned a corner so sharply his coat caught on a rusted spike of metal and tore slightly.

“Dammit!”

He glared down at the rip, then sighed and tugged the jacket tighter around himself anyway.

Alastor would’ve laughed. Not in a cruel way, but that amused way that said he knew it was coming before it happened.

Vox kicked the streetlight post until the bulb exploded overhead.

“I’m not him. I’m not trying to be him.”

He said that last part fast. Too fast.

Then, like a reflex: “...But I could be better than him. Eventually. That’s the goal.”

He looked up at his own reflection in a shattered storefront window. His screen flickered slightly tinted red from the glow of Pentagram’s sky.

He straightened his tie. Touched his collar. Took a breath.

Then, quietly, trying it out:  “Darling,” he said to his reflection. “You really should know when to stop talking.”

His voice was soft. Not mocking this time. Just thinking. Processing. He walked the rest of the way home without speaking.

But the static never stopped humming.

 

Notes:

A longer chapter!! Thanks for all the support, feedback is always appreciated :)

Chapter 6: Spite and Screams

The deal went through cleaner than it should’ve.

The contract etched itself into the pavement with a hiss, burning its way through cracked stone. The demon on the other end, one of those twitchy little opportunists with too many rings and not enough sense, tried to claw it back at the last second. Too late. Vox already had the signature, the flash of power, the pulse of a soul snapped loose like a wire gone hot.

It wasn’t subtle, wasn’t strategic, wasn’t even a fair trade.

It was out of spite.

The demon slumped against the alley wall, fingers twitching, mouth open like he still had something to say. Vox didn’t wait to hear it. The soul was sealed, coiled inside a strip of flickering code that folded into his palm and vanished into static. 

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to do that deal. Not really. It wasn’t smart, it wasn't calculated. But it felt good, ripping that power out of someone’s chest and keeping it for himself. Just for a moment, it made the night before feel smaller.

His teeth clicked behind a clenched jaw.

This wasn’t what it was supposed to feel like. He thought winning would be cleaner. Louder. Something to brag about. But all he could hear was the sound of that room, the silence after he’d opened his mouth too wide, the echo of his own laugh when no one else smiled. He could still feel Alastor’s voice in his bones.

“You made yourself the jester.”

Vox scowled and kicked a loose scrap of metal into the gutter. It sparked and fizzled out. He kept walking.

The tower pulled into view tall and waiting, humming like a live wire. It looked the same as always, but something in it felt different tonight. It felt more like a test.

His pace slowed, just slightly. He looked down at the cracked sidewalk, then up again. He hated how quiet his own footsteps sounded.

“Not gonna flinch,” he muttered.

He didn’t know if he meant from the cold or from Alastor.

The lights from the tower windows cast long shadows down the street, warping across the puddles and alley walls. One of them blinked and flickered back on.

Vox adjusted his collar, wiped his screen with the heel of his hand, and kept moving. His coat clung to his arms. Static hummed louder the closer he got. He climbed the steps two at a time, refusing to hesitate, his hand hitting the door.

It wasn’t locked. Of course it wasn’t. Alastor didn’t need locks. 

Vox took one breath. Then another.

Then he opened the door and stepped inside.

The air inside the tower was warm, but not comforting.  Alastor stood by the central console, back turned, adjusting one of the dials like he hadn’t heard the door open. Like he hadn’t already known, Vox hovered in the entryway a second too long.

“Rough night?” Alastor asked lightly, voice pitched somewhere between curious and cold.

Vox shut the door harder than necessary. “Got a soul.”

Alastor turned just enough for his eyes to catch him over his shoulder. “Did you, now?”

“Yeah.” Vox stepped inside properly, shrugging off the wet static that clung to his coat. “Demon. Mid-tier, maybe. Offered power. Took the whole soul instead.”

Alastor’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That sounds more like theft than negotiation.”

Vox bristled. “He signed.”

“I’m sure he did.”

Something in the tone stung; dismissive, unreadable. 

“I didn’t come back to brag,” Vox muttered.

Alastor gave him a long look. “Didn’t you?”

Vox didn’t answer. He moved to the chair near the wall, the one he always pretended not to claim, and sat down hard. Rain still pattered against the windows behind him, but the sound was dulled by insulation and the quiet hum of machinery deep in the tower’s bones.

“I came back because I owed you something,” Vox said finally.

Alastor raised a brow. “Oh?”

Vox glanced away, frowning at the wall like it had insulted him personally. “Last night. I shouldn’t’ve-” He stopped. Tried again. “You were right. About the meeting. I fucked it up.”

Alastor didn’t blink. “Language.”

“Seriously?” Vox snapped.

Alastor just stared for a moment. Then he gestured, smooth and deliberate. “Come here.”

Vox blinked. “Why?”

“Because if you’re going to act like you know what power is,” Alastor said, already turning back to the console, “you should at least hear it.”

He flipped a switch. The lights dimmed.

The room shifted around them, soft and golden light becoming sharp and strange. The hum of the tower deepened, sliding into a frequency Vox could feel in his chest, in his spine. Like the floor itself had taken a breath.

He looked at the speaker, then back at Alastor. The radio whined. Then cracked.

Then the screaming began.

Not loud. Not at first. It rose like something crawling out of the static, clawing toward the surface. A voice, high and ragged, tearing itself to pieces across the wires. It wasn’t pain, it was everything. Rage, fear, betrayal, grief, all wrapped together and stretched until it screamed.

Alastor’s fingers danced over the dials. Calm. Expert. He didn’t even flinch as the voice twisted into something beyond language.

“Recognize it?” he asked.

Vox shook his head slowly.

“A lesser Overlord,” Alastor said. “Name doesn’t matter. Territory barely mattered more. But he made a deal he couldn’t keep.”

Vox nodded, barely. His voice came out low. “You’re broadcasting it?”

He adjusted the dial. The screams rose then dipped, warped, became something like static chewing on a throat.

“I took his soul,” Alastor said plainly. “Broadcasting it now across every dead frequency in the city, and to the lower bands. Most of Hell hears it, even if they don’t know it.” 

Alastor smiled faintly as he turned to Vox. “Darling, power should leave a trace.”

Vox stood still, stiffer than he meant to be. Alastor didn’t move.

“This is what they become,” he said calmly. “When the deal isn’t just about taking. When it’s about owning.”

The screams surged, echoing inside the walls. They sounded like they were coming from behind the paneling, under the floorboards, inside the lights. Like the tower itself was broadcasting a soul being unmade.

Vox couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what he expected, maybe a puff of static, a flash of power, maybe even a trophy.

Not this. Not the sound of someone being remembered in agony, forever.

“You hear it?” Alastor asked softly. “The part where he realizes it’s permanent?” 

The screaming rose one more octave then stopped. Silence slammed into the room like a door shut tight.

Alastor turned a single dial. Everything powered down.

Vox stayed frozen, something in his gut twisting, not in horror, not even fear. Something else. Something like awe.

He looked at the console. Then at Alastor.

“That was…” he started. He didn’t know how to finish it.

Alastor just tilted his head. “Now you understand.”

Vox swallowed hard. “That’s what a soul deal is supposed to be?”

“No,” Alastor said. “That’s what it can be.”

The silence crackled between them. For once, Vox didn’t have a comeback. His screen flickered faintly, brightness lower than usual. Like he was still trying to process what he’d heard.

“You think I’m cruel,” Alastor said after a moment. “You wouldn’t be wrong. But cruelty isn’t the point. It’s just the consequence.”

“Your soul deals work. But they’re shallow. Loud. Temporary.” His eyes found Vox’s again. “You want more than performance? Start thinking long-term.”

Vox nodded slowly. “I thought I was.”

“No, dear,” Alastor murmured. “You were thinking about applause.”

That hit harder than Vox wanted to admit.

He stepped back, hands in his pockets. His coat still damp. His shoulders heavy. But something in him sparked. 

Vox didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

Alastor had already turned away, casual as ever, like what he'd shown wasn’t monstrous, just inevitable. A lesson. A fact.

Vox’s hands twitched.

He couldn’t stay in that room.

His footsteps carried him out without thought, out into the narrow halls of the tower. No destination. Just away. The doors creaked on their hinges behind him, closing with a soft click that felt too loud.

He walked past walls lined with half-dead speakers and burned-out radios, past dusty portraits that seemed to change slightly if you stared too long. Every corridor buzzed with low static. Not loud. Not threatening. Just… always there. Breathing.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, he only knew he couldn’t stop moving.

The tower felt endless tonight. The halls wound in wrong directions, the ceilings arched too high. Everything creaked, like the place remembered older voices. Older screams.

Vox passed a window overlooking the city. He paused, just briefly, to stare down at the wet glow of Hell’s streets. Pentagram looked so far away, too far to touch, too far to matter.

He exhaled. His breath fogged against the glass.

Why had Alastor shown him that?

He didn’t need to. He could’ve mocked Vox. Laughed at him. Ignored the apology entirely. But instead, he’d shared that.

The soul. The broadcast. The truth.

And Vox didn’t know how to hold it. He didn’t know how to reconcile the awe and the disgust and the strange, horrible admiration twisting up in his chest like a knot he couldn’t loosen.

That scream still rang faintly in his ears.

He rubbed his eyes with his palm. “I shouldn’t care,” he said aloud. “It was one soul. I’ve taken souls.”

But it was different, because this time he’d heard it. Felt it crawl up his spine, watched Alastor tune it like a song.

It wasn’t just cruelty. It was art. And that terrified him.

And yet Vox pressed his knuckles to the wall. His static buzzed low in his throat.

“Why does it matter what he thinks?” he whispered.

But he knew why.

Because for all the snide comments and cruel smiles, Alastor hadn’t dismissed him. He’d tested him, challenged him pushed him into failure not to shame him but to see if he’d stand back up.

And now this, not a warning, not a punishment, but a glimpse. Of what Vox could be.

Or what he’d have to become to stand beside him.

His chest hurt. He leaned back against the wall and slid down, sitting hard on the cold floor. The tower’s hum grew louder here. A soft pulse through the baseboards, like a heartbeat buried under layers of static. He thought of the way Alastor had looked at him when he first walked in. Not smug, not cruel, Just calm.

Certain. Like he already knew how this would go.

Vox dropped his head into his hands, this wasn’t just anger anymore, It was something else.

And he hated that he couldn’t name it. He didn’t want to be grateful. Didn’t want to need anything from that grinning bastard.

But what he’d seen… what he’d heard… It was the most important lesson he’d had since coming to Hell.

And Alastor had given it to him freely. Like he wanted Vox to understand, like he was invested.

Vox sat there for a long time, knees drawn up, coat pooled around him like static caught in velvet. The hum of the tower curled around his thoughts, and somewhere high above, the radio crackled once, he didn’t hear anything.

But then Alastor was beside him.

No footsteps, no sound, just there, like the tower itself had exhaled and let him loose.

“My, my,” Alastor drawled, tone bright and needling. “You didn’t break the door this time. I’m touched.”

Vox flinched slightly, his screen snapping brighter. “Do you have to sneak around like that?”

“Why, Vox, I live here. You’re the one wandering around like a sinner in a maze.” He tilted his head. “Lost, are we?”

Vox didn’t answer. His shoulders were still tight, screen low-lit and flickering faintly. He stood to lean over the railing, Alastor stepped closer, boots silent against the floor.

“You’ve been awfully quiet since your little outburst,” he said, conversational. “And after such a passionate performance last night. I was expecting fireworks.”

“I’m not here to perform,” Vox muttered.

“Oh?” Alastor smiled. “Could’ve fooled me. The static tantrum, the storming out, the soul deal made out of sheer spite very theatrical. I was impressed.”

Vox’s jaw twitched. “You watching me now?”

“I don’t need to,” Alastor said softly. “You broadcast yourself, loud and clear.”

Vox turned on him. “Then what was all that for?” He gestured toward the tower core, the cables, the signals, the faint screaming still rattling the air. “You wanted to teach me a lesson? Scare me straight? Remind me who’s in charge?”

Alastor just smiled. Not cruel, not smug. Just… certain.

“No, darling,” he said. “I wanted you to see.”

Vox went still.

“I wanted you to understand the difference between having a soul…” Alastor gestured lazily, “and owning one.”

Silence stretched, thick and crackling.

“I made a deal tonight,” Vox said, voice low.

“You did,” Alastor agreed. “Sloppy. Emotional. But yes. And?”

“It wasn’t enough,” Vox muttered. “Didn’t feel like enough.”

Alastor’s grin widened, but not mockingly this time.

“There it is.”

Vox blinked. “What?”

“That hunger,” Alastor said, stepping closer. “That itch in your teeth. That’s good. It means you’ve started to notice the difference between noise and power.”

“I want that,” Vox said, before he could stop himself. “What you did, what I saw, I want to do that.”

Alastor raised a brow. “You want to peel the soul from a being older than you, rewrite it into your own signal, and make it scream for eternity?”

Vox hesitated. “I want… to matter.”

Alastor didn’t laugh. He just watched him.

Then, with a faint shrug, he said, “Then don’t waste time trying to be impressive.”

That stung more than it should’ve. Alastor turned slightly, pacing a slow arc around the floor.

“You’re still angry,” he said lightly. “I can hear it. See it in the little flickers around your edges.”

“I’m not angry.”

“You’re always angry. You just haven’t figured out how to use it yet.”

Vox turned away, gripping the railing.

“I’m not your charity case.”

Alastor chuckled. “Oh, Vox. I don’t do charity. I do potential.”

He appeared beside him again too fast, too quiet and leaned close.

“And you?” His voice dipped. “You’ve got the spark. All you need now is shape.”

Vox didn’t pull away.

Alastor stepped back. “Now. Are we done pouting?”

“I’m not pouting.”

“Mmm. Sulking, then. Brooding, maybe. Do tell me when you settle on a word I’d love to update your file.”

Vox gave him a look. “You have a file on me?”

Alastor beamed. “Of course. And it’s growing. Bad behavior and all.”

Vox’s eye twitched slightly

“I meant what I said,” he muttered. “Last night. I’m not trying to be you.”

Alastor’s grin sharpened. “You couldn’t be.”

“Good.”

“But,” Alastor added, and here his voice dipped just enough to press, “you could be worse.”

Vox blinked. “Worse?”

“Meaner. Hungrier. Louder.” He paused. “Smarter.”

Vox's fingers twitched.

“Not imitation,” Alastor said, voice softening again. “Legacy. That’s what you want. Yes?”

Vox didn’t respond, but he didn’t deny it either.

Alastor chuckled, turned back toward the core of the tower. 

“Then keep watching, darling. Keep learning. And next time you decide to throw a tantrum. Make it memorable.”

Vox watched him disappear into the shadows of the main broadcast room, his figure swallowed by light and hum. He stayed standing by the railing a while longer.

And for the first time since yesterday, he didn’t feel like he was losing.

He just wasn’t finished.

Notes:

Another slower chapter! Chapter Seven coming soon, feedback is appreciated, thanks for reading :))

Chapter 7: Surprise Detour

“Okay. Okay. One year.”

Vox paced across the floor of his personal studio, static buzzing louder with every step. The lights above flickered, not because they were faulty, but because his energy pulsed out of rhythm. 

“One year since he pulled me out of obscurity like I was a project. Or a problem. Or a…whatever. One year since that damn meeting where I said something stupid and he looked at me like I was some kind of joke.”

 He spun and walked the other direction, circuits humming through his joints. A long wire dragged from one wrist, trailing behind him like a stubborn thought. He didn’t notice.

“Eight deals. Eight. That’s… that’s not nothing. That’s progress. That’s more than half the morons at those meetings can say in a decade. I’ve got a record now. A reputation. Hell, people know me by name when I show up.”

He stopped in front of a mirror in the wall. His reflection blinked back: tall, twitchy, glowing too bright around the edges. The glass warped slightly around the heat of his energy.

“Vox,” he said to himself. “Television demon, broadcast guy, soul negotiator, apprentice to the scariest bastard in hell.Cool. Coolcoolcool.”

He wiped a smudge off the mirror with his sleeve

“...Why does it still feel like I’m behind?”

The words were quiet. Just for the room. Just for him.

His studio, his house was alive with humming machines, it was messy, but functional. He’d built it himself, added three floors, reinforced the shielding, carved out a comms room, even started drafting his own signal scrambler for more advanced deals.

He wasn’t the same demon he was a year ago, so why did it still feel like his feet were slipping?

He turned away from the mirror, ran a hand over his screen, and sat down in the nearest chair. 

“Alastor doesn’t say anything, that’s the worst part. He just looks like he already knows what I’m going to mess up and he’s already laughing about it internally. Like he’s waiting for the punchline.”

Vox threw his hands up. 

“And then he’ll give me some weird compliment like, ‘Your arrogance is maturing nicely, dear,’ and I don’t know if I’m supposed to be proud or pissed!”

He stood again, pacing again, circling his own nervous orbit. 

“He just shows up, all shadow and jazz and creepy politeness, and then disappears for a week like a ghost. Then he reappears and acts like we haven’t skipped a beat. He vanished while I was cracking a soul open in the Inner city and nearly got ambushed by that freak with legs for eyes!” 

“...But he saved me that time, too, didn’t he?” he muttered. “Didn’t even blink. Just showed up and laughed and said, ‘Ah, you’re still alive. Good. That means we can continue.’”

The lights above him flickered again. 

Vox leaned against a desk, hands tangled in the static rising from his collar. His eyes flickered, confused, bright.

“What am I even doing?”

A year ago, he was lucky to get a seat at an Overlord table. Now he had territory; a little sparse, scattered, but it was his. He had clients. Had weight in his voice. Knew how to channel his power like a weapon.

But every time Alastor looked at him, it still felt like being under a microscope. He hated it, he liked it, he didn’t know what the hell it meant.

“Do I like him?” he muttered. “Is that what this is? Is that why I keep overthinking every time he smiles? Or corrects me? Or says my name in that voice like it’s a melody he composed personally to drive me insane”

Vox rubbed his hand over his screen once again. 

“Okay. Okay. Deep breath. He’s not even coming by today. Probably off chewing someone’s spine or whatever.”

The lights dimmed, the air shifted, then, like a joke timed too perfectly to be a coincidence, Alastor materialized. He stepped into the room like he owned it, like the concept of knocking was beneath him. 

“Good morning!” he chirped, far too cheerful. “You’re humming loud enough to short-circuit half the city’s western grid. Impressive.”

Vox froze

“Oh, come on!”

Alastor tilted his head. “I assume I’m interrupting one of your soliloquies dear?”

“I was working,” Vox snapped.

“Oh? It looked like flailing.”

“Flailing is productive in the right context!”

Alastor grinned. “Well then. I hate to interrupt such brilliant chaos, but you and I have a visit to make.”

Vox blinked. “What kind of visit?”

“To a district I’ve neglected for too long,” Alastor said, adjusting his tie. “And one you’ve yet to see.”

Vox narrowed his eyes. “You’re not..”

“I’m taking you to Cannibal Town.”

Vox’s screen flickered. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Alastor sighed, as if the answer had been obvious for weeks. “Because it’s been a year. You’re overdue for something more… advanced.”

Vox stared. “Rosie’s district? That Cannibal Town?”

“The very one.”

Vox hesitated. “You sure this isn’t some elaborate punishment?”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “If I were punishing you, you’d know.”

“And now Rosie keeps asking about you,” Alastor added, tone dry. “At length. It’s becoming... irritating.”

Vox perked up. “She’s been talking about me?”

“Endlessly.”

“Like in a good way?”

“Unfortunately.”

Vox folded his arms, smug. “Huh. Guess I’m charming.”

Alastor gave him a withering look. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Okay, but you’re still bringing me to the most dangerous district in the city. With the most charming Overlord. Who likes me.”

“Rosie likes everyone until she’s chewing on their femur.”

Vox watched him for a second, then reached for his coat without another word. He adjusted it,  smoothed down the front. 

Just before the portal sparked at their feet, he paused.

“…You really think I’m ready?”

Alastor glanced at him. For once, no theatrics. Just a calm, honest: “Yes.”

Vox’s screen glitched. He turned away fast. “Good. Because I wasn’t gonna stay here anyway.”

“Attaboy,” Alastor murmured.

And together, they stepped through the portal.

The portal snapped closed behind them with a crisp pop, leaving the air thick and warm, heavy with perfume, and spice. The streets beneath their feet were a polished black stone, veined in red like someone had made capillaries aesthetic. Every lamppost flickered like candlelight behind bone-carved glass, and overhead, silk banners drifted in slow, deliberate waves as if the district itself exhaled luxury.

Vox took two steps forward, then stopped.

“…Okay,” he muttered. “Not what I expected.”

“Oh?” Alastor said, far too innocent.

“I was bracing for blood fountains and, y’know, screaming.”

“You’ll hear the screaming,” Alastor replied. “It’s just more… tasteful here.”

Vox turned a slow circle, eyes skimming the buildings.There was a performance hall in the distance, its marquee lined with teeth. Somewhere nearby, a piano was playing something low and indulgent. There were demons in fine coats and masks, chatting calmly while knives glinted from the folds of their sleeves.

“This place looks like Valentine’s Day if it died halfway through.”  Vox muttered. 

Alastor grinned. “Ah. Romance.”

Vox shot him a look. “This isn’t a date.”

“I never said it was.”

“You’re thinking it.”

Alastor spread his hands, mock-innocent. “You’re the one projecting, dear.”

Vox’s screen glitched. He turned away quickly.

The district unfurled around them, balconies draped in velvet, alleys with gold-trimmed signs for things Vox couldn’t pronounce. Everything gleamed with the kind of power that didn’t need to shout. It just watched and waited.

Vox shifted closer, like instinct.

Alastor didn’t comment. Just adjusted his monocle and led them down a winding side street that opened into a wide courtyard. At the far end stood Rosie, framed beneath a lantern tree with petals like razors and a parasol hooked neatly on her arm. She was waiting.

She smiled the moment she saw them.

“You’re late,” she said cheerfully.

“I was letting him take in the ambiance,” Alastor replied.

“Mm. You do love to tease your projects.”

“Protégés,” Vox muttered under his breath.

Rosie’s gaze flicked to him, amused. “You’ve grown since the last meeting.”

He perked up a little. “Yeah? Not bad, huh?”

“You look steadier,” she said. “Like you’re starting to fit your own bones.”

Vox didn’t quite know what to say to that. , “Well. I have made eight soul deals now.”

Rosie raised one brow. “Eight?”

Alastor cleared his throat. “We’re counting selectively.”

“It still counts,” Vox insisted.

Rosie’s smile turned sharp and warm at once. “Then welcome to my district. Let's see what you’ve learned.”

She turned and began walking. Alastor followed without missing a beat.

And after the briefest hesitation, Vox did too.

The manor’s corridors stretched long and gold-lit, with velvet-lined walls and panels that reflected everything back slightly distorted. Rosie’s taste was unmistakable: opulent without being garish, elegant in a way that suggested you'd be devoured for questioning it, The air smelled faintly of roses. 

Rosie walked with Alastor at her side like they were still reigning on some distant battlefield. Their steps synchronized, not hurried, not slow, just deliberate, professional, balanced. He kept his hands behind his back, smile neat, cane tapping at a pace only Rosie could match. She never looked at him when she spoke. She didn’t have to.

Trailing behind them, Vox tried to keep up. Tried not to slouch, not to swing his arms, not to mutter under his breath. His screen flickered once blue, then back to neutral. Every time he matched Alastor’s stride, Rosie’s heels clicked slightly faster. He got the message.

Vox caught his reflection in the glass as he walked, how stiff his posture looked compared to theirs. He adjusted his tie, then dropped his arms again.

“You know,” Rosie said, still not turning, “I was wondering how long it would take you to bring him.”

Alastor tilted his head. “He’s only now ready.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Mm. That why you keep dodging my invitations? ‘Too busy,’ you said. ‘Training,’ you said. ‘Not avoiding anything,’ you said.”

“I wasn’t,” Alastor said mildly.

“And yet here he is.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Finally.”

Vox blinked. “Should I be flattered?”

“Depends.” Her smile was faint. “Did he tell you how long he stalled?”

Alastor’s smile didn’t budge. “Rosie.”

“I’m just saying,” she said sweetly. “He’s careful with the things he likes.”

The word echoed in the hall a beat longer than it should’ve. Vox’s screen glitched pink for half a second.

Rosie slowed, just a little, so Vox caught up. She turned her gaze on him properly now, her tone still light but her eyes sharp.

“You’ve made an impression,” she said, amused. “Alastor doesn’t impress easily. Or… at all.”

Vox shrugged, trying for cool. “Well, I am memorable.”

“That you are.” Rosie paused at a set of grand double doors and ran her fingers along the frame. “And stubborn, and loud, and absolutely transparent when you stare at him like he’s about to vanish.”

Vox sputtered. “I do not!”

“You do,” she said, turning to Alastor now. “And you..” she poked his chest with one finger “pretend not to notice.”

Alastor blinked, then chuckled. “Pretending is polite.”

“Cowardice is boring,” Rosie said, then pushed the doors open with a flourish.

The dining room in Rosie’s manor looked like it had hosted six polite murders and one elegant séance. Long velvet drapes framed blacked-out windows, and a wine-dark chandelier dripped crimson light over a table far too large for three people.

Rosie led the way in with theatrical flair. “Come in, boys. Let’s dine like monsters.”

Alastor took the seat at the head of the table without hesitation. Rosie slid gracefully into the chair beside him. Vox, after a long second of visibly weighing every life choice, sat across from her with suspicious posture and eyes like a deer on a freeway.

Several imps entered bearing trays, hands shaking just enough to rattle the cutlery. One of them bowed so low he nearly headbutted the table. Vox watched him go with narrowed eyes.

“Do they always look like they’ve seen a ghost?” he muttered.

Rosie smiled. “They have. Many, in fact.”

She gestured to the covered platters. “Please, dig in. There’s nothing human tonight, I promise. Unless you count emotional carnage.”

Alastor removed the lid from his plate without comment and began cutting into his meal with eerie precision.

Vox hesitated before lifting his cover, half-expecting it to blink at him. It didn’t. Just roasted meat, garnished like it was trying too hard.

“I’m not poisoned, right?” he asked.

“Darling, if I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it past the front gates.”

Vox gave her a tight smile and started eating.

“So,” Rosie said after a beat, dabbing delicately at her mouth with a black lace napkin, “when exactly did the two of you start orbiting each other?”

Vox froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.

She gave him a sharp, delighted smile. “What? I’m just making conversation. One doesn’t often get to witness a long courtship between war crimes.”

“There is no courtship,” Vox said quickly.

“Mm. Of course.” Rosie sipped her wine, eyes fixed on him over the rim. “That must be why you’re glowing.”

“I’m not..” Vox’s hand went up. “I’m not glowing. I’m always this bright.”

“Yes,” she said sweetly. “But tonight you’re positively radiant. Like someone who got emotionally compromised and doesn’t know what to do about it.”

Alastor methodically cut into his food. “Rosie.”

Vox leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t want to come here, if anyone’s asking.”

“You smiled when we arrived,” Alastor offered without looking up.

“I smile when I’m nervous,” Vox snapped. “And confused. And panicking. It’s versatile.”

Rosie turned to Alastor, her expression mock-thoughtful. “Do you always teleport your protégés to surprise dinner dates? Or is this a new mentoring strategy?”

Alastor’s smile was razor-thin. “Vox needed a change of scenery.”

“Oh, he certainly got one,” she said, turning back to Vox. “And a personal escort. My, my. Chivalry in Hell.”

“I’m sitting across from you, not holding his hand,” Vox muttered.

“Give it time.”

One of the imps refilling water fumbled the carafe and froze mid-pour like prey caught under a divine spotlight. Alastor raised a hand in silent dismissal. The imp fled the room without finishing.

Rosie barely noticed. “You know, I used to think he’d never let anyone close. But now you’re here.”

Vox put down his fork. “This is a lesson. He’s my mentor.”

Rosie grinned. “Sweetheart, I know a crush when I see one.”

Vox stared at her, screen flickering in stunned silence. Then he looked to Alastor like he might back him up.

Alastor said nothing. He reached for his wine.

“Are you enjoying this?” Vox asked him.

“A little,” Alastor admitted.

Vox covered his face with one hand. “This is a nightmare.”

“I thought you liked nightmares,” Rosie said brightly. “Isn’t that your whole brand?”

“I didn’t realize you were one of them.”

She laughed, delighted. “I should bottle this energy. The scandal, the denial, the slow collapse of your carefully curated aloof persona truly, it’s vintage.”

“I’m literally just here for dinner,” Vox said flatly.

“And yet,” Rosie said, “you keep showing up in his tower like it’s your home. That place used to feel like a crypt. Now it has throw blankets.”

Vox shot a look at Alastor. “You told her about the blanket?”

“I didn’t have to,” Rosie said. “I’ve seen it. And the new rug. You’re nesting.”

Alastor gave her a long, slow glance. “Don’t you have anyone else to torment?”

“I do. But this is so much more satisfying.”

Vox stood up, slow and tight-jawed. “I need air.”

“Do try not to scream in front of the staff,” Rosie said. “They’re still recovering from your entrance.”

He walked out without another word.

The silence afterward was thick with amusement.

Rosie picked up her wineglass again. “He likes you, you know.”

“I know,” Alastor replied, as if it were the weather.

“And you like him back.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “You didn’t stop him.”

Alastor hummed faintly, not disagreeing.

Rosie smiled into her glass. “Well. Isn’t that delicious.”

As the door clicked softly behind Vox, silence settled over the room like a held breath.

Rosie didn’t look up from her wineglass. She simply swirled it once and said, “You like him.”

Alastor didn’t move. “He’s useful.”

“Oh, darling,” she said, amused. “You’re not fooling anyone. Not even yourself.”

He picked up his glass, inspecting the contents like the amber liquid might offer a better distraction than conversation. “You’re imagining things.”

“I don’t imagine. I observe.” She took a sip, eyes sharp over the rim. “And I’ve watched you let that little storm crawl into your life one inch at a time. You’ve left the door open for him.”

Alastor smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s entertaining.”

“Mm.” Rosie leaned back, resting her arm on the side of her chair. “You don’t let things entertain you unless they’re disposable. He’s still here.”

He said nothing.

“You’re grooming him for power,” she said, more quietly now. “But I think you’re waiting to see if he can hurt you.”

That finally drew his eyes.

Her smile didn’t waver. “You always want things that bite back. That’s why we’re friends.”

“I don’t want anything,” he said flatly.

“Liar,” Rosie replied, gentle as a slap. “You always want something. The difference is, you’re just not used to wanting someone.”

He didn’t answer. The radio static behind him shifted a faint hum, a broken heartbeat.

Rosie’s voice softened, just enough to be dangerous. “He’s not ready, you know.”

“I know.”

“But he will be.”

Alastor’s gaze drifted toward the door, Rosie’s drifted towards the cane. They let the silence return again, heavier this time.

Then Rosie added, “You could break him.”

“I could,” Alastor said, calmly. “But I haven’t.”

“Yet.”

He turned his head, slow and deliberate. “What are you implying?”

Rosie tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “That you like him too much not to break him. And that scares you more than anything else.”

Alastor looked down at his glass again. The light caught the cut crystal in a way that made it flicker like a heartbeat. The cane behind him didn’t move, but the eye twitched once like it had heard.

Rosie finished her wine.

“I’m not warning you,” she said lightly. “You’ve never listened to those. I’m just... observing the storm before it hits.”

Alastor didn’t respond.

And when Vox returned a few moments later, tie straightened, grin back in place, cracking some irreverent joke about the state of the silverware, Rosie smiled like she hadn’t just laid the truth bare in front of Alastor.

— 

The dining room had quieted, but the storm hadn’t passed, it had simply moved inward.

Rosie rose first, smoothing the front of her gown as if preparing for applause. “Well,” she said, glancing at the ruined tablecloth and a servant still twitching faintly on the floor, “that went better than expected.”

Vox stretched back in his chair like he’d won something. “Honestly? Same. I was sure we were one joke away from bloodshed.”

“We were,” Alastor said, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. “You just didn’t notice.”

Rosie snorted, then turned to Alastor and gave him a firm pat on the arm. “Walk him out, darling.”

Alastor blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “That seems unnecessary.”

“You brought him in,” she said. “You can drag him back to the gate. Or would you rather I do it? I can have the staff haul him out in a basket.”

“That’s rude,” Vox said, already standing. “And not very dignified.”

“You say that like dignity has ever been a concern of yours,” Alastor murmured.

Rosie looped her arm briefly through Alastor’s, holding it with mock sweetness before letting go. “Come on, dear. Be polite. Escort your little static spark back into the wild.”

Alastor sighed, clearly suffering. “This feels less like a request and more like a threat.”

Rosie grinned. “It’s both.”

Vox strolled over with a grin of his own. “Well, since I’m being escorted, should I act helpless? Or is that too on the nose?”

“You’re always helpless, dear,” Alastor said, tone smooth as glass. “I’m simply indulging you.”

Vox lit up. “That sounded dangerously close to affection.”

“That was pity.”

“I’ll take what I can get.” He offered his arm, eyes glittering. “Shall we, then?”

Alastor gave him a long look, then slowly, like it pained him, offered his arm in return.

Vox linked theirs together with delight, practically glowing. “We’re going to make so many people uncomfortable with this.”

“Primarily me,” Alastor muttered.

Rosie stepped back, watching the two of them with an expression caught somewhere between fondness and malicious amusement. “You’re adorable. In a ‘this will end terribly’ kind of way.”

“Thank you,” Vox said cheerfully. “That’s the vibe I’m going for.”

Alastor adjusted his coat. “Goodnight, Rosie.”

“Try not to commit murder on the front steps,” she called after them. “The tiles are a nightmare to clean.”

Alastor didn’t respond, but the cane clicked sharply against the floor as he led Vox toward the manor doors.

As they disappeared into the corridor, Rosie stood alone in the ruined silence. She folded her arms, watching the shadows stretch.

Then she shook her head once, almost laughing.

“Idiots,” she murmured. “The both of you.”

Notes:

Cannibal Town!!

Thanks for all the support :D

Chapter 8: Fate In Her Hands

Alastor rarely allowed interruptions to his schedule. Lessons with Vox had become his little ritual; half entertainment, half experiment, and half something he was still in denial about. But today, when he arrived with his usual enthusiasm, Alastor met him with a smile that carried no warmth.

“Not today, I’m afraid. Prior engagements,” he said, cane tapping once against the floor. Vox had frowned, more confused than disappointed, but Alastor had offered no further explanation.

The tower felt emptier the moment Vox was gone. 

Alastor disliked the obligation; he disliked even more that he had no choice in it. Once a year, without fail, he was summoned, pulled from whatever amusements he had woven into his existence, tethered to the same inevitability that came with signing one’s soul away.

He stepped into the streets of Pentagram City, shadows bending to clear his path. The closer he drew to the meeting point, the thinner the noise of Hell seemed to become, like the city itself hushed in anticipation.

A private parlor waited beyond the boundary of the Doomsday District. A place neutral in appearance, but not in power. It was a stage set for her.

And Alastor hated stages where he wasn’t the one holding the microphone.

Lilith awaited him in a chamber suspended between realms, where the air shimmered with the faint hum of both Heaven and Hell. Her gown flowed like liquid night, black silk threaded with molten silver that caught light in impossible ways. Her pale hair fell in soft waves, framing a face sharp enough to cut, regal, imperious, untouched by time. Gold eyes glimmered with unyielding authority. Her lips, crimson as dried blood, curved with a precision that hinted at both amusement and malice. She did not rise. She did not gesture. Even the shadows seemed to bow in deference to her presence.

“You came,” she said, voice crisp as ice, layered with authority. “And late, as always.”

Alastor remained silent, noting the calculated elegance in every motion she did not make, the subtle way the room seemed to bend around her presence.

“I have been in Heaven,” she continued, tone smooth, unbending. “Not for devotion, not for reflection. I am devising a method to reduce the overpopulation in Hell.” Her fingers moved as if tracing diagrams in the air. “The sin count is rising. Overcrowding weakens control. Rebellion festers. Efficiency collapses. Certain sectors will be culled. Others… refined, preserved, stabilized. The design must be exact.”

Alastor’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.

“Lucifer,” she added, a faint curl tugging at her lips, “would detest this; he has never liked the idea when I brought it up to him. A regal position, in his mind, should never result in killing the population. He believes control belongs solely to the throne, that the sinners must remain untouched, and that sinners are to be managed solely by the overlords: dealt with, kept in check, and disposed of as they see fit. I, of course, have no such hesitation.” Her tone sharpened, precise and unyielding. “We are married, yes. Wedded. But marriage does not mean agreement. It never has.”

Her eyes fixed on him, molten gold unblinking. “I move between realms. Heaven, Hell. I negotiate, observe, and measure. My influence reaches places he cannot touch. And the extermination plan… it is not yet in motion, but when it is, I will reside in Heaven permanently. I will watch, calculate, and refine every detail. Lucifer will squawk. Protest. Attempt interference. But he cannot see what I do from that perch. And you… You will observe, discreetly.”

Alastor’s pulse remained calm, outwardly still, but the weight of his obligation pressed against him. He had to keep this a secret, Vox; even the other Overlords must never know.

“Vox,” she said suddenly, her tone sharpening with amusement, “your little pupil intrigues me. A television offers far more than a static-ridden radio; brighter, louder, more chaotic. His potential is unmatched, useful, and if you choose not to comply with what I ask… I know he will.”

Alastor’s eyes did not flinch. He absorbed her words, as he always had, the chain of his soul a cold reminder of her dominance.

Her gaze lingered. Alastor liked to believe there was little in Hell that could stir fear in him, but Lilith was the exception, relentless and terrifying. “I grant no mercy. I yield to nothing. Heaven and Hell will witness my design, and all who stand in its way will be noted, measured, and removed if necessary. You will keep this secret, Alastor. You will observe. You will ensure the plan’s integrity. Your allegiance, after all… is bound.”

The silence that followed was oppressive. Shadows clung closer to Alastor as he remained still, listening. He could not speak, could not move, could only endure.

 She stepped forward, silk pooling around her like liquid shadow. “The plan itself is precise. Souls will be culled, others refined for observation, and every reaction cataloged. Every mistake will be noted. The fallout… instructive. When executed, Hell will be optimized.”

The chamber’s air shimmered with the faint residue of her presence. Gold threads of light still traced the outline of her form, and the temperature dropped in the spaces she had occupied. Then, without a sound, without a warning, she was gone. Just like that.

Alastor remained standing, cane in hand, silence wrapping around him like a shroud. The weight of her words pressed against him, cold and precise, and yet… another part of him ticked through the implications, unbidden.

She had not simply left for no reason. Her attention, fleeting as it was, always had a purpose. His mind drifted, unwilling, to the obvious: Heaven, Hell, and the throne room she shared with Lucifer.

Alastor’s fingers tapped the cane absently, thoughts churning. She moves between realms like a queen between thrones, and yet, maybe, just maybe, she still respects some semblance of her husband’s disapproval. For now.

The room felt larger, emptier, though the shadow of her presence lingered in the corners, in the echoes of her words. Her plan for Hell’s “optimization,” the culling and refinement of souls, was still in its preliminary stages. When it moved forward, she would be in Heaven permanently, fully immersed. And Alastor… Alastor would remain here, chained by the deal he had struck, compelled to watch and endure.

Alastor’s jaw clenched. He did not like Lilith. He had never liked her. Her hand on his soul had been a gift he had asked for in desperation, yes, but that did not bind his respect, his warmth, or his loyalty. He was a creature of pride, of performance, of chaos. Yet even he could not ignore the fact that she now extended her scrutiny to Vox, to him, to the threads of their little world.

She will return, he thought, and when she does, her plan will be closer to reality. My task is to watch, to endure, to ensure nothing and no one interferes with her design, whether I agree with it or not. And above all… to make certain Vox does not become her pawn before I am ready to intervene.

His eyes flicked to the cane. The small embedded eye had been still since her departure, yet he could feel her presence and the inevitability that comes with it. 

Alastor’s voice, low and measured, broke the silence. “Merciless indeed… though no plan can cleanse Hell completely.” 

Lilith may move through realms, but even queens… have vulnerabilities.

— 

Vox was stretched across his sofa, legs propped casually on the coffee table, a glass of something warm in one hand, letting the soft hum of Hell’s evening drift around him. He was finally, finally, relaxing. No lessons. No radio towers blaring static in his ear. Just him, his little apartment, and the faint glow of the city beyond the window.

Alastor didn’t announce himself. He didn’t knock, or call, or slide through the shadows like a polite guest. He simply appeared.

The living room seemed to sigh as the darkness folded in on itself, coalescing into the unmistakable shape of the Radio Demon, cane in hand, grin sharp and teeth glinting.

“Fuck!” Vox jerked upright, nearly dropping the glass. “Al–Alastor! Jesus, what the!”

Alastor tilted his head, eyes glittering with amusement, the shadows clinging to him like a second skin. “Ah, good evening, my dear Vox,” he said, a note of mock chipperness. 

Vox swore under his breath again, scrambling to put some distance between himself and the sudden darkness. “There was.. You said there were no lessons today! You can’t just poof! appear!”

Alastor’s grin widened, a deliberate flash of predatory delight. “And yet… Here I am. Such is the nature of certain… unavoidable appointments.” His eyes flicked toward the cane, resting lightly against the rug, the embedded eye blinking once, alive. Lilith’s message still throbbed faintly in his chest, but he didn’t let it show. Not here. Not now.

Alastor’s mind wandered, quietly, almost tenderly, in the rare solitude of Vox’s living room. There is something disarming about him… something I cannot name. He paused, the thought tasting bitter. Even now, I would rather spend a moment in this quiet than stew in the aftermath of that… bitch. Perhaps Rosie was right. Vox is… different.

Vox, still glaring through a haze of shock, muttered, “You really are terrible, you know that? Terrible.”

“Undoubtedly,” Alastor replied smoothly, stepping closer, shadows stretching like tendrils along the floor. “But I find a certain charm in your terror. One might even call it… delightful.”

“Delightful? Really?” Vox raised an eyebrow, still leaning back cautiously. “I nearly had a heart attack! And you’re calling that delightful?”

Vox’s lips twitched in a half-smile, hands raised slightly. “I swear to Hell, one day I’m gonna…”

Alastor leaned in just enough to cut him off, his grin softening ever so slightly. “One must be careful with threats, my dear. I may be more patient than most, but patience is not infinite.”

Vox exhaled, a laugh bubbling from him despite himself, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re scary. Happy now?”

“I observe. I noted,” Alastor said smoothly, the words measured, controlled. His eyes glimmered faintly, a trace of something unreadable passing through them. 

Alastor’s gaze softened, just for a flicker, enough for Vox to notice. Then his grin sharpened again, cane tapping smartly against the floor. ‘Now then,’ he said, brisk and bright, ‘enough of this lounging about. Let’s go collect ourselves a soul.’”

Vox blinked. “Hunting? Already? I thought…”

Alastor’s grin returned, sharp and playful. “Relax. Consider it a bit of amusement and exercise. Mostly amusement.”

Vox chuckled, shaking his head, warmth threading into the room. “You’re impossible.”

Notes:

This chapter took so long to make, but more chapters will be posted soon! Thanks for the support :)

Chapter 9: Dangerous Duet

It peeled across the ruins of the Backburn District like metal dragged over bone, high, ugly, and wet. The sort of sound that made buildings lean back.

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “That would be our host.”

Vox rolled his eyes. “Charming neighborhood. Really atmospheric. Five stars.”

The building in front of them sagged under its own weight, iron supports bowed inward, windows gaping like broken teeth. A twisted sign above the door still flickered, though the letters were lost to time and blood. 

“You sure this guy’s worth the effort?” Vox asked, static buzzing faintly under his voice. “Feels like he peaked two centuries ago and never updated his software.”

“He has a soul,” Alastor said, stepping forward, “and he’s been very sloppy with it.”

Alastor chuckled, cane clicking once against the pavement. “ he qualifies. Briefly. Poor thing’s been clinging to relevance like a leech to old blood. He’s made just enough noise to warrant our attention.”

“Great. Another greasy ego case with something to prove.” Vox’s screen flickered with vague irritation. “My favorite.”

The door creaked open before they touched it. The pair stepped into the gloom without hesitation, Vox with swagger, Alastor with that eerie, unnatural glide like the floor bent beneath his steps. The door groaned open on its own. Predictable.

Inside, the air reeked of scorched leather and overcompensation. Chains rattled from the ceiling for no reason.  A voice curled around them low, thick, trying very hard to sound impressive. 

“Well, well, well. The Radio Demon and his little spark. Took you long enough.”

Vox didn’t slow. “Sorry, traffic. Also, you’re not intimidating.”

Alastor’s shadows unfurled behind him, silent, slick, writhing at the edges of the floor like a living warning. “Let’s make this quick, dear. I’ve got broadcasts to schedule and souls with better manners to collect.”

The Overlord, Malruth, twisted with armor made from bone and speaker parts, stitched together like a bad metaphor stepped from the gloom with claws extended.

He lunged.

Alastor moved first. Shadows burst from beneath his coat like smoke, sharp and hungry, wrapping around the demon’s arms and yanking them backward with a crack. He didn’t stop walking.

Vox followed with a sharp grin, eyes flashing red like a warning light. “Hey! Look at me.”

The demon’s gaze snapped to him and froze.

Hypnotic red spirals flickered across Vox’s eyes like a virus pattern, and for a second, the Overlord forgot what he was doing. Forgot where he was. Forgot who he was.

That second was enough.

Alastor’s shadows slammed him to the floor. Vox stepped in, electricity coiling around his fingertips, and drove a bolt directly into the demon’s chest. Sparks flew. The body convulsed.

The shadows twisted tighter, binding him to the floor. shadows grabbed his wrists, making him sign his name across the dotted line, giving away his soul.  As a red glow began to pulse from his chest, hot, shaky, desperate.

Vox wiped his hands, satisfied. “And that is how you do it.”

Alastor tilted his head, watching the glowing soul float upward, frantic and perfect. He extended a hand.

Vox did the same.

Their fingers brushed. The soul stalled, caught between them like it wasn’t sure who to obey.

Vox looked sideways. “Wait… is this…”

“---ours?” Alastor finished, smiling with all his teeth.

The soul trembled.

Vox narrowed his eyes. “I zapped him. You choked him. Feels fifty-fifty.”

“Yes,” Alastor said pleasantly. “But I look better doing it.”

Vox scoffed. “Bullshit, I’m a showstopper.”

They stared each other down. The soul crackled like a coin caught between magnets.

Then, Alastor flicked his fingers. One shadow arced upward and curled around the soul with a hiss. It pulled downward towards his cane. The soul sank into it, screaming all the way in, the eye blinked once. 

Click. Captured. Stored. Ready for broadcast.

Alastor spun the cane around like he hadn’t just eaten a soul alive. “Well, that settles that.”

Vox folded his arms, static bristling around his shoulders. “You’re a fucking bastard.”

“Why, thank you.”

The last sparks from the dead Overlord’s soul fizzled in the air as Alastor’s shadows slithered back beneath his coat.

Vox still stood with his arms crossed, watching him. “You really just yoinked that thing right out of my hands.”

Alastor was already walking away, heels clicking on cracked concrete. “You hesitated.”

“I was being fair.”

“That's your first mistake.”

The door slammed behind them. The city fell away.

—

Inside the tower, nothing new, nothing modern. The equipment crackled like it remembered war, wires curling like veins across the walls, and the shadows bent strangely in the corners every inch of it, unmistakably Alastor’s. But the edges had shifted. A patterned rug broke the stretch of concrete. A blanket was folded neatly over the arm of a chair. A chipped mug sat waiting on the console, as if someone might return to it. Small comforts threaded through the gloom.

Vox peeled off his gloves slowly, his fingertips still twitching with residual voltage. “The place hasn’t changed a bit,” he said. “Still cozy as ever. Like if depression had a jazz phase.”

Alastor didn’t rise to the bait. He was already moving with purpose, each step deliberate as he approached the broadcast console, a monster of knobs and switches. The captured soul now being imputed into the console, glowing, trembling, pulsing like it wanted to scream but hadn’t remembered how.

Alastor adjusted a frequency dial. The mic shuddered. The Overlord’s voice crackled into the room not as speech, but as broken frequencies. A scream embedded in white noise.

He leaned over and flicked it live. The tower thrummed, outside, faint pulses of static leapt across the Hellish skyline, signals catching on wires, bleeding into alleyways, infecting the signal of radios like a plague of noise.

The scream began to stabilize, terrible and clear now. It wasn’t words. Just regret, trapped in a signal.

Alastor turned a dial. “He’s trying to claw his way back to meaning. Listen.”

Vox did. The sound twisted, glitched, begged. Something inside it tried to say a name. Failed.

“You think this teaches them something?” Vox asked, pointing at the view of Pentagram City from the window

Alastor’s eyes stayed on the levels. “No. But it reminds everyone else.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet, just tense. The soul screamed on.

Eventually, Vox’s voice cut through the noise, softer this time, as if testing the air. He wanted to try something different tonight.

 “So, back when you were alive,” He said, watching Alastor with open curiosity, “is this what you did? Just with fewer ghosts?”

Alastor adjusted another slider. “Something like that.”

“You were a radio host.”

“Indeed.”

“In the ‘30s, right?”

“Mmm.”

“You had fans?”

“Of course.”

“And a body count.”

Alastor looked over at him with that smile again. “A different kind of following.”

Vox smirked. “Any chance you’ll give me the real version?”

“No.”

A pause. Vox tilted his head, half-intrigued, half-mocking. “Ugh, you’re so cagey about it. Were you famous?”

Alastor’s fingers tapped once on the console. “Fame is a shallow thing. I preferred… reach.”

“Still sounds like you liked hearing yourself talk.”

“Clearly, I still do,” Alastor said, voice honey-slick and static-edged. “But I had principles. A message. My broadcast mattered.”

Vox squinted at him. “You were doing morality radio while murdering people?”

“I didn’t kill without reason.”

Vox gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You always say shit like that. But never explain.”

Alastor leaned back slightly, looking not at Vox but at the soul still screaming through the airwaves. The glass on the dials trembled.

Then, quietly:  “There was a man, once. Hurt someone I loved, killed him, buried him. Got away with it.”

The room held still. Vox blinked; the joke he had cued up died on his tongue.

“That’s all you get,” Alastor said.

Vox didn’t push. He stepped closer to the console instead, eyes on the twisting scream that looped again, spiked again, tried to reassemble itself, but failed. 

He spoke softly. “I died with a TV on my face.”

Alastor glanced over, trying to decide whether to laugh or not. 

“I was alone,” Vox continued, watching the frequency waves. “Late night. Maybe drunk. Maybe not. I’d just finished taping a broadcast, and I was trying to move some heavy equipment. A TV tipped over. Glass broke. Static everywhere. Then nothing.”

Alastor didn’t reply.

“Cameras loved me. People wanted to believe. I gave them noise and empty promises. They gave me money and meaning.” Vox continued, almost as if he was waiting for Alastor to prod 

Alastor raised a brow. “So what did you do?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Vox said, too easily. “The headlines said cult. Some thought of a pyramid scheme. Others called it televangelism with better lighting. I say it was audience participation.” He grinned. “I made them believe something.”

“Belief is a dangerous drug,” Alastor said softly.

“Tell me about it.” Vox leaned back, screen flickering low. “So. You were a killer with a conscience, and I was a preacher with a commercial break.”

“That explains a great deal.”

Another scream looped.

Vox leaned on the console now, stretching his arms above his head. “But I think the TV crushed me before the guilt did. So. Y’know. Win-win.”

The room smelled like copper and old electricity. They stood in the low pulse of that awful sound, side by side. The tower trembled with it.

Then Alastor’s voice cut through again, smooth as always. “You like hearing yourself talk, too.”

Vox smiled, faintly. “Guess that’s why we get along.”

Alastor looked at him sideways. “You think we do?”

Vox met his gaze. Didn’t smile this time. “Don’t you?”

Neither of them moved.

Behind them, the soul screamed once more, louder now, desperate, clinging to hope that wasn’t there. The needle on the signal board twitched violently, and Alastor turned the dial. The scream dropped to a whisper.

They stood together in the dim light of the console glow, close, but not touching. The noise hung between them, and the silence just underneath it was louder; the scream faded into static.

Alastor turned the dial with a quiet click, sealing the broadcast with practiced finality. All of Hell had heard it. Another soul, another soundbite. The frequency hummed low and electric, softening as the signal bled into silence.

Vox leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching the dials dim one by one. “Hell of a performance,” he said.

Alastor adjusted the fader with deliberate care. “A bit pitchy near the end. Still, a satisfying soundscape.”

Vox didn’t miss the praise. He moved to the cluttered sideboard near the armchairs, eyeing the bottle already waiting. “You owe me a drink after that.”

“I owe you nothing,” Alastor said, but he was already retrieving the glasses.

“Then consider it a reward. For good behavior.” Vox dropped into the nearest chair with a clatter, legs sprawled, his energy still fizzing. “Besides, I want to toast to our first co-authored scream.”

Alastor poured, slow and measured, two fingers each, as always. “To artistry, then.”

“To sin,” Vox countered, lifting his glass.

They drank.

For a moment, it was quiet. Only the faint crackle of cooling broadcast tubes, the soft hum of the tower, and the lingering taste of whiskey between them.

Then Vox broke the stillness, his tone casual but edged with intent. “You told me once you were burying a body when you died.” 

The words hung there like bait, his eyes flicking to Alastor as if daring him to add more, to let something slip. Alastor didn’t look surprised. He just leaned back in his chair and swirled his drink.

“You said someone mistook you for a deer,” Vox continued, more carefully now. “But that’s not what caught me. It’s that you were burying them.”

“I always buried them,” Alastor said, calm and unbothered.

“Every one?”

“I’m not a savage.”

Vox blinked. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Alastor said, glancing over with a small smile. “I killed with purpose. Never without it.”

“Morals,” Vox muttered, watching him. “You had a code.”

Alastor raised his glass. “Still do.”

“And what was it?”

Alastor’s eyes sparkled, but he didn’t answer.

Vox pressed, quieter now. “Was it punishment? Justice? Or just something to make the blood easier to rinse off?”

Alastor took a slow sip, and when he spoke, his voice had lowered closer to a frequency that wasn’t for the radio. 

“I didn’t kill for pleasure,” he said. “Not like the one we broadcast tonight. I killed those who didn’t deserve to walk free. Who preyed on the weak. I knew every name. Every face. Every reason. And when I was done, I cleaned the mess. I gave them graves.”

Vox studied him, the grin long faded from his screen. “So what went wrong?”

Alastor’s gaze drifted toward the window, where Hell’s neon glow painted the glass. “I got lazy. One man, one grave, one careless night. I didn’t check the woods behind me.”

“And someone pulled the trigger.”

“They thought I was a deer.” He smiled thinly. “Or maybe they didn’t. I’ll never know.”

Vox let the quiet stretch. “Do you regret it?”

“I regret being seen.”

The words landed like a nail in concrete.

Vox watched him for a second, then tipped his head back and drained his glass. “You really are something else.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Alastor said.

They fell into silence again. But this time, it didn’t sting. The tower lights dimmed with the soft static of an ending signal, and the last threads of the scream flickered through the radio coils, settling into the building’s bones.

Vox shifted in his chair. “You ever wonder who found your body?”

“No,” Alastor said.

“Why not?”

“I was done with it.”

Vox looked at him, really looked at him. “You wear it, though. The look. The antlers. The grin.”

“We wear what kills us,” Alastor replied, voice velvet-smooth. “Don’t you?”

Vox blinked. Then smiled slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess we do.” 

Alastor exhaled and unbuttoned his coat.

Vox didn’t mean to stare. But he did.

The coat slid off Alastor’s shoulders with a slow, deliberate ease, the fabric heavy with dust and blood. He folded it neatly and set it across the back of a nearby chair, then paused just long enough for Vox to realize what was coming next.

Alastor rolled up his sleeves.

Not quickly. Not sloppily. Each fold was precise, deliberate. The kind of movement that said: I don’t need to hurry. I control the room.

Vox’s screen glitched just once. A flicker of color behind the glass, like a blush caught in transmission.

He was used to being smooth. He could flirt, lie, distract, and tease without a second thought. But there was nothing ironic in the way he looked at Alastor now. Just real heat. Real admiration. Mixed in with confusion, still, even after a year, but it wasn’t cold anymore. It was starting to settle into something warmer. Something undeniable.

The red shirt beneath the coat clung close, with sharp lines, an open collar, just undone enough to make Vox wonder if it had been intentional. Alastor’s sleeves stopped at his elbows, revealing pale forearms, veins like map lines, wrists that had crushed souls and spun dials that made the whole world scream.

Vox swallowed. Alastor lit a cigarette, the match flaring like a smirk in the dark. It felt deliberate, the kind of slow, careless gesture meant to draw attention. Vox couldn’t tell if Alastor was flirting or if his own head was playing tricks on him.

Smoke curled around his antlers like a crown, and he leaned against the edge of the console like a painting. Effortless, controlled, infuriating.

“Didn’t realize we were doing the ‘hot murderer at midnight’ look tonight,” Vox muttered, trying and failing to keep the words under his breath.

Alastor turned his head slightly, one brow lifting. “Pardon?”

“Nothing,” Vox said quickly, his screen flickering again. “Just complimenting the wardrobe.”

Alastor smiled. But it didn’t bite; that, somehow, made it worse.

Vox shifted, “Y’know, earlier when we took that soul… it worked. We worked.”

Alastor’s cigarette glowed briefly as he took a long, slow drag. “Mm. Efficiently.”

“That’s not nothing.” Vox stepped closer. “You don’t usually let people fight beside you. Hell, you barely let people stand beside you.”

Alastor exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Most of them aren’t very interesting.”

“And I am?” Vox asked, too quickly. Too hopeful.

Alastor’s smile curved, eyes narrowing in thought. “You’re… entertaining.”

Vox shoved both hands into his pockets to hide the twitch of his fingers.

“I’m just gonna say this,” he muttered. “Before I talk myself out of it. Again.”

Alastor glanced over, expression unreadable.

“What if we teamed up?” Vox said. “For real. Not just for one job. Not just when you’re bored. I mean an actual alliance. You and me. Full-time.”

He swallowed. “I know you don’t do teams. I know you don’t need me. But we were good today, and… I think we could be better than that. Consistently.”

He added, quieter: “I think we’d be unstoppable.”

Alastor studied him in stillness. The cigarette burned down, smoke trailing in lazy spirals between them.

Vox’s mouth went dry. He didn’t know why this felt so big; why it mattered more than the scream, or the kill, or the broadcast, or any of the lessons before, but it did. Maybe it always had.

“I won’t beg,” Vox said, trying to add a grin and mostly failing. “But I might flirt aggressively.”

Alastor let out a soft laugh, real, low, warm in the way his voice only was when the audience wasn’t listening.

“You’re clever,” he said.

“That’s not a no.”

Alastor dropped the cigarette into a tray and crushed it out slowly with two fingers. He straightened, adjusted his sleeves, and turned toward Vox with that calm, patient smile.

“For the entertainment of it…” he said. “Yes.”

Vox blinked. The word hit harder than it should have.

“Yes,” Alastor repeated, stepping past him to retrieve his coat. “You and I. For now. Let’s see what kind of tune we can play.”

Vox didn’t move. He just stood there, beaming; his chest warm, something in him buzzing like an open circuit finally given purpose.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t have to, he lingered in the doorway for a second longer, holding the look between them like it meant everything.

Then he slipped out into the city, that grin still alive on his face.

Alastor exhaled, letting the faint curl of satisfaction settle across his face. Just a careful nudge here, a flicker of smoke, a loosened sleeve. Vox had stepped neatly into place, convinced it was his own idea. Exactly as intended.

The pieces were in motion. Vox, bright and complicated, was already playing along. Alastor’s eyes gleamed. Lilith might think to claim what she desires; let her try. For now, the board was his, and the piece she wanted most was already moving to his tune.

Notes:

I love writing Alastor's backstory; he's such an interesting character. Thanks for all the support! Feedback and comments are greatly appreciated!

New chapter coming soon :D

Chapter 10: The Weight Of Curiosity

Two years changed the way Hell looked at them.

Once, the Radio Demon had walked alone, whose name was enough to clear a street. Now there were two of them. Radio and Television, side by side, their footsteps echoing in sync across the pavement. Every time they appeared together, whispers followed. Every time they passed, the crowd parted for them.

The deal tonight had gone smoothly; Alastor always made sure of that, but the aftermath still clung to the streets. Vox thrived in it, his screen lit bright with delight as he caught demons staring, lingering too long before bolting like startled prey.

“God, I’ll never get tired of that look,” Vox said, gesturing toward a cluster of imps who scrambled into a doorway. “You’d think we’d just gutted them ourselves.”

Alastor adjusted his cane, his smile steady, voice smooth. “Fear is far more efficient than blood. Once it’s planted, it grows all on its own.”

“Sure, sure,” Vox replied, falling into step beside him. “But watching them squirm? That’s the fun part.” He chuckled, “Guess I get it now why you love this game so much.”

Alastor’s eyes slid toward him, sharp and amused. “Do you?”

Vox’s grin widened, cockiness polished with refinement after years of mentorship. “Yeah. I mean, look at us. Nobody thought you’d ever team up with anyone. And now,” He spread his hands, mock-dramatic. “We’re the most feared duo in the city. Can’t walk a block without someone pissing themselves.”

Alastor chuckled softly, tapping his cane against the sidewalk as they passed under a flickering streetlamp. “Oh, I was feared long before you, my dear. But I admit… It has been entertaining watching you sample the flavor for yourself.”

Vox tilted his head, pretending to pout. “Sample? Please. I’ve got the whole feast.”

“Remember,” Alastor said, "tone light, but the weight beneath it unmistakable. “Arrogance is best served sparingly. Too much, and you forget who’s at the table with you.”

Vox snorted, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets, screen flickering with a satisfied grin as the city bent out of their way. The night stretched on ahead, streets theirs for the taking, and for once, Alastor didn’t mind the company.

“You realize,” Vox said, tilting his head toward a row of gawking sinners across the street, “we’re basically a public spectacle. Bet half of ’em think we’re dating.”

Alastor’s cane clicked once against the ground. “And the other half,” he replied with mock solemnity, “assume I’m escorting you to your execution.”

Vox snorted. “Romantic and terrifying. You really know how to sweep a guy off his feet.”

That earned him a sidelong look, the grin sharp but amused. “Careful, dear. You flatter so easily, I might begin to believe it.”

“Maybe you should,” Vox shot back. “I’m a very convincing man.” He was grinning now, because it was easier these days. Easier to push, easier to tease, like testing how much static the air could take before it sparked.

“Ok! Ok! Guess what, you’re not going to believe this,” Vox began, voice low and conspiratorial. “I heard through the grapevine... don’t ask how that one of the lesser overlords tried to double-cross their client. Poor bastard thought he could sneak a soul past.”

Alastor’s eyes flicked to him, lips twitching with amusement. “And what, pray tell, did our esteemed Vox do?”

Vox leaned closer, whispering theatrically. “Oh, you know, I found him, let him sweat for a minute. Then…Bam. Clean deal, straight into our pocket. He barely knew what hit him.”

Alastor chuckled softly, “I see. Truly frightening. You’re learning well.”

“Learning?” Vox snorted, flicking his head back toward Alastor. “No. I’m already ahead. I just… I like showing off a little. Keep them guessing.”

“Indeed,” Alastor said smoothly, the corners of his mouth quivering. “Keeps all of Hell guessing, in fact. And yet, here you are, walking beside me like nothing happened.”

Vox laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Part of the charm. They should be scared, but instead, I get to gossip about them to you. You’re the only one who gets it.”

“Though I hope you realize it works both ways. I could tell you plenty about who’s squeaking where.” Alastor replied, voice warm but teasing.

Vox’s grin widened, leaning just slightly into Alastor’s side. “Oh, do tell. But don’t get too serious, I like a little drama, but not the boring kind.”

Alastor gave him a sidelong glance, amused and approving. “I would expect nothing less.”

—

The heavy doors of Alastor’s tower groaned shut behind them, cutting off the distant hum of Pentagram City. Vox shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair with a flick of his wrist. “Ugh, finally, peace,” he muttered, stretching exaggeratedly.

Alastor, as usual, didn’t linger. “I’ll retrieve what we need for tomorrow’s work,” he said, gliding toward a side room. Within seconds, he had disappeared behind the door, leaving Vox alone in the main room. But he’d left one thing behind. His cane, resting against the console, gleamed under the dim tower light, the embedded eye glimmering faintly as if aware.

Vox had been in this tower countless times before, always trailing Alastor, but never like this, never fully on his own in the main room. His curiosity immediately kicked in.

He stepped forward, eyes scanning the organized chaos. “Buttons, levers, radio thingamajigs … wow. All labeled. Everything is in its perfect little place. How cute.” Vox crouched slightly to peer at a stack of old wires.  He drifted toward the consoles, tapping a dial lightly, then pulling back like it might bite. 

“Heh… so serious. So precise. And I get to wander around here, Lucky me.”

Vox’s gaze landed on something near the center of the room, Alastor’s cane resting against the main console, its embedded eye glimmering faintly. He smirked.

 “Ohhhh… and this is what’s sacred, huh? Always within arm’s reach. He must have some weird attachment thing going on.” He crouched closer, circling it, spinning on his heels to take in the main room again.

“Seriously, how much control do you need? Are there labels on the shadows, too? Vox chuckled under his breath, eyes flicking around the room. “God, he’s so extra. I love it.”

He crouched lower, fingers twitching, eyes darting to the cane. “I wonder… What else is tucked away in here? Probably all his little secrets. Cute. Very cute.”

Vox lingered, energized by the freedom of being alone in the tower. Mocking Alastor was fun, but beneath it, a thrill of curiosity gnawed at him, pulling him closer to the cane and closer to a discovery he wasn’t quite ready for.

He’d watched Alastor handle it with care for years, always keeping it close, never letting anyone near. Why? He didn’t know. But now, alone, the temptation was too much.

He approached cautiously, fingers twitching. He reached out… and stopped. The eye seemed to flicker under his gaze. “It’s just a cane,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not like it’s.. Uh, alive or anything?”

His hands hovered, then he picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, the metal warm under his touch, the eye staring up at him with an unsettling sentience.

“What the hell…” Vox hissed, gripping the cane tighter. The eye blinked deliberately, startling Vox, “Fuck me… I know Alastor’s into some sick shit, but this? Seriously? Way too far.”

The cane wiggled slightly in his grip, and the embedded eye opened wider, bloodshot, as if recognizing an intruder. Vox yelped, jerking his hands back. “Oh shit, oh fuck!” The cane slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor, the sound echoing through the otherwise empty tower.

And then… the voice.

“Oh… such curiosity,” it spoke regally, as the voice rolled through the room like liquid silk, surrounding him. 

Vox froze, wide-eyed. “Who, who the hell…?”

“Oh, my dear Spark,” the voice continued, the warmth of mockery curling around each word. “Touching what is not yours. Holding what another has guarded for centuries.”

He stepped back, heart hammering, staring at the cane. “I..I didn’t, fuck! I was just curious! Jesus Christ!”

The voice laughed softly. “Curious, yes. Bold, yes. Careless… very. I’ve seen him trust you so much, and yet here you are, fumbling where you should not.”

Vox’s pulse spiked. “Seen who? Wait, who are you?”

“Oh, it matters little,” the voice said, every word held the weight of command. “I’ve watched, though. Three years, three years of you standing beside him.”

“Three years?” Vox stammered, voice shaking. His hands hovered near the cane again, uncertain. “I… I didn’t know anyone, anything, was watching me.”

“Watching, learning, waiting,” the voice purred. “You’ve grown, fearsome, cocky… almost dangerous. And yet still so small, still so naive. I wonder… how much do you truly understand about what you touch?”

Vox swallowed, knees weak. “I get it, okay?! I..don’t…don’t like this.” He moved back another step, eyes locked on the cane, a mix of awe, fear, and fascination clawing at him.

The voice softened slightly, but still Imperious. “Oh, I do not wish to frighten you… yet. I only wish to inform you that you are far more interesting than you realize.” 

Vox glanced at the cane, then the door Alastor had gone through, realizing he was truly alone with… whatever this was. His chest heaved as the weight of the voice pressed in on him.

“I… I should just… leave it alone,” he muttered, “Yeah. Totally… nothing here. Not happening. No.”

Vox felt the voice curl around him. “Take all the time you need, Spark… for now. But remember… what is held is never without consequence.”

Vox swallowed hard, heart racing, staring at the cane. He had questions, curiosity ate away at his rational mind, but more than that, he had fear, mixed with fascination, and a creeping realization that some parts of Alastor’s world were far darker, far more dangerous than he had ever guessed.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Vox swallowed hard, ready to step back and pretend none of this ever happened, when the voice returned,

“How unsatisfying he is.”

Vox froze. His eyes darted toward the cane, the bloodshot eye watching him like it had been waiting for that line to land.

“Excuse me?” Vox croaked.

The voice sighed, “Alastor. For all his teeth and noise, for all his endless little games, he is… limited, predictable, never enough. He struts, he grins, he plots; but oh, little spark, he has disappointed me again and again.”

Vox blinked, caught between fear and incredulity. “Disappointed you? What the hell are you talking about?”

“He clings to control,” The voice went on smoothly, “to the illusion that he is above hunger, above want, above need. But you’ve seen it, haven’t you? That restraint? That leash he ties around himself, and by extension… around you.”

Vox’s fists clenched. “Alastor doesn’t control me.”

The laugh that answered was cruel. “Doesn’t he? You orbit him, spark. He casts the shadow, and you… burn inside it. All your power, all your bravado, and still, you look at him before you move. Still, you hunger for his approval.”

Vox’s chest tightened, breath quickening. He wanted to argue, to shout, but her words slithered close to truths he didn’t dare name.

“You could have so much more,” the voice whispered, coaxing now. “He will never give you everything. He cannot. He is too cautious, too careful, too bound to his own design. But me… oh, I could give you what you crave. Power without restraint. Strength without limit. Desire without shame.”

Vox shook his head, backing up a step, though his eyes stayed locked on the cane. “No… you’re just… you’re just something. Some trick of his. He wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t what?” she cut in sharply, her regal tone curdling into something colder. “Wouldn’t hide me? Wouldn’t keep me from you? Oh, sweet spark, he hides everything. He fears what I might show you. He knows that if you saw… truly saw… You would realize how small he has kept you. How much he withholds.”

Vox’s hands twitched at his sides. The need to pick up the cane again, to demand answers, burned in him even as every nerve screamed to leave it alone.

“You are bright,” the voice softening again. “So bright. Cocky, yes, but I like that. Fire is so dull when smothered. And you, your fire could burn brighter than his ever did. With me. If you only reach.”

The eye on the cane blinked once, then again, intentionally.

Vox whispered hoarsely, almost to himself, “What the fuck are you…”

The voice hummed low, pleased, triumphant. “Opportunity.”

And then the tower door creaked in the distance. Alastor’s footsteps echoed faintly down the hall.

Vox stumbled backward, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at him to run or maybe throw the cane across the room. He sank to a nearby chair, hands gripping his knees. 

“What the hell was that?” he thought, every word from that voice replaying in his head like a vicious loop. “Three years? Watching me? Disappointed? Power without limit?” He couldn’t even organize his thoughts long enough to decide which part terrified him more.

His fingers itched, wanting answers, but a chill ran down his spine at the thought of touching it again. “Alastor… what the fuck have you been keeping from me?” He had trusted the Radio Demon. He had thought he understood the rules of the game, but this? This was a whole new level.

He stood abruptly, pacing in a tight circle, muttering under his breath. “Okay… okay… think. Think, Vox. It’s just a cane. Right? Just… some weird, bloodshot-eyed… whatever. He’s probably got a trick for it. A trick. Yeah.” He laughed nervously. “A trick. That’s all. Right? Fuck.”

Every shadow in the room seemed alive now, every whisper of the tower’s drafts twisting into the mockery of that voice. “She’s... She’s promising me everything? She could give me more than Alastor?” The thought made his chest tighten, simultaneously thrilling and horrifying. He shook his head violently. “No… no way. I don’t do deals like that. I..Jesus, I don’t even know what that would mean!”

He sank back into the chair, hands clutching his head. “Okay… breathe. Breathe. Alastor’s coming back. He’ll… he’ll fix this. He always knows what to do.”

But even as he repeated it, a small, rebellious part of him flickered with temptation. “Could I… even? Could I reach?” The thought made him shiver, both with fear and a strange, electrifying curiosity.

The echo of footsteps down the hall snapped him upright. His head whipped toward the door, eyes wide, every muscle tense. “Shit… he’s back. Shit! Okay… act normal. Act normal.”

His hands hovered near the cane again, almost involuntarily. He shoved them into his pockets, muttering under his breath, trying to tamp down the panic, trying to remind himself: “Don’t touch it. Don’t even think about it. Just… Alastor… fix this.” 

The door swung open, and Alastor’s presence filled the room even without a word. Vox straightened, trying to mask the pounding of his heart, tucking the unease into the farthest corner of his mind. The cane still rested where it had fallen, the faint gleam of its eye catching the light. 

For the briefest instant, Alastor’s gaze cut to the cane on the floor, back to Vox, then back to the cane. His grin sharpened, just slightly, as if savoring a private joke. He said nothing, but the weight of it pressed harder than any accusation.

“Back so soon,” Vox said casually, forcing a small smile as Alastor stepped fully into the room. Silence swallowed the space.

Alastor remained quiet. He moved toward the other side of the table, brushing a finger over the spread maps. “Now then, let’s see what tomorrow has in store.”

Vox wanted to understand what the cane is, what it means. But he knew better; years of watching Alastor, learning from him, had drilled one lesson deeper than any fear or curiosity: you never show your hand unless you’re ready for the consequences. So he kept his hands to himself, moving closer to the table, letting his eyes flit briefly toward the cane as if it were just part of the clutter.

Alastor detailed routes, targets, and strategies, voice calm and precise. Vox nodded, asked a few casual questions, but behind each word, his mind worked. The cane wasn’t just a tool; it was a key, a gate, a warning. And Alastor had left it here, unguarded, trusting, or perhaps oblivious. 

Acting normal, working alongside Alastor, observing, thinking; that was how you learned. That was how you survived. And maybe, just maybe, it was how you gained enough leverage to understand things Alastor himself didn’t want revealed.

Vox leaned in over the maps, following Alastor’s instructions, the cane always at the edge of his vision, a quiet reminder that even the most controlled, most feared beings could leave a window open. And Vox would remember it.

Vox exhaled, low and steady, forcing calmness into his chest. He would play it safe. He would learn. He would watch. And when the time came… he would understand everything that came, and everything Alastor truly meant.

Vox’s eyes scan every alleyway, every choke point, every narrow escape route. His mind was still reeling from the cane’s voice, and panic threatened to seep in, but he forced himself to focus. Strategy first, Curiosity second, survival always.

He reached out and took Alastor’s hand, deliberately, guiding it toward a cluster of marked streets. His thumb brushed along the back of Alastor’s hand as he pointed, controlled movements, tactical gestures meant to direct attention,, and, quietly, to anchor himself. Every twitch, every flicker of eye contact, he cataloged.

Alastor’s eyes flicked down to meet his, sharp and measuring, a faint twitch at the corner of his lips betraying a hint of surprise. The Radio Demon said nothing, but the subtle tension in his hand and shoulder told Vox everything he needed to know: Alastor noticed, but he wasn’t stepping back. Not yet. That slight acknowledgment was enough to steady Vox’s racing pulse.

“Here,” Vox murmured, guiding Alastor’s fingers over a tight cluster of streets.

 “If we cut across here, we flank from two angles. Minimal exposure. Quick containment. They won’t see it coming.” 

He let his thumb linger on a particularly narrow alley, pressing just enough to convey intent. For the first time in the night, Vox felt grounded.

Alastor’s hand remained still under his, fingers flexing subtly, testing the weight, the pressure, the meaning behind the touch. Vox noted every shift, every micro-expression: a twitched brow, a tightened jaw, the faintest hint of amusement at the edge of his mouth. He let it inform his next move, keeping his own nerves in check.

“From this vantage,” Vox continued, thumb tracing another route, “we can trap them before they even realize they’re in trouble. It’s clean, efficient, and predictable.” Each word was deliberate, a quiet reassurance to himself that he still had control even as the cane’s haunting voice lingered behind his eyes.

Alastor’s gaze followed the map, then flicked back to Vox’s hand, expression unreadable but posture relaxing just a fraction. Vox noted the change, a small win, and allowed himself the tiniest exhale. Tactical. The touch wasn’t affection, at least, not overtly, but it was a stabilizer.

He guided Alastor’s hand one last time, pressing slightly to indicate a key junction. Vox’s own fingers tingled; every movement was an extension of his strategy: to show the plan, maintain control, and, secretly, tether himself to something solid in the storm of fear and fascination.

He finally withdrew his hand, even in Hell, even in chaos; some touches could be tactical, grounding, and quietly reassuring all at once.

Alastor’s eyes flicked to Vox, sharp and assessing, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, so this is your way of being… sentimental, hmm?” His voice was smooth, teasing, carrying just enough amusement to cover the faint surprise of the contact.

That earned him a sharp scoff, though Vox’s grin twitched at the corner. He leaned back, arms crossing. “Please. If I wanted to get sentimental, I’d buy you dinner first..

“Mm. Ever the gentleman,” Alastor said, now clearing the map from the table. 

And Vox, for all his bravado, still felt the press of Alastor’s skin warm in his palm, and the echo of a voice promising him more.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! <3

Chapter 11: The Promise Of More

Vox couldn’t remember the last time he actually tried to sleep. It was a human habit he’d never cared to keep. Too quiet, too long, too much space for his brain to start replaying things he didn’t want to think about. But tonight, he needed rest. Tomorrow was the hunt, the thought should have thrilled him. And it did….Mostly.

Mostly because the cane’s voice still crawled beneath his skin. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt its weight. He shook his head, trying to laugh it off, but the sound caught in his throat.

He rubbed his hand across his screen, “Tomorrow,” he muttered. “Big day. Prove myself. Keep it together.”

Vox lay back, letting the dim glow of his screen wash over him. He closed his eyes.

And then he was elsewhere.

Vox stood atop a tower of polished steel and black glass, his empire sprawled endlessly below him. Screens flickered with his face, his voice echoing across every corner of Hell. Entire streets moved to his rhythm, sinners bowing to his signal. He had an audience without limit, worship without restraint. This was him, in full: the Vox everyone would someday fear, admire, obey.

But he wasn’t alone. Two shadowy figures stood beside him, tall and silent, their outlines flickering like a bad reception. He didn’t know them, yet instinct told him they were partners, collaborators in his empire. Their presence was unsettling. They mirrored his posture, watching the city he controlled. 

“Do you see?” The voice appeared, same cruelty as the one Vox heard from the cane, and it wrapped around him like a hug from an old friend. He couldn’t locate it, everywhere and nowhere at once. “Do you see what you can become? All of this, all of them, for you. Not the pupil, not the sidekick. The master.”

Vox swallowed. He could feel the power in his veins, the heartbeat of every soul that fed his empire. It was intoxicating.

“You’ve wanted it,” the voice became gentle, almost tender. “Power, influence, desire without limit. I can give it to you. I’ve been waiting, Spark, watching you, guiding you quietly. Every step you take, I am here.”

“You see him,” the voice continued, cold and sweet all at once. “Alastor, he holds back what you crave, and yet you orbit him, hoping, trying, learning. Such… loyalty, in return, causes restraint. But it is unnecessary, you need not wait.”

Vox’s reflection gleamed from the mirrored glass, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize himself. The edges were too sharp, the smile too certain. The man whom he once doubted was gone; what remained was the signal wearing his shape. His empire, VoxTek, was already alive in his eyes. He looked untouchable, unreal, and beautifully wrong.

“All of this is yours,” the voice continued. “All of it, waiting for you to take. I can show you how. Do you understand how easy it could be?”

Vox raised his hand, just to test the power, and the skyline shifted with life, a signal that obeyed him perfectly.

“Imagine it,” the voice whispered. It felt closer now. “You will not only rise above him, you will make him irrelevant. Your fire will burn brighter than he ever could imagine.”

Vox’s chest tightened with desire and fear; he wanted it. Every fiber of him wanted it. 

“You are bright, Spark,” the voice cooed. “Brilliant, daring, capable. And I can give you everything. If you reach.”

The shadowy figures moved to follow him, but their faces were still obscured. They were not Alastor, and he was not sure he needed them to be. They were part of his world now, part of the empire that could be.

 “Who are you?” Vox asked through his dream, though his voice came out muffled, half-absorbed by the noise.

“A friend,” the voice purred. “A guide. You’ve already heard me before, haven’t you? A whisper through the static.”

His reflection tilted its head, grinning wider. The screens brightened until the world was nothing.

Vox woke gasping, hands pressed to his chest, sweat clinging to his skin. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of his monitors. The cane’s voice, the memory of it, still tingled behind his eyes, but now it felt smaller, weaker against the vision of what he could become.

Vox ran a hand over his face, exhaling shakily. “Yeah… yeah. That’s why I don’t sleep.”

Even as he muttered it, a small thrill ran down his spine. The empire, the power, the two shadowed partners, the voice promising more… all of it, was ready to pull him deeper.

And tomorrow, he’d see Alastor again, and he’d have to pretend that the world hadn’t shifted beneath him while he slept.

—

Vox’s boots splashed through the rain-slick streets, puddles trembling beneath each step. His fingers rubbed over the smooth glass of his screen. “The dream… that voice… Alastor… what the hell was that?” He shook his head, chest tightening. Tonight… he needed something to steady himself.

He spotted a bar tucked under a flickering neon sign, its door swinging slightly in the wind as though inviting him in, promising something strong to drink. Vox pushed the door open, the bell above jingling weakly.

Sliding onto a stool near the back, Vox ran his fingers along the edge of the counter. He signaled the bartender, keeping his eyes on the glass he’d soon fill. For a moment, he let himself breathe, letting the warmth of the bar seep in, grounding him. “I can handle this. I will handle this. Vox isn’t thrown off by a dream, by whispers, by… anything.”

The bartender set a glass before him, amber liquid catching the light. Vox’s fingers hovered over it, lingering, then he picked it up, swirling it slowly, letting the burn settle him. 

Vox stared at the amber liquid as his mind replayed the cane’s voice and the impossible dream. Excitement for tomorrow’s hunt with Alastor mingled with a gnawing worry; he couldn’t stop thinking about that eye, the weight behind it. He rubbed his screen lightly. “Control, Vox. Focus. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t think about it too hard.”

A blur of motion caught his eye. Vox knew who he was, at least to some extent, the name tossed around, always with a mixture of awe and disgust. A flamboyant “lesser” overlord, infamous for scandal, vice, and outrageous confidence, but this was the first time he was seeing him in person.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the famous fucking spark,” Valentino purred, sliding onto the stool beside Vox with a grace that bordered on predatory. Cigarette smoke curled around him, hands manicured, fingers tapping impatiently on the bar. “Christ, I’ve been hearing about you. Running with that toothy bastard Alastor, huh? Thought I’d never get a look at the legend, and here you are… sitting all tense, Fucking exquisite.”

Vox stiffened, lips pressed into a thin line. “And you are?” His voice was clipped. 

Valentino leaned in, smirk wicked. “Name’s Valentino, baby. And I don’t do boring intros. I take what I want, and right now, I want to see that fire of yours in person.” He flicked his cigarette with theatrical flair. 

Vox exhaled slowly, annoyed. “I don’t know what your problem is, but you’re loud, vulgar, and you smell like a bad decision.”

“Loud? Fuck yeah. Vulgar? Don’t even start, baby, I’m a fucking symphony of sin and chaos. Smell like a bad decision? Darling, I am a bad decision, and you’re tasting it already.” Valentino leaned back, legs crossed, one hand drumming on the bar, eyes sparkling with challenge.

Vox’s fingers twitched. “Is this… how Alastor gets me to shut up when I’m insufferable?”  He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “You’re insufferable.”

Valentino laughed, a sharp, brash sound that drew stares. “Insufferable? Oh, honey, that’s a compliment I’ll cherish forever.  Look at you, all tense, sipping your drink, I’m flirting, and you’re gonna fucking love it whether you admit it or not.”

Vox set his glass down, voice smooth and measured, faintly Alastor-like again. “If you’re going to sit here, Valentino, you might at least try not to annoy me.”

Valentino’s grin widened, leaning just a fraction closer, voice low and teasing. “Annoy you? Oh baby, I don’t annoy, I dominate attention. And, I love the look on that face, annoyed, calculating, hot as hell, fuck me. You work with Alastor? I didn’t think anyone could out-crazy the bastard, but here you are.”

Vox let out a short, exasperated laugh and finally allowed himself a small smirk. “You’re insufferably cocky. But don’t think I’ll let you run your mouth all night. I’ll tolerate this,” He gestured hapazardly to Valentino, “for now.”

Valentino leaned back, satisfied, letting a slow, victorious grin spread across his face. “For now? Sugar, I’m gonna savor every second until you beg me to stop. And fuck baby, I’m betting you’ll enjoy every second anyway.”

Vox swirled his drink, eyes trained on the amber liquid, letting the burn anchor him. He exhaled, glancing sideways at the flamboyant figure who had claimed the stool beside him.

“I don’t deny anything,” Vox said, voice clipped, eyes narrowing. “But keep your distance unless you want me to shove your cigarette down your throat.”

Valentino chuckled, leaning in with a slow, deliberate ease, smoke curling around him. “Oh, sugar, you wouldn’t dare,” he purred, voice low and teasing. “And even if you did, I’d probably enjoy it. You’re dangerous, and I like it. Makes me want to see just how hot that little spark can burn.”

Vox rubbed his hand lazily over his screen. He was annoyed, yes, and more than a little exhausted, but he couldn’t deny the magnetic pull of Valentino’s presence. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Vox let out a dry, low laugh, swirling the drink again, his fingers brushing the rim absentmindedly. “Intriguing for what it’s worth,” he muttered, more to himself than to Valentino. He took a slow sip, letting the burn remind him of the night’s reality.

— 

The morning in Hell came slow, a kind of light that turned every shadow to an eyesore. Vox dragged himself upright, skull pounding, screens dimmed to a dull hum. The remnants of last night: the dream, the voice, the alcohol, all came flooding back to him.  A dull throb in his head reminded him that Valentino, for all his scandal and audacity, had been… tolerable. Not a friend. Not even close. Just… an unavoidable piece of the overlapping disarray of their little world. He’d survived the encounter without wanting to burn the bar down, and he’d slept for maybe an hour after the bar; both of which he considered a small personal victory. 

By the time he reached Alastor’s tower, the world was already awake in its strange, distorted way. Vox’s steps echoed, the hangover still lurking behind his eyes.

He pushed through the doors. Alastor stood at the map table, cane propped neatly against the side. 

“Good morning!” Alastor’s voice rang bright, the kind of cheer that grated on the unprepared, and apparently the hungover. “You look radiant, my dear,” he spoke with sarcasm, “Late night?”

“Something like that,” Vox muttered, adjusting his tie just to have something to do with his hands.

Alastor’s gaze lingered. “You’ve been losing sleep.”

It wasn’t a question. Vox almost smiled at that; “of course, he’d notice”. “Never been much good at it.”

Alastor leaned in slightly, “A shame. Dreams can be so instructive.”

Vox stilled. The cane’s voice, the reflection, the shadowed figures, all of it surged back in a rush. “Does Alastor know..?” He forced a scoff. “Yeah, well. Some dreams are better off ignored.”

Alastor’s grin softened. “And yet they linger.”

Vox looked up at him. “How do you deal with it?”

“Deal with what, dear?”

“The noise,” Vox said. “The echoes. The things that don’t leave you alone.”

Alastor tilted his head, eyes glinting like a dial turning. For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

Then Alastor moved closer, close enough that Vox could feel the air shift. His voice dropped, the performance stripped away for half a heartbeat.

“You listen,” he said softly. “And then you choose which voices deserve the volume.”

Something in Vox’s chest tightened. He wanted to say You make it sound easy, but his throat felt too dry. So instead, he looked down at the map, forcing himself to focus.

“We’ve got everything planned already, huh?” he asked, voice steadier than he felt.

Alastor’s grin returned, smooth and sharp. “Naturally. We must stay a step ahead, especially when one’s company tends toward improvisation.”

“Yeah,” Vox said, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch the gleam of amusement in Alastor’s gaze. “You’d hate that.”

“I’d love it,” Alastor said, almost too quickly, and then he was moving again, gesturing toward the map, the brief flicker of honesty gone.

—

The streets of Pentagram City had a mind of their own at dawn, not quite alive, not quite dead. fog coiled around the towers, and the flicker of broken lights threw reflections across the wet asphalt.

Vox’s headache had dulled to something manageable for now, though every echo of Alastor tapping the cane against the ground made something crawl at the edge of his thoughts. Still, he followed, keeping pace.

“Ah, the air’s simply electric this morning, don’t you think?” Alastor said, grin wide and bright as they turned a corner. “Perfect weather for a bit of… harvesting.”

“Yeah,” Vox muttered. “You’ve got a real poetic streak about murder.”

“Murder?” Alastor chuckled. “Oh, my dear, such a mundane word. Think of it as performance! Every soul has its rhythm; one simply has to find the right station to tune into.”

“You make it sound like art,” Vox said.

“It is art,” Alastor replied smoothly, cane swinging idly. “You’ll see.”

They stopped before an alley that looked like Hell had chewed it up and spit it out for good measure. Signs hung crooked, flickering between broken ads and warped faces. In the back, a sinner shook in the shadows, cornered and small.

Alastor grinned, delighted. “Ah! There’s our first contestant.”

Vox scanned the shadows, his screen flickering faintly as he tuned into the creature’s static signature. “Ugly bastard,” he muttered. “Why do we always go for those first?”

“Why not?” Alastor said. “Best to start with the worst, besides…” His eyes gleamed red for an instant. “They scream beautifully.”

Vox rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re fucked in the head.”

“And yet you keep showing up,” Alastor said sweetly.

Before Vox could reply, he sent a shock of electricity through the alleyway, stunting the sinner. 

“Ha!” Vox barked. “Gotcha.”

“Nicely done!” Alastor’s laugh was delighted. He stepped forward, his grin widening into something monstrous. “Shall we finish the number together?”

Vox smirked, energy pulsing through his fingertips. “Of course!” 

Vox’s eyes flared, the neon red bleeding into black. The sinner froze, pupils blown wide as the hypnotic light caught them. “Easy now,” Vox murmured, his voice persuasive. “You don’t want to run. You want to tell us the truth, don’t you?”

The thief trembled, caught between fear and compulsion. “I…I didn’t mean to! They were rich, they... they had more than me..”

A laugh, bright and cruel, cut through the confession. Alastor stepped closer, his shadow blooming behind him, stretching like an open hand across the alley walls. The edges of it sharpened, splitting into tendrils that slithered toward the sinner’s feet. “Oh, how touching! A thief with a conscience!”

The shadows snapped tight around the sinner’s ankles, pulling them to their knees. Vox watched the motionless body, fascinated and wary, while Alastor tilted his head, listening to something only he could hear.

“You begged for forgiveness,” Alastor said softly, “but forgiveness is such a fragile currency in Hell. Fortunately, I deal in more reliable ways.”

The sinner’s voice cracked. “Please..! anything! I’ll pay, I’ll..”

Alastor’s grin widened. “Oh, I do believe you will.”

Vox’s smile deepened, the air thickening with energy as he summoned a flicker of a contract into being. clean lines, glowing faintly with electric script. The signature space pulsed like a heartbeat, waiting. 

Alastor crouched, resting his cane against the sinner’s chest. The shadows tightened, guiding their hand to the pen that Vox offered.

The thief hesitated, trembling. “Wh..what happens when I sign?”

Alastor’s tone was all cheer and charm. “Why, you’ll be forgiven, of course! Freed from the burden of guilt.” He leaned closer, whispering into their ear. “You’ll never feel anything again.”

The pen scratched paper. The static hissed.

And then the light went out of the sinner’s eyes, swallowed whole by the darkness of Alastor’s shadow.

For a heartbeat, the alley was still. Then, the signature burned into the contract, sealing itself in radiant ink, the sinner went limp. 

Vox stood there breathing hard, adrenaline flooding through him. “That was…”

“Exhilarating?” Alastor offered, eyes alight.

Vox hesitated. “Efficient.”

“Ah,” Alastor chuckled. “Always so modest.”

Vox didn’t answer. He was still watching the way the light caught on Alastor’s hair, the curve of that smile, the warmth behind the madness. 

Alastor turned, twirling his cane with practiced flair. “You handled yourself well. I knew you would.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Vox said, trying to keep his voice even.

“Oh, not surprised,” Alastor said. “Pleased. It’s always satisfying to see potential realized.”

Vox raised a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you like,” Alastor replied, grin never wavering.

Vox looked down at the cooling soul, then up at Alastor. “So, uh, how do we decide who gets the soul this time?”

“Tradition suggests seniority.”

“Ughh! Tradition’s boring.” Vox held up a fist. “Rock, paper, scissors.”

Alastor blinked. “Is that some mortal ritual?”

“It’s called democracy.”

Alastor’s grin twitched wider. “How dreadful.”

They played. Alastor lost.

Vox grinned. “Guess democracy wins tonight.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Alastor said sweetly. “Tyranny tends to make a comeback.”

Vox looked away first, muttering, “You’re impossible.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear,” Alastor said with a laugh, starting down the street again. “Come now, there’s plenty more work to do.”

—

The day had been long, Vox’s head still throbbed faintly from the hangover, sharper in some places, duller in others.  They had already collected soul after soul, contracts signed with barely a thought, and now the final target loomed. An overlord losing his footing in the infernal hierarchy; desperate, violent, unwilling to bend for anyone, not even Alastor.

Vox rubbed his temple, letting a tiny bolt of electricity dance along his fingertips to keep him alert. “Keep it together, Vox. Don’t fuck this up.” His internal monologue echoed too closely to the cane’s coaxing tone for his liking, and he hated that.

The part of the city where the overlord hid smelled of blood, the fading light of Pentagram City casting sharp shadows across crumbling brick. Alastor’s shadow flickered over walls. Vox followed close behind, eyes twitching with electric sparks as he prepared for the inevitable confrontation.

The overlord appeared, brutish and snarling, fists clenched. “I’m not signing shit for anyone!” he barked, the desperation of a fall from grace coating every word.

Alastor’s smile was calm, almost bored. “Darling, it’s not a negotiation today. I simply wish to remove you from the equation.” His shadows flared, striking with controlled precision, pinning the overlord briefly against the nearby wall.

Vox moved instinctively, sending a surge of electricity toward the man. Sparks crackled, illuminating the street in harsh, flickering bursts. The overlord roared, swinging wildly, forcing Vox to duck. Each move he made was slightly sluggish, his dazed state from hours of soul hunting and the lingering weight of the dream making his reflexes uncertain.

“Why is he so… calm?” Vox thought, watching Alastor flick the shadows like a conductor leading an orchestra. “Even when he’s hurting someone… he’s… amused? Careless?” His chest tightened, a mix of awe and frustration knotting inside him.

Alastor’s shadows struck again, forcing the overlord to stumble. Vox’s electricity followed, precise but unrefined, and he barely avoided being caught in the collateral strikes. He felt Alastor’s shadow brush against his arm, not intentionally, but just enough to steady him. “That’s… helpful?” Vox blinked, confused. “He doesn’t have to do that…” 

The overlord swung again, more recklessly this time. Vox reacted slowly, letting sparks arc from his fingertips and crack across the wall, narrowly missing both himself and Alastor. “Watch yourself, dear,” Alastor called, the edge in his voice teasing yet pointed. “I would hate for you to short-circuit before the fun is done.”

Vox’s chest tightened. He didn’t respond, only let the thought twist in his head. “Protect me? Even now? Why… “ He shook it off and refocused. Electricity danced along his arms, nerves humming as adrenaline replaced some of the lingering daze.

The overlord roared one final time, charging with wild, violent intent. Vox fired, Alastor’s shadows struck, and together, the combination forced the man to his knees. Vox stumbled slightly, leaning into Alastor as he steadied himself. 

Alastor straightened, shadows retracting as the overlord collapsed, subdued. “There,” he said playfully,  “All in a day’s work, darling.”

Vox exhaled, shaking out his arms, muscles buzzing from exertion. His eyes still flickered with residual sparks, and he glanced at Alastor, “Even now… he’s… looking out for me?” 

Alastor tilted his head, noting Vox’s slightly dazed state with a mixture of amusement and mild curiosity. “You’re distracted, dear,” he said softly, but with a bothered edge. “Pay attention. One lapse, and…” He let the sentence hang, leaving the threat implied.

Vox nodded stiffly, acknowledging the unspoken care. He didn’t speak of it aloud, didn’t allow the thought to surface. But deep down, he knew he relied on Alastor’s presence more than he wanted to admit, even during the hunt.

—

The streets of Pentagram City were slick with puddles that trembled beneath Vox’s boots as he followed Alastor back toward the tower. They had claimed eight souls already, each one writhing with their own desperate sins. 

And then, the one that was supposed to be the ninth, the one that left a bitter taste. An overlord whose power had waned, violent and unyielding, unwilling to bow or bargain. Alastor hadn’t cared for negotiations. The fight had been brief, but necessary, leaving Vox with the lingering hum of adrenaline and exhaustion pulsing through his veins.

Vox stumbled slightly, the hangover persistent, and the constant tug of the dream and the cane’s memory weighing at the edges of his thoughts. Alastor’s shadow stirred before Vox could stumble again. It wound around his waist like smoke, steadying him. A small, deliberate kindness disguised in darkness.

Vox knew he should have pulled away. Instead, he leaned into it, shame and relief tangled in the same breath. He didn’t know what unnerved him more: that Alastor noticed, or that part of him didn’t want him to stop.

“Careful there, darling,” Alastor said, voice light but sharp, but with an undercurrent that made Vox pause. “Weakness is… detrimental in Hell, you know that” 

Vox blinked, flushed slightly, and shook his head. “I..uh..I went to a bar last night,” he admitted, voice low, clipped. “Half the night. Needed… something to take the edge off.” He said no more. The dream, the cane… that stayed locked inside, some unspoken instinct keeping it hidden.

“You holding up?” Alastor asked smoothly, “Shall we continue?”

Vox exhaled slowly, forcing a small, wry smile. “I can manage,” he said, letting his fingers brush the edge of the shadow as they moved, savoring the subtle support. His mind buzzed with fatigue, adrenaline, and the confusing warmth that Alastor’s closeness always seemed to ignite.

The tower loomed ahead. Vox leaned slightly into the shadow, letting himself be steadied, letting the weight of the day fall from his shoulders. For the first time since the fight, he felt… almost safe. Almost understood, and Alastor didn’t need to speak again. The shadow, the closeness, the faint brush of his hand, and the steady presence said enough.

Vox’s boots dragged lightly, each step a little heavier than the last, the shadow at his side keeping him upright. 

And yet his thoughts were elsewhere. The dream lingered like smoke behind his eyes. The empire sprawled endlessly below him, screens flickering with his own face, two shadowed partners waiting silently, power absolute and unchecked. The cane’s whisper hovered at the edges of his mind, promising more than he knew he deserved: mastery, influence, obedience, a world bending to his signal. He wanted it. God, he wanted it. Every corner of his mind ached with it.

But the pull of Alastor was different. It was real. Vox had spent years trying to name it; three long years orbiting that impossible light, pretending it was curiosity, ambition, anything but what it truly was.

He stood within that terrible brilliance, sharing victories, his name carved beside Alastor’s in power and fear alike. And yet it felt like pressing his palms to glass, close enough to see, never enough to touch. What he wanted lived somewhere deeper, where partnership turned into devotion, where ambition blurred into love. He wanted the warmth behind the shadow, the truth behind the smile, to rule with him not just in spectacle, but in soul. Not above. Not against. Together.

And he knew, even as the thought bloomed, that it would be his undoing. Because loving Alastor, no, wanting him, was like falling in love with a storm: you could stand in its light for only a moment before it took everything else away.

Sometimes, he swore Alastor felt it too. In the stillness after the day, when their shadows tangled and the grin softened, when Rosie’s teasing drew not anger but that sharp, knowing smile. It was there, but unspoken; the kind of affection that dared not touch daylight.

Vox desperately wanted both. The empire promised in dreams, the whispered dominion of souls, and Alastor, whose presence made Vox forget to breathe even as his brain screamed for more. He wanted to rise and grasp all that power, and still, he wanted only to see the world through Alastor’s eyes for even a moment.

Vox exhaled, a shiver crawling down his spine. Desire, ambition, fear, longing, they twisted together until he couldn’t separate one from the other. His future and his present collided in a heartbeat of overwhelming intensity. The cane’s promise whispered; it was patient. But Alastor’s shadow pressed against him, real and warm.  

He didn’t want to rise above Alastor.

He just wanted to understand him.

And for now, that was enough to break him.

Notes:

Oh my god! I can't write Valentino for the life of me, but for now, he's just annoying Vox. Which is how I envision their "First Meeting." I'm so excited for season two! And all that radiostatic content (literally five seconds of it in the trailer, but enough to keep my hopes and dreams alive.)

Thanks for reading! The next chapter is going to be more Alastor-focused.

Comments and feedback are appreciated <3

Chapter 12: Fine Lines Of Trust

The cane hadn’t stopped talking since the dream. Vox hated it. Hated the way it threaded through his thoughts, impossible to silence. He didn’t know what it was, didn’t know who it belonged to. All he knew was that it came from Alastor’s cane, and figuring it out had become a maddening obsession he hadn’t yet solved. For now, he was just… living with it.

Then the rumor reached him: Rhaggar was slipping. The same smug bastard from the Overlord meetings who hated him, the one who had laughed in his face. Weakness was fatal in Hell, Alastor had told him that a million times. Now, here it was playing out in front of him. Weakness in an Overlord was an invitation for disaster.

The cane’s voice stirred, threading around his thoughts: “He weakens… do you see it? Do it, and let Alastor feel the force you keep hidden.” Vox clenched his fists, hating it and hating how right it felt. He would ask Alastor for permission, of course, he had to,but the voice pressed in, tempting, pushing him to act before he even opened his mouth. 

Vox’s mind was buzzing. “Alright, this is it. Just act casual, compliment him without drooling, sound competent, not desperate. He’s going to notice. He has to.” A grin tugged at his lips despite himself. “And this deal… holy hell, it’s a fucking monster. If I pull this off, it’s not just another soul. It’s the kind of score that gets whispered about.”

By the time he reached the tower doors, his heart was hammering, and he had rehearsed the first dozen ways to start the conversation in his head. He pushed the doors open, letting the familiar hum of the upper floors greet him. 

“Morning, Alastor,” Vox called, his tone casual, though a little edge of nerves crept in. “Looking… Uh, impeccable, as always. Really, that coat? Those boots? Absolutely terrifying. In a good way. I mean, terrifying is good when you’re us, right?”

Alastor’s eyes flicked up from a stack of papers. “Why, Vox! What an… enthusiastic greeting. I see someone’s been practicing their flattery while avoiding work. How very clever of you.” He tapped a finger against his cane. “And pray tell, what brings my ever-so-bold partner into my tower this morning? Surely it cannot be mere idle chatter?”

Vox crouched beside a console, running a hand over a tangle of wires, fixing them absentmindedly. “Idle chatter? Ha! Never me. Just… thought a few things could use a little tweaking. You know, wires, dials, the general chaos of your empire? He straightened, brushing dust off the panel 

Alastor’s grin widened slightly, a hint of suspicion flickering across his features. “ I cannot help but notice a certain… eagerness in your step. What exactly is your angle today, darling?”

Vox leaned on the console, flashing a grin that was equal parts cocky and nervous. “Angle? You could call it ambition. You could call it… showing that I can actually do this shit on my own. I found a deal, Rhaggar. Yeah, that Rhaggar. The same bastard who always laughs at me during those boring meetings. He’s slipping, and I want to be the one to take him down. Just me, for the duo, I swear, I won’t fuck it up.”

Alastor tilted his head, a slow hum of amusement vibrating through his voice. “Just you, you say? Dragging my name and reputation along for the ride? My, my… You are bold, Vox. Perhaps too bold. One could almost call it reckless.” 

He paused, eyes glinting, leaning just slightly on his cane. “And yet, I am… curious. You’ve done deals alone before, yes, but this… this is no ordinary trifle, is it?”

Vox chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to keep the edge of his nerves from showing. “Nope. Not ordinary. This one… It’s a fucking prize. The kind of deal that makes your eyes light up. Look, I’ve been paying attention. I know what you like, how you like things done. I’ll do it like you would.”

Alastor’s grin sharpened, a subtle flicker of pride passing through his gaze. “Flattery, cockiness, and a dash of panic under the surface. How… predictable, and yet, somehow… promising.” He twirled the cane lightly in one hand. “Very well, Vox. You wish to carry my name, our… shared terror, into a deal of such magnitude? I shall… allow it. But know this, darling: if a single misstep stains the name I have built, I will hear of it, and not kindly.”

Vox let out a short, relieved laugh, adrenaline finally flooding through him. “Relax, I’ve got this. I’ll make you proud.” He flicked a switch on a console as he passed, giving Alastor a quick wink. “Besides, you trust me enough to let me do it, right?”

Alastor’s grin twitched just slightly, “I do indeed, Vox. But that trust… is earned, not given freely. Prove to me that you are as sharp as you think, and perhaps I will let you have the limelight, if only for a moment.”

Vox’s grin widened, walked toward the stairs with a light bounce in his step. “Oh, I will. You’ll see. And maybe, just maybe… you’ll finally admit I’m almost as good as you. Almost.”

Alastor’s chuckle followed him, soft and almost fond, as he turned back to the console. “Ah… the dangers of ambition wrapped in sarcasm. Delightful.”

Vox practically danced down the tower steps, every stride carrying a thrill too big to contain. “You’ll see! You’ll fucking see, Alastor! I won’t screw this up!” 

He called over his shoulder, voice bright and electric. His grin was unrestrained, almost foolish, but that was Vox at his best, and Alastor had just handed him the reins of something massive.

Alastor remained in the upper floors, leaning lightly against a polished console. The hum of the tower filled the space, but without Vox’s chatter, it felt quieter than usual, like the pause before a symphony’s first note. His mind churned with something he hadn’t felt in decades: trust. He had given it, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating, a thrill he didn’t know he still possessed.

In that rare, quiet moment, the hum seemed to shrink, and the noise wound itself around the edges of his consciousness. Trust, a currency that was  fleeting and fragile, had unlocked a door he had thought forever closed.

—

The first time Alastor ever held a knife with intent, he was no more than thirteen, pressed against the polished floorboards of his family’s home, trembling with rage and fear. His mother, soft, frail, a woman who had carried him through so much, was trapped beneath a man’s fist, one of the town’s so-called men of “honor.” Alastor had lunged, knife in hand, a crude thing stolen from the kitchen, but intent sharp enough to pierce the world. He struck, desperately. The man recoiled, bled, and fell to the ground, but not before a blow landed on her.

She died anyway, the light fading from her eyes as he cradled her trembling body. And yet, even then, something inside him had clicked: justice could be delivered by his own hands, precise and personal. The world, he realized, did not care for fairness. Someone had to orchestrate it.

Years later, the knife became less a tool of desperation and more a wand of deliberate artistry. By day, he charmed the radio airwaves, his voice golden, and adored across Louisiana, hearing tales spun with wit and ease. By night, he applied the same meticulous attention to people who had overstepped. 

He had rules. Oh yes, the rules were there and unyielding. He killed for justice, for punishment, but only for those who were deserving. Those who had power and abused it, those who were careless with the lives of others, those who were overconfident enough to walk into his web blind. Occasionally, it was personal, a slight, a challenge, a direct affront, but often it was simple and necessary. 

And yet, even with justice as the veil, there was the thrill. Alastor felt it in every twist of the knife. The pleasure was almost scientific: the way his prey’s muscles tensed, the rise of desperation in their voice, the subtle dance of fear in the victim's eyes before the inevitability.. He was no mindless killer; he was conductor, audience, and performer all at once.

A wealthy landowner, brash, overconfident, the kind of man who cheated tenants and preyed on the weak. That was his next target, Alastor had heard about him first on his radio show, a “concerned listener” calling in to complain, and he’d laughed it off on air, turning the story into a bit of charming satire for the audience. But off the air, he took notes. He always did, for weeks, he watched the man’s routines, his guards, the careless arrogance in his step. And by night, Alastor slipped through the shadows like a whisper, knife glinting faintly under the moonlight.

“So certain the world won’t bite back,” he whispered, stepping from the dark. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”

The kill itself was precise; it always was. He cornered the man in a secluded area on his walk home, knife tracing lines across shoulders, arms, and neck, each movement a study in control and perfection. Blood blossomed like ink on white paper, and Alastor’s heartbeat followed in time with it, a melody of exquisite satisfaction.

He did not chase. He never chased. The arrogance of his prey brought them to him, and that, more than the act itself, was what thrilled him: control. 

Alastor straightened once the deed was done, dark eyes glinting with fulfillment. He lingered for a moment, savoring the quiet, the power, the absolute certainty of life and death in his grasp. 

This was the measure of justice, the pleasure of power, the art of life and death conducted by his hands. And though the world never knew his name in that context. 

— 

The moon was swollen above the bayou, heavy and pale, painting the swamp in ghostlight. The air was thick with humidity. Alastor knelt beside the body, his cuffs rolled back, his once-white shirt soaked through with the evidence of another successful night.

He always buried them. Every single one. It was his rule. Killing wasn’t chaos; it was craft. A ritual. The world was full of rot, and he was merely tidying it up. Each grave was a small, private respect, dug in the soft earth where no one ever looked.

He hummed under his breath as he worked, low and tuneful, the same tune his radio listeners loved so dearly. 

Tonight’s kill had been almost disappointingly smooth, in Alastor’s standards. A struggle, a gasp, a stab here and there, and then silence. He wiped his blade clean on the man’s jacket, then folded the body neatly into the earth, as if tucking it into bed.

“Rest well,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll be better company for the worms than you ever were for the living.”

The bayou was loud around him, the chorus of frogs and crickets rising like applause after the curtain closes. Alastor knew he should have been careful, quieter, but it was late, past one in the morning, and he was confident in his solitude. No one came here. No one but him.

He tamped the last of the soil into place and leaned back, brushing a smear of mud across his cheek. He felt alive with the afterglow of it all. The thrill. The power. The perfection.

Then….crack! A branch.

He froze. Somewhere through the fog, a lantern bobbed. Voices drifted closer, careless and laughing. 

“See that? Think it’s a deer?” 

Alastor straightened, moonlight glinting on his coat. Mist twisted around him, stretching his shadow and warping his shape, so that to the hunters’ eyes he became something wild and antlered.

Another voice came through, “Huh! Maybe we oughta drop by here more, huh?”

The shot tore through the night before he could react. Pain exploded in his skull, and then the world collapsed inward. The hunters’ laughter became distant echoes, hollow and fading.

Gravity claimed him, and he tumbled forward, chest-first, into the cold embrace of the swamp. The water closed over him, carrying the last warmth of life away. Moonlight rippled across the surface, and then the bayou swallowed it whole.

— 

At first, he thought it was the swamp again, but when Alastor opened his eyes, there was nothing. No sound, no light just an endless gray void, cold and dense as fog.

He sat up, or thought he did. The motion didn’t feel real. There was no ground beneath him, no air in his lungs. He touched his head where the bullet had torn through, expecting warmth, blood, but found only silence.

“Ah,” he whispered, his voice thin in the void. “So this is what the end looks like.”

No applause. No audience. Just emptiness.

A laugh escaped him, quiet and uncertain. He tried to stand, to orient himself, but there was nowhere to go. The fog stretched infinitely, swallowing the sound of his footsteps before they even began.

For the first time in years, he felt small.

“This isn’t quite what I had in mind,” he said to no one, the performer’s bravado cracking just slightly. “No pearly gates? No fiery depths? I’d have settled for a little… atmosphere.”

His words fell flat. The silence pressed harder.

Alastor swallowed, glancing around as though nothing might suddenly turn into something. “Is..anyone there?” His voice echoed, thinner now, trembling around the edges. “Hello?”

The answer was silence.

He started laughing again, sharply, too loudly, just to hear something. “Marvelous,” he muttered. “I die and the universe gives me stage fright.”

But beneath the humor, fear gnawed. He’d imagined death a thousand ways, quick, violent, poetic, but never this, never being left behind.

He tried again, softer this time. “Mother?”                                                                                     

A pause. “God?”                                                                                                                            

A bitter chuckle. “Anyone?”

And that was when he heard it. Heels, slow and certain. Cutting through the endless void. Each step echoed too loudly, like a heartbeat forcing itself into existence where no life belonged.

He turned sharply. The fog shifted, and out of it came a figure: regal and beautiful 

Lilith smiled like someone who’d been waiting a long, long time.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said with a cruel smile. “You’re far too loud for the void.”

Alastor froze, throat dry. “And who might you be, madam?”

She tilted her head, amused. “You don’t recognize me? How refreshing.”

“I’m afraid my audience tonight is rather… limited,” he said carefully, the humor brittle.

Her smile deepened, slow and knowing. “Names carry weight, darling. But since you insist… Lilith.”

The name hit him like a blade. Every half-forgotten tale, every whispered story from childhood, came rushing back: the Queen of Hell, the first sinner. He took a half step back before he could stop himself.

“You look disappointed,” she said lightly. 

Alastor’s mind scrambled for sound, for breath, for anything that might anchor him. But there was only the void, and her. She was eerily composed. 

His tongue felt clumsy. He couldn’t ask why she was here; the thought alone felt so forbidden, so he reached for the only question he could form.

“Where… is this?” he asked finally. “Surely this isn’t Hell.”

Lilith’s smile flickered, faint and knowing. “Not yet. This is the In-Between, what’s left when Heaven won’t take you and Hell hasn’t decided it wants you.”

“So I’m waiting for judgment.”

Her laughter was unsettling. “You poor thing. You thought there would be gates. Wings. Judgment.” She took a few steps closer, her presence bending the space around her. “Nothing good is waiting for men like you, Alastor. Unless someone decides to intervene.”

Something cold twisted in his gut. “Intervene?”

“You fascinate me,” she murmured. “A man who kills with purpose, smiles with sincerity, and lies to himself so beautifully. You have the makings of something rare.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, and hated how small it sounded.

Her eyes caught the faintest light. “No, but you will.”

“Most souls are noise, screams, curses, begging. They are useful for chaos, but not for governance. You, Alastor, are not ordinary. You kill with a mind, you bury with ritual. You understand how people perform guilt and how power hides behind manners. That makes you rarer than talent or strength. I do not want another brute. I want a curator; someone who can shape Hell’s order and make the masses listen when I direct them.”

“You tell yourself it was justice, don’t you? Every man you buried deserved it. You carved your rules into their skin and called it morality. That’s what I find irresistible, your certainty. You think you’re good, even now. But goodness is just control, and you crave that more than heaven ever could give. You see, I don’t offer you damnation, Alastor. I offer you the world arranged to your liking.”

She offered her hand, pale and elegant against the gray. “Tell me, darling, do you want to keep playing your little game? Keep your power? Your fun?”

He hesitated. The nothing pressed closer. He didn’t want to vanish. He didn’t want to be forgotten.

For once, Alastor was afraid. 

“What happens,” he asked, voice trembling, “if I say no?”

Lilith tilted her head. The faint glow behind her eyes pulsed with mirth. “Then you fade, my dear. Completely.”

“And if I say yes?”

Her smile was patient. “Then you remain. Not as the man you were, but as something far more entertaining. You were always one for stories, weren’t you? For spectacle?”

She stepped closer, her heels making no sound on the gray. “I want to see Hell through you. Hear it through you. You have a way of making the world listen, and I do so love a man with a voice.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “And in exchange?”

“I claim your soul,” she said softly, “but I do not leave you empty-handed. Take this power, and play as you please, so long as the game remains mine to watch.”

He looked away, but there was nowhere to look. “You’d make a monster out of me.”

She chuckled. “Oh, sweetheart, you already were one.”

For a long, fragile moment, he said nothing. He’d always buried the people he killed. Marked every grave, offered every soul a kind of mercy. His own grave, it seemed, would go unmarked unless he took her hand.

The thought of fading into  silence hollowed him. He didn’t want to be quiet. He wanted noise.

He reached out. His fingers brushed hers. “Very well,” he whispered. “I’ll play.”

Lilith’s smile deepened. “I knew you would.”

From the void, something formed in her other hand, a long, slender cane, its wood black as midnight, its head a gleaming microphone with a red, unblinking eye embedded in the middle.

“Your instrument,” she said, holding it out to him. “Every performer needs one.”

He stared at it, and the eye stared back, a faint pulse echoing in the void. He didn’t know if it was alive or if it was watching.

When he took it, warmth surged up his arm, wrong and electric. The void split open with sound, and then color flooded back into the world, violent and red.

Lilith’s voice carried through it: 

“You’ll speak for me now, Alastor. Through every broadcast, every soul you break. You’ll let me watch, let me listen. And in turn, you’ll never be alone.”

The gray collapsed, and he fell. When he struck ground again, the cane landed beside him, still warm, the eye glinting faintly.

“Trust me, my darling. You’ll make Hell sing.”

—

Alastor sat back in his chair, letting the faint glow from the tower’s panels wash over him. Vox’s footsteps had barely faded down the spiral staircase, practically skipping out the door, a little too eager, a little too smug with himself. “He’s out there now. Actually doing it. Carrying our names, my name…” The thought twisted in Alastor’s chest, equal parts pride and dread.

It wasn’t the scale of Lilith’s deal. That had been monumental and life-altering in ways that still haunted him. But the trust he’d just given Vox? That was unprecedented since that day. He hadn’t handed over this kind of control to anyone, ever. Not fully. Not like this. And the fear was suffocating.

Vox had done deals before; he had skill, nerve, the right spark, but always under Alastor’s gaze, always with the safety net of his presence. Sometimes alone, yes, but never this big, never a deal with the duo’s name riding on it. And yet, he had let him go. Had agreed. He didn’t know why. The voice in his head whispered, sharp and insistent: “You’ve gone too far. You’re going to regret this.” 

Alastor’s fingers drummed lightly against the console, each tap a frantic attempt to ground himself. Pride warred with unease. Vox was clever, too clever, and he was eager in a way that could be as dangerous as it was thrilling. But Alastor had given him more than freedom. He’d given him faith, a currency he hadn’t spent since Lilith’s pale, elegant hand had offered him a playground in exchange for obedience.

He straightened, gripping the cane that leaned like a sentinel beside him. The embedded eye shimmered faintly, almost mocking. He had handed Vox a piece of his confidence, his judgment, and now all he could do was wait and pray, in a manner of speaking, that the boy wouldn’t squander it.

He had chosen this. Chosen to trust, chosen to let Vox run ahead while he stayed behind, a spectator to the chaos he might unleash. And the idea that he had no control? That he might actually regret it? That thought alone made his chest tighten.

And for the first time in decades, Alastor felt it: the weight of trust.

—

Cannibal Town was loud as ever, laughter, music, the faint crackle of frying oil, and firelight drifting from every crooked corner. Alastor had always found comfort in its chaos. It was one of the few places that didn’t demand his constant performance.

Rosie’s tea parlor sat tucked between two butcheries, the scent of spice and smoke mingling with the metallic notes of blood. Inside, the lighting was soft and welcoming. Alastor slipped through the door, brushing dust from his sleeves.

“Well, well,” Rosie sang, pouring from a steaming pot without looking up. “Isn’t it the Radio Demon himself! Alone, no less. I was starting to think you and that walking power surge had fused into one entity.”

Alastor chuckled lightly, settling across from her. “You make it sound so dramatic, dear. Vox is simply… otherwise occupied.”

Rosie raised an eyebrow, sliding him a cup. “Occupied? Or trusted?”

His hand stilled on the handle. “…A bit of both, I suppose.”

She grinned, pleased. “So it’s true, then. You’ve finally let the boy off the leash.”

Alastor’s tone stayed light, but his eyes gave him away. “He insisted on it. I saw no harm in allowing him a little… independence.”

“Independence,” Rosie mused, swirling her tea with a grin. “Rhaggar never liked your protégé much, and now everyone’s talking about Vox taking his soul. That kind of chatter… it suits you, doesn’t it? Keeps them on edge.”

He hummed, tapping one finger idly against his cup. “Let them buzz. A bit of fear keeps things interesting.”

Rosie leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “You’re worried.”

“Worried?” Alastor repeated, all false laughter. “Hardly. Merely… intrigued by how this will unfold.”

She smiled knowingly, the kind of expression that could slice right through him. “You like him, Al. You’re allowed to care whether he pulls it off.”

Alastor gave a soft laugh, polite, practiced, far too sharp at the edges. “Care is a luxury I’ve learned to live without, my dear.”

Rosie’s eyes softened. “No, it’s not. You just don’t like the reminder that you still can.”

Rosie broke the tension with a bright, casual tone. “Try the liver pâté. Fresh this morning.”

He blinked, almost startled by the shift. “You do have a talent for breaking tension.”

“Someone has to,” she said with a wink, nudging the plate toward him. “And if he’s really handling this one alone, I figure you’ll need something to chew on until he gets back.”

Alastor smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. “You assume I’m waiting for him.”

“Aren’t you?” she asked, tilting her head.

He didn’t answer.

Rosie poured him another cup, her grin fond and knowing. “You can lie to yourself all you want, darling, but don’t think for a second I can’t hear the static in your voice when you say his name.”

He looked down at the swirling amber tea. His reflection trembled in the drink: antlers, soft eyes, the shape of his own death. The hunter and the hunted, bound at last. He said nothing.

Rosie topped off her own cup and sighed, sinking back into her chair. “You remember when you used to come here just to eat in peace? Now it’s all business, protégés, and politics.”

Alastor chuckled. “Ah, simpler times indeed! Though if memory serves, you were the one lecturing me about ‘branching out’ and ‘making connections.’”

“I meant business connections,” she said, pointing a spoon at him. “Not whatever this is.”

He smirked. “You make it sound scandalous.”

“Oh, it is,” Rosie replied, feigning a gasp. “The Radio Demon, falling for a pretty face with antennae. Hell’s practically swooning.”

Alastor laughed, “You exaggerate, my dear.”

“I never exaggerate,” she said with mock offense. “I just observe.”

He took a delicate sip, eyes narrowing over the rim. “And what exactly have you observed?”

Rosie grinned. “That you haven’t looked this alive in years. And don’t you dare argue. I can tell when you’re trying not to show it, that little smirk at the corner of your mouth.”

Alastor rolled his eyes. “I do not smirk.”

“You absolutely do.” 

Alastor groaned. “You are incorrigible.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Rosie sang.

For a moment, they both laughed, the kind of laughter that came easily, like muscle memory. It wasn’t the calculated and cruel kind most Overlords shared. It was warmer.

When it finally faded, Rosie tilted her head thoughtfully. “You know, it’s strange. Out of everyone I’ve ever met down here, you’re the last one I’d have pegged for feeling anything genuine again.”

Alastor set his cup down with a soft clink. “And yet here I sit, the picture of contradiction.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she said. “Even monsters need something to keep them curious.”

He smiled faintly, eyes softening. “Careful, Rosie. You’ll make me sentimental.”

“Good. It’s been ages since I’ve seen that part of you.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, steam curling from their cups, the city’s chaos dimmed by the parlor’s haze.

Finally, Rosie nudged the plate toward him again. “Eat before it gets cold. You’ll need your strength if that boy comes back half-fried from his deal.”

Alastor’s grin returned, sharp and fond all at once. “Oh, I imagine he’ll manage. He’s proven quite resilient.”

Rosie winked. “That’s one word for it. Stubborn’s another.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Yes, well… I’ve always had a soft spot for stubborn things.”

—

The tower throbbed with a low hum, faint red light flickering across the consoles. A scream had just finished broadcasting, stretched long and desperate, and Alastor let it play, deliberately, of course, almost as punctuation to his own restless thoughts.

Then the door slammed open.

Vox barreled in, coat half-slid off one shoulder, a gash on his left shoulder, and eyes wild with energy. He was shaking from adrenaline, practically vibrating from the thrill of the day.

“Alastor! You... you won’t believe this!” he gasped, words tumbling over themselves. “This deal, oh my god! This entire deal took me the whole day! I’m telling you, the bastard tried to double-cross me three separate times. I had to anticipate everything on the fly. And I did! I actually fucking did it!”

With a burst of manic triumph, Vox slapped the contract onto the table, as if the paper itself shared his victory. Alastor could have finished the deal in minutes, but seeing Vox so proud… he didn’t have the heart to take that moment away.

Alastor’s thin grin tilted, an eyebrow raised. “The whole day, you say? Such dedication.”

Vox waved his hands, “Dedication doesn’t even cover it! I–I thought I was going to screw it all up! The guy almost pulled a fast one at the last second, and I had to reroute every little thing! Every single clause, every little loophole!” His voice caught in a mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion. “I didn’t think I’d make it. But I did, Al. I did it perfectly. On our level. On your level!”

Alastor’s lips curved faintly, more intrigued than amused. “Indeed. And here you stand, mostly unscathed. Remarkable.”

Ah, there it was; that spark. The same fever that once burned through Alastor, then he thought the world could still be bent to his design. Vox’s grin, his trembling pride, the way victory glowed in him…it was almost nostalgic.

For a brief, startling moment, Alastor saw his own reflection in Vox, as if the he were a mirror showing what he once was. 

He pitied him. Almost.

Vox let out a breath, tremors of relief running through him. “I–I couldn’t have done it without you. Without your guidance…without your trust. You actually let me handle this, alone, and on our level. That’s–” He swallowed, words racing faster than he could form them. “That’s insane, Alastor! I didn’t screw it up. I actually didn’t!”

Alastor, almost without thinking, stepped forward. His hands, normally precise, moved instinctively, wrapping Vox in a hug.

Vox froze at first, heart hammering. 

“You’ve done exceptionally well,” Alastor murmured, voice low, almost a purr, hand at the small of Vox’s back, the other resting lightly along his shoulder. “Truly.”

Vox’s chest heaved, and a shiver ran down his spine. He pressed slightly closer, letting the warmth and the weight of Alastor’s presence wash over him. 

“–I thought I was going to fuck it up!” Vox whispered, words tumbling out with desperate glee. “It was insane!”

Alastor’s grip didn’t falter, though he seemed almost as unsure as Vox. There was a flicker of something rare in his expression, a question he didn’t voice. “Why am I holding him like this?” But he didn’t let go, not yet.

Alastor meant it as comfort, brief, impersonal, at least that’s what he told himself. But Vox’s hands clutched his coat, desperate and real, and for the first time in years, Alastor forgot to perform. He held on a moment longer than he should have.

Vox shut his eyes, letting it hit him all at once. “Holy fuck! This is… insane. He’s actually… here. Holding me. What the hell is even happening? Best day ever”. His hands fumbled against Alastor’s coat, desperate for more, not ready to let go.

When Alastor finally stepped back, it was almost abrupt; the Radio Demon smoothing down his coat, pretending nothing had happened at all. “ I daresay this deal may cause quite a stir at the next meeting.”

Vox grinned faintly, “I don’t care about them.”

Alastor’s eyes flicked up, amused. “No?”

“Nah.” Vox’s voice dropped, sheepish. “I just wanted you to see I could do it.”

A lie, a truth. Both danced together in the way he said it; he hid the cane’s influence behind a shrug.

Alastor’s grin held steady, but it held a glimmer of warmth, or maybe relief. He looked at Vox too long, the silence stretching just enough to mean something before he smoothed it away with practiced ease.

“Now,” Alastor said, tone light again but quieter, “shall we celebrate properly?”

Vox leaned against the desk beside him, still smiling. “You mean another broadcast?”

Alastor was already walking towards the console, “Naturally. Nothing quite like a duet of chaos, don’t you agree?”

Vox laughed, low, tired, and utterly thrilled. “Hell yeah.”

The scream tore through the speakers, jagged and ragged, a raw symphony of agony and rage. It wasn’t just loud; it was a declaration of a high-ranking overlord stripped of power. 

Vox flinched violently, whiskey trembling in his glass, about to spill. “Fuck… holy shit,” he muttered, eyes wide. 

Alastor laughed, soft and uncharacteristically warm, giving Vox a light pat on the back. “Oh, my, startled so easily? I never would have guessed,” he gently teased

Vox rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips, and nudged Alastor’s shoulder. “Shut up. It’s… intense, okay?”

They lingered together, letting the scream fade into the red-lit air. Conversation drifted easily after that, about everything and nothing; glasses clinking, laughter slipping between words, quiet moments of shared observation. That strengthened the bond growing between them.

For the first time in a long, long while, Alastor found himself standing beside someone he trusted, not by accident, not by convenience, but by choice. 

That realization unsettled him more than any scream ever could, because trust was the one thing Lilith had taught him never to feel again.

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! I wrote this chapter mostly to explore Alastor’s backstory, I hope you enjoyed my take on it!! :D
This Chapter is meant to contrast with Chapter Eleven, where Vox was tempted by power and betrayal, Alastor here gives him something far more fragile: his trust.

Only one more week until Season Two, and I couldn’t be more excited!
As always, your comments and feedback mean the world!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The Fate We Write