Obedience Within Shadows

by voxshark

Summary:

After the fight with Adam, Alastor opens his eyes in his enemy’s tower. He’s not pleased but maybe somewhat content. Now the question remains: Which one will dominate and which one will break?

Alastor is struggling with his feelings 😔😔 so in this fic he’s softer, jealous and sarcastic.

Notes:

I try to write longer chapters because having too many short ones annoys me in the later lol

Chapter 1

Alastor’s consciousness stirred slowly, like something rising from the depths of a murky swamp. Every part of him ached especially the sharp, searing pain radiating from the upper left side of his chest, throbbing through his whole body. Adam’s final blow… The demon hunter’s pure, destructive force had been a brutal reminder of just how fragile Alastor could be, even in the moments when he fancied himself invincible.

He tried to open his eyes; his lashes felt heavy and sticky. As the blurry image sharpened, he saw an unfamiliar, cold ceiling. The bluish, harsh glow of fluorescent lights made his eyes sting.

“Ah, you’re waking up. Just in time.”

That voice. It was like a needle driven into his spine. He forced his head to turn despite the protesting stiffness in his neck muscles.

By the door, arms crossed over his chest and wearing that sly, self-assured grin, stood Vox. Tiny earpieces rested in his ears.

“Vox,” Alastor’s voice came out rough and weak, rasping from the dust and dried blood in his throat. “What a distasteful surprise. Did you bring me to this wretched… technological tomb?”

He glanced around. The room was minimal, almost sterile LED strips along the walls, a corner stacked with high-definition monitors. Definitely Vox’s tower.

Vox’s tone turned mocking as he stepped closer, as if savoring Alastor’s words. He carried a first-aid kit. “Your injuries look serious. Adam gave you quite a beating.” His eyes slid to the dark, wet patch visible through the torn fabric over Alastor’s chest.

Instinctively, Alastor tried to pull back, but even the smallest movement multiplied the pain. A low groan escaped him. “This… this is just a scratch. Nothing. Stay away from me, Vox.” His voice had none of its usual cheer only deep disgust and alarm. Contact. He didn’t want it. Especially his contact.

Vox took another step and set the kit on the edge of the bed. “A scratch? Alastor, your wound is smoking. Looks like it’s infected with Adam’s holy energy.” He reached to open Alastor’s clothes.

“Don’t touch me!” Alastor’s voice turned suddenly sharp, breaking into a static-laced growl. His ears flattened entirely, his forced grin replaced by open threat. Dark shadows flickered, trying to seep from the corners but they sputtered out. His eyes widened in shock. His power… unreachable. It was like being in a void. Was Adam’s wound eating at him from the inside?

Vox watched the failed attempt, the corner of his mouth curling in faint derision. “Ah, yes. My tower has… suppression fields. Designed to neutralize the magic of primitive creatures like you. Relax.” He sighed, this time deeper, more weary. “Normally, I’d enjoy you being this stubborn, Al. Really, I would but not today. I have work to do.” His gaze moved from Alastor’s stunned face to the door. “Rest or don’t. I don’t care but keep struggling with that wound, and you’ll go from Hell’s greatest radio host to Hell’s most rotting carcass.”

The door closed with an electric hum and a definitive click. Locked.

Alastor was alone. His breath came ragged and uneven. Anger and helplessness boiled in his chest. Vox’s prison. Powerless. The thought bit deeper than the pain itself. Slowly, every movement agony, he lifted his head to look at his wound. His clothes were shredded; beneath them, the flesh was torn, dark red and badly inflamed. The edges glowed faintly with a sickly yellow light, like they were rimmed with tiny lightning bolts. Adam’s curse. Blood seeped slowly but stubbornly. Vox was right this looked bad. Very bad.

His gaze swept the room. An escape. A weapon. Something. Monitors, cables, shiny surfaces… all useless. The door looked solid. He tried to get up, but the knife-stab of pain in his chest forced him back down instantly. Breathless, he leaned against the table. He had no strength to defend himself barely even to walk. His teeth ground together, ears twitching with irritation. Only one option remained: wait and for Alastor, waiting was the worst torture of all losing control.

Time dragged by, blurred into a haze of pain and rage. The steady hum of the fluorescents, the rasp of his own breath, and the irregular beat of his heart were the only sounds. The wound’s hot, throbbing ache was a constant, inescapable drone.

At last, the door opened again. Vox stepped in. He looked different hair slightly mussed, beads of sweat on his forehead, his top button undone, his breath just a little too fast. There was a faint electrical scent about him, mixed with cologne and… something else. Alastor’s sharp nose recognized it instantly: thick, heavy tobacco smoke. Valentino.

Alastor, his voice deliberately steady, wearing a mask of false interest, spoke: “Ah, Vox! You’ve returned. Your… business went quite well, I gather?” A cold spark gleamed in his eyes.

Vox glanced at him, that familiar arrogant smirk spreading across his face. He shrugged with exaggerated ease. “As always, Al.” He reached for the kit again, but this time sat right beside Alastor, on the edge of the bed/table. Not a chair but too close. Alastor’s fur bristled.

“Now,” Vox’s voice was low and resolute as he pulled on gloves, “you’re going to let me dress that wound.”

Alastor’s eyes flashed dangerously, his sharp teeth clenched. “I said no. Stay away.” His voice was like a command that brooked no argument.

Vox took a slow, determined step forward. His voice was firm, resolute, and filled with quiet authority. “Do you really think you can stand against me?”

Alastor’s patience wore thin. Suddenly and forcefully, he shoved Vox’s hand away. “Didn’t you hear me, you vile—” The words died in his throat. Vox moved suddenly, one hand clamping Alastor’s jaw in a merciless grip. Fingers dug into the bone.

“I’m listening, Alastor,” Vox’s voice had shed all amusement, now dangerously low and deliberate. “But you’re not listening to me.” The electric blue of his eyes grew unnaturally bright, swirling like vortexes. Tiny sparks leapt from the point of contact. “Look at me.”

Alastor fought. He tried to lock his mind, turn his gaze away but he was weak. Adam’s wound drained him, and Vox’s suppression field handled the rest and Vox’s electric stare had a magnetic pull irresistible. His eyes, unwillingly, locked on Vox’s.

At once, his mind clouded. All sounds the rasp of his breathing, the hum of the lights, even the throbbing of the wound receded into muffled distance. It was like falling into a thick, electrically charged fog. Vox’s voice was the only thing cutting through, deep and echoing. “Calm down. Relax. Don’t move. Let me.”

His will slackened. Tension left his body, his head tilting slightly into Vox’s hand. His gaze was vacant, fixed on that terrible, blazing blue. All resistance was gone.

Vox released his jaw but kept the eye contact. “That’s better. Now, you’re going to stay perfectly still while I work. Understand?”

A flat, lifeless sound left Alastor’s throat. “Un… derstood.”

For a moment, Vox studied his hypnotized state, his expression complex a mix of satisfaction, distaste, and… something else. Then he worked with brisk precision. He carefully cut away fabric to expose the wound. The sight was grim: shredded flesh, dark pools of blood, the yellowish, holy-energy-tainted infection. Vox grimaced, cleaning with antiseptic and sterile gauze. Even under hypnosis, Alastor twitched faintly at each touch, but he didn’t resist just stared blankly ahead, his breathing shallow and steady.

When he finished, Vox applied a special ointment, then wrapped the wound tightly with clean bandages. Stepping back, he took a deep breath. “All done.” The light in his eyes dimmed. “Now wake up.”

The fog lifted abruptly. Alastor blinked, shook his head, trying to clear it. His thoughts were muddled, hazy. Then… then he remembered. Vox’s hand. That bright gaze. The loss of control… The surrender…

A violent wave of fury surged up, hotter than the wound’s pain. “YOU FOO—” He cut himself off, suddenly realizing he couldn’t move his arms. Shocked, he looked down. His wrists were bound to the bed/table rails with electric cords tight, flexible, unbreakable.

His breath hitched. His eyes moved from the restraints to Vox’s smug, knowing smirk. Hypnosis. Hypnosis one of Alastor’s deepest, most personal violations and Vox knew. He had used it against him. Then tied him down.

Vox shrugged. “Security protocol. Nothing personal.”

Alastor couldn’t speak. He was choking on rage. He just glared at Vox with pure hatred, ears pinned, teeth bared.

Vox ignored the silent fury. “Now, I’ll see what I can do for you while you rest.” He headed to the door. “Maybe I’ll bring you something.”

Alastor watched him go, the cords biting into his skin as he tested them.

Time passed again, this time layered with both pain and fury. Faint sounds drifted from somewhere far away perhaps a kitchen: the clatter of pans, something dropping to the floor.

Eventually, Vox returned with a steaming plate. The smell… was questionable. Burnt oil and the scent of an attempt gone wrong. He set it on the table just out of Alastor’s reach. On it was a piece of meat of dubious color and some crushed, watery vegetables.

“There,” Vox said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Food. Probably not as delicious as your awful cooking, but it’ll fill a hungry demon.”

Alastor looked at the plate. Then at Vox. His face was expressionless. “I’m in no mood, Vox. I’ve lost my appetite.” His tone was flat.

Vox frowned, then sighed, this time with deep impatience. “Look, Alastor,” he began, voice taut with fatigue. “Here, in my tower, I don’t have the ingredients for your precious gourmet tastes, okay? No fresh… prey. This,” he gestured to the plate, “is what you eat or you don’t. Your choice.” He gave him a long, pointed look. “But remember, that wound needs energy to heal. If you want to heal.”

Alastor said nothing. He just stared at the ceiling, refusing even to look at the plate.

Vox shook his head. “Fine. Your choice. Don’t pout.” He turned and left again, locking the door behind him.

Alastor was alone. Bound. Powerless. Wounded and before him sat the plate of inedible food, cooling and growing even more unappetizing. His fury was slowly giving way to exhaustion and pain but he would not yield. He would not eat. He wouldn’t give Vox that satisfaction. Even when the smell began to sour, he kept his eyes tightly shut, retreating into his dark thoughts.

The next day, the door opened again. Vox’s gaze went straight to the plate. It was still there untouched, cold, its fat congealed. He sighed, this time more like a growl. “Stubborn bastard,” he muttered audibly. Without another word, he left and slammed the door.

Alastor felt a flicker of victory but it didn’t last. Hunger was clawing at him now, gnawing at his stomach, making his head spin. The wound’s inflamed pain hadn’t lessened. He was still bound. He kept waiting.

This time, Vox’s absence was longer. When the door finally opened, the smell arrived first sharp, salty… and fresh. Fresh blood and muscle. Alastor’s mouth watered instantly. It was instinctive, deep, almost impossible to control. His eyes locked on the door.

Vox entered, carrying another plate but this time, on it sat a simply cooked piece of meat still steaming, juicy, and pink. Blood pooled at the bottom of the dish, its scent filling the room. Alastor’s stomach clenched in hunger. Demon meat.

Vox placed the plate right in front of him, replacing the previous abomination. Alastor couldn’t take his eyes off it. Fresh… perfectly cooked… The terrible hunger, that primal need, began to smother his anger and pride. He swallowed hard, though his mouth was dry.

Vox watched him, expression unreadable. Then he leaned over to Alastor’s bound wrists. With a press of a button, the electric cords buzzed, loosening and retracting. His hands were free but he had no strength to run. All his attention was on the plate before him.

Vox straightened and stepped back. He pointed to the plate, his voice low, firm, leaving no room for argument:

“Eat.”

Alastor’s eyes locked onto the fresh, steaming meat on the plate. That smell salty blood, cooked muscle, the primal, evocative scent of death filled his nostrils, seizing the most primitive part of his brain. The burning pain from the cursed wound in his chest, the rage rising from the ashes of his pride, the hatred for Vox… all of it was swept away in an instant by the wild, merciless hunger rising from deep within his gut. He needed energy to heal. This was energy.

His hands were free, but they trembled at first. Eating would mean submitting to Vox’s will. The thought turned his stomach but the meat… the meat was steaming. Pink, juicy, fresh. His mouth flooded with saliva, his glands betraying him as his throat burned with dryness. A swallow forced its way down.

Vox stood motionless, eyes fixed on him, waiting. That mocking smirk was gone; there was only a cold, analytical interest, as if he were watching an experiment.

At last, Alastor moved. His stiffened fingers, hardened by the time spent restrained, gripped the edge of the table and pushed himself upright. Every movement tugged at the wound in his chest, sending a sharp sting through his body but he no longer cared. His whole focus was on the plate, mere inches away.

Thin, long fingers, trembling, reached for it. The heat bit into his skin, but he didn’t pull back. He seized the piece of meat. A light scattering of salt and pepper clung to its surface. The cooking was simple, almost primitive yet freshness elevated it. His fingers sank into the tender flesh. Hot blood and juices seeped between them.

He paused for just one more moment. One last act of resistance. Then hunger, instinct, need won.

He brought it to his mouth. When his teeth tore into the flesh, an uncontrollable sound of satisfaction escaped him. Vitality. The caramelized outer layer from its short time over the fire, the perfect blush of pink within, the fat melting across his tongue… This was nothing like the vile concoction Vox had brought before. This was the purest, most primal sustenance Hell had to offer. The cannibal’s instinct roared in triumph.

Alastor began to eat. The initial hesitation transformed into a feral appetite. These were not small, thoughtful bites they were desperate, hungry chunks, torn away and chewed with almost violent determination. His jaw worked hard, meat juice and blood splattering the corners of his lips, dripping down his chin.

For a moment, he glanced at Vox. In those red eyes burned that dangerous glint that never truly left a demon, even while sharing a meal but now that glint was clouded with the satisfaction of a predator being fed. He was not grateful to Vox he could never be but he could acknowledge the quality of what was given.

When he swallowed the last mouthful, the plate was spotless. Only stains of grease and blood remained. He began licking his hands, fingers, and mouth, taking the last drops. A small patch of blood had bloomed on the bandages over his chest wound, but he no longer cared. His belly was full. The fire had been quenched. Strength, slow but certain, was flowing back into his veins.

“Vox.” His voice, after the meal, was stronger closer to its old confident timbre but there was a strain beneath it. “Now, I think it’s time we bring this charming visit to an end. I need to return to my hotel.” He spread his arms slightly, as if to say, Here I go. The motion pulled at the bandage on his chest, sending a fresh sting through it, but his expression didn’t change. Charlie and the others must be wondering where he’d disappeared to.

Vox tilted his head slightly. A glint of mockery flashed in his eyes. “To the hotel?” he repeated, his voice soft, almost contemplative. “Ah yes. Back to that little happy family. How touching.” The corner of his mouth curled in a small, sharp smile.

Alastor’s ears twitched an instinctive warning. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice losing just a hint of its confidence.

Vox slipped his hands into his pockets and stepped forward casually. “I just thought…” he began, drawing it out as though gathering his thoughts. “…you might have missed it. Maybe, in your little blackout, it passed you by or” his eyes locked with Alastor’s “maybe you just didn’t want to see.”

Alastor narrowed his eyes. “Tell me what I should have seen, Vox,” he growled. The anger was starting to bubble again, simmering beneath the weight of the meat in his stomach.

“Lucifer,” Vox said flatly. “Our Little King. After Adam’s attack… he appeared gloriously. Defended the hotel. Protected Charlie and that pitiful bunch of sinners.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “It was quite… a heroic scene. Everyone was entranced, of course. Especially Charlie. Seeing her father truly save her…” Vox shrugged. “No one even asked about you, Alastor. They saw you fall. They saw Adam tear you apart and then Lucifer arrived, with all his sparkle and power, and everyone’s attention was on him and you?” Vox shook his head. “They completely forgot you. Not one soul cared enough to wonder if you were still alive.”

Alastor could see it Charlie’s eyes, bright with pure trust, fixed on Lucifer. The others Angel Dust, Husk, maybe even Niffty staring in awe and relief at the King of Hell and him… lying there, bleeding out, forgotten. Was Vox right? In those moments he was unconscious, had no one truly noticed his absence? Had no one worried? Not even Charlie?

Crrk—

A burst of radio static, like a station losing signal, tore suddenly from Alastor’s throat. It was the sign he’d lost control. The carefully maintained calm on his face shattered. His eyes widened, the crimson glow inside them flickering, then narrowed into a blinding, pure rage. His ears went flat against his head sharp and threatening.

“GRRRKK—”

His teeth clenched so hard the grind of bone was audible. His hands gripped the edge of the table beside him, fingers whitening as if he meant to crush the metal. His whole body trembled not from weakness, but from the fury and wounded pride coursing through him. The bandage on his chest bloomed with a spreading dark-red stain; the wound had reopened under the violence of his anger. He didn’t even feel it.

Vox watched this reaction, cold satisfaction in his eyes. He’d hit his mark. Weakening Alastor’s body was one thing but piercing his sense of belonging shattering that fragile foothold he’d carved out for himself in Charlie’s hotel that was far more gratifying. He didn’t smirk. He simply stood there in serene triumph, facing the silent, bleeding fury he had created.

“I see the news ruined your mood,” Vox began. He took a step forward, reopening the first aid kit. “But this little emotional outburst of yours ruined my beautiful bandage.” He pulled out a pack of sterile gauze and an antiseptic bottle. “Take it off. I need to clean and redo it.”

Alastor snapped his head around. “Don’t touch me!” His voice splintered with broken radio frequencies. His teeth were still clenched, Lucifer’s heroics and the image of his own erasure gnawing at his mind.

Vox stopped with a deep sigh. He planted his hands on his hips. “Listen, Al. I could hypnotize and restrain you again but today I have neither the energy nor the patience for that. Your stubbornness is delaying my schedule.”

Right then, a sharp electronic melody chimed from Vox’s pocket Valentino’s personal ringtone. His expression shifted instantly. Sarcasm and irritation were replaced by a mask of professional courtesy and focus. He pulled out the phone, glanced at the screen, and a reluctant, well-practiced smile spread over his lips.

“Val,” he answered, his voice suddenly softened, dripping with an artificial warmth. He turned his back to Alastor, as though the call were something private. “Yes, yes, I was in the studio. I just took a little… break.” Valentino’s voice hissed through the speaker high-pitched, demanding. Vox rolled his eyes faintly, though his tone didn’t change. “That clothing line? Of course. Purple and fuchsia tones, right? It’s going to be perfect. I’ll have the lights and cameras ready first thing tomorrow morning. You just bring your models, darling. I’ll handle the rest.”

Alastor watched Vox’s transformation with a flat look of disgust. His ears tilted back slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line. Even the mention of Valentino’s name seemed to fill the air with the stench of cloying perfume and raw displays of power. That Vox could be so submissive, so cooperative toward that smug pornographic emperor… He rolled his eyes and looked away, fixing his gaze on the blank monitors across the room. What welled up inside him was hatred. Definitely hatred or… was it jealousy? No. Never. He didn’t care how much time Vox spent in Valentino’s arms or on his lap. Absolutely not. It was just that sickening closeness, that sharing of power… He swallowed, as though there were a knot in his chest, ignoring the ache in his wound.

“Of course, Val. Anything for you, baby,” Vox was saying, his voice coated in sticky sweetness. Another demand from Valentino made him pause for a heartbeat. His shoulders tightened, almost imperceptibly. “Yes, digitizing those old films… tricky work. Memory cards keep failing but don’t you worry, I’ll take care of it.” Finally, he hung up. As he slipped the phone into his pocket and turned back toward Alastor, the artificial warmth evaporated instantly, replaced with his usual razor-sharp smirk.

Alastor’s eyes were still on the monitors, but the tips of his ears twitched. A sly curve touched Vox’s lips.

“Oh, Alastor,” he began, his tone soft but laced with a blade’s edge of mockery. Slowly, deliberately, he crossed the room toward the table. “I can’t ignore that… sulky look in those deep red eyes. Don’t tell me my working hours with Val bothered you?” He tilted his head slightly, as if recalling something. “Ah, yes! You don’t have a little partnership of your own, do you? Always the lone wolf. Even with those silly little roles at Charlie’s hotel. No ties to anyone.”

Alastor slowly turned his head, his red eyes locking onto Vox’s blue ones. Only the faint tremor of his lower lip betrayed the effort it took to control his anger. Ties. Weaknesses. Burdens. I don’t need them. Yet the sting of Vox’s words cut deeper than the wound in his chest. A low radio static rose in his throat and he forced it down.

“Your rambling is enough to make my ears bleed, Vox,” he said, his voice dangerously low and controlled. “Listening to you flirt with that pornographic moth gave me déjà vu. You used to grovel like that with me. What a pitiful fall.”

For a fraction of a second, the blue glow in Vox’s eyes flared with anger, but his smirk didn’t falter. “Ah, the good old days. When you turned down all my offers and looked down on me but look—” he stepped closer, placing the kit on the table, “—who’s on top now? Me. and you? Forgotten in Lucifer’s shadow, bleeding out like some ghost from the radio age.” He reached toward the edge of the bandage. “Now. Hold still. No hypnosis this time but I’m doing it whether you want me to or not.”

Alastor wanted to recoil. Every fiber of him screamed against Vox’s touch but… the wound hurt worse than hearing Valentino’s name and Vox was right he had no strength, no escape. The thought that no one at Charlie’s hotel was even looking for him… His shoulders dipped ever so slightly. He closed his red eyes, turning his head to the side, jaw tight. A silent surrender. He would allow it.

Vox carefully removed the old bandage. The inflamed, bleeding wound was revealed. For a brief moment, Vox frowned, but he began to clean it. When the cold antiseptic touched the injury, Alastor’s whole body went rigid for an instant, a sharp breath escaping him but he didn’t move. His fingers dug into the edge of the table.

“See,” Vox murmured as he pressed the gauze gently, his voice surprisingly neutral, “not so bad. The ointment’s working. That cursed energy’s faded a bit. Maybe your little dark magic is chewing up Adam’s filth.” He wrapped the new bandage snugly, securing the edges neatly. “Still… you look fragile, Al.”

Alastor opened his eyes. His gaze traveled from Vox’s hands up to his face. Anger and disgust still churned inside him, but the physical relief the lightness of the clean dressing, the lessening pain was undeniable. It brought no gratitude, only a deeper sense of humiliation.

Vox stepped back, closing the kit. "Your visit isn’t over. Make yourself comfortable.” The door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place.

Alastor stared at the door for a moment longer, listening to the faint click of the electronic lock. Then he lifted his head and scanned the room again. Minimal. Cold. Technological. Just like Vox’s personality. His gaze drifted until it caught the faint glint of small black lenses in the corners, where the ceiling met the walls even under the desk. Cameras. They were everywhere. Not hidden, but openly placed. He was being watched. Constantly. Every movement, every expression, every moment of weakness was being recorded.

A deep disgust coiled in his chest. Privacy, having his own space, absolute control over his image… those were as essential to him as air but here, abandoned to Vox’s mercy, reduced to an object observed in every frame… His ears twitched with irritation as he leaned all the way back in his chair. He fixed his eyes on one of the cameras, its inner red light glowing with a threatening pulse. Disappear.

Nothing happened.

The shadows quivered, hovering uncertainly, but couldn’t touch the camera lens. The sacred wound from Adam and Vox’s suppressive field still held his powers behind a fogged curtain. The cold, black eye of the camera remained unchanged, staring. He was being violated. Recorded. Stripped of control.

A deep sigh escaped him, mingling with the static in his throat. His shoulders slumped; he felt more exhausted than he ever had before. His pride was wounded. He leaned forward on the desk, head slightly bowed. He didn’t even have the energy to resist not right now.

His eyes slid toward a camera mounted on the opposite wall. The lens stared back, blankly. He considered for a moment. Then, almost in a whisper yet still loud enough to carry in the room’s stillness he spoke. Directly to the lens. “At the very least…” He paused, as if forcing the words out. “…could I get a cup of coffee? Black. Bitter.” He didn’t look away from the camera. This wasn’t surrender just a necessity. A sliver of comfort in this technological hell and maybe, just maybe, a way to see Vox’s reaction.

The room was silent. Only the constant hum of the fluorescents and the rasp of Alastor’s breathing filled the air. The camera didn’t move.

Then, perhaps a minute or two later, the air in the center of the room began to shimmer. Blue electrical sparks danced, gathering, condensing. The scent of ozone drifted in as static crackled. In a heartbeat, Vox appeared, as if he’d never been gone. In his hand, a plain porcelain cup, steam curling from its rim. No ornate designs just simple, white.

Vox raised an eyebrow at Alastor, though he didn’t seem surprised. Amused, if anything. “Coffee?” he repeated, his voice a mix of faint astonishment and mockery. “Really? I tie you up, hypnotize you, you curse at me… and now you’re ordering coffee? Bold of you, I’ll give you that.” Still, he set the cup on the desk, right in front of Alastor. The aroma was strong, dark, roasted, and unmistakably bitter exactly how Alastor preferred it. No milk, cream, or sugar. Vox knew his habits.

Alastor looked at the cup. He could feel the heat radiating off the surface. Familiar, comforting scent. Instinctively, his fingers wrapped around it, warmth seeping into his palms. For a moment, he simply stayed like that, processing the paradox of such a small act of kindness.

Then he lifted his eyes to Vox, red irises holding a tangle of emotions suspicion, refusal to be grateful, and deep unease.

Vox noticed Alastor staring at him. “Don’t complain. You got what you wanted.”

At last, Alastor brought the cup to his lips. The first sip burned his tongue slightly, but it was exactly what he expected intense, bitter, earthy, without a hint of softness or subtlety. Just his style. The heat spread through his chest, bringing a fleeting sense of relief. He closed his eyes and took another sip. A momentary physical comfort.

Vox observed the small surrender in silence. Alastor’s usually tense jaw had loosened, his shoulders lowered slightly. The deep lines of his face softened. Strong, yet fragile. The mocking glint in Vox’s eyes faded, replaced by a darker, more contemplative scrutiny. For a moment, he said nothing only watched Alastor give himself over to the warmth and familiar bitterness of the coffee.

“You look… content,” Vox finally said, his voice unusually soft, almost thoughtful. His eyes scanned the fleeting calm on Alastor’s face. “Maybe, aside from our… differences, we could find some common ground. At least when it comes to coffee.”

Alastor opened his eyes, setting the cup down. That fleeting calm dissolved under Vox’s words and gaze. His red eyes narrowed, their light sharpening with cold alertness. Gratitude? Never. This had been a moment of weakness one Vox had witnessed. The comfort of the coffee now left a bitter aftertaste of humiliation.

“Common ground,” Alastor repeated, his voice losing the temporary smoothness the coffee had lent it, turning sharp again, dangerous. “Between your technological ostentation and my… needs?” A thin, insincere smile curled his lips. “This coffee, Vox, isn’t common ground. It’s a prize given to a captive. Not to make me comfortable just to flaunt your generosity and you,” he nudged the cup slightly, “know that perfectly well.”

Vox’s grin widened, though there was a spark in his eyes. He didn’t deny it. “Maybe but you drank it and you relaxed just a little.” He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. “Maybe… staying here a while longer wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

Alastor’s fingers twitched slightly against the edge of the desk. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. He’d have to play Vox’s game. Wait for his moment.

“Maybe,” Alastor conceded, his voice slipping back into that smooth, controlled radio tone though the chill beneath it remained. His gaze locked directly on Vox’s. “But be careful, Vox. Feeding a captive doesn’t dull his claws. It only… sharpens them.”

The blue light in Vox’s eyes flared, as if accepting the challenge. “I look forward to seeing those claws, Alastor,” he replied, his voice low and dangerously amused. “For now… enjoy the coffee.” He gave a slight nod, then vanished in a flash of blue static and ozone, leaving behind a dangerously quiet Radio Demon.

Hours later time seemed to stand still in the cold, technological room of Vox’s tower. Alastor sat by the edge of the table, feeling the ache beneath the bandage on his chest, lightly tapping the cold metal surface with his fingertips.

The electronic buzzing and clicking of the door pulled him away from those dark thoughts. He lifted his head, his red eyes fixed on the door. Vox had returned but this time, his return was very different from before.

Vox staggered inside. His expensive shirt was torn to shreds, hanging off his shoulders and back. His left arm bore deep scratches, bruised fingerprints, and dark blue-purple marks that looked like bite marks. His lips were split, blood trickled down his chin and neck from somewhere. His hair was disheveled, the gleam in his eyes gone, replaced by deep exhaustion. His breath was hoarse and irregular. The air around him carried a strong scent of perfume, sweat, and... fresh, metallic blood. Valentino’s signature.

Alastor’s eyes suddenly narrowed. His full attention focused on this wounded, vulnerable Vox entering the room. Something strange and contradictory stirred within him: a mixture of shock and... satisfaction? Seeing Vox like this was like cold balm to the fire of his own anger.

Vox seemed unaware that Alastor was awake. His vacant gaze was fixed on the opposite wall, the bathroom door. He started walking toward the bathroom, his steps heavy and uncertain. Passing by Alastor, he didn’t even spare him a glance.

The bathroom door opened. Sounds of running water began.

Alastor looked down at his fingers gripping the edge of the table tightly. The pain from his wound was still there; moving wasn’t wise but… curiosity. Pure, relentless curiosity. He wanted to see how badly Vox was hurt. To witness that vulnerability, the shattering of that pride firsthand. It would be a small revenge for what Vox had done to him.

Slowly and carefully, he rose to his feet. Every muscle tensed like a sharp blade stabbing his chest. He clenched his teeth, suppressing a groan. To keep his balance, he held onto the table. After the dizziness passed, he started toward the bathroom door not with confident steps, but staggering, leaning against the wall for support.

The bathroom door wasn’t fully closed; it was slightly ajar. Alastor approached silently, fixing his red eyes through the gap.

Vox stood by the sink, his back turned toward the door. He had completely removed the torn shirt and thrown it to the floor. His back was a wreck. Deep claw marks, dark purple fingerprints, large bruises, and even some wounds resembling bite marks covered his skin. A long, angry red scratch stretched along his spine. Under his left shoulder blade, the skin was raw and bleeding. Vox’s head was bowed, his hands gripping the edges of the sink tightly. His shoulders trembled with pain and exhaustion. He turned on the water, washed his hands, then tried to wipe the blood from his face with trembling, wet hands. A sudden sharp pain made him flinch.

Watching this scene, a complicated storm brewed inside Alastor. Pleasure. Yes, there was definitely a pleasure in seeing Vox’s fall, his pride shattered… it eased the pain of his own captivity. What Valentino had done the control, possession, and pain Vox had inflicted on him felt reflected. Satisfaction.

But then… something unexpected and unwanted arose. Familiarity. This scene the fragility behind a seemingly strong person, the loneliness beneath pride reminded Alastor of himself. Of the things hidden behind his smile at Charlie’s hotel. This parallel was unsettling and for a brief moment, through that pleasure and satisfaction, a small, repulsive spark of mercy slipped out. It rose from the depths of his hatred, surprising him with its speed, then was immediately suppressed. Weakness. Unforgivable but it was there.

Vox leaned on the sink, struggling to breathe. He still seemed unaware or indifferent to Alastor’s presence. Alastor stood silently in the doorway, his red eyes recording the damage on Vox’s back. Then, something happened that even surprised himself. He spoke, his voice stripped of its usual mockery, flat and almost neutral. “Looks like... things went pretty badly.”

Vox’s shoulders suddenly stiffened. He slowly turned his head, his blurry blue eyes locking with Alastor’s red ones in the doorway. Surprise turned into deep shame. He realized his vulnerable state was being observed. He pursed his lips, trying to respond sarcastically, but his voice was quiet and pained. “I wouldn’t want to spoil your viewing pleasure, Alastor, but go. Go back to your room.” He tried to turn back to the sink, but a movement triggered a wound on his back, and he gritted his teeth in pain.

Alastor didn’t move. His eyes fixed on one of the worst wounds on Vox’s back the deep, bleeding scratch. His mind raced. This was an opportunity. Vox was weak. Distracted. Maybe... maybe a chance to escape or... something else. That disgusting little spark inside him was shining again. His voice came out at a level that made him feel like he was losing control. “That wound... needs cleaning.” He stepped forward, pushing the bathroom door a little wider. “Do you need help?”

Vox quickly turned his head again, his eyes wide with surprise and disbelief. There was no mockery, no game, no cruel joke on Alastor’s face. Just... a straightforward, questioning look. This caught Vox off guard. For a moment, he just looked at Alastor, breathing. His face revealed the inner conflict: pain, pride, doubt, and... a tiny, weak spark of hope.

In the end, pride won. The surprise in his eyes gave way to a familiar, sharp defensiveness. “Ha! You?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Sweetheart, you can barely stand. Deal with your own bleeding wounds. You’re not here to take care of my business. Now,” he added firmly, turning his head toward the bathroom stall, “get out. I want privacy.” His voice cracked on the last word, betraying his physical and emotional exhaustion.

That “sweetheart” sounded like a bitter, mocking echo of Vox's address to Valentino. mixing pain and scorn. The little spark of mercy inside Alastor instantly vanished, replaced by anger. He was right. What was he doing? Even if Vox was crushed under Valentino’s whip, it wasn’t his problem. That moment of weakness, that small deviation... was unacceptable.

All expression vanished from his face, replaced by the old, cold, dangerous calm. Nothing showed in his red eyes. He bowed his head slightly, almost like a salute. “Of course, Vox,” his voice returned to that dangerous tone. “Don’t expect to see me.” He took a step back and slowly, quietly closed the door. He looked once more at the closed door, hearing the water running inside and a suppressed cough.

Then, staggering, feeling the pain in his chest with every step, he returned to the bed his own prison.

He sat down, fixing his eyes on the closed bathroom door across the room. A grin, a real grin this time, appeared at the corner of his lips with genuine pleasure. Vox’s pain... could be useful. That’s why bonds were dangerous. There was always a price and now, the price Valentino was making Vox pay could work to Alastor’s advantage.

When his strength fully returned, he would use this knowledge. He waited. He listened. As the water sound mixed with the hum of the tower, a faint locking click came from behind the door. Vox was even cautious in his vulnerability. Alastor’s grin widened. It was going to get much more interesting.

The sound of water from the bathroom door stopped. There was a long silence. Then the door opened and Vox stepped out. He wore a clean, dark gray sweatshirt and comfortable pants. The electric spark in his eyes was still dimmed, replaced by a dull weariness. He moved toward the empty chair by the table, but just before sitting down, he noticed Alastor sitting on the bed, his red eyes delicately scanning him. Alastor's gaze was no longer filled with pure hatred like before, but rather... analytical curiosity.

Vox rolled his eyes. “What?”

Alastor tilted his head slightly to the side. Vox’s defensive shell was much more familiar and predictable than his vulnerable state in the bathroom earlier. His voice was deliberately soft, almost thoughtful. “I was just curious, my dear friend.” He said “friend” with a poisonous sweetness. “Amidst all this... I found myself stuck on a question.” His red eyes fixed on Vox’s face. “Why aren’t you at home, but here? In this cold, soulless technological graveyard? When you could be healing your wounds there, in your own comfort?”

Vox tensed suddenly. He shrugged and grimaced in pain. “I have work here,” he replied, his voice flat and tired. “And I was bringing this here...” With a sudden move, he grabbed a large, black bag beside his chair and set it on the table. As he unzipped it, he gave Alastor a brief, meaningless look.

Alastor’s ears perked up. His eyes locked onto the bag. Vox unzipped it all the way and emptied its contents onto the table.

Alastor’s breath caught. His eyes widened.

Alastor’s favorite, antique-looking radio microphone. The faint scent of maintenance oil still lingering.

Several old, leather-bound notebooks filled with program notes and personal thoughts.

His beloved thin-rimmed glasses.

A small, detailed model of the radio tower. Probably made by Niffty.

Even a familiar bottle of sharp, spicy liquor.

These were his personal belongings. From the radio tower. His home. A perfume of his presence, preferences, personality spread through the air. They brought a strange, warm familiarity to this cold, technological cage.

Alastor couldn’t speak. For a moment, he was utterly stunned. His eyes flicked from the microphone to the notebooks, then to Vox’s face. What did this mean?

Seeing Alastor’s shock, a small, tired curve appeared at the corner of Vox’s lips. It wasn’t quite a grin. More like... a kind of satisfaction. “I brought your things here,” he said, still flat but with an underlying tension. “From your... sanctuary. Figured you’d be more comfortable. You’d get grumpy without your own microphone.” He emphasized “grumpy” lightly, as if implying Alastor was a cranky child.

Alastor couldn’t say a word. There was a strange, tight feeling in his chest. Anger? Definitely anger. Vox had trespassed into his most personal space, his tower, rummaged through his things, and brought them into this... this prison. It was the ultimate violation of his privacy! His ears wanted to flatten back, teeth to bare.

But... beneath it all was something else. Affection. Disgusting, unacceptable, but undeniable affection. Vox had done this. For him. He had thought about his comfort, his habits. “Figured you’d be more comfortable.” That sentence echoed in Alastor’s mind. No one... no one had ever thought about his comfort so concretely. Even Charlie might want a general “well-being,” but this... this was specific. This meant he knew him. Selecting and bringing his personal belongings... it was care, a show of attention and that care came from Vox.

He was burning with this contradiction. Anger, the discomfort of being violated... and beneath it, a sly warmth. His red eyes fixed on the familiar shape of his microphone. His fingers twitched lightly, resisting the urge to touch it. He tried carefully to keep his expression neutral, but the slight softening at the corners of his eyes and the ears held upright no longer flattened back betrayed the storm inside.

Vox watched this silent reaction. Then he pulled out his phone and turned to it. He scrolled the screen with his finger, wearing a professional mask. “Now you can feel at home,” he said, deliberately uneven, still focused on his phone. “Or at least, as much as possible in this metal box.” He seemed to be checking messages from Valentino, his brows furrowed slightly.

Alastor noticed Vox avert his gaze and dive into his phone. It was a defense. An attempt to put emotional distance. This showed Vox knew how fragile, how personal this gesture was. That thought fed Alastor’s feeling of “affection” a little more. Yet it also caused deep discomfort. Vox knowing him this closely... was dangerous.

Finally, Alastor spoke. “A rather... thoughtful gesture, Vox. You surprised me.” His eyes still on the microphone, he reached out, lightly touching the antique metal body with his fingertips. The familiar coldness connected him to his roots, to his power.

Without lifting his head from the phone, Vox muttered, “Just a practical move. While I’m keeping you locked up here, so you don’t get too grumpy. My head hurts enough already.” He pocketed the phone and stood, trying to suppress the pain in his back. “Now, play with your things. I have real world problems to deal with.” Passing by Alastor’s personal items on the table, he paused briefly. Leaning slightly toward the microphone, he spoke in a low voice only Alastor could hear. “And don’t forget, Al. You’re here. In my tower. Even if your microphone is here... you are here.”

It was a reminder. A threat. Vox had given Alastor comfort by bringing his microphone, but also held his most important symbol hostage. He had moved part of Alastor’s power into his own domain.

Vox walked toward the door. The door locked behind him.

By midday the next day, Alastor was sitting upright in his chair, head bent over one of the old, leather-bound notebooks in his hands. The pages were filled with elegant, slanted handwriting notes, sketches, and perhaps dark ideas for future radio programs. For a while, his focus dulled the ache and the anger. Then, to better make out a line of smaller writing on the page, he reached for the spectacles resting on the desk.

He took the thin frames delicately, hooking the arms behind his ears. The gold rims sat perfectly against his sharply cut features, the fringe of hair falling over his forehead framing them with a subtle elegance. The glasses amplified his already distinct mix of intellect and faint menace, lending him an air of dangerous wisdom. Stylish, old-fashioned and undeniably handsome. They were not merely a functional tool, but an extension of his personal image.

Just then, the door opened quietly. Vox stepped inside, carrying a tray: two simple but neatly made sandwiches and two glasses of water. He wasn’t covered in blood like the day before, but there was still a stiffness in his movements. “Lunch,” he muttered, the usual bite in his tone slightly dulled.

Then he looked up and saw Alastor.

Vox froze mid-step. His eyes swept over the figure at the desk: spectacles in place, entirely absorbed in his notebook. For the briefest moment short, but distinct it was as if his breath caught. A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his surprise. Alastor had always carried a peculiar sort of allure part of the danger he exuded. “You’ve cleaned yourself up,” Vox murmured, his voice carrying an unintentional note of appreciation. He quickly recovered, setting the tray down. “At least in appearance.”

Alastor lifted his head slowly. Behind the glass, those red eyes locked on Vox. “Appearance, my dear, is where everything begins.” He adjusted the frames lightly with his fingertips.

Vox placed the sandwiches and water on the table. “Lunch,” he repeated, this time with a harder edge. He dragged his own chair right up beside Alastor’s a move that felt deliberate, perhaps to mask his vulnerability from the day before, perhaps something else entirely. “I hope you’ll be leaving soon. Your melodramatic presence is hell on my nervous system.”

Alastor didn’t remove the glasses. Still wearing them, he closed his notebook and pushed it aside. He looked at the plate: simple chicken sandwiches with lettuce and tomato. Considerably more edible than Vox’s earlier, more… questionable culinary attempts. Perhaps he had put in some effort. Alastor took one sandwich. Vox took the other.

They ate in silence for a while. The glass of Alastor’s spectacles remained clear, his red eyes occasionally flicking to Vox’s face to the dark circles beneath his eyes, the split in his lip. Every movement betrayed the pain he was in. The sight stirred something in Alastor that was equal parts fury, contempt… and a darker, quieter satisfaction.

For his part, Vox tried not to look at Alastor, who was focusing on his sandwich behind his glasses, though his gaze kept sliding sideways toward those golden frames and sharp eyes. Vox had brought a piece of Alastor’s personal belongings into his own fortress, making him feel like an intruder in his own domain. The discomfort showed in the faint tension on his face.

“The hotel,” Vox said suddenly, his voice muffled by a mouthful of bread. The timing was deliberate. “In your absence… it’s surprisingly functional. Lucifer’s been keeping the little princess entertained with every clown trick in the book. Everyone’s happy.” He took another bite, watching Alastor for a reaction.

Alastor’s chewing stopped immediately. Behind the glasses, his red eyes fixed on Vox with icy sharpness. Lucifer. Charlie. Being forgotten. “Charlie’s happiness is always the priority,” he said, voice dangerously flat and artificial. “If Lucifer’s… contributions provide temporary amusement, so be it.”

Vox arched a brow, smirking faintly. “Contributions? He’s running it, Alastor. Since Adam’s attack, our King seems to think of himself as a permanent fixture at the hotel. A hero in Charlie’s eyes. He’s already taken your place.” He let the poison drip slowly. “Maybe you don’t need to go back at all. You could… stay here as my guest. Longer.”

Alastor set his sandwich down on the plate. In one swift movement, he removed his glasses, folded them, and placed them neatly beside his belongings. Without them, the fury in his red eyes was raw, feral. He looked directly at Vox, leaning into their closeness.

“Listen to me, little screen,” he said, his voice low and crackling with static, the tips of his ears twitching in warning. “That is my place. My project.” His eyes drifted briefly to the marks on Vox’s face. “And you,” he went on, voice deathly soft, “how long do you think you can keep me locked in this technological graveyard? When my power returns, Vox… you will be the first I deal with. Then Lucifer. That is a promise.”

The room thickened under the weight of the threat. Vox saw the unfiltered rage in his eyes it wasn’t a bluff. It was an oath.

Vox rose to his feet. “Big talk, Al but right now,” he gestured to Alastor’s still-bandaged chest and weary posture, “you’re in my tower. You play by my rules.” Yet he could already feel Alastor’s strength bleeding back in the room dimmed slightly, shadows in the corners twitching. The suppression field must still have been working, but Alastor’s will seemed strong enough to push against it.

“Get out,” Alastor commanded, his voice sharp, leaving no room for argument. No longer a prisoner but a predator reclaiming his territory. “Now.”

Vox hesitated. His pride balked at retreat but the deadly seriousness in Alastor’s eyes, the oppressive darkness pressing in, sparked an instinctive flicker of fear. He clenched his teeth, gave a derisive snort. “Fine. I’ll let you rest.” Picking up the tray, he headed for the door. At the threshold, he paused, not looking back, his voice low and layered with something complicated. “The glasses… they suit you, by the way.” Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Alastor remained motionless. Vox’s final words echoed in his mind. They suit you. An unexpected, honest compliment. In the middle of his fury, a strange warmth stirred inside him quickly smothered. Weakness. Manipulation. One of Vox’s games, surely.

The silence in the room was broken a few hours later.

Alastor lifted his head, still busy repairing his microphone, red eyes shifting to the door. He was expecting Vox probably to drop in with a sarcastic comment after lunch, or to check on his recovery.

It wasn’t Vox.

Valentino stood in the doorway. Tall, imposing, the heavy scent of cologne and cigarettes flooded the room instantly. His coat hung loose off his shoulders, his face carrying that familiar expression of jaded superiority. When his gaze landed on Alastor, he merely narrowed his eyes in a brief, dismissive sweep. He didn’t look surprised. More like… confronted with something distasteful, and choosing to ignore it.

“Vox?” Valentino called out, his voice sharp, demanding, with a mocking lilt. When no answer came, he muttered under his breath, “Of course, once again…” He strode straight to Vox’s cluttered work desk, completely ignoring Alastor’s presence.

Alastor was caught off guard. The audacity…? Did Valentino walk into Vox’s most personal space, uninvited, this casually and while Vox wasn’t even here? And to see him here and remain so unconcerned… this was not the scenario Alastor had anticipated. He set his microphone down slowly, turning his full attention to the irritating intruder.

Valentino reached for the keyboard of Vox’s main computer and woke the screen. The bright blue light illuminated his face. His fingers danced over the keys with quick, practiced precision. Windows popped open and closed; lines of code scrolled past; encrypted-looking files appeared and vanished. Alastor, who held nothing but disdain for anything beyond his own antique technology, couldn’t help feeling curious. What was he doing? Breaking into Vox’s systems? Hunting for something else entirely?

He rose silently from his seat, ignoring the ache in his chest, and moved close enough behind Valentino to see the screen. He didn’t understand it. The shifting numbers and symbols, the colorful graphs all meaningless to him but he made a mental note of a few things: a flashing red error reading “ERR: 451”; a string of numbers typed furiously by Valentino; and the make of the small, black USB stick Valentino shoved into the port.

Just then, Valentino turned his head and noticed Alastor standing right behind him. Their eyes met red locking onto dark. Alastor, remembering Vox’s surveillance system, deliberately glanced toward the nearest camera. Are you seeing this, Vox? he thought. This intruder is here but the camera light remained a steady, unblinking red. No reaction. Vox was either not watching… or didn’t care.

Valentino met his gaze without flinching, then let out a short, irritated huff. He set a large designer bag on the desk and pulled out a thin, silver laptop sleeker and far less “techie” looking than Vox’s equipment, but clearly expensive. He flipped it open; the screen glowed to life.

Then he turned directly to Alastor, giving him a slow, full-body glance. His lips curled into an expression equal parts disgust and disdain.

“Do you know.." Valentino asked sharply, nodding toward the silver laptop. "That bitch’s password?” The crude insult toward Vox caught even Alastor off guard. The sheer venom in his tone was unmistakable.

Alastor raised his brows slightly, keeping his expression a mask of bland detachment. “Dear Valentino,” he began, his tone faintly mocking, “I haven’t the faintest interest in the… intimate details of your special arrangement with Vox. Passwords are of no concern to me. Why would I know?”

Valentino’s eyes narrowed further, as though catching the sarcasm. He pressed his lips together, then smacked the laptop’s keys in frustration. “He changes it every damn time. Paranoid freak.” His fury toward Vox was almost palpable in the room.

Alastor watched silently, his mind turning over. Have they fallen out? Valentino seemed angry over Vox locking him out over passwords, access, control. This wasn’t a simple spat. It looked like a power struggle. Was Vox slipping out of Valentino’s control? Or was Valentino demanding more than Vox would give? The dynamic was… unexpected and potentially useful.

Valentino kept hammering at the keys for a while, but it was clear he couldn’t get into Vox’s system. At last, he slammed the laptop shut and stuffed it back into his bag. His gaze flicked to Alastor again this time with sharper focus, as though suddenly taking him in properly.

“You,” Valentino hissed, stabbing a finger in Alastor’s direction. “Why is that bastard bothering with you? What’s his reason for keeping you here?” His eyes darted to Alastor’s bandaged chest, then around the room the personal items Vox had brought for him. Suspicion mixed with contempt on his face. “Is he looking after you? Is he… interested?” The last word dripped with derision, the implication clear.

Alastor stood unmoved, meeting Valentino’s stare with perfect composure. A thin, dangerous smile crept onto his lips. “Ah, Valentino,” he said softly, every word edged with a cutting mockery. “Jealousy makes you ugly. If you’re so concerned about who holds Vox’s attention, perhaps you should reconsider your… business arrangement with him.” He tilted his head just slightly. “Maybe you’re simply not… entertaining enough anymore?”

Valentino’s face flushed a deep, furious red. “SHUT UP!” he shrieked. He stepped forward, hand raised as if to strike.

The door opened. Vox walked in, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a folder of papers in the other. He took in the scene instantly: Valentino, furious and aggressive; Alastor, calm and dangerously provoking.

“Val?” Vox’s voice was carefully neutral, but tension lay under the surface. “What are you doing here? I was expecting you in the studio.”

Valentino snapped his head toward Vox, redirecting all his rage. “Where the hell were you?!” he barked. “What is this trash doing in your tower? What games are you playing with him, Vox?” He jabbed a finger toward Alastor.

Vox stepped in between them his body an unconscious barrier. He shot Alastor a sharp, warning glance: Don’t. Then, to Valentino, “Alastor’s here recovering, Val. Adam nearly tore him apart, remember? And he’s… a strategic asset.” His tone was calm, professional, almost soothing. “Why don’t we head to the studio? We can talk about those new camera angles. You’ll love them.” He put deliberate emphasis on “for you.”

Valentino’s eyes flicked from Vox to Alastor, then back again. His anger hadn’t fully cooled, but Vox’s choice of words “strategic” seemed to catch his interest. He threw Alastor one last look of pure disdain.

“If this thing stays here, lock the door, Vox,” Valentino hissed. “The smell alone is disgusting.” He grabbed Vox’s arm, hard. “Come on. Now.”

As Valentino dragged him out, Vox cast Alastor one last complicated glance. The door slammed shut behind them, followed by the click of a lock.

Alastor was alone. The tips of his ears twitched faintly.

His eyes landed on the small, black USB stick still plugged into Vox’s main computer the one Valentino had used. It was still there, quietly in place. He glanced toward the corner camera. The red light remained steady. Was Vox watching now or had Valentino pulled him into the studio?

A slow, thoughtful grin spread across Alastor’s face. This unplanned visit had brought not just confusion but opportunity and Alastor never let an opportunity slip.

He looked at the USB again. Perhaps… just perhaps… there was a way to work around his technological ignorance or at the very least, inject a little more chaos into Vox’s systems.

He ignored the ache in his chest as he lowered himself into the chair in front of the computer. The keyboard felt foreign and complicated. The device called a mouse was even stranger. His mastery of antique radio equipment was useless against this digital beast. Should he remove the USB? Or leave it in and try something? His fingers hovered over the keys before pressing a few at random. The screen went black, then returned with a bright blue background and a row of icons. He understood nothing.

With a mutter of, “Nonsense,” he decided to try something more aggressive. He picked up the mouse and clicked on a random icon. A window opened, filled with file names and small thumbnails. His gaze caught on a folder labeled V_Archive. It had to be Vox’s personal archive. Intriguing. Without being entirely sure how he was even moving the cursor, he hovered over the folder and clicked.

The folder opened. Inside were hundreds, maybe thousands, of digital photos. They were arranged in small thumbnails. Alastor’s red eyes drifted across the screen. Most showed Vox’s technological accomplishments, professionally shot portraits, maybe a few old recordings from Overlord meetings. Boring. Then, as he scrolled toward the bottom, something different caught his eye.

These photos were far more personal. Far more revealing.

Vox was there but not the Vox he knew. His hair was tousled, his smile easy and… surprisingly attractive. The sharpness in his eyes had been replaced by a warm glimmer. In one photo, he was sipping a cocktail by the beach. In another, he was reading a book, brows furrowed in concentration, wearing thin-framed glasses. Alastor’s gaze flicked, unbidden, to his own glasses lying on the desk.

And then… this was far more than before. Vox, lying in bed, a sheet draped loosely around his hips, upper body completely bare. His figure was soft yet defined; above his slender waist was a graceful curve, his breasts partially visible from beneath the sheet. He looked straight into the camera with a confident, alluring smirk. The elegant slope of his shoulders, the delicate line of his neck, the defiant glint in his eyes… unquestionably seductive.

The next photos were even more suggestive: a silhouette in a steam-filled shower; with a wine glass pressed to his lips; an older, more intimate shot with Valentino, though Vox’s focus was entirely on the camera…

Alastor froze.

No anger, no disgust, no mockery… just pure, jolting shock. To see Vox like this… vulnerable. His allure unmistakable and undeniable. This was in complete contrast to the arrogant, tech-obsessed enemy in his mind.

A strange, tight feeling bloomed in his chest. His ears flushed hot. He tore his eyes from the screen, head turning slightly aside. These photos were a reminder that Vox was not merely an Overlord, but a being with complexities, weaknesses and… desires and these images… were an uninvited glimpse into his most intimate world. Why were they kept here, on this computer?

Alastor returned to his desk to collect himself. He picked up his microphone but couldn’t find the concentration needed to fix it. His eyes drifted to one of the notebooks Vox had brought.

Then, an idea struck him. Malicious, sarcastic, and just his style. He grabbed a pen and began writing in elegant, slanted letters:

"Dear Cage Keeper,
I see you’re making extraordinary efforts for the comfort of your 'strategic asset.' The microphone... even my glasses! How thoughtful. I wonder, does this care extend the duration of my captivity? Or perhaps it leaves room for another, more personal kind of interest? Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me."

He folded the note and placed it conspicuously on the corner of the desk where Vox usually left his coffee cup. A satisfied smirk played on his lips. Sending these little poisonous arrows... made him feel like he had a bit of control.

The next day, when Vox entered the room, he first set down the coffee tray and then noticed the folded paper on the corner of the desk. Frowning, he opened the note and read it.

Alastor watched him as if reading a book. A small, reluctant curl appeared at the corner of Vox’s lips. He squinted at Alastor, then folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t respond but in the afternoon, a new small piece of paper appeared beside Alastor’s microphone:

"Being ‘thoughtful’ is less tiring than listening to a grumpy guest like you constantly complain. Don’t worry about my secrets; they’re not as interesting as yours. Your coffee is getting cold."

Alastor let out a soft grunt as he read the note. “Grumpy,” he muttered.

Some notes disappeared. Alastor noticed that the note he left on Vox’s coffee tray “This coffee is as bland as your company.” never got a reply. Vox had kept it. Likewise, after reading the note Vox attached to his computer, "Your archive... is intriguing." implying he’d seen some photos, Vox tore it up. This silent exchange was becoming an unexpected ritual. A kind of game. A kind of... bond.

One morning, Vox entered the room carrying a rather large cardboard sign. He leaned it against Alastor’s desk. On it, a headline was written in bold, colorful letters:

MANDATORY RULES

Alastor raised his eyebrows and began to read. Vox stood in the corner, waiting.

1. Coffee Complaints Are Forbidden: If you don’t like it, make your own.
2. Radio Signal Broadcasting: You’re frying the electronics in the tower. Play quietly with your microphone.
3. Shadow Plays Are Forbidden: Do not perform puppet shows alone in the room. (You lack a puppeteering license.)
4. Valentino Comments: Stop making constant sarcastic remarks about Val. It’s not that funny.
5. Escape Plan Sharing: Don’t mutter your escape plans aloud. It raises expectations and causes disappointment.
6. Heal: I’m making this mandatory. Constant whining is demoralizing.

As Alastor read the list, the sarcastic expression on his face slowly turned into genuine amusement. An involuntary smile appeared at the corner of his lips. “How comprehensive,” he muttered with clear sarcasm in his voice. “I see I’m receiving special treatment to stay under your little dictatorship, Vox.” He tapped the rule list lightly. “Especially rule number 4... interesting.”

Vox shrugged, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Just keeping order in our shared living space, Al. You need rules too. A bit of structure will do you good.” His gaze flicked to Alastor’s still bandaged chest. “And try to stick to rule six. Seriously.”

Alastor said nothing, only glanced over the list again. His smile had vanished, but a glint remained in his eyes. Later that day, when Vox entered the room, Alastor was quietly fiddling with his microphone, producing no static or interference. The shadows flickering in the corners were gone. Vox raised his eyebrows. Alastor glanced at him from the corner of his eye and then went back to his work. A small, surprised curl appeared on Vox’s lips.

The next morning, Vox entered the room looking unusually flustered. “The upper floor,” he explained briefly, “experienced an energy surge. There’s a leak in this room. Until the repair team arrives, this place isn’t safe.” He ran his hand along the leaking wall; a faint electrical crackle and ozone smell filled the air. “Pack your things. You’re moving to another room.”

Alastor frowned. “Another room? I doubt this tower even has a guest room.”

Vox sighed. “No. There’s no guest room. You’re moving into my room.” Seeing Alastor’s shocked expression, he added, “Temporary solution. Repairs will take a few hours, maybe a day. It’ll be done by morning.” His tone was firm, not up for debate. “Come on. Move.”

Entering Vox’s personal space... The idea unsettled Alastor, but there was no alternative. He packed his belongings and followed Vox down the corridors.

Vox’s room was more... normal than he expected. Still filled with monitors and technology, but less flashy and more functional. In one corner was a large, comfortable-looking armchair, a piece of abstract art hung on the wall, and a few books piled near the window. At the center of the room, a wide, modern bed.

“There,” Vox said, pointing to the door. “For you. I’ll be at the monitors tonight anyway.” He gestured toward his desk and the large security screens on the wall. “Sleep. Heal. Rule six.” There was a slight teasing tone in his last sentence.

Alastor eyed the bed warily. Vox’s scent lingered in the room. That would make it hard to relax but he was tired. The pain from his wound was a constant drone. He left his things on the chair and sat at the edge of the bed. It was hard. Uncomfortably modern.

Vox moved to his desk, turned on the monitors, and put on his headset. Apart from the clicking of the keyboard and soft sounds from the screens, the room was silent. Alastor leaned back and closed his eyes but he couldn’t sleep. Vox’s presence was unsettling. He opened his eyes and looked at the light on the ceiling. Hours seemed to pass. Vox muttered occasionally, spoke into his headset, watched the monitors. He looked tired, rubbing his neck and stretching his shoulders now and then but he didn’t leave his spot.

Alastor stared at the cold glow of the light on the ceiling, a faintly mocking thought rising in his mind. “So this is my new home, Vox’s little prison...” he muttered to himself. “I’ve never experienced captivity like this before; but I suppose someone designed a special concept just for me. Electric cords, a night watchman on duty... very fancy.”

Inside, he tried to turn this feeling of confinement into a sarcastic challenge. “Ah, Vox... One day I’ll break free from your little dictatorship so thoroughly that you’ll understand! And then, I’ll be the one making the rules.”

But for now, he simply lay there silently, accepting the hardships of healing. His fire was rising; he just needed a little rest and that fire only blazed brighter when he looked into Vox’s eyes.

Around midnight, just as Alastor was about to fall asleep...

BOOM!

The tower shook. Windows rattled. Alarms immediately began to howl, and the lights in the room flashed red. The explosion was close, maybe on the lower floors.

Alastor sprang from the bed. A sharp pain in his chest stopped his breath, but his instincts were stronger. Danger. An attack. Chance to escape. He quickly headed for the door.

Vox was watching the monitors. The screens changed rapidly, showing security camera footage, alarm notifications, smoke, and damage. Seeing Alastor heading to the door, he sprang up like a startled animal. Just as Alastor reached for the door handle, Vox caught him. “Where do you think you’re going? Are you crazy?!” Vox’s voice was tense, his eyes locked on the screens, but his grip on Alastor was firm. “It’s chaos outside! We don’t know who’s out there!”

Alastor flinched. Contact. Disgusting, unexpected, powerful contact. Vox’s fingers were practically etched into his arm but it wasn’t just hatred. There was urgency in Vox’s touch, a... fear. For Alastor? Or just the fear of losing control?

“Let me go!” Alastor’s voice crackled, his ears pinned back. He tried to free his arm, but Vox’s grip was tight and painful. The wound on his chest throbbed sharply from the sudden movement. “Are you worried because I’m in danger, Vox? Or because you’re afraid of losing your precious ‘strategic asset’?”

Vox looked into his eyes. Red alarm lights danced across their faces. The urgent beeps from the monitors hurt Alastor’s ears. Their breaths were hot and fast. A conflict raged in Vox’s gaze.

“This is my problem right now!” His voice cut through the noise clearly. He pushed Alastor toward the safer middle of the room, away from the door. In doing so, his tight grip pressed near Alastor’s bandaged chest.

Alastor’s breath caught. “Nngh—!” Shock and sharp pain crossed his face. Vox’s pressure was right on the wound. His resistance broke for a moment under the pain. His body involuntarily curled forward, nearly hanging onto Vox’s arm.

Vox saw Alastor’s reaction and the pain on his face. His eyes widened suddenly. He immediately loosened his grip but didn’t pull his hand away completely. “Damn it, Alastor! Are you okay?” His anger shifted to sudden, uncontrolled worry. He reached out with his other hand instinctively to support Alastor’s trembling other arm.

Alastor tried to straighten up, holding his breath. The sharp pain in his chest was still throbbing. His gaze scanned Vox’s face: beads of sweat on his brow, tense jaw, intense focus in his blue eyes.

Vox noticed Alastor’s surprise. Their eyes locked for a moment. Then, he pulled his hand away, turned sharply, and rushed back to the monitors. He scanned the monitors quickly, pressing his thumb to his forehead as he paused to think for a moment. Then he made his decision. Turning sharply toward Alastor, he spoke in a commanding tone. “Stay here. I’m locking the door. Do not leave. Understood?” He didn’t wait for a response or confirmation. He headed swiftly to the door, stepped outside, and locked it behind him with an electric click. A sudden silence settled over the room, broken only by the relentless hum of alarms.

Alastor stood by the door, his breath still fast. Anger pounded inside his head. I’m trapped here. Again. Vox’s command made him feel like a child being controlled but... he had also heard the urgency beneath the “Understood?” the haste in locking the door. Vox was truly losing control.

He took a deep, restless breath. His hands still trembled slightly, from both anger and shock of the explosion. He moved toward the bed, feeling the ache in his chest with every step. He sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed. Why am I worried? he thought bitterly. Let him go and be done with it. Whatever happens, it’s not my problem.

But his mind rebelled. The explosion was close. Who was it? Remnants of Adam? Another demon? Was Vox enough on his own? He looked up and glanced at the windows. Outside was pitch black; nothing was visible except the tower’s lights. He checked the monitors. The screens were blacked out or filled with static. The feed was broken. He was completely blind.

Time refused to pass. Minutes stretched into hours. Alastor sat on the bed’s edge, straining to listen. Every new sound heightened his tension. There was no sign of Vox. None.

“Nonsense,” he muttered to himself, lying back on the bed. He rested his head on the pillow.

He tried to sleep. It didn’t work. He closed his eyes, opened them again. He stared at the ceiling light. Then sighed deeply, tiredly. He tugged the blanket, trying to find a more comfortable position without straining his wound. His eyes remained closed, but sleep would not come. His mind was fixated on the same question: Where is that idiot?

The sound of the door unlocking startled him. He snapped upright, heart pounding fast. Hours had passed. The night had deepened.

Vox entered. His gaze was dull and extremely tired. His movements heavy, almost dragging. He gave Alastor a brief look, then quickly looked away. He said nothing.

He went straight to the cabinet where the first aid kit was kept. He took it out. Then, without a word, he sat beside Alastor on the edge of the bed. He opened the kit and pulled out sterile gauze, antiseptic, and a fresh bandage.

Alastor stared at him. This silence... this heavy, intense silence was uncomfortable. Vox always talked. He teased, threatened, smirked arrogantly. This quietness, this exhaustion filled Alastor with a strange unease. It cut deeper than the wound in his chest.

“Looks like...” Alastor began, trying to sound deliberately casual, "Things took a long time." He tossed a line, trying to keep their usual game going, to break the tense silence.

Vox gave no reaction. He didn’t even raise his head. He poured antiseptic onto the gauze, then carefully began to lift the edge of Alastor’s bandage. His hands were cold and slightly trembling, but his movements remained careful.

Alastor’s chest tightened. This... this was not right. Vox shutting down like this, distancing himself so much, was unacceptable. It was like a wall had been built between them. “I can do the dressing myself, you know,” he added, a slight reproach in his voice this time. “You go check on the tower.” He gestured toward the monitors.

Finally, Vox raised his head. His eyes met Alastor’s. “Be quiet,” he murmured. No sarcasm, no anger. Just deep exhaustion. “Just... be quiet, Alastor. Please.”

The word please stunned Alastor. It was so unexpected, so weak looking. Vox returned to his task, fully removing the old bandage. He began cleaning the wound. The antiseptic was cold; Alastor flinched involuntarily, but Vox’s silent, focused demeanor didn’t prompt any reaction.

Alastor watched Vox’s hands move. They trembled. This silent care felt far more personal, far more disturbing than Vox’s usual sarcastic or demanding attitude.

Vox carefully applied the new bandage, smoothing the edges. When finished, he just sat there for a moment. Then, without a word, he stood up. Packed the kit, and put it back in the cabinet.

After the check-up, Vox slumped down at his desk. His fingers trembled on the keyboard as he tried to retrieve the footage. One of the monitors flickered and went black again. The curse he spat shattered the heavy silence in the room. Alastor sat on the edge of the bed, watching Vox. A strange unease swelled inside him. He didn’t want to take care of him.

But there was something else too. His stomach growled; hunger gnawed at him. That savage appetite that returned after healing was back. His eyes shifted to Vox. His voice cut through the silence with a sharpness. “I’m hungry.”

Vox didn’t lift his head. Only a deep, tired sigh was heard. Then he slowly stood up. “I’ll get you something.” He headed for the corridor, his steps heavy.

Alastor followed him, stopping at the doorway. The kitchen lights were on. Vox opened the fridge, staring blankly at its contents. The shelves were filled with energy drinks, instant coffee, frozen pizza, and unhealthy microwave meals. Vox’s shoulders slumped further. “Damn it,” he grumbled, this time angry at himself. “There’s nothing here you can eat.”

This confession felt to Alastor like a small regret about Vox’s own lifestyle. Interesting. Vox turned to grab his jacket, reaching into the kitchen cabinet.

Alastor watched him. There was determination in the way he put on the jacket. He was going out. For food. This was an opportunity. Alastor’s mouth watered. Outside, in the dark streets, there was fresh prey. He was wounded but hunger was stronger. His voice came out with an almost childish eagerness. “I’ll come too. On the way… I’ll find my own food.” He emphasized “my own food,” a dangerous gleam in his red eyes.

Vox suddenly froze. Straightening his collar, he turned to look at Alastor. “No,” he said, voice firm and non-negotiable. “Do you still think you’re strong? You’re weak. I can’t let you go outside.”

Alastor’s anger flared. Let? His ears pinned back. “I’m not a child, Vox! I can take care of myself!” he hissed but Vox had already walked to the door. Instinctively, Alastor followed. This was not an escape. Just… stubbornness and that terrible hunger.

“Stop!” Vox turned, eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you hear me? Come back!”

Alastor ignored him, staggering down the corridor. “I’d rather die out there than eat your unhealthy snacks,” he muttered. Vox grumbled but had no strength left to refuse him. He was exhausted. “Fine! Fine, damn it!” he shouted, opening the door. “But don’t take a single step away from me. Agreed?”

Outside was cold and eerie. The traces of the explosion were nearby. The streets surrounding the tower were usually under Vox’s control, but now they were dead silent. Alastor moved through the darkness using his sharp senses, restlessly scanning the area, hunger gnawing at him.

Then Alastor saw it. Around a street corner, behind trash containers, a figure stirred. A young, weak-looking demon maybe a thief, maybe just lost. The scent reached Alastor’s nose: fear and fresh flesh. His hunger suddenly turned savage. He slipped forward like a shadow, blending into the dark.

“Alastor! Stop!” Vox’s warning was too late.

Alastor had already lunged at his prey but his move was weak, clumsy. The demon’s sudden twitch stopped him. His breath hitched; he doubled over with a stabbing pain in his chest. Gritting his teeth, Alastor groaned in pain, pressing his hands to the wound. Warm moisture spread beneath the bandage. He was bleeding. Pathetically failing. The shame burned more than the pain. He leaned back against the grimy wall. The demon snarled and advanced. In that moment, he was completely vulnerable. He would pay the price for his stupidity.

Suddenly, Vox appeared between Alastor and the aggressive demon. He stretched out his hands, and pure, uncontrolled electricity crackled from his palms. Blue lightning snapped through the air and struck the demon. The demon froze for a moment, then screamed a painful, terrible sound. Then its whole body convulsed and collapsed to the ground.

Vox glanced at the demon, then gave all his attention to Alastor. “I told you! Stupid bastard!” he shouted, but his voice was cracked with fear.

Alastor pushed himself up from the wall, trying to gather his dignity. His chest throbbed fiercely, but his face bore not pain, but a sharp sneer. He looked at Vox, raising his thin eyebrows, his voice steady though slightly trembling. “You’ve already grilled the meat.” A forced smirk appeared on his lips. “Eager to serve without waiting, I see.” His eyes flicked to the smoking remains on the ground.

Silence had settled as they returned to the tower. Vox dragged the lifeless demon’s body, a deep disgust etched across his face. Alastor walked slowly behind him, eyes still on his prey despite the bleeding wound on his chest, a faint, bloodthirsty smile playing on his lips. Vox opened the door, pulled the corpse inside, then quickly withdrew, wiping his hand on his pants. “Disgusting,” he muttered.

Alastor ignored him. His hunger demanded all his attention. He dragged the body toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was a cold, useless place, alien to Vox’s technological world. Alastor rummaged through several drawers until he found the knife drawer. He picked the largest butcher knife, weighing the metal handle in his palm. Familiar. Comforting.

“Where do you plan to do this?” Vox’s voice dripped with revulsion, gesturing at the corpse standing in the middle of the kitchen. “Please, not on the marble counter. It’s new.”

Alastor shrugged lightly. “This is the only available spot, dear.” His tone was indifferent, focused on the task. He gripped the knife and, as his eyes roamed the neck of his prey, paused briefly with a professional coldness to glance at Vox. “You don’t have to watch, you know. If it bothers you, leave.”

Vox stayed put. It was clear he wanted to go, but his feet felt glued to the floor. His eyes tracked Alastor as the blade descended on the prey’s skin. A sharp snick and then a soft, wet tearing… Vox’s stomach churned. He turned his head slightly but couldn’t look away completely. Alastor worked silently and efficiently, separating muscles, removing bones. His hands were quick and skilled. This… routine was natural to him. Vox knew this, but seeing it was another matter.

Alastor placed a chosen piece of meat on the counter, pushing the rest the scraps, the unwanted parts aside. Blood seeped onto the counter and floor. A sharp smell filled the air. Vox wrinkled his nose and cleared his throat.

“When you’re done,” Vox began, voice tense, “make sure you clean the kitchen thoroughly.” He emphasized “clean.” “Disinfectant. Bleach. Whatever you have. No… filth must remain.” He waved his hand with a general disgust, indicating the bloody counter, floor, and scraps.

Alastor looked up without stopping the butchering. His red eyes met Vox’s blue ones. A mocking, impatient expression crossed his face. “Does your hospitality also include an obsession with cleanliness?” He wiped the knife with a cloth, movements casual, almost provocative. Vox’s discomfort seemed to amuse him.

Vox’s face flushed, a mix of anger and disgust. “This isn’t hospitality, it’s common sense!” he snapped. “No one wants this in their kitchen!” He gestured again toward the bloody scene. “Clean it. Every last drop.”

Alastor continued cutting the meat into small, neat cubes. “Don’t worry, my dear host,” he murmured, voice low and dangerously calm. “When I’ve… finished my work, there will be no trace left in your precious technological shrine.” He fixed his red eyes back on Vox. “Now, if you’ll excuse me? I’m hungry and this,” he tapped the knife lightly on a chunk of meat, “wants to be cooked.”

Vox stood frozen a moment longer, grinding his teeth as he stared at Alastor’s cold efficiency and the bloody kitchen counter. Then he let out a deep, disgusted sigh, turned, and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him as if trying to leave the smell and sight outside.

Alastor stood still until he heard the sound of Vox’s exit. Then a small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Annoying Vox… was still a pleasure. He picked up the meat pieces and tossed them into the pan on the stove. The oil hissed, and the sounds and smells of cooking meat filled the room.

Hunger was making him nearly tremble. For a moment, he acted thinking only about his own plate. He took the wooden spoon in his hand, about to pile on a generous portion of meat when...

He hesitated.

His eyes drifted toward the corridor behind the door. Vox was there. Probably still disgusted and irritated, waiting. He solved this whole mess, Alastor thought with a pang. If it weren’t for that electricity stunt, that aggressive devil could have torn me apart. He rebandaged the wound. Even… let me go outside, just because of my stupid stubbornness.

Steam was rising from the pan. Alastor gripped the spoon tightly, grinding his teeth. Damn it. This feeling of gratitude was disgusting.

He let out a deep sigh inside. I don’t want this, he grumbled in his mind. Absolutely, definitely don’t want this.

But his hands moved independently of his mind. He dipped the spoon back into the pan and carefully divided a larger portion of meat into two equal piles. One onto his own plate, the other onto another empty plate resting on the counter. His movements were tense, reluctant, but he did it anyway. Maybe some bread too...he placed a few slices of stale bread he had found next to the two plates. He didn’t bother with presentation. Sloppy, practical.

He picked up the plate and walked toward the door. A faint crease of forced politeness marred his face. He opened the door.

Vox was leaning against the wall across the corridor, scowling. When Alastor appeared, he lifted his head. “Have you finished cleaning? You know, I can smell it. It’s seeping all the way here…”

Alastor didn’t even listen. He came straight to Vox and held out the second plate toward him. “Here,” he said shortly and plainly. His eyes weren’t on Vox’s face but fixed on the empty space at the end of the corridor. “You’ve been working hard.” No further explanation needed. The reason was obvious.

Vox looked at the plate in surprise. Then at Alastor’s face. Then back at the warm, steaming meat. The scowl on his face softened into a stunned blankness. “This… what is this?” he asked, voice mixed with uncertainty. He hadn’t expected something like this from Alastor especially after the bloody scene just before.

Alastor shrugged awkwardly. “Food, Vox." He nudged the plate a little, nearly touching Vox’s chest. “Please don’t have a gratitude meltdown. You might faint.” His sarcasm had returned, though it seemed a bit forced this time. He held his own plate tightly, looking like he wanted to get away.

Vox hesitated a moment longer. Then, slowly, as if the plate might explode, he carefully reached out and took it. The warmth heated his palms. The idea that Alastor had made food for him still confused him. He fixed his eyes on Alastor, searching for some explanation, some mockery, something.

Alastor couldn’t hold his gaze any longer. “Enjoy,” he murmured, voice unusually quick and low. He immediately turned and slipped back into the kitchen, almost slamming the door behind him as if fleeing from there.

Vox stared at the warm plate in his hands. The steam from the meat hit his face, its smell fresh blood and cooked human flesh burning his nose. His stomach twisted instantly. Revulsion. A pure, physical reaction. This... was demon meat. Alastor’s world, not his. He couldn’t do it. Never.

But... he remembered that brief, tense expression on Alastor’s face. That forced, “Here.” That hurried retreat back to the kitchen. This wasn’t a routine gesture for Alastor. Sharing, especially feeding this way, was against his nature. He would usually rather die. It was a... gesture. Maybe gratitude, maybe a reluctant debt paid but definitely something sincere, beyond all of Alastor’s games.

Vox gripped the plate tightly. His fingers dug into its edge. The more he thought about how much pride Alastor must have swallowed to do this, the more his revulsion eased, replaced by a complex, heavy gratitude. This gratitude didn’t overcome the disgust, but managed to coexist with it.

He headed back to his study with heavy steps. He set the plate down on the table. The meat pieces sat there, still steaming, spreading that intense, alien smell. Vox took a deep breath. I can’t do it.

Quickly, he grabbed the plate. He didn’t return to the kitchen. Alastor mustn’t see this. He opened the nearest bathroom door. Approaching the sink, he hesitated for a moment as the smell of the meat filled his nostrils. Then, with a swift movement, he dumped the plate’s contents into the trash. As the meat and bread pieces disappeared into the bin, he felt a deep relief. He was free.

He rinsed the plate quickly under the faucet, shaking off the last drops. Now it was clean and empty, with only a few grease stains remaining. It was convincing enough.

He tied the trash bag tightly. He would dispose of it first thing tomorrow.

After waiting a few minutes to let time pass, he picked up the empty plate and headed back to the kitchen door. Alastor must have finished his own plate by now. He knocked, then entered.

Alastor was washing his plate and knife, his back turned to the door but his shoulders tense. He had heard Vox enter.

“Thank you,” Vox said, his voice unusually plain, without playfulness or sarcasm. He placed the empty plate on the counter. “It was filling.” Lying felt strange, but he felt compelled to do it to respect the effort Alastor had put in.

Alastor didn’t stop washing but slightly turned his head, catching sight of the empty plate out of the corner of his eye. A flicker of something relief. shone in his red eyes. Immediately after, a quiet but unmistakable satisfaction. “It’s nothing,”

When Alastor wiped away the last bloodstain and finished cleaning, the pain in his lower back and the ache in his chest had become unbearable. He returned to Vox’s room and closed the door behind him. Without looking at Vox, he headed straight to the bed and laid his head on the pillow. Without resisting even for a moment, exhaustion pulled him instantly into darkness.

When morning came, Alastor woke up. Unusually rested and peaceful. He turned to his side. There was no sign of Vox. He was alone in the room.

“So, he ran away,” he murmured to himself, but the anger he had expected was absent. Only... emptiness. A strange emptiness. He got up and got dressed. The pain in his wound had eased, but it still lingered. It was time to return to his own room. The repairs must have been finished.

As he walked down the corridor, he saw his door was open. Inside, a familiar silhouette was working on electrical equipment: Peppermint, making clicking sounds in front of a panel on the wall.

Alastor entered. The room was clean, ventilated, and had returned to its old sterile state. The smell of the electrical leak was gone. Peppermint noticed Alastor’s presence and turned his head.

“Alastor,” he said in a flat voice. “The repairs are done. The electrical leak has been fixed. Systems are stable. This room is now safe.” His eyes flicked to the bandage on Alastor’s chest, then returned to his work. “Vox told me to keep you here. Until you recover.”

Alastor frowned. Told me to keep you here. He was still a prisoner. Although his power hadn’t returned, this order fueled his reluctance to stay in the tower.

“Are you done?” Alastor asked, his voice tense and reluctant. Peppermint’s presence made him feel confined.

“Yes. Checks are complete.” Peppermint closed his toolbox. “I’m leaving now. Unless Vox gives other instructions, you will stay here.” Showing no sign of emotion, he left the room.

As soon as the door closed, Alastor’s shoulders sagged. The room was safe but also empty and dull. The desk that used to be filled with his personal belongings now looked bare and cold. His things were in Vox’s room, but going back to get them tightened his chest.

“I’m bored,” he grumbled aloud. He was talking to the emptiness. This was unacceptable. He had to act. He had to do something.

His eyes landed on the microphone on the desk. Maybe he could try to fix it. Perhaps a mechanical task would occupy his mind. He sat down in the chair and pulled the microphone close. With slender fingers, he opened its cover and looked at the complex wires and old tubes inside. Everything was in place, only the static balance was disturbed. Fixing it would normally require just a small spark of his dark energy.

He took a deep breath and summoned his power. Dark smoke began to form in his hands, trembling... then it faded. A sharp, sudden pain stabbed his chest. “Ah!” he groaned, clutching his wound. He clenched his teeth. He didn’t have enough power. The curse of Adam and the suppressive field of the tower still bound him. The microphone sat in front of him, only a silent, meaningless piece of metal.

Despair settled over his chest. He shoved the microphone across the table, harshly. It scraped with a metallic screech. His red eyes fixed on the empty walls of the room. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t repair it. Not even Vox was there to bother him. He could only... wait. Heal. Be patient. The thought was maddening.

A groan escaped his throat. He sank into the chair. Then suddenly he jumped up. Sitting was unbearable. Dragging his feet, he began pacing from one end of the room to the other. He found a pen. Picked it up and started twisting it. It fell. He picked it up again. Fell once more. Frustrated, he threw it aside.

I’m bored!

He rested his head against the wall. Closed his eyes. He thought of the radio tower. If he were there now, what would he be doing? Maybe recording a program. Or watching those little sinners at Charlie’s hotel, dragging them into his dark games.

He heard the electronic buzzing at the door. The lock clicked open. Alastor didn’t lift his head from the wall. It was Vox. Who else could it be? Probably came to check if his powerless prisoner was still there.

Footsteps entered, light and cautious. Alastor turned. Vox was standing by the door, holding a bowl. It was unclear what was inside.

“The room’s been fixed,” Vox said, “You’re safe now.” He placed the bowl on the table. Inside was a simple fruit salad. “Food.” He looked at Alastor. “I guess you’re itching to get out.”

Alastor looked at him. Words caught in his throat. He expected an angry response from himself. Mockery. Threats but inside there was only that vast, empty boredom. His eyes roamed over Vox’s face. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth opened. Words spilled out on their own:

“I’m bored, Vox.” His voice was low. “Seriously bored.”

Vox froze. He had just turned to walk away from the bowl. Alastor’s words stopped him. He turned back, fixing his eyes on Alastor. Surprise. Deep surprise. Alastor never admitted that. Never showed weakness but there he was, at the table, with that unusual vacant expression in his red eyes, saying, “I’m bored.”

For a moment, only silence. Vox’s lips parted slightly, then closed. His surprise melted away, replaced by a resigned understanding. Of course he was bored. Strong, active, always with a plan Alastor had been trapped in this room for weeks. Powerless. Wounded. With nothing to do.

“Yes,” Vox murmured almost involuntarily. “I can see that.” He tilted his head slightly. “This tower... it’s not made for your kind. More digital noise than radio signals.” His words held no mockery. More like... observation.

Alastor’s eyes brightened slightly. Vox understood him. It was an unexpected relief, small but clear. He sank back into the chair and pulled the bowl closer. Took a fork and began stirring the fruit. “Being here,” he added, feeling the need to speak, “is no different than being in a grave. The only difference is that death here is slower and more painful.”

Vox leaned against the other side of the chair, crossing his arms. He watched Alastor speak. This voluntary, vulnerable admission... was strange but also interesting. “You talk about death,” he replied with slight surprise, “but you’re still here and eating my fruit.” A small, reluctant smirk appeared on his lips.

Alastor took a piece of melon and put it in his mouth. The sweet juice spread on his tongue. He didn't care what Vox said. “Have you ever been bored? In your high-tech prison? Among all those screens, cables, endless data streams?”

The question caught Vox off guard. He frowned. No one asked him that. No one cared. “I... keep busy,” he murmured defensively. “I have work. Deals, Valentino’s ridiculous demands, dealing with rivals…” His tone betrayed how unsatisfying those “busyness” were.

Alastor chuckled softly, a muffled sound. “Ah, yes. Valentino.” He took a piece of strawberry. “His ‘special requests’ must keep you very busy. Especially these last few days.” His eyes flicked to Vox’s wounds. This time it wasn’t mockery. More... merciless curiosity.

Vox’s face hardened. “That’s closed, Alastor,” he hissed. “None of your business.”

“Of course, of course,” Alastor waved his hand lightly, “I just... said I’m bored.” He pushed the bowl away. It was half-finished. He shrugged, a genuine gesture.

Silence returned. Vox leaned against the wall while Alastor sat at the table, lightly tapping the surface with his fingertips.

Then Vox spoke. His voice low, almost thoughtful. “Maybe...” he began, then hesitated. He seemed to think what he was about to say was ridiculous. “Maybe I could put on an old movie. There are lots in storage. Noir films, horror... something more your style.” He looked at Alastor, waiting.

Alastor lifted his head. Surprise and... a small spark of interest lit in his red eyes. Vox was offering to do something for him. To entertain him. That was... unexpected.

He thought for a second. Then nodded slightly. “Fine,” he said, his voice neutral but his ears perked. “Better than staring at these walls.” He lowered his gaze to the table.

A genuine smile appeared on Vox’s lips. Brief. “Alright,” he said, straightening up. “Your choice. Horror? Thriller? Or an old, bad romantic comedy?” The sarcasm was back, but underneath it was a joy. They were doing something. Keeping Alastor occupied. Himself too.

Alastor stood, ignoring the ache in his wound. “Horror,” he decided, a slight challenge in his voice. “The worse the better. Maybe it’ll make you forget how boring your technological nightmare is.”

Vox chuckled, this time genuinely. “I’ll find you the worst one, Al. I promise.” He walked toward the door, then paused and looked back. “You coming? The screening room is downstairs. Can you walk?”

Alastor rolled his eyes slightly, his ears twitching mockingly. “You have a screening room?” He answered himself. “Of course you do. Someone glued to screens like you wouldn’t know how to have fun any other way.”

Vox shrugged and walked toward the door.

They went downstairs. The place Vox called the “screening room” was actually a large, dimly lit room. Along one wall was a massive screen, with comfortable chairs facing it. Alastor settled into a seat in the back, in a corner half-shrouded in shadow. Vox dropped into the control chair in front of the screen and immediately pulled out his phone.

“You said horror, right?” he murmured, fingers scrolling on the screen. A film started black and white, old, grainy footage. The first five minutes showed a gloomy mansion, a storm, and dialogue full of sighs. Alastor crossed his arms, his red eyes locked on the screen, leaning forward slightly. He was attentive.

Then the first jumpscare came. An ugly creature jumped out from behind a curtain. A small, pleased smile appeared on Alastor’s lips. Just his style.

Vox startled. He nearly dropped his phone. “For heaven’s sake!” he grumbled, quickly averting his eyes from the screen. He buried himself further into his phone, fingers typing nervously fast to answer messages. At the next horror scene, a bloody figure appeared on screen; Vox’s shoulders tensed sharply, and he turned his head well away from the screen. He focused only on the bright light of his phone.

Alastor shifted slightly in his chair, watching Vox. That tense posture, the way he avoided the screen... it was obvious. A mocking smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

“Vox,” he called, his voice cutting through the whispers on the screen. Vox looked up, frowning. Alastor continued with a teasing softness: “It’s clear you don’t like this horror nonsense. Most of the collection,” he tilted his head slightly, “is that romantic, kissy, happy-ending drivel.”

Vox’s face flushed suddenly. “Shut up, Alastor!” His voice grew sharp and high-pitched. “Watch it or don’t, I don’t care! If you’re bored, go back to your room!” He glanced briefly and reluctantly at the screen, then quickly looked away again. Alastor’s words hit the mark perfectly. Romantic comedies, dramas... their comforting world, Vox’s escape.

Seeing Vox’s reaction secretly pleased Alastor. That flushed face, that defensive outburst... it was the perfect excuse for his boredom. The mocking smile on his lips widened. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest again. His red eyes were no longer on the screen but on the tense, flushed television demon beside him. Far more entertaining than the movie.

“Alright, alright,” he murmured. “Horror’s a bit too ‘intense’ for you, huh? I get it.” He paused a moment, then added in a completely serious tone, “Maybe sometime... we can talk about soap operas? Seems like your specialty.”

Vox shot Alastor a deadly glare and jumped to his feet. “I’ve got work!”

Alastor sighed when he saw that Vox was actually going to leave. It was a foolish show of strength. The ache in his wounded chest tested his patience even more.

“Vox,” he said, gesturing lightly with his hand for him to return to his chair. “Wait. Sit.”

Vox hesitated, turning to look at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. Alastor didn’t usually speak like this.

“Open your own movies,” Alastor continued, locking his red eyes onto Vox’s blue ones. He leaned on the armrest of the chair, tense. “I won’t mock you. I promise.” He spoke with unusual seriousness. Even saying it caused resistance inside him. Mockery was like breathing to him but this terrible boredom… was worse.

Vox’s eyebrows rose slightly. He paused for a moment, then slowly returned to his seat. He didn’t fully sit, remaining alert. “Fine,” he murmured, doubt still in his voice.

Vox tapped his phone a few times and the movie resumed. Soft piano music and heartfelt dialogue filled the room.

Alastor tried to watch. He really tried but everything was so… artificial. So foolish. The characters’ emotions were exaggerated, conflicts meaningless, happy endings inevitable. He felt an instinctive urge to roll his eyes and make a sarcastic comment. He clenched his teeth. His fingers whitened on the armrest. I promised.

There was a scene: The female protagonist crying in the rain, the male protagonist running to her, holding her in his arms, shouting “I love you.” Alastor felt sick. He clenched his jaw so tightly his jawbone ached. Squinting at the screen, he struggled not to roll his eyes. This was a torture harder than physical pain.

Vox watched Alastor’s silent struggle with occasional sidelong glances. That tense jaw, those eyes fixed on the screen… all showed how much Alastor was struggling. A smirk appeared on Vox’s lips. Seeing Alastor so uncomfortable… was an unexpected pleasure and Alastor was still keeping his promise. Not a single sarcastic word.

As the film went on, Alastor’s resistance was further tested. At one point, a character apologized: “Deep down in your heart, I know you love me!” Alastor let out a suppressed growl from his throat. He involuntarily shook his head side to side, as if trying to spit out something poisonous. His eyes briefly flicked to Vox, then quickly back to the screen. His face read “What nonsense is this?” but he said nothing.

“Got a problem?” Vox asked, voice lightly mocking.

Alastor turned his head sharply, his red eyes narrowing. “No,” he growled tensely. “I’m just… impressed by the realism of these dialogues.”

Vox turned back to the screen.

Alastor’s mocking smile widened slightly on his lips. “Is this really your idea of relationship expectations?” he asked slowly. He leaned back for a moment, the light in his red eyes carrying both amusement and disdain. “But even if this is what you want,” he added, “it’s painfully obvious you never truly chose it.”

Vox let out a soft, weary sigh, his shoulders sinking under an invisible weight. “If you ever find someone like that in Hell, let me know.”

Alastor tilted his head; the smile on his face curled into something sly, almost taunting. “I just wish you good luck, really.”

Vox’s lips tightened into a thin line as he tried to needle back. “If you ask me, you could be a little hopeful too, couldn’t you? Otherwise, why the cold face?”

Alastor’s red eyes narrowed and a faint, humorless chuckle escaped his lips. “I don’t deal in hope. I dance with reality.”

Vox shrugged lightly, "If your reality is as cold and dark as Hell, then I’m not too keen on dancing.”

Alastor let out a soft laugh, as if he’d been waiting years to hear that line. “Ah, Vox… Isn’t it exactly this coldness and darkness that brought us here? A tango adorned with disappointments and lies.” He seemed to even enjoy his own words a little.

A mocking smile spread across Vox’s face. He rolled his eyes. “Yes, a wonderful tango. Especially when your partner keeps stepping on your feet.”

When the film ended, with the happy ending music playing, Alastor took a deep, relieved breath. It was as if a heavy burden had been lifted. He stretched in his chair; the tension in his shoulders had eased slightly. “Well,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “An interesting… experience.” He emphasized the word “interesting.” He couldn’t say more. He’d kept his promise. That was enough.

“Interesting, huh?” Vox replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Sure… let’s pretend you liked it.” The glint in his eyes made it clear he knew Alastor hadn’t. “I’m heading back to my room.”

Alastor watched Vox leave the room. As soon as the door closed, the screen was still playing the credits of that ridiculous romantic movie. For a moment, he stayed still, then reached for the remote. His fingers drifted over the buttons, and he felt a sudden urge to browse through Vox’s “collection.” Maybe there was something more watchable.

While scrolling through the menus, one folder name caught his eye: V_Prod/Val. He wrinkled his nose in instinctive disgust, but curiosity won out. He clicked it. Dozens of films filled the screen. Even the cover images were stomach-turning provocative poses, artificial lighting, demons… the products of Valentino’s pornographic empire.

He opened one at random. Even the first scenes made Alastor’s chest tighten. Mechanical movements, forced moans, an utter absence of warmth. The disgust deepened, twisting his features. This was… vile. Not just the content, but the aesthetic itself crude and tasteless. He had to look away; his stomach churned.

Then, a thought stabbed through his mind: Vox watches these. Maybe over and over. Maybe enjoys them. That thought doubled the disgust. He imagined Vox possibly helping Valentino plan these scenes. It wasn’t anger what he felt was a deep, sickened revulsion. This was even more wretched than Vox’s obsession with technology.

He shut off the screen and tossed the remote onto the table with force. He couldn’t stay here any longer. The air in the room was starting to feel suffocating.

He stood up and stepped into the hallway. All he wanted was a bit of fresh air, maybe to return to his own room but as he moved down the corridor, a voice slipped out from the crack of a half-open door Vox’s voice, tight with panic.

“—don’t you get it, Val?! He’s here! After Adam, he was nearly torn apart! He’s got nothing left! How could he? Why would he?!” Vox’s voice trembled, fraying at the edges. “You’re just making excuses! As always! You just want to test me or punish me, that’s all this is!”

Alastor froze by the door. Who were they talking about? Him? The attacks what attacks? Adam’s? His mind spun. He stepped closer, listening.

From the other end of the phone, Valentino’s voice rumbled, dripping with threat: “…deliberately… stalling… waiting for a chance… using you… idiot… proof… lower floors of the tower…”

Vox exhaled sharply, his tone broken and exhausted. “Proof? What proof? Static interference? That’s everywhere, Val! This is nonsense! He’s here, with me, injured and—”

Valentino’s voice cut out abruptly, then came back sharper, deadlier. Alastor couldn’t catch every word, but he picked out “dangerous,” “betrayal,” “it’s him or me.” Vox’s breath hitched.

“No! Val, listen—” Vox’s voice grew muffled, then fell silent entirely. Valentino must have hung up.

Alastor was just about to step in when the door suddenly swung open. Vox stood there, phone still in hand. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Alastor then narrowed instantly. Valentino’s poisonous words were still gnawing at him.

“What… what are you doing here?” Vox’s voice was taut. “Were you listening?”

Alastor tilted his head slightly, wearing an expression of innocent curiosity. “Just wandering. I heard voices. Is everything alright, dear? You… sounded tense.”

The suspicion in Vox’s eyes deepened. Alastor’s relaxed, almost teasing demeanor overlapped perfectly with Valentino’s accusation of “stalling.” Panic began to drown his reasoning. He suddenly reached out, aiming to grab Alastor’s chin.

Alastor instinctively pulled back, growling in anger. “Don’t touch me—”

But he was too slow. The wounds and the suppressive field had left him weakened. Vox’s fingers locked onto his chin with the same force as before, like the prior hypnosis, harsh and unyielding. “Look at me!” Vox’s breath was fast, his eyes blazing with an abnormal electric-blue glow, swirling like a vortex. “Calm down. Stay still.”

Alastor tried to resist. He shut his mind, struggling to avert his gaze. Rage burned inside him at Vox’s audacity but he was weak. The pull of that hypnotic stare was unbearable. Against his will, his eyes locked onto the blue.

A sudden void. Sounds dulled and blurred. Vox’s voice came through the thick, electric fog: “Relax. Stay still. Don’t ask what happened to you.”

Alastor’s body lost its tension. His head tilted slightly into Vox’s hand. His eyes stared blankly ahead, sinking into the hypnosis.

Vox released his chin but kept the eye contact. He took a deep breath, panic on his face fading into concentrated control. “Now,” he murmured, voice still tight but steady, “go to your room. Sleep. Forget this conversation. Do you understand?”

A soulless voice escaped Alastor’s throat. “I… understand.”

Vox studied his hypnotized expression for a moment. Conflict was etched into his face relief, regret, and the shadow of an unshaken suspicion. Then, “Go,” he ordered.

Alastor turned and stumbled down the corridor toward his own room. Vox watched the door close behind him, then leaned against the cold wall. His hands were trembling. His heart was racing. He had hypnotized Alastor. Again and this time… it hadn’t been for no reason. Valentino’s words had driven him to it. “Damn it,” he muttered.

Alastor’s eyes opened slowly. First, he saw the cold light on the ceiling. Then, he felt the familiar pressure on his wrists. Electric cords. He was tied up again. With effort, he lifted his head.

Vox was sitting in a chair, watching him. That usual sharp expression was gone. Instead… there was something more tired, more bitter on his face.

“You’re awake,” Vox murmured. There was a moment of silence. Then, looking away toward the edge of the table, he spoke, his words spilling out with exhaustion: “I thought we were friends, Alastor. I really did.”

Alastor blinked, his mind struggling to process the unexpected words. Friends? What nonsense was this? He shifted his bound wrists slightly; the cold of the cords pressed into his skin. He was confused.

“I don’t understand,” he replied, his tone flat and questioning. He truly didn’t. “We’ve never been friends, Vox. Never. I can’t even define what we are.”

Vox flinched at that, as if struck. His blue eyes widened briefly with a flash of pain before hardening quickly. Alastor’s emphasis on “never” had slammed his own naive hope right back in his face.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice suddenly cold. He stood, pushing the chair back. Now he kept his distance from Alastor, leaning against the wall. “You’re right. I was being stupid.” A sigh escaped him, heavy with weariness. “Get better soon and leave, Alastor. Please.” The word please wasn’t a plea it was the tired wish of someone who wanted release.

Bound where he sat, Alastor stared at this sudden shift in Vox. Yesterday, they’d been watching a movie. Now he was cold, distant, and had tied him up again. These emotional swings were unbearable. The mix of anger and confusion inside him reached a breaking point.

“Are you bipolar, Vox?” he snapped, his voice turning into a static-filled growl. His ears pinned flat, his teeth bared. “One day you bring me coffee, make thoughtful gestures, offer to watch a movie… then bam!” He gestured as much as his bound hands would allow. “We’re right back here! Hypnosis. Cords. Threats. You telling me to go!” His chest rose and fell rapidly; the pain in his wound flared, but he didn’t care. “Which am I supposed to believe? Are you playing good cop, bad cop, or have you actually lost your mind?”

Vox’s face fell as he listened to Alastor’s furious words. Each one laid bare his own contradictions and fragility. Alastor was right. His behavior was inconsistent warm one moment, ice-cold the next.

“That’s exactly why!” Vox burst out, his control slipping. “That’s exactly why you have to leave!” He pointed at Alastor. “You… you make everything complicated! You poison everything! Before you came here… everything…” His words caught in his throat. “It was simple,” his voice suddenly low. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. “Just… simple.”

That word simple carried all the vulnerability and regret in him. Even Valentino’s cruelty felt simpler than the chaos Alastor’s presence brought.

He drew in a deep breath. He still wasn’t looking at Alastor. Turning toward the door, his steps were heavy. He reached for the handle, paused. His back was to Alastor.

“Get better,” he repeated. “And go.” Without another word, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Hours had passed. Alastor lay motionless on the bed, the cold pressure of the electric cords digging into his wrists. Vox’s last words kept looping in his head: “It was simple.” Simple? Was his very existence poison? His throat was bone-dry.

The door opened quietly. It wasn’t Vox who entered it was Peppermint. He carried a glass of water, approaching with calm steps. He pressed the glass to Alastor’s lips. “Drink.”

Alastor didn’t hesitate. Thirst was eating him alive. He lifted his head slightly, drinking greedily. The coolness sliding down his throat brought a moment of relief but then… his head suddenly grew heavy. His vision blurred. Peppermint’s face, the room everything seemed to waver.

“What… did you do?” he managed to growl, his voice muffled.

No answer. Peppermint simply pulled the empty glass back, watching him. Alastor’s eyelids sank shut.

When he opened his eyes again, his head still throbbed, but there was a different kind of pressure in his chest. Forcing his head up, he saw fresh bandages clean, tightly wrapped. Peppermint stood in the corner as if he had never moved.

“Sleeping pill,” Alastor rasped, his voice hoarse. This was a filthy trick. He fixed his gaze on Peppermint. “Vox’s orders?”

Peppermint shook his head. “Your wounds needed checking.” This time, he held a plate a simple but well-made sandwich. He extended it toward Alastor.

He was hungry. He knew he needed to eat but Peppermint standing there, watching him like Vox’s loyal hound… His anger flared again. Even the new bandages on his chest felt suffocating. This forced care, this humiliation…

“Take it back,” he snapped at Peppermint. “Go.”

Peppermint didn’t move. The plate stayed outstretched.

Alastor leaned his head back, closing his eyes. His mind was full of Vox. What had he done to him? What had he done to deserve this betrayal, this abandonment? He’d even watched that damned movie for him! Endured his disgusting romantic nonsense!

“What did I do to you, Vox?” he growled inwardly, teeth clenched. The anger burned red-hot behind his eyes. “I just… stayed here. Followed your rules. Nursed my wounds. Was it me who complicated everything?”

Peppermint’s presence suddenly became unbearable. This silent, unreactive observer… like an extension of Vox himself. “DID YOU HEAR ME?” he shouted, jerking his bound wrists, not caring that the cords bit into his skin. “GET OUT! Tell him! Tell that wretched television demon! His precious strategic asset doesn’t even want to eat anymore!”

At last, Peppermint moved. He set the plate down quietly on the table. Gave Alastor a blank look. “Didn’t listen to me,” he said flatly, then turned and left the room.

The moment the door closed, Alastor’s shoulders sagged. He glanced at the sandwich. He was hungry. Truly hungry but eating… felt like admitting defeat.

He stayed like that for a while. Then, with a low groan, he reached out with his free hand and took the sandwich. Slowly, silently, he began to eat. Each bite carved another wound into his pride, but physical need was stronger.

As he ate the sandwich, the electric cords were embedded into his wrists, pressing down mercilessly and cutting off blood circulation. In the first hours, he had resisted angrily, forcing himself but now… numbness had given way to a throbbing, sharp pain. His fingers had gone numb and turned purple. The slightest movement became a needle stabbing into his wrist bones. He could no longer hold the sandwich. “Khh…” He gasped, trying to lean his head against the wall.

Hours had passed. Peppermint hadn’t come. Vox’s footsteps were nowhere to be heard. There was nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat. His entire body had stiffened; shoulders, back, neck… Every muscle was tense and aching. Even the pain from the wound paled compared to the torment these wrists inflicted. Why? That question gnawed at his mind. Was he being held here to be punished? Or had Valentino’s poisonous whispers so deeply affected Vox?

Well past midnight, the door opened quietly. Peppermint entered, carrying clean bandages. With slow steps, he approached the bed and began undoing the buttons of Alastor’s shirt to change the dressings. The cold touches combined with Alastor’s hatred sent chills down his spine.

Alastor lifted his head, fixing his red eyes on Peppermint’s expressionless face. He tried to keep his voice flat, but pain and exhaustion leaked through. “Can… you loosen this?” He raised his bound wrists slightly. The bruised skin gleamed with marks from the cords. “It’s… too tight.”

Peppermint’s eyes shifted to the wrists. Without hesitation, he shook his head side to side. “No.” One word. Definitive. Then he carefully continued removing the bandage, as if Alastor were nothing but an object to be repaired.

When he finished, he turned and left the room. A minute later, he returned carrying Alastor’s personal belongings: notebooks, glasses. All taken from Vox’s room. He silently set them on the table, ignoring Alastor’s hungry, desperate gaze. Then he turned and closed the door again.

Alastor stared at his things. He could spend time with them but he couldn’t touch them. His hands were bound. A wave of anger, helplessness, and deep loneliness squeezed his throat. He hit his head against the pillow. Vox… where are you?

When morning came, Alastor was still sitting bound. He hadn’t slept. Pain and anger kept him awake. Vox still hadn’t come. His hope was fading. His eyes drifted to the red light of the security camera in the corner. Can you see, Vox? he thought bitterly. Slowly, with effort, he raised his bound wrists toward the camera. He tried to clearly show the bruised, swollen skin and the wounds the cords had caused. His gaze locked onto the camera lens, Look! You did this! See!

After a while, the door opened again. Peppermint entered, once more carrying a glass of water and a simple breakfast plate. He met Alastor’s impatient, angry stare.

“Bring Vox,” Alastor hissed, his voice crackling. Even looking at Peppermint had become unbearable. “I want to see him. Now.”

Peppermint turned his unfeeling face to Alastor. “That is not my duty,” he answered in a monotone. He offered the water. Alastor turned his head away, refusing it. Peppermint placed the plate on the table and again, as if nothing had happened, left the room.

He couldn’t wait any longer. The pain was unbearable. The anger burned his throat. Just as he was about to shout, the door opened once more.

Vox entered.

Alastor’s breath caught. Vox looked different than usual. He wore a dark, expensive-looking suit, his shirt spotless and pressed. His hair was carefully combed. Stylish. Handsome but cold. Very cold. The blue in his eyes held no warmth when they met Alastor’s gaze.

He went straight to the bed. In his hand was a small black remote controlling the cords. He pressed a button. The cords buzzed softly, loosening and retracting. The pressure on Alastor’s wrists lifted, but the bruised skin and sharp pain remained.

“Don’t waste my time, Alastor,” Vox said, speaking as he tucked the remote into his pocket. “I just loosened them. When your strength returns, these wouldn’t have held you anyway.” He moved as if to leave.

At that moment, Vox’s flawless, cold appearance, his hurried manner… ignited Alastor’s anger and something else a jealous pang. A venomously sweet, mocking question slipped from his lips. “A date with Valentino?”

Vox froze, facing the door. His shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned. His eyes met Alastor’s red ones. A tension rose in the room. “That’s none of your concern. Your only worry should be getting out of here and trying to reclaim your place in your… hotel,”

The mocking expression vanished from Alastor’s face. His ears flattened all the way back.

Seeing this reaction, a small cruel curve appeared at the corner of Vox’s lips. He turned and opened the door. Standing in the threshold, back turned, he whispered, every syllable dripping with poison: “Good luck, Alastor. I hope you’re accepted back into the royal family.” Then he left, slamming the door hard behind him.

Vox sat at the luxurious restaurant Valentino had chosen, staring at the plate in front of him. Red wine rested in the glass, and across from him, Valentino was cutting into an expensive steak, speaking in graceful motions probably about the talents of some new “star” of his, or the new camera equipment Vox was supposed to procure. Vox nodded, offering short murmurs at the right moments. On the surface, everything seemed normal.

But his mind was miles away. Back in Alastor’s room. He could feel the anger and confusion in those red eyes.

Valentino asked something. Vox flinched. “Hmm? Yes, darling. Absolutely.” He hadn’t even heard what was asked. Valentino’s eyebrows lifted slightly, a threatening curl touching his lips. Vox sighed and it was less from Valentino’s constant demands than from his own effort to shake free from that spiral in his mind.

Just then, the phone in his pocket buzzed to life. Once. Then again and again. Notifications in rapid succession, almost like spam. From Peppermint. Usually, he only sent reports. Never this insistent.

Something stirred in Vox’s chest. A security alert from Peppermint? Something wrong with Alastor? Valentino’s gaze was on him.

“Work. Excuse me, just a second.” He unlocked the screen. A string of audio files from Peppermint. Titles: Room_Surveillance_Record_1, Room_Surveillance_Record_2… Time stamps were recent. From Alastor’s room. Vox’s brows furrowed. Why was Peppermint sending these? These weren’t routine recordings.

Valentino’s voice broke in "Is it important?” but Vox’s ears were no longer on him. He opened one of the files. No headphones, just turned the volume low and brought the phone close to his ear.

The first seconds were static and the sound of an empty room. Then the door opened. Peppermint’s footsteps and then Alastor’s voice unexpected in tone: tense, high-pitched, with a restrained current of anger beneath it.

“Where?”

Peppermint’s monotone reply: “No information.”

A brief silence. Then Alastor again, sharper this time. “With Valentino? In the studio? Tell me!” That urgency, that interrogative bite… This wasn’t just curiosity. It was the raw edge of possessive jealousy.

Vox held his breath. His grip on the phone tightened. His heart began to beat faster.

Another file. Alastor was questioning Peppermint again, his voice lower but laced with a more dangerous emphasis: “I will not let that television freak forget me here. Do you understand? Tell him… Tell him to call me!” “Television freak” was a familiar insult, but behind the words was something else the plea, the tell him to call me a mixture of loneliness and jealousy.

The last file hit the hardest. Alastor was alone, probably looking at the camera. His voice was quiet, inward, almost muttered to himself, but the microphone caught it: “When are you coming back?”

Vox lowered the phone. He looked at Valentino. In his ears, Alastor’s jealous, tense, demanding voice still echoed. Those sounds felt far more real, far more urgent than anything Valentino had been saying. A strange warmth bloomed inside him. Alastor… was jealous of him. Truly, childishly, furiously jealous and the thought scattered that hollow feeling he’d had beside Valentino. For just a moment, the corners of his lips curved into a small, startled smile.

“Vox!” Valentino’s impatient voice snapped him back. Valentino slammed his hand on the table. “Put the phone down and focus on me! I was talking about our plans for tonight. Are you paying attention?”

Vox fixed his eyes on Valentino. That beautiful, dangerous face. That heavy perfume. That ever-demanding presence. Now, after the echoes of Alastor’s voice, it all felt more artificial, more suffocating than before. He sighed again this time deeper, with genuine weariness. He set his phone on the table, screen down. The recordings from Alastor lay there, silent.

“I’m sorry, Val,” he said, keeping his tone as smooth as possible. He reached to take Valentino’s hand. “Just… a minor technical issue at the tower. It’s fine now. Go on, darling. I’m listening.” His eyes met Valentino’s, but his mind was still in that distant room, still caught on that jealous, waiting voice. Don’t worry, he thought at Valentino, you have all my attention but it was a lie. All his curiosity now belonged to someone else.

Valentino’s lips curled into a slow, sly smile. He tightened his grip on Vox’s hand gently, leaning in just a little closer. “Okay, baby, I get it. You were distracted but now, focus on me,” he said, his voice a low purr. “You’re here with me, aren’t you?”

Vox blinked, forcing himself back to the moment.

Valentino, phone in hand, a slow, sly glimmer of satisfaction spreading in his eyes, leaned a little closer to Vox. With one finger, he gently turned Vox’s chin so he was facing the camera.

Vox placed that controlled half-smile on his lips the one born out of habit. Valentino rested his head on Vox’s shoulder, holding his cigarette wreathed in violet smoke with elegant poise, fixing the camera with a smug, victorious expression. Click.

Valentino examined the photo, the corner of his mouth curling in satisfaction. He selected it and tapped the “Send” button. The picture, along with a short message, landed in Peppermint’s inbox.

“Show him this.”

A few minutes later, Peppermint appeared in front of Alastor. Without a word, they handed him the phone.

Alastor’s breath caught in his throat.

The picture had been taken in the dim corner of a lavish-looking restaurant. Valentino, his cigarette hand draped casually over Vox’s shoulder, his head resting against him, was smirking at the camera with smug triumph and Vox… Vox was staring straight into the lens. His face wore an unusual calm, even… a hint of contentment. Beneath the photo, a short caption. “Business & Pleasure. As always. ♡ V&V”

It was like being struck by lightning. A tight, suffocating heat rose in Alastor’s chest. Jealousy. Pure, burning, poisonous jealousy. His fingers clenched around Peppermint’s phone, the screen beginning to crack under the pressure. Valentino had done this on purpose. This picture was Valentino’s victory and the message was clear: No matter how sweet the games you play with him, in the end, he’s mine.

“Smug bastard…” Alastor’s teeth ground together, his voice turning into a low growl. His crimson eyes locked on Vox’s calm almost happy expression. Here he was, trapped in a cold room, forgotten, while Vox posed in luxury with Valentino. His hand brushed across the table, knocking against the old radio microphone that sat there. On impulse, he grabbed it and hurled it against the wall with all his strength. The heavy metal body struck hard, not breaking, but something inside snapped, producing a bitter, distorted chime.

The sound echoed through the room. Alastor clutched his chest, breathless the movement had aggravated his wound. The microphone lay on the floor like a corpse. The pointlessness of what he’d done, the sheer magnitude of his jealousy, only fueled his anger. He buried his head in his hands. He wanted to tear at his hair.

Why? That question gnawed at his mind.

He tried to recall that night. Standing in the hallway, listening to Vox… Vox’s voice shaking with fear and anger. Valentino shouting over the phone… Then… what had happened next? Vox had opened the door and then… nothing. It was as if the film reel had been cut. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in bed, tied down. The time in between was gone. Wiped. Hypnosis.

Every time he tried to fill that gap, a stabbing pain bloomed in his temples. “Ah!” he groaned, tapping his head lightly against the wall. It was as if his brain was brushing against a forbidden zone. Vox’s command echoed: “Forget this conversation.” And his mind obeyed. The more he resisted, the worse the pain became.

The waiter who arrived was a young demon, approaching the table with graceful movements. Valentino, sitting directly across from Vox, suddenly turned his attention to the newcomer. His eyes scanned the waiter’s face, a familiar, appetite-awakening smile curling on his lips.

“Ah, our service,” Valentino murmured, his voice soft and deliberately seductive. As the waiter placed the salad plate before him, Valentino deliberately let his fingertips briefly but noticeably glide over the waiter’s hand. “Thank you, darling. Very attentive,” he said. The look he fixed on the waiter was an open invitation.

The waiter blushed slightly, hesitated for a moment, then quickly said, “You’re welcome, sir,” and withdrew. Vox watched Valentino’s performance with a faint nausea stirring in his stomach. It was a familiar game Valentino was trying to make someone else notice him to spark jealousy. Vox dipped his fork into the salad, trying to keep his face neutral, but the slight tension in his jaw betrayed his discomfort. Valentino’s little tricks no longer interested him as they used to; they just wore him out.

When the main courses arrived, the waiter placed Vox’s plate in front of him, briefly locking eyes with Vox for a split second. Then, just out of Valentino’s sight, the waiter swiftly slid his hand under a napkin on Valentino’s side of the table and left a small, folded piece of paper. A phone number was written on it.

Vox noticed. Right there, opposite him! How daring was this? At that very moment, Valentino pretended to focus on his own meal as if nothing had happened, but Vox could see the way he glanced toward the number. The waiter withdrew with a shy smile.

Valentino set down his fork. A thin, dangerous smile played at his lips. “Darling,” he said in a falsely tender voice, “I need to visit the restroom. Need to shake off the effects of this lovely wine.” His eyes caught the corner of the paper under the napkin, then slid to Vox’s face. “Don’t try to memorize that number before I’m back, okay?” He tried to sound like he was joking, but the flirtatious glint in his eyes betrayed his real intent.

As soon as Valentino stood and swaggered away from the table, the waiter quietly followed him. The two were preparing to meet secretly in a dark corner of the restaurant.

Vox waited there for a while. Time passed, but Valentino didn’t return. Growing unbearably uneasy, he took a decisive breath, pulled out his phone, and sent Valentino a sarcastic message:

“Lost in the restroom? Or did something else come up, baby?”

Then he stood up quickly, left some extra money on the table, and quietly walked out of the restaurant. The cold night air hit his face.

When Vox returned to the tower, he entered to the electric buzz and soft click of the door. Valentino’s heavy perfume still clung to the collar of his jacket, making his stomach churn. The fake politeness of the date and the constant need to be on guard had drained every ounce of energy from him.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the lounge, he noticed a curled-up silhouette on the couch. Alastor.

He rolled his eyes with fatigue. Peppermint, as usual, wasn’t quietly waiting in a corner. Nowhere to be seen. His brows furrowed. “What did you do to Peppermint?” he asked, his voice holding a faint trace of alarm, though he didn’t have the strength to deal with it. “Tear him apart or something?”

Alastor slowly lifted his head. His red eyes roamed over Vox, cold and watchful. He took in the pressed suit, the neatly combed hair but also the paleness in his face and the purple shadows under his eyes. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Ah, Vox. You’re back. Seems your work ended quickly.” He put deliberate weight on the word work. “Peppermint’s fine. We just… had a little chat. I challenged his perfectionist ideas a bit, that’s all. Your technological servants don’t seem to handle the chaotic beauty of a real conversation very well.” He leaned back into the couch, crossing his legs with intentional ease. “But I must say, he turned out to be at least as boring as you.”

Vox felt the weight of Alastor’s gaze and that insinuating tone. Something stirred in him irritation, discomfort? He shrugged his shoulders lightly, slipping off his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. “I’m not in the mood tonight, Alastor,” he muttered. “So whatever clever little torment you’ve got planned, save it for another night. Just… shut up.” He headed to the sink and turned on the cold water to wash his hands.

Alastor’s eyes stayed fixed on Vox’s tense back. That averted glance, that exhaustion… traces of the time he’d just spent with Valentino. A wave of jealousy surged in him, hot and stinging. He pressed his lips together. “Of course,” he murmured, his voice now laced with more mockery. “You must be tired after your date. I understand. Physical activities are always exhausting, aren’t they?” His gaze locked on the back of Vox’s neck, waiting for a reaction.

Vox froze with his hands under the water. His shoulders tightened. That word, that emphasis it got under his skin. Slowly, he turned. “Like I said. Not tonight. Whatever fight you want, it’s not happening. Drop it.”

Alastor sat up slightly on the couch, a glint of challenge in his red eyes. He wanted to provoke. “Ah, but I’m curious, Vox,” he continued, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “At that fancy restaurant, sipping champagne… did Valentino manage to entertain you?”

Vox’s teeth clenched, fists tightening. “ENOUGH!” he shouted, his voice echoing against the walls of the lounge. His face was flushed with anger, the nerves from his tense date with Valentino now feeding on Alastor’s taunts. “Your filthy, jealous little games don’t interest me tonight! Go to your room! Or shut up! Pick one!” His breath came fast, chest heaving. He wanted to shove Alastor, to wipe that smug look off his face, but the exhaustion in his bones was too heavy. He just wanted to get away.

A charged silence settled between the two demons.

Vox took a deep, trembling breath. His hands went to his hair, eyes closing as he tried to calm himself. When he spoke again, his voice was cracked and tired. “Goddammit, Alastor… Just… just shut up.” He shook his head slowly, the will to fight draining from him. “Why do you always have to do this? Do you have to provoke me all the time?”

Alastor watched Vox’s outburst, a flicker of triumph flashing in his red eyes. He’d gotten to him but the victory felt hollow and bitter. Vox’s anger had only highlighted his bond with Valentino even more. Something twisted in his chest. He pressed his lips into a thin line, looking away.

Vox was right. He did provoke him constantly but why? Out of boredom? Or… was it because every moment he pulled Vox’s attention elsewhere, it wasn’t on Valentino? The thought left a hot, uneasy weight in his chest.

“Are you hungry?” Vox asked suddenly, his voice unexpectedly quiet, almost neutral. It was a desperate attempt to change the subject, to clear the poisoned air. “Should I bring you something?”

The question caught Alastor off guard. His red eyes snapped back to Vox, suspicious and a little hopeful. He was, in truth, hungry but asking for food… felt too much like needing Vox. His pride balked. He shook his head sharply, ears flattening. “No. I don’t need anything from you.” Even to his own ears, the words didn’t sound convincing.

Vox saw the resistance in him. Weariness clouded his gaze. He gave a small shrug. “Fine,” he murmured. He had neither the energy nor the patience to push further. “I’m going to bed. Good night, Alastor.” He turned and walked to his own room, closing the door behind him though not completely.

Alastor sat frozen on the couch, watching Vox go. He had said “no.” But the hunger in his gut gnawed with real, biting pain. He was caught between pride and need. Vox’s door remained slightly ajar. An invitation? Or indifference?

Minutes passed. Each second, the hunger grew stronger, and his pride weaker. Finally, he moved, quietly. He approached the door, his steps slowing with uncertain hesitation. He peered through the gap.

Vox was at his desk, head in his hands, shoulders slumped. The blue glow of the screen washed over his tired face. He looked utterly drained.

Alastor pushed the door a little further, making it creak. Vox lifted his head, staring at him in surprise. He hadn’t expected this.

Alastor stood in the doorway, not fully stepping in. His gaze slid away from Vox’s face, settling somewhere in the corner of the room. His voice was low, proud but carried a tremor beneath it. “If you don’t find me something to eat,” he began, hesitating, “I’ll eat your assistant.” He tilted his head toward the empty corner where Peppermint usually stood. “I mean it.”

Vox didn’t move for a moment. Then, with a small, bitter curve of his lips, he shook his head faintly and looked back at his screen. “Bon appétit,” he muttered, flat and emotionless. “Hope you enjoy it.” His tone was deliberately indifferent not to provoke, but to end the conversation.

The response wasn’t what Alastor had been expecting. No anger, no defiance just the sense that Vox didn’t care. That he didn’t matter. That even his hunger and threats didn’t matter. Red eyes widened, a dangerous light flaring in them. His teeth clenched, lips paling.

“Vox!” he barked, his voice a low, static-laced snarl. He stepped fully into the room now. “Take me seriously!” It came out like a scream, a burst of rage and wounded pride. “TAKE ME SERIOUSLY!” His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his whole body trembling with tension. His chest rose and fell sharply, the ache in his wound forgotten. Vox’s casual “Bon appétit,” his dismissal it was the last drop. There were no more games, no more veiled jabs. Just a raw, painful demand: See me.

Vox froze in his chair. Alastor’s shout seemed to shake the room itself. He turned his head, blue eyes locking fully truly on Alastor. He saw it. That fragile rage. The desperation beneath the scream. The mask of indifference on his own face cracked.

Silence stretched. Then Vox slowly stood. He pushed his chair back and stepped away from the desk. A few steps toward Alastor close enough that only a few feet separated them.

And then, in a sudden, unexpected move, he raised his hand and pressed the back of it against Alastor’s forehead.

Contact.

Sudden, unexpected, burning contact.

Alastor’s breath caught. His entire body froze. The cold of Vox’s hand burned against his skin. He wanted to pull back, to shout, to strike but he couldn’t move. His eyes, wide and stunned, locked on Vox’s face.

Vox’s brows were drawn slightly together. The touch was brief, almost clinical. “Do you have a fever?” he murmured, his voice carrying an odd softness, far from its usual sharpness. He pulled his hand away, but his gaze stayed locked with Alastor’s. “All this… noise. These ridiculous threats.” He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to see something deeper. “You just… let your feelings show, didn’t you? Just a little.”

Let your feelings show.

The words shattered Alastor’s defenses. The jealousy, the anger, the hunger… all of it melted under that simple touch and those words. An expression rarely seen crossed his face: pure embarrassment. A faint flush colored his cheeks, his ears flattening completely. His eyes darted away from Vox’s eyes, to the floor, to anywhere else. He felt exposed, caught. The dark, tangled knot of feelings inside him his hatred for Valentino, his confusing pull toward Vox was now laid bare before him. And Vox had seen it.

“I…” he began, his voice hoarse and weak. The words tangled in his throat. No snide remark could save this moment. His red eyes flicked to Vox’s one last time, and what he saw there curiosity, weary compassion, maybe even a small victory only deepened his shame. Then, abandoning all his usual grace and threatening air, he turned quickly and walked toward the door. He was fleeing.

When Vox stepped into the kitchen, the oil in an aluminum pan was smoking bitterly. He was wearing a purple apron, his brows furrowed as he stared at the burning scraps of meat in the pan. “Damn it,” he muttered, trying to stir with a wooden spoon. “Why does it keep sticking?”

In the shadowy corner of the kitchen counter, Alastor stood perfectly still. His back rested against the cold wall, arms folded across his chest, ears pressed completely flat. His red eyes followed Vox’s clumsy attempt. Every misstep adding far too much salt, chopping vegetables roughly and unevenly sent a faint wave of disgust through him. The thought of his own kitchen’s precise rituals, the perfect sharpness of the knives, the respectful preparation of ingredients, crossed his mind. This scene was nothing short of torture and yet… he couldn’t leave. Some strange, unsettling curiosity rooted him there. Watching Vox struggle so much was oddly captivating.

Vox shook the pan, stirring again. This time, a piece of burnt meat flew onto the counter. With a deep, weary sigh, he shook his head. Then, without turning toward the shadowy corner, he spoke while rubbing his forehead. “Get out of there, Alastor. I can feel you. I know those red eyes of yours are boring holes into my back. You’re getting on my nerves.”

Vox turned back to the pan. The smell of burning and the mess seemed to weigh on him even more. He stirred again, but the movement was clumsy and filled with irritation. The tomatoes were crushed, the onions spilled out of the pan.

Alastor ground his teeth. This incompetence was unbearable. The urge to take control, to bring order to everything, rose above his anger and disgust. Silently, he stepped out from the shadows and moved to the center of the kitchen. Standing beside Vox, he pointed at the pan. “This is a massacre,” he said flatly. “You’re killing the food.”

Vox flinched and turned his head. His gaze held both surprise and defensive anger.

Alastor reached for the peppers Vox had hacked apart, grabbing a proper chef’s knife from the knife block not the dull thing Vox had been using. He placed the pepper on a proper cutting board. The knife rose and fell in quick, rhythmic, precise motions. Each slice was perfectly even, thin and neat. “There,” he murmured, setting the knife aside and pushing the neatly sliced peppers into the pan. “That’s how it’s done.”

For a moment, Vox froze. Then his brows knitted again. “No one asked for your help!” he snapped, stirring the pan again but his eyes flicked briefly toward the peppers Alastor had added.

Alastor moved to the other side of the counter, gathering the herbs Vox had left in a messy pile: parsley, thyme, a bit of fresh rosemary. He chopped them swiftly and elegantly. “Looks like you need it,” he replied, his tone lightly mocking but not entirely hostile. Sprinkling the chopped herbs into the sizzling mixture, he added, “At least this way the dish might be edible.”

The next few minutes were strange. While Vox tried to keep control of the pan, Alastor stood beside him, preparing ingredients, occasionally handing him a pinch of salt or giving short, precise instructions like, “Lower the heat a little.”

The small look of relief on Vox’s face when he quietly accepted the diced onions Alastor offered. The slight easing of his brows as he stirred, following one of Alastor’s tips these little signs of relief sparked a strange, warm feeling in Alastor. It wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t pleasant. It was weakness.

The contradiction drove him mad. On one hand, being so close to Vox hearing his breath, the accidental possibility of their elbows touching made his stomach turn. Every twitch of irritation, every frown, made him want to instinctively pull away. To growl, “Stay away from me. Don’t touch me.”

Vox took the pan off the heat and set it on the counter. Steam curled up, and the smell was no longer burnt but of cooked food. “I think… it’s done,” he said, still uncertain. He looked at Alastor, as if waiting. For approval?

Alastor leaned over the pan, inhaled the scent, then scooped a small piece with a spoon and tasted it. He chewed. His expression didn’t change. “Edible,” he concluded flatly. “Looks like we avoided disaster.” For him, that was the highest praise possible.

A small, genuine smile touched the corner of Vox’s lips. It didn’t last long, but it was there. He fixed a plate for Alastor.

Alastor caught that fleeting ease in Vox’s face, that tiny smile. The warmth inside him flared again immediately followed by a rush of intense anger. Why? Why do I care?

He hurried to his room, placing the plate Vox had prepared on the table. Steam rose from the food and despite that dreadful cooking misadventure, it smelled surprisingly good. Just as he was about to take the first bite, the door opened without a creak. Vox stepped inside. “I need to see your wrists.”

Alastor frowned, holding his fork in midair. His crimson eyes dropped to his own bruised wrists. The pain still throbbed, the marks from the cords running deep but the food was right in front of him. Hot, brimming with the energy he needed. He pulled the plate a little closer to himself. “Later,” he murmured, his attention fixed entirely on the food. “Not now.”

Vox took a step closer, seeing the single-minded hunger in Alastor’s gaze. He let out a quiet sigh. He knew that stubbornness. Saying it directly wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“Alastor,” he said, deliberately softening his voice to draw his attention. “Those tomatoes… they’d already started going bad before you chopped them, right? Didn’t you notice something strange in the taste?” It was an empty question. The tomatoes had been fresh but it worked.

Alastor’s head shot up, brows knitting. “Rotten?” His crimson eyes narrowed suspiciously at the food. “There’s no rot in my ingredients, Vox. It’s your incompetent palate—”

That was when Vox made his move. He grabbed Alastor’s right wrist firm yet gentle and laid it on the table. The touch was sudden and unexpected. Alastor flinched, dropping his fork in surprise. “What—? Let me go!”

But Vox didn’t let go. He unzipped the bag under the table and pulled out an antiseptic wipe. “Hold still,” he ordered. His eyes didn’t meet Alastor’s face; they were fixed on the bruised wrist. “Just one minute. Then you can get back to your food.”

Alastor wanted to resist. Anger swelled in his chest but Vox’s grip didn’t hurt. On the contrary, it was a steady pressure that briefly dulled the throbbing pain and instead of that usual mocking look, Vox’s expression was completely focused on his task. This unexpected seriousness froze Alastor for a moment. He reluctantly, silently placed his other wrist on the table as well, turning his head away to stare at the ceiling, swallowing down the discomfort and pain.

Vox began his work. Alastor flinched slightly when the cold antiseptic touched his skin, but didn’t pull away. Vox cleaned gently, wiping over the inflamed scratches and cord marks. He wrapped the fresh bandages carefully tight enough to stay put, but not enough to cut off circulation.

Alastor’s head tilted just enough to watch Vox’s hands. Those electricity-laced fingers looked surprisingly delicate now. This quiet, practical care… it was unsettling. Like a small warmth creeping into his hatred.

“All done,” Vox murmured at last, closing the bag. “Now you can finish before your food gets cold.” He stepped back. As he gathered his supplies, Alastor immediately picked up his spoon again and resumed eating as if there had been no interruption at all. Vox watched him, feeling an odd heaviness in his chest toward this stubborn, wounded creature. He turned toward the door, but then stopped abruptly.

His back was turned now. His shoulders, marked by the bruises and scratches left by Valentino’s blows, looked tense and rigid. He stretched slightly, wincing without meaning to.

Alastor, a mouthful of food still in, saw the movement. Slowly, he set his spoon back down. His crimson eyes lingered on Vox’s tense back for a moment. Something stirred inside him. Not gratitude. More like… balance. A sense of owing something back. His voice broke the silence of the room, unexpectedly even, stripped of its usual mockery. “Your back… is it okay?” Even as he asked, he knew how late, how strange the question was. He immediately dropped his gaze back to his plate.

Vox froze in the doorway. Slowly, he turned around, caught off guard by both the timing and tone of the question. He gave a small shrug, evasive. “It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.”

But Alastor was already on his feet. He had forgotten his food entirely. His crimson eyes were locked on Vox’s back, his thin lips pressed tight. This sight… this vulnerability… it got to him. On instinct, he stepped closer. “Show me,” he ordered, his voice regaining its usual sharpness. His hand reached for the collar of Vox’s shirt, pulling it down over one shoulder. The fabric slipped lower than intended, baring the curve of Vox’s chest along with the angry bruises, deep scratches, and a few wounds that had already begun to scab. Alastor’s gaze lingered not in hunger, but in a brief, frozen calculation before he muttered, “Let me treat it.”

Vox tried to pull away, but Alastor’s hand was still on his collar, holding him lightly in place. “No!” The answer was sharp, instinctive. A faint flush spread over his face. Letting Alastor touch him showing him the wounds on his back felt far more personal, far more vulnerable than the wrist bandaging earlier. “No need. I’ll handle it myself.”

A thin, mocking smile curved Alastor’s lips. Vox’s shyness, his sudden embarrassment… interesting. “My, my, Vox,” he began, his voice dangerously soft. “It’s been seven years. You can hypnotize me and tie me up, but now you’re embarrassed?” He tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes locking onto Vox’s darting blue ones. “Or… are you still in love with me?”

The faint blush on Vox’s face ignited instantly, spreading to the tips of his ears. His breath caught. “Y-You—?” The words tangled in his throat. That blunt, merciless strike had left him utterly defenseless. His carefully constructed cold, controlled image shattered. “Don’t be ridiculous!” he managed at last, but his voice trembled, weak. “That… that’s long over! Forget it!”

Alastor’s grin widened in satisfaction. Bull’s-eye. “Of course it is,” he murmured, a sweetness in his mockery. This time he stepped even closer, fingers brushing the button of Vox’s shirt. “Then what’s the shame? I’m only going to patch you up. Just like you did for me.”

Vox closed his eyes. Inside, a war was raging an urge to pull away, pride screaming in protest… and, buried deep, a quiet, treacherous longing for Alastor’s touch. Alastor undid the first button. Cold air and his gaze touched bare skin. Vox shivered.

“Damn you, Alastor,” he whispered, his voice cracked, as if surrendering. He bowed his head, resting his forehead against the cool door. He no longer resisted. He just waited.

Alastor unbuttoned the shirt one by one, letting it slide down from Vox’s shoulders. The damage from Valentino was laid bare: deep claw marks bruised purple, some trying to scab, others still red and tender. For a moment, surprise flickered across Alastor’s face. His eyes almost drifted lower but he caught himself, quickly fixing his gaze on the wounds instead. His expression shifted to a guarded seriousness, concealing the flicker of embarrassment. He took out antiseptic and gauze from the bag.

Vox flinched at the first touch. “Stay still,” Alastor murmured, unusually level. His fingers pressed lightly around the wounds as he cleaned them. The contact was cold, a bit painful, but his movements were surprisingly gentle. Just like Vox had been with his wrists minutes ago. He worked silently, carefully, applying ointment to a spot that looked infected, then laying fresh bandages secure, but not constricting. Every touch sent a jolt of electricity through Vox’s skin. Shame, embarrassment… and something else. Alastor’s reluctant kindness… was confusing.

When he was done, Alastor looked at Vox’s sweat-slick back and tense shoulders. Then he stepped back slightly. “All done,” he whispered, his voice unusually low. His hand lingered for a moment on Vox’s shoulder, at the edge of the bandage, before pulling away.

Vox still leaned against the door, his breathing quick. The shame was so heavy he couldn’t speak. He just gave a small nod not agreement, not thanks, just a motion.

Alastor watched that overwhelming embarrassment for a moment longer. Then, with his familiar sharp grin returning, he turned and went back to his cooling meal. Picking up his fork, he said, his voice back to its usual confident tone, though something was subtly different. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll finish my meal and you… can get back to whatever you were doing.”

As Vox was about to leave the room, his phone buzzed in his pocket, then again. He took it out. The screen lit up Valentino. A message notification. Vox froze. He could feel Alastor’s eyes burning into his back.

Val
That explosion was your radio troublemaker’s doing. Part of his escape plan.

Vox’s breath caught in his throat. A low growl sounded behind him. Alastor had set his plate down on the table and was now on his feet, one hand gripping the edge of the chair. His ears were pinned all the way back, tense. The expression on his face was questioning. “Vox?” His voice crackled with static. “What happened? Who was it from?”

Vox turned slowly. He was gripping the phone tightly, the screen still glowing with Valentino’s poisonous words. His face was pale, the blue light in his eyes flickering, unsteady. He was looking at Alastor, but it was as if he wasn’t really seeing him.

“That day…” Vox’s voice came out low, his lips trembling slightly. “When the explosion happened… you went to the door.” His gaze locked onto Alastor’s eyes, carrying a painful demand. “Was it to escape? In that moment… did you want to leave me behind?”

Alastor’s brows drew together slightly. He understood what Vox was asking. The moment of the blast… chaos, alarms, red lights flashing… Vox had pulled him back and locked the door. Yes, he had wanted to take that chance to get out pure survival instinct but what Vox was asking now was something else entirely. Had he wanted to leave him there, in the middle of the danger?

There was a beat of silence. Then Alastor tilted his head slightly. His usual dangerous smile was back, but beneath it was a hint of surprise. “Did I want to escape?” he repeated. “Of course. I’m a prisoner, Vox. My power broken, locked in this technological tomb. I’d take any opportunity I could get.” He paused, his red eyes catching on the wounded look in Vox’s face. “But that you’d think I stayed to fight for you… That’s a very romantic assumption, my dear friend. I was only thinking about survival. Nothing else.”

His words were cold, merciless. The tiny, foolish hope swelling in Vox’s chest that maybe, just maybe, Alastor had thought of him in that moment shattered. A weight settled over his chest. He swallowed.

“Tomorrow,” Vox said, his voice stripped of emotion, “I’ll call a doctor. They’ll come to examine you.” He lifted his head, meeting Alastor’s gaze. The blue lights in his eyes were dim. “If they say you’re healed… you’ll leave. You won’t need to stay here anymore.”

Alastor didn’t react. He just looked at Vox, something unreadable glinting in his red eyes. Then, with a slight shrug and his head tilted just so, a thin, sharp mockery curved his lips. “Ah,” he murmured, “Your hospitality is truly wonderful, Vox. Really. Especially that final touch.” By “final touch,” he meant the order to leave.

Vox ignored the mockery. He simply let out a deep, weary sigh and shook his head. Without another word, he opened the door and disappeared into the hallway.

That night, curled up in his bed in the darkness of his room, Alastor’s words echoed in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut. What was I expecting? he thought bitterly. He’s always looked out for himself. Always has. Always will. Sleep didn’t come for a long time, weighed down by hurt and an empty exhaustion.

In the early hours of the morning, Alastor stood by the window, his fingers lightly touching the cold glass. Outside, Hell’s crimson sky had faded into gray. Today, the doctor was coming and then… he would go to the hotel. The thought left a strange heaviness in his chest. This technology tower he despised had, for some time now, been the place where he breathed. Vox’s voice, his mocking words, even that infuriating silence… all of it had become part of this empty room. His ears drooped slightly.

The door opened. Vox stepped inside, followed by a serious-looking demon doctor in a white coat. Vox’s face was blank with the particular stillness of an early morning. His eyes flicked to Alastor, then back to the doctor. “Here’s the patient. The holy wound Adam left. It was infected. I want you to check if it’s healed.”

The doctor stepped forward and opened his bag. “Understood, Mr. Vox. Please lie on your back, sir.” His hand reached for the edge of the bandage, but Alastor suddenly pulled back. He leaned against the back of the chair, red eyes narrowing.

“No,” he growled, his voice laced with sharp static. “Don’t touch. No need.”

The doctor froze in surprise, looking over at Vox. Vox stood with his arms crossed, brows faintly furrowed. He didn’t seem surprised by Alastor’s defiance, but neither did he seem inclined to interfere. He simply watched.

“You do it,” Alastor shot back, locking eyes with him. “Last time… you did it.” The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them. Why had he said that? It was a show of weakness. A faint heat spread across his face, and he looked away.

Vox hesitated, his tone turning even colder. “That was different. Now you need professional care. Lie down.”

This indifference drove Alastor even more insane. Vox could hypnotize him! He could calm him down! But he wasn’t. He was just standing there, allowing this torment. It felt like betrayal.

The doctor approached again, more resolute this time. “Please, sir, I’ll just check the bandage.” His hand went to the buttons of Alastor’s shirt.

Contact. Foreign, cold, revolting contact. Alastor’s whole body tensed. An instinctive growl rose in his throat. “Get your hand off!” he barked, moving to attack the doctor.

In that instant, Vox moved. Instead of shoving the doctor away, he grabbed Alastor’s arm. “Enough!” he ordered sharply. “Don’t move, you idiot! You’re hurting yourself even more!” He pushed Alastor back against the chair’s rest, pinning him so he couldn’t move. The heat of his hand sank into Alastor’s arm strong, restraining.

Seeing Vox’s sudden intervention and Alastor’s pained state, the doctor took a startled step back. “Mr. Vox, perhaps we should wait until he calms down—”

“No,” Vox cut him off, his gaze still locked on Alastor’s twisted, pained expression. “Do it now. I’ll hold him.” He didn’t let go of Alastor’s arm, gesturing with his free hand toward the doctor. “Go on. Make it quick.”

Alastor bared his teeth a silent, feral threat. “Stay away,” he hissed.

The doctor hesitated, but eventually yielded to Vox’s unwavering stare. Carefully, he unfastened the shirt and bandage. When the wound was revealed, his brows furrowed. “This… looks worse than I expected.”

Vox’s eyes fixed on the injury. Adam’s holy wound, its edges dark red and inflamed, was seeping a yellowish discharge but that wasn’t the surprising part. Beside the old wound, just a few centimeters away, there were other injuries. Deep, clean cuts. Fresh, red, and slightly swollen the kind left by a blade. One in particular was especially deep, tearing the skin apart.

Vox’s breath caught. His gaze stayed glued to those new, fresh wounds.

For a moment, he looked at Alastor’s face. Alastor was still breathing raggedly in pain, eyes shut, teeth clenched. There was no guilt or confession in his expression only unbearable discomfort. Inside Vox, a storm raged. Anger, fear, and an impossible tangle of confusion. Why would he have done this? To stay?

If he healed, he would leave. Vox would send him away but if he didn’t heal… if he didn’t heal, he could stay. In this cold tower, as Vox’s unwilling guest. The thought made Vox sick.

Or… was it punishment? Was he punishing himself?

While the doctor applied ointment and wrapped fresh bandages, Vox didn’t move. He still held Alastor’s arm, but now with a gentler, almost careful grip. When the doctor finished, he said gravely, “The infection persists and these new wounds…” His voice lowered, giving Vox a meaningful look. “He needs to be careful. This could get much worse.”

Vox nodded, finally releasing Alastor’s arm. “Understood. Thank you, doctor.” As the doctor packed his bag and left, the room sank into a heavy silence.

Alastor slowly sat up, buttoning his shirt. His fingers trembled slightly. His face was pale, but that familiar dangerous glint had returned to his eyes. He looked at Vox, attempting an expression of mockery. “Happy now? There, it’s been seen to. Now you can tie me up and hypnotize me again, can’t you?”

Vox looked straight at him. The image of those fresh, deep cuts burned in his mind. “Why did you do it, Alastor?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm, though there was anger beneath it. He looked him directly in the eyes. “Those wounds. Did you make them yourself?”

For a moment, Alastor’s eyes widened shock, and… panic? But the mask of indifference returned quickly. He shrugged, looking away. “Don’t be ridiculous, Vox. Maybe I fell. Or got caught on something in your terribly furnished tower.” The uncertainty in his voice was obvious.

Vox repeated, “Fall?” His tone was sharp. “Is that so? What about the cameras, Alastor? Every inch of this tower is under surveillance. Did you forget?” He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. His fingers slid quickly over the screen, eyes never leaving Alastor. “We can check together if you want. That night. In your room. After your bandages were changed let’s see what happened.” He raised the phone, ready to unlock it.

That was when Alastor moved. He reached out, grabbing Vox’s hand. The movement was sudden and violent; the phone flew from Vox’s fingers, skidding across the floor until it came to rest in a corner. Alastor was breathing hard, still gripping Vox’s wrist so tightly his fingers were practically digging into the bone. His eyes were wide, the red glow inside them flickering wildly, and the only thing on his face was searing panic. The threat of having his pride and secrets stripped bare before the cameras had burst through the frozen mask he wore.

“Don’t,” he said, voice weak. “Don’t… don’t look at those recordings.” He released Vox’s wrist, as if suddenly realizing he’d burned him. His hands were trembling faintly. He stepped back, pressing his back to the wall as though under physical threat. His breathing was fast and uneven. His gaze darted to the phone on the floor, then quickly back to Vox’s face, then down again. A hot wave of shame crept up from his neck to his ears. Feeling this exposed, this caught… was unbearable.

Vox picked up his phone. The screen wasn’t cracked, but Alastor’s reaction had already told him more than any footage could. He waited silently.

Alastor lowered his head. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles twitched. Admitting it… would be the ultimate sign of weakness. Surrender. He would rather die but enduring that cold, relentless expectation in Vox’s blue eyes was even harder. For a moment just a moment he felt caught between his pride and his need. Then, in a voice low and muffled enough to be barely audible, he spoke:

“I did it for my own selfishness.” He kept his head down, unable to meet Vox’s gaze. “That’s it. Nothing more.” It was a confession, but one without apology or regret. Just an ugly truth.

Vox stepped forward, then stopped. The bluntness, the merciless simplicity of it rattled him. “Your selfishness?” he repeated, voice shaking with a mix of shock and rising anger. “Hurting yourself with a knife? What kind of selfishness is that, Alastor?!” His voice rose. “To stay here? Why?!”

Alastor finally looked at him. A bitter smile tugged at his lips. “Why?” he whispered, static growing in his voice. “Because I wanted to play your game, Vox. I wanted to stay here. I didn’t want to heal. I wanted to be crushed under your smug hospitality. That’s the selfishness.”

Vox was breathing hard with anger. “You’re insane.” He couldn’t find any more words. Anger and disgust clogged his throat.

Alastor’s grin widened. “Perhaps but my selfishness isn’t as poisonous as yours, is it, Vox? At least I only hurt myself.” He was alluding to Vox’s submission to Valentino, to the scars that came from him. “Now,” he added, tilting his head slightly, “are you satisfied? You wanted the truth. You got it. Does it leave an emptiness inside you, I wonder?” His voice was laced with mockery, but beneath it lay a defense almost a challenge.

Vox froze. His eyes flicked to Alastor’s bandaged chest. Those new, deep cuts… they were because of him. Why had Alastor gone that far?

He couldn’t answer. He only drew in a deep, tired breath. He slipped his phone back into his pocket. He gave Alastor one last look a mixed, unreadable one then turned and left the room. He pulled the door behind him, but didn’t fully close it. It stayed ajar.

Alastor was left alone. Vox’s silent exit, his lack of the expected outburst, had left a strange hollow feeling inside him. There was no sense of victory. Only… depletion. He sank onto the bed, the tension in his shoulders unwinding. He laid a hand on his chest, over the new wounds hidden under the bandages. This had been his choice. His selfishness but now, with Vox gone, the weight of it pressed into his bones.

The game was still on but the rules had changed and he was no longer certain who was winning.

When Vox left the room, the Doctor extended a small piece of paper in his hand, a slight unease on his face. "Ah, Mr. Vox? Sorry, I forgot the prescription." He handed over the paper. "These are antibiotics and painkillers. Available at the pharmacy. Three times a day, after meals." Vox took the paper and let the doctor leave. He glanced at the prescription, then put it in his pocket. His face darkened thinking of Alastor’s condition. The medicines were necessary, but leaving him alone like this... A restless feeling stirred inside him.

"I… am going to get the medicines," he murmured, turning toward peppermint standing there. "You… bring food." He couldn't say anything more. He pulled the door and left.

After a while, the door quietly opened. Peppermint entered carrying a tray. On it was a simple but neat meal: a light soup and some fresh bread. He approached Alastor, silently placed the tray on the table, and then moved to a corner of the room to wait there.

Alastor didn’t look at Peppermint. He stared at the soup on the tray. Steam was rising from it. He had no appetite but his body was weak and needed energy. He sighed and slowly got up. He sat down in the chair and took the spoon in his hand. He began to drink the soup. The warmth slid down his throat, giving a sense of relief, but even that small comfort disturbed him.

While he was halfway through his meal, the door suddenly opened forcefully. Vox had returned. He was out of breath, as if he had run. A thin layer of sweat shone on his forehead; the collar of his jacket was still open. He carried a small pharmacy bag. Without hesitation, he came directly to Alastor’s side and took the boxes out of the bag. One was pills, the other a bottle of liquid antibiotic.

"Here," he explained shortly, his voice still a bit breathy but more controlled. He placed the boxes and their leaflets on the table. Without wasting time reading the instructions, he poured two white pills into his palm. He held out the pills to Alastor. "With water."

Alastor looked at the pills in Vox’s hand. Then at his face. That closed expression, that commanding tone... A resistance rose within him. He shook his head from side to side; his ears flattened back. "No," he murmured, his voice weak but stubborn. "Not now. Later."

Vox sighed inwardly. This was what he expected. His patience had already worn thin after the morning’s events. "Alastor," he began. "I don’t have time to play games right now. The doctor was clear." His eyes slid to Alastor’s bandaged chest, "...you’ve already done your part. Now take the pills."

Alastor’s lips pressed into a thin line. He averted his gaze. "Didn’t you hear me? Later. I haven’t finished my soup." He gestured toward the soup.

Vox’s anger reached the edge of his patience. For a moment, it was obvious he considered forcing the pills into Alastor’s mouth. He clenched his teeth. "Fine," he hissed, his voice tense. "Do whatever you want."

At that, Alastor hesitated for a moment. Then he took the pill. He grabbed the glass of water Peppermint had brought. He put the pills in his mouth and swallowed with a big gulp of water. His face still grimaced.

Vox was focused on hearing the pills swallowed. He saw a slight movement in Alastor’s throat but he didn’t feel relieved. Past tricks, evasions came to mind. "Open your mouth," he ordered unexpectedly.

Alastor froze as he set the glass down on the table. Slowly, he raised his head and looked at Vox. There was a look mixed with surprise and disbelief on his face. "Are you serious?" he asked, his voice laden with sarcasm. "Maybe you want to lift my tongue and check underneath, huh?" He tilted his head slightly. "What kind of… care is this, Vox?"

Vox’s cheeks flushed faintly. He was aware how humiliating his demand was but his worry was stronger than his shame and he knew Alastor was self-harming. There was no trust. He put his hands on his hips, trying to stand upright but without avoiding eye contact. "Yes, I’m serious," he replied, his voice stubborn. "Open your mouth or I’ll open it. Your choice." The threat was real; his hypnotic ability and physical advantage still applied.

The room fell silent. Peppermint stood motionless in the corner, as if recording the scene. Alastor studied the determined, almost desperate look on Vox’s face. This was more than a control freak. There was something deeper. A kind of… obsessive sense of responsibility. He shrugged lightly, as if to say “How amusing.” Then, locking eyes with Vox, he opened his mouth.

Vox instinctively held his breath. The resistance he expected didn’t come. He carefully leaned in and looked inside Alastor’s mouth. The underside of the tongue, the cheeks… No pill was hidden anywhere. Just moist, reddish tissue and sharp teeth. He really had swallowed it. A feeling of relief eased the tension in Vox’s shoulders. He straightened up and withdrew.

"See?" Alastor closed his mouth, the sarcasm in his voice somewhat diminished. "I was a good boy. Now, will you give me a gold star, teacher?" There was a sly sparkle in his eyes.

Vox rolled his eyes but a small, involuntary smirk appeared at the corner of his lips. "You’re very funny," he murmured. "Keep resting. You’ll have your next dose in a few hours." He left the medicines on the table within Alastor’s reach. There was no need to hide them anymore; he had earned his trust, at least in this small matter.

Peppermint quietly left the room. Vox stayed for a moment, looking at Alastor. Fatigue had settled deep into his bones. "Try to sleep," he added, his voice now cracking with exhaustion. "Your body needs to heal."

Alastor noticed the sudden weariness in Vox. The mocking expression on his face softened slightly. "You should go rest too, Vox," he replied unexpectedly. His voice lacked its usual sharpness, more flat and observant. "Looks like you need it more than me." He tilted his head slightly toward the direction where traces of Valentino remained, then turned his gaze to the grayness outside the window.

Vox froze for a moment in surprise. He wanted to say something but the words got stuck in his throat. He just nodded faintly, glanced once more at Alastor, and left the room. As he closed the door behind him, he did not shut it completely; he left a small gap.

Alastor looked at the gap in the door. His eyelids grew heavy because of his wound, his mind blurred. This tower, this technological prison, had somehow become the new center of his world and Vox… Vox was no longer just an enemy, a warden, but an inseparable part of this strange, unsettling new reality. He closed his eyes. Sleep quickly took him in, along with the hazy thoughts.

A few hours later, Vox quietly cracked open the door to the room. Alastor was lying down, but when Vox’s shadow fell over him, he startled, his red eyes suddenly focusing. "Don’t you have more important things to deal with?” he muttered, sitting up in bed.

Vox slid one hand into his pocket and rubbed his forehead with the other. He ignored what Alastor said. “Looks like,” he began, his voice flat and tired, “this visit of yours is going to be a long one. To keep order... new rules are necessary.” He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I wrote them down for you.” He emphasized that he was making an effort. He hated his own handwriting.

Alastor raised an eyebrow.

A small, forced curl appeared on Vox’s lips. “I might add an incentive to make it easier to accept.” He fixed his eyes on Alastor’s face. “If you follow the rules… I’ll bring ice cream. Fresh.”

Alastor’s dull expression changed instantly. The corner of his lips twitched involuntarily, as if his mouth was watering. Ice cream. Simple, childish, but a luxury in his terms. A rare, human-made treat in Hell. Vox knew this. He knew his weak spot and was clearly using it.

A brief sigh flickered across his face. Pride or ice cream? Pride didn’t fill an empty stomach. He averted his eyes, as if ashamed to admit it. His voice was low, a little muffled. “Accepted.” Then, quickly pulling himself together to regain his old arrogant self, he lifted his head. “So, are these additions on top of the previous rules? Or did you rewrite everything from scratch on that paper?” He pointed at the paper in Vox’s hand with his index finger.

Vox scoffed. “Add-ons. Like your ‘old-fashioned’ radio shows. Adding the new, removing the old.” He unfolded the paper and started reading it as his eyes scanned over it. His voice had that usual sharp, commanding tone, but beneath it was a sort of routine comfort.

1. Doctor Visits: “No resisting when the doctor comes. If you need a shot, you’ll take it. No sulking allowed. After all,” he shook the paper lightly, “you can be stupid enough to stab yourself.” Alastor snorted, rolled his eyes but didn’t object.

2. Medications: “Prescription meds. On time. All of them. No hide-and-seek. Cameras will be watching you.” Alastor grumbled.

3. Nutrition: “Regular meals. No refusing. You’ll eat what’s put in front of you. ‘I don’t feel like it’ isn’t a valid excuse.” Alastor’s stomach was still sensitive; this rule bothered him. He pursed his lips.

4. Rest: “At least eight hours of sleep daily. In bed. Eyes closed. No night vigils with shadows.” Alastor’s sleepless nights showed. He inwardly resisted this rule.

5. Static Control: “I know your power’s starting to come back. No deliberately crashing the entire tower’s electronics. Small sparks... tolerable. Maybe.” Vox read this rule while carefully watching Alastor’s face. A brief eye contact. Alastor gave a slight smirk, nodding as if conceding. A small victory.

6. Spending Time Together (Optional but Recommended): “If you’re bored... tell me. You can pick a movie or we can just sit and talk. One condition: if I pick a rom-com, no complaining.” Vox’s voice lowered a bit here, almost shy. He seemed to be hiding behind the paper’s back. Alastor was surprised. His lips parted slightly, but he said nothing. Just watched.

7. Ice Cream Privilege: “If you follow the rules… you get ice cream.” Vox lowered the paper, looking directly at Alastor. “Offer still stands. We can start today. Rules… if accepted.”

Reading finished. The room fell silent. Alastor looked at Vox. Tired, worn out, but still trying to keep control over him. The rules were strict, yes but that seventh clause... and the ice cream offer. It was an attack on his weak spot, but also a kind of... peace offering. A door left ajar.

His eyes shifted from the paper in Vox’s hand to his face. Something stirred inside. Anger? Yes. Hatred for submission? Definitely but also… inside that “spending time together” trap, a chance to tease Vox a little more.

Finally, after a long silence, in a voice barely audible but clear, he spoke: “The rules… are reasonable.” He bowed his head. Then suddenly lifted it, with a dangerous gleam in his red eyes. “Instead of ice cream, can I ask for a hunt?”

Vox furrowed his brows, a sharp warning flashing in his eyes. "Hunting?" He lightly waved his hand over the wound beneath the bandages at his chest. "Looks like you forgot your last attempt. That street thug nearly tore you apart."

Alastor's chest tightened. It was frustrating that Vox was right. That moment of weakness, that humiliating rescue scene... His ears flattened back, a low growl echoed in his throat. "That was an exception," he murmured, his voice weak. He knew his strength hadn't fully returned yet; his body was still healing.

A moment of silence fell. Vox saw the stubborn expression on Alastor’s face, but underneath it, the deep, suppressed longing. He sighed, this time in a softer, almost weary tone: "Good or bad, you accepted the rules. Show a little... cooperation."

Alastor's fingers gripped the edge of the armchair tightly. "I'd rather starve."

Vox’s lips twitched. "You won't die from a few home-cooked meals." His voice hardened again. He couldn’t tolerate Alastor's recklessness. "No hunting. Period."

Alastor straightened his back, ignoring the sting from his wound. He couldn’t endure Vox’s stubbornness, this “ownership” game any longer but what if... another way? A small, cunning smirk appeared at the corner of his lips.

“Alright,” he said, deliberately lowering his voice to a softer, almost indifferent tone. “Then... I have another offer instead of hunting.” He locked eyes with Vox. “Rosie. I’ve been meaning to visit her for a while. We can talk about the latest developments in the fresh meat market. Maybe pick up a few... fresh pieces.” He slightly emphasized “fresh,” implying his craving for prey. “Just a few blocks from your tower. Minimal risk.” The confidence he radiated was completely a ruse, but it might work.

Vox’s expression changed. He was surprised Alastor was using Rosie. Rosie... the polite, dangerous leader of the Cannibal Colony. Someone Alastor respected. Vox wasn’t sure if Alastor truly wanted to meet her, but this was a convenient excuse to get Alastor outside the tower somewhere safe and Alastor having some kind of “normal” social interaction... could help him heal. Maybe.

“Alright,” he murmured, “we’ll go to Rosie.” Then he added, raising a finger, “But a quick visit. Straight there, straight back. Agreed?”

A small feeling of victory flickered inside Alastor. He’d manipulated Vox, cracked open the cage door. He didn’t wear a full victorious expression, but the little wrinkle at the corners of his eyes and the slightly raised tips of his ears gave him away. “Of course,” he replied, his voice almost innocent. “Just a courtesy call. We’ll reminisce about old times with Rosie, maybe have a cup of tea.” The idea of tea made Vox scowl, which amused Alastor.

Vox shook his head from side to side, as if he didn’t believe this “courtesy call” story. “You sit,” he commanded, moving toward the door. “I’ll get ready. Five minutes.” He left the room.

Alastor leaned back in his chair. A small, scheming smile appeared on his lips. The visit might be short, but it would definitely be... productive.

Vox took longer to get ready than expected. Alastor tapped his fingers impatiently until the door finally opened and Vox entered.

Alastor rolled his eyes, silently groaning.

Vox looked like he had just stepped out of one of Hell’s most expensive tailors. He wore a deep navy, perfectly tailored suit, his shirt crisp white and impeccably ironed. His hair was carefully combed, highlighting his electric blue eyes. A faint scent of cologne lingered around him. Handsome. Too handsome.

“For Heaven’s sake, Vox,” Alastor muttered. His red eyes scanned Vox up and down, his expression a mix of pure disgust and mockery. “Where do you think we’re going? An Overlords’ Ball? Or one of those disgusting ‘private parties’?” He pursed his lips. “If you go dressed like that, you’re the prey.”

Vox’s face flushed suddenly. Hearing Alastor emphasize “prey,” especially with that sharp look, his mind immediately twisted it the wrong way. He thought Alastor saw him as the prey. His lips trembled, voice muffled and unsure: “Are you… planning to hunt me, Alastor?”

Alastor faltered for a moment. Then he let out a short, sharp laugh, his voice crackling like radio static. “You stupid television!” he growled, “Not you! I mean others! The starving pack in the streets!” His red eyes looked at Vox’s flushed, confused face with genuine exasperation. “I swear, sometimes I wish you didn’t have that screen for a head. Maybe then you’d understand faster.” He shook his head, then stepped toward Vox. “Come. Let’s end this comedy.”

Alastor led Vox with determined steps toward his own bedroom. Standing in front of Vox’s wardrobe, he flung the doors open with a harsh motion. Inside were expensive, flashy clothes. Silk shirts, leather jackets, glittering accessories. Alastor wrinkled his nose. “Disgusting,” he muttered. His fingers quickly sifted through the fabrics, searching for the simplest, darkest pieces. Finally, he picked a plain black linen shirt and navy, slim-cut but modest trousers. He tossed them onto Vox’s arms. “Wear these. Now.”

As Vox changed, Alastor waited behind the door. When Vox stepped out, Alastor scrutinized him once more. Even the simple clothes couldn’t hide Vox’s slender frame and sharp features. The shirt fit perfectly on his shoulders, the pants hugged his waist just right. His electric blue eyes and neat hair still stood out. Alastor squinted briefly, letting out a deep, perceptible sigh as he bowed his head. Still, he said nothing. He only gestured toward the door. “Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time.”

The streets of Hell were as foggy and dangerous as ever. The air carried the heavy stench of rotting things. Figures lurking in the shadows of narrow alleys watched them with hungry eyes. Since the attack by Adam, the area had become even more restless. Hungry and desperate sinners lay in wait around every corner.

Instinctively, Vox stepped a little closer to Alastor. He unconsciously synchronized his pace, his shoulder nearly brushing Alastor’s. His hands clenched slightly at his sides, sparks of electricity flickering at his fingertips. “These streets look worse than usual,” he muttered, voice tense. He was thinking about Alastor’s wounded state. If an attack happened…

Alastor was more alert than usual. His red eyes scanned the surroundings, his ears perked up, focusing on the slightest rustle. He thought of Vox’s vulnerable technological side. A knife strike, an ambush… While Alastor’s dark power was still limited, Vox’s electricity might not be enough in these narrow streets. He unconsciously slowed his steps, shifting slightly to position Vox just behind him.

Vox made a forced attempt to break the suffocating atmosphere, trying to speak in a tone that hid his tension. “My previous outfit… wasn’t actually that bad,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the muddy road ahead. “Okay, maybe it was a bit too formal for Rosie’s place, but…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Alastor shifted his red eyes to the side, toward Vox. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

Vox felt Alastor’s gaze. He cleared his throat, still avoiding eye contact. “It hid my weight..." he confessed, his voice low and a little embarrassed.

Alastor suddenly stopped. His footsteps ceased. He slowly turned his head, his red eyes scanning Vox’s face with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. For a moment, he just stood there, as if what Vox said was an incomprehensible nonsense.

“You’re not fat,” he said, stepping closer. His eyes moved from Vox’s shoulders to the waistband of his tight pants, to his slender waist. It wasn’t so much inspecting as it was confirming a fact. He paused, as if searching for the right word. “Your physique…” He hesitated for a moment, then continued, “…is good.” The word seemed to come out with some difficulty, but he said it.

Vox was stunned. Hearing such a sentence from Alastor… it was a first. Confusion showed on his face. His lips parted slightly. “Are you saying that for me?” he whispered, voice soft and uncertain. A small, hopeful spark flickered inside him.

Alastor immediately retreated, putting on his old sarcastic mask, his ears tilting back slightly. He rolled his eyes dramatically. “For Heaven’s sake, Vox,” he muttered, his voice sharpening again. He pointed to Vox’s waist with his hands. “Hold your waist.” The emphasis seemed to say, ‘You need physical proof to understand.’ “You’ll understand what I mean.” The topic needed to be closed.

But then, as he turned his gaze back to the foggy street ahead, he added in a low, almost murmuring tone: “Also, who cares if you were fat? Your body. Who cares?” The words were spoken with a simple, dismissive attitude, as if talking about such an obvious truth was pointless. It was the complete opposite of Valentino’s obsessive remarks.

Something shifted inside Vox. Alastor’s words the surprising compliment followed by the harsh but nonjudgmental defense spread an unexpected warmth through his chest. A genuine smile appeared briefly at the corner of his lips without him even noticing, then vanished quickly. Valentino’s recent constant taunts came to mind again: “Look at Angel Dust’s tiny waist, baby. You’ve gotten a bit… soft, haven’t you?” Those poisonous comparisons, those condescending looks… Of course, he never said any of this to Alastor. He just noticed that now, as Alastor walked ahead, the tension on his own shoulders eased a little, and his steps felt lighter. Inside him was a quiet gratitude and a strange relief.

They were nearing the end of the road. The familiar, bone-adorned door of Rosie’s place came into view. The sharp grin reappeared on Alastor’s lips, this time with genuine delight. “Here we are,” he murmured, his voice filled with dangerous cheer. “I hope Rosie is in a hospitable mood today.” Beneath his words lay the expectation of fresh meat and dark dealings.

Vox sighed as he looked at the door. Alastor’s definition of “hospitality” never matched his own but this visit might brighten Alastor’s mood just a little. “Make it quick,” he warned, his voice tired but ultimately resigned. He repeated what he said at home. “Straight in, straight out. Agreed?”

Alastor shrugged, his grin widening. “Of course. Just a ‘hello.’”

The moment they stepped inside Rosie’s shop, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. The hellish filth, smoke, and stench of rot from outside gave way to a heavy, sweet floral perfume and the warm scent of aged wood. Decorated with bone ornaments, dark velvet curtains, and shelves lined with strange yet elegant objects, this place was almost as familiar to Alastor as his own home. After the cold alienation of Vox’s tower, this felt like a warm quilt wrapped around them.

“Alastor, darling!” Rosie’s high-pitched, musical voice came from the back of the shop. She wore a beautiful dress, and a wide-brimmed hat hid her hair. Her face bore her usual large, sharp smile. Her eyes widened slightly when she spotted Vox standing just behind Alastor, a mix of surprise, deep curiosity, and amusement crossing her expression. “And… Vox! I can’t believe my eyes! Together? What a rare visit this is!” She gestured elegantly toward the seating area. “Please, come in! You’ve arrived just in time. The new batch of tea I brewed is wonderful.”

Alastor greeted Rosie with a light touch on her arm, wearing his usual mask of politeness. “Dearest Rosie, as dazzling as ever. We just wanted to stop by and reminisce about old times.”

Vox faltered a bit under Rosie’s intense attention and the shop’s “natural” ambiance. He might be a king in the world of technology, but here among bone furniture and dried herbs, he felt strange, a little vulnerable. His hand went to his phone in his pocket but he didn’t take it out.

Rosie seated them both on a small velvet-covered divan and began pouring fragrant dark tea into elegant porcelain cups. She also placed a plate of seemingly ordinary, yet to Alastor’s nose familiar cookies beside them. “So,” she began as she settled with her own cup, “I must hear the story. Alastor, my dear, I hear rumors. What are you doing in Vox’s technology temple? Sounds… not quite your style.” Her eyes flicked between the two faces.

Alastor raised his cup, the tea inside gently swirling. He noticed Vox’s ears tinting faintly pink. He tried to maintain the cold composure on his own face. “Adam… roughed me up quite a bit,” he explained flatly, in a radio announcer tone. “Vox kindly offered a helping hand. Allowed me to rest and gather my strength at his tower.” He deliberately emphasized “kindly,” knowing exactly how Rosie would take it.

Vox felt as if he were choking on Alastor’s simple but very truthful explanation. He tried to sip his tea, but the cup suddenly slipped from his hand. The hot liquid spilled onto the table and Rosie’s beautiful tablecloth. “Ah! Sorry!” His hand shook as he pulled out a handkerchief, scrambling to wipe the stains, face turning pale. “Clumsy of me. Really sorry, Rosie.”

Rosie laughed. “Oh, darling Vox, don’t worry! This cloth has seen worse!” Her eyes shifted from Vox’s trembling hands to the slight curl of amusement on Alastor’s lips. Alastor barely hid his own amusement at Vox’s clumsiness. “But I see,” Rosie continued, her voice low and almost whispering yet clearly audible in the quiet shop, “some things never change, do they? Your… past crush… can still get you this excited, Vox.”

The small amusement on Alastor’s face froze. His eyes turned to Rosie. “Darling,” he began, voice dangerously soft, “that’s an old and invalid topic. I suggest you update your jokes with more current material.”

Vox looked as if he might sink through the floor. His face was crimson, ears practically burning. Rosie mentioning his “old flame”… in front of Alastor… it was a blow to his deepest, most vulnerable place. He acted like he was still wiping the stains.

Seeing their reactions, a victorious glint lit up Rosie’s eyes. Bullseye! She clasped her hands with satisfaction. “Oh, darlings, don’t misunderstand me! I’m just observing. Old fires can sometimes reignite with the most unexpected sparks, especially when… close by.” She lifted her cup. “Now, drink your tea and don’t spoil the mood. Alastor, darling, I’ll pack some of these cookies for you.”

Alastor merely nodded slightly. “Very kind of you, Rosie.” He swallowed down his anger. Rosie was always like this an expert at sticking the needle in the most sensitive spot.

Time in Rosie’s elegant shop moved slowly, drifting along with the steam rising from the tea. Vox tried to warm his porcelain cup in his hands, his gaze caught on the strange bone ornaments in the dark corners of the shop.

Rosie gracefully refilled the teapot, her eyes drifting to Vox’s tense posture. “So, Vox,” she began, her voice gentle but laced with a sharp curiosity beneath it. “It’s so nice to talk with you. We don’t get to see each other often, unfortunately. Especially lately… things must be busy with Valentino, right?” Her words were carefully chosen, hidden behind a veil of innocent curiosity. “We’re all curious, really. Those famous studios, those glamorous parties… How’s your relationship going? Still burning as passionately as in the old days?” She raised one eyebrow slightly, wearing her usual wide, knowing smile.

The moment the question hung in the air, Vox’s shoulders stiffened further. He gripped his cup tighter in his hands. Clearing his throat, he fixed his gaze on the dark surface of the tea. “Things… things are normal, Rosie,” he murmured, voice tense and muffled. “Same as always. Busy. Val… demanding as ever.” A slight warmth spread across his face, a mixture of shame and anger.

Alastor sat in the shadow of silence. His red eyes caught the microscopic change in Vox’s face, the cup crushed in his hands, the small tremble in his voice. Then he turned his gaze to Rosie. Behind her smile, he saw the cunning glint in her eyes. This was no mere chat. Rosie was deliberately pressing Vox, forcing him to face the truth about Valentino and at the same time, she was testing Alastor’s reaction, his feelings on the matter. Two birds with one stone.

His fingers tightened slightly along the thin rim of his own teacup. Watching Vox suffer this pain… the discomfort of being reminded of Valentino… it all mixed together. He wanted to say something, to end this game. To defend Vox? Or at least stop this interrogation?

But the words caught in his throat. What could he say? Saying anything would be like admitting there was something between them. Worse yet, it would reveal his jealousy.

So he said nothing. Just sat. Sipped his tea. Didn’t lift his eyes from the cup. Only a deep, almost inaudible sigh betrayed his helpless anger and tangled pain. That sigh reached Vox’s ears.

Vox suddenly raised his head, his blue eyes locked on Alastor’s dull expression. The exhaustion, perhaps the disdain in that sigh, stoked the shame inside him even more. Alastor was tired of hearing about this wretched relationship with Valentino. Vox set his cup down on the table and, his voice sharpening, turned to Rosie: “Rosie, please. Valentino is a private matter. It’s nothing beyond a business partnership.” He was lying, and he knew it. The tension in his voice gave it away. “We came today to check on Alastor. I’m… helping him recover.”

Rosie felt the electricity, the tension, all the unspoken words between the two men as clearly as if they were in the palm of her hand. It was an even more delicious spectacle than she expected. The triumphant smile that gleamed on her lips never faded. “Of course, dear Vox,” she murmured, voice sticky-sweet. “I’m sorry. Just a curious old woman.” She touched Vox’s arm gently, if only for a moment. “I only care about your happiness. We all know that finding a true bond in Hell… is a rare treasure.” Her words were deliberately vague. Was she referring to Valentino? Or… implying another possibility? Her eyes flicked briefly to Alastor, then back to Vox.

Vox flinched at Rosie’s touch but didn’t pull away. “Happiness…” he repeated with a hollow expression. The word had turned bitter in his mouth. Happiness had long been a forgotten concept in his relationship with Valentino. “Yes,” he murmured weakly. “A rare treasure.” He shifted slightly, preparing to stand.

Alastor noticed Vox’s movement and the escape in his expression. He took a final sip of his tea and gently placed the cup on the table. Trying to keep his voice as flat and radio-announcer-like as possible, he spoke. “Wonderful tea, dear! As perfect as always.” He stood, his long shadow falling over the table and encompassing Vox as well. “But I believe it’s time for us to go. Vox has business waiting in the tower and I… need to rest.” He emphasized the word “rest” by lightly touching his bandaged chest. Turning to Vox, there was a clear command in his red eyes: Let’s go.

Rosie seemed unfazed by Alastor’s sudden movement and sharp tone. She stood, her smile deepening. “Ah, of course, darlings! We mustn’t tire the patient.” She turned to Alastor and lightly placed her hand on his shoulder. “You get well, Alastor. I’ll handle the meat supply. Hopefully the food and Vox’s cold tower will do you good.” Her touch was warm, but to Alastor it felt like a sign of her victory. Rosie had won the game. She had shaken them both.

When they stepped outside, the suffocating air of Hell hit their faces. Alastor paused, walking forward without hesitation, his back straight but his steps tense. Vox followed quietly behind. Alastor could hear Vox’s breathing the slight, uneven rasp. Rosie’s words still lingered. Inside him burned anger, disgust, but above all an undefinable, unsettling warmth for Vox. He hadn’t been able to defend him.

They arrived at Vox’s tower. Alastor’s injury was still slowing him down; he placed his steps carefully, with none of his usual restless energy. Vox swiped his card to access the floor where his apartment was, and without needing words, invited him inside.

Despite the cold, high-tech atmosphere of the rest of the tower, the interior felt warmer. Vox led Alastor straight to his room. “Lie down,” he said, an unusual firmness in his voice. “You’re not walking around in this condition.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow but didn’t object. He settled onto the bed, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his bandaged side. Vox, following his own command, headed for the small cabinet Peppermint had recently set up in the corner, searching for water and painkillers.

“Don’t you have anything stronger?” Alastor asked, his eyes drifting toward the bottles on the shelf. Vox hesitated, then poured two glasses of whiskey and handed one to him. Alastor took it without thanks and sipped. Vox sat at the edge of the bed.

They drank in silence; the tension from Rosie’s shop still hung in the air. Vox noticed that tonight Alastor’s eyes seemed heavier, and the sharpness in his smile had dulled with fatigue.

“You know,” Vox said quietly, “talking to you like this… feels strange but a good strange.” his fingers tapped a steady rhythm along the rim of his glass. “Aren’t we usually supposed to be at each other’s throats?”

Alastor’s lips twitched. He slowly swirling the whiskey glass in his long fingers. The ice cubes clinked faintly against the glass. “I suppose we can make an exception tonight,” he said, a smile sharpening under the shadow of his teeth. “But if you’d prefer, I can still attack you. No trouble at all.”

Their banter continued light teasing, occasional touches, even a hint of flirting… Vox’s knee brushed against Alastor’s on purpose. Alastor ignored the contact, but the faint narrowing of his eyes gave him away.

The conversation drifted to the old days, little games, the chaos of their first days in Hell. Vox remembered the first time he had fallen into Hell how rumors about Alastor had already spread like wildfire. Everyone said Alastor was a cannibal, broadcasting the overlords’ screams on his radio. Vox had been tense, wary of the man before him.

"You were pretty tense back then,” Alastor chuckled, his voice warm and teasing.

Vox looked down, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “I had every reason to be,” he said quietly. “You were terrifying.”

Alastor’s grin widened, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. “Terrifying, huh? Well, I do pride myself on making an impression.” He leaned back, fingers steepled thoughtfully. “But you so stiff, so serious. It was almost adorable how tightly you held onto that tension.”

Vox’s eyes flicked up, meeting Alastor’s with a mix of irritation and reluctant amusement. “I wasn’t exactly looking to make friends.”

“Ah, but friendship was the least of your worries back then,” Alastor teased, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You probably thought I’d gobble you up for breakfast.”

Vox snorted. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

Alastor chuckled again. “But you know, I taught you a lot over those years. More than you give me credit for.”

Vox remained silent for a moment, The memory of Alastor’s sudden disappearance seven long years without a word pressed heavily on him. That silence wasn’t just absence; it was a wound that never fully healed. He forced a bitter smile, eyes flickering away for a moment. Trust isn’t something I hand out easily anymore, he thought.

Then, the front door’s card lock clicked open. Then came footsteps.

Every muscle in Alastor’s body went taut. The warmth and ease inside him froze instantly. His red eyes locked on Valentino’s silhouette in expensive clothes. An instinctive wave of hatred surged. Alastor summoned the shadows; darkness slid from the corners of the room, wrapping around him until no trace of him remained.

Vox, sluggish from drink, lifted his head. “Val?”

“I’m exhausted, baby,” Valentino cut him off, his voice high-pitched and demanding. Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it carelessly onto a chair. “The studio was a mess. Stupid models, broken lights…” He turned to Vox, eyes sweeping over him. “Come to the bedroom. Now.” It was an order. Then he walked away, closing the door behind him.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Vox tried to stand, swaying. He glanced toward Alastor but couldn’t see him. His eyes were unfocused, his face conflicted. Then Valentino’s command pulled heavier than hesitation. Head lowered, he took one step, then another, and slipped into the bedroom. The door shut softly.

From behind the closed door came a low, muffled murmur of voices. Alastor, hidden in shadow, held his breath and waited. Hours passed. Lights went out. The apartment sank into darkness and heavy stillness. Vox didn’t return.

It was past midnight when a faint clink came from the kitchen glassware, running water. Alastor slipped from the shadows, moving silently toward the sound. Peering through the doorway, he saw Vox leaning against the counter, looking utterly drained. His hair was disheveled, his face pale. He was filling a small coffee pot, movements sluggish. In the bright kitchen light, a dark red bite mark was clearly visible on his neck.

Alastor stepped in without a sound. Vox startled, turning his head. His eyes locked onto the red ones surprise flashed, then deep shame. “Alastor,” he murmured hoarsely. “Couldn’t sleep?” His gaze darted quickly back to the coffee pot.

“Apparently not,” Alastor replied, his tone flat, unreadable. He stepped closer to get a clearer view of the mark on Vox’s neck. Something in him twisted. Was it anger… or something else? “Coffee? At this hour? Not planning on sleeping?” He meant to point out how exhausted Vox looked.

Vox shrugged, setting the pot on the stove and lighting the flame. “Can’t sleep,” he admitted, his voice brittle. “My head’s… too full.” Hands braced on the counter, his head hung low. His shoulders sagged.

Alastor paused. He wanted to ask where Valentino was, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he asked, “Did you have a fight?” watching Vox’s reaction carefully. The silence behind the door earlier hadn’t sounded like a fight at all.

Vox let out a short, bitter laugh. “No. No fight.” His eyes stayed fixed on the pot. “He… was the same as always. Took what he wanted. Then fell asleep.” His voice dropped lower.

Alastor’s gaze flicked from the bite mark to the deep weariness in Vox’s face. Something was missing. Something incomplete. “And then?” he pressed, his tone softer now. “After he went to sleep? Why can’t you sleep?”

Vox suddenly tensed. He lifted his head to look at Alastor, a defensive panic in his eyes. “Nothing,” he answered quickly. “Nothing. I just… couldn’t sleep.” He looked away. He was lying plainly.

Alastor waited patiently, giving him room to speak. The coffee on the stove began to heat.

Eventually, Vox cracked. In a low, almost whispering voice, as if the words were being dragged out of him, he said, “He didn’t… do aftercare.” As soon as it was out, his face flushed, his eyes dropped to the counter like he hated himself for admitting it.

Alastor frowned slightly. “Aftercare?” he repeated. The term was unfamiliar, but from Vox’s shame-filled reaction, he knew it was personal, delicate. “What does that mean, Vox?” His question was driven less by curiosity than by the urge to keep him talking. Seeing him this vulnerable… was interesting.

Vox drew a deep breath, still staring downward as he spoke. “It’s what you do afterward. The holding. Talking. Just… being there. Calming someone down. Making you feel… human after all that.” Every word sounded like it cost him. “Valentino… never does that. Ever. Once he’s done… he turns over and sleeps. Leaves me… leaves me there, in pieces. I can’t sleep. I just think. Always.”

A heavy silence followed. Alastor was struck by the rawness of the confession. It was the most merciless truth about how Valentino used him and ignored his needs. Something inside Alastor tightened. Anger? At Valentino but also… something like pity for Vox? The thought unsettled him. Pity was weakness.

He tried to steady his thoughts, suppressing the anger. That wasn’t what Vox needed right now. On an uncharacteristic impulse, he spoke carefully: “Couldn’t… a friend do that? Just… be there?”

Vox’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly sharp. “A friend?” he echoed, his tone cutting. “Are we… friends, Alastor? As you said,” he added, “we never were. We never will be.” The fragility in his gaze hardened into a familiar defensive wall. After everything with Valentino, that word friend felt like salt in a wound. For Alastor to suggest it… it felt almost like mockery.

For a fleeting second, surprise maybe even regret flashed across Alastor’s face but it vanished quickly. He exhaled and turned his gaze toward the darkness beyond the kitchen window. “You’re right,” he said flatly. “It was a foolish suggestion.” He hadn’t meant to pour salt on Vox’s wounds. Not consciously, anyway.

The silence stretched. The coffee pot began to boil over. Vox turned off the heat, lifted the pot, and poured into a cup. The sharp aroma filled the kitchen.

“Get some rest,” he said at last, his gaze fixed on the dark liquid in the cup. “You’ll need it.” He didn’t look at Alastor as he spoke.

Alastor said nothing, only nodded. Vox, still holding the steaming cup, walked off toward a small guest room far from the bedroom, head bowed. He closed the door behind him.

Alastor remained in the kitchen alone. The smell of coffee, the cooling pot, Valentino’s discarded jacket… all stood as silent witnesses to the night’s tangled, unsettling moments. The bite mark on Vox’s neck lingered in his mind. Aftercare. The weight of that word, the broken sound of Vox’s voice… These things felt heavier than Hell’s political games or power struggles. He couldn’t make sense of it. He didn’t want to.

He shook his head, trying to drive the thoughts away. For a moment, he took a step toward the guest room door. Then stopped. His hands clenched. Instead, he turned and made his way back to the cramped, dim room where he had been kept before. The door shut behind him with a soft click, sealing him in with the silence.

When morning came, Alastor was sitting motionless on the narrow bed, his back straight against the wall. Valentino’s jacket still lay in the other room like a stain in the air, though he could picture it perfectly. In his mind’s eye, every time he saw it, the red mark on Vox’s neck and the gut-wrenching weight of the word aftercare gnawed at him.

A faint creak at the far end of the hall caught his ear.

Vox stepped out of the guest room. He was wearing a neat shirt and trousers, his hair damp as if freshly washed, but his face… it was paler than it had been last night, and the shadows under his eyes looked even darker. It was as though the effort to dress and pull himself together only made the weariness inside him more obvious. When he noticed Alastor watching from the open doorway of his small room, Vox’s shoulders gave a slight jolt. Then, without a word, he headed toward the kitchen.

A while later, he returned with two cups of coffee. He set one down on the coffee table in front of Alastor. Then he sank into the opposite armchair, holding his cup tightly in both hands, as if trying to soak up its warmth.

Alastor reached for his cup, his red eyes roaming over Vox’s face. The mark on his neck was still visible above the shirt collar. He took a sip.

Vox could almost feel Alastor’s gaze on the back of his neck. He stretched, deliberately straightening his shoulders. Finally, he lifted his eyes and met Alastor’s red ones. There was a war inside him shame, exhaustion, and a strange urgency. His voice was a little stronger than before, but beneath it there was a tremor. “Alastor. Last night…” The words caught in his throat. “Forget it. All of it. Everything I said, everything you heard… all of it.” His hands tightened slightly around the cup. “I don’t want to bother hypnotizing you. You can do it yourself. Just… erase it. Go back to your usual sarcastic self.”

“Forget?” Alastor echoed, one brow lifting slightly. “Do you mean Valentino showing up here? Or that little confession about your… lack of aftercare?” He used the word deliberately, with a faint emphasis. He wanted to see Vox’s reaction and he did. Vox’s jaw tightened, and his gaze darted away at once.

“Everything, Alastor,” his voice had hardened now; he was on the defensive. “All of it. It was a moment of… weakness. I shouldn’t have talked. You shouldn’t have heard it.” He set his cup down, his fingers trembling faintly. “Hypnotizing you would be easy but… I don’t want to.” The last sentence carried an unexpected sincerity. This time, he truly didn’t want to.

Alastor watched the faint tremor in Vox’s fingers, the way his eyes kept slipping away. He rose to his feet. On his way to the sink, he paused. He turned toward Vox, his red eyes wandering for a moment over the tired face of the television demon. His voice was stripped of its usual sharpness, almost flat. “I don’t think it’s something that can be forgotten, Vox but… fine. Last night didn’t happen.”

Upon hearing Alastor’s words, Vox closed his eyes and let out a deep, relieved breath. The word fine brought more comfort than he had expected. There had been no need for hypnosis. Alastor had chosen, at least for now, to pretend the strangeness hadn’t happened.

Alastor looked into the mirror at his pale face and the swelling wounds beneath the bandages. His hair, disheveled from the restless sleep he’d had in Vox’s sterile tower room, had a few strands fallen onto his forehead, breaking his usual sharp order. As he tried to fix them with his fingertips, his brows slightly furrowed. A disgusting sight, he thought inwardly. Both the physical wounds and the toxic residue left by Valentino’s presence... He buttoned up his top buttons. A flawless appearance was part of control. A small compensation for everything he had lost.

Just as he turned toward the door to leave, a familiar spoiled voice echoed from the corridor. Valentino. Alastor froze. He withdrew his hand from the door handle, holding his breath to listen. The door was slightly ajar.

“I woke up alone, baby,” Valentino’s voice was wrapped in a fake delicacy but carried a sharp accusation beneath. “What were you doing in the guest room at dawn? Taking some time to clear your head? Or…” His voice dropped, turning into a dangerous whisper. “That radio ghost… didn’t show up in the lounges. Is that where you hid him? Did you sleep next to him that night, while cooling down my bed?”

Alastor’s fists clenched. His nails dug into his palms. Valentino’s mind was as rotten as his own darkness. He didn’t want to hear Vox’s reply. That silence, that humiliation… was unbearable. Pushing the door open abruptly, he stepped out of the bathroom. Standing in the corridor, he faced Valentino directly. Vox stood a little further, pale and tense, looking into Valentino’s eyes.

“Valentino,” Alastor spoke. Valentino turned in surprise, his purple eyes scanning Alastor with a mix of disdain and anger. Alastor then slightly turned his head toward Vox: “Vox. Those reports… you remember. They need urgent attention. They’re waiting for you in your study. Now.” His tone was sharp enough to leave no room for argument. It was a command, not a request.

A moment of surprise flashed in Vox’s eyes, then a deep relief. Alastor had offered him a way out. Without looking at Valentino, he nodded quickly. “You’re right. I forgot.” He slipped past Alastor and hurried down the corridor’s other end. His shoulders remained a bit straighter despite Valentino’s gaze weighing on his back.

Valentino watched Vox’s back, lips pressed into a thin line. Then slowly he turned, giving all his attention to Alastor. His purple eyes swept Alastor from head to toe, landing on the bandages, the paleness, the small flaws in his otherwise flawless appearance. A poisonous smile appeared on his lips. “Wow. You still haven’t left, dear Alastor? Seems that lesson the Man gave you took quite some time to get over.” He shook his head twice, feigning sadness. “But to be honest… I think you’re exploiting Vox’s generosity way too much. After all, this tower is not a hotel. And you…” A mocking curl appeared on his lips. “…aren’t exactly someone to expect hospitality from. When will you show up next, huh?”

Alastor’s red eyes locked onto Valentino, the light within dangerously flickering. He stepped forward slowly and deliberately, closing the distance to just a foot between them. Valentino’s heavy perfume stung his nose.

“Exploit, huh? What a strange choice of words, Valentino.” He paused. “I am here as Vox’s guest. Trying to mend the… memories he left behind. Your comings and goings,” he shrugged lightly, “…feel more like an invasion. You don’t even bother to knock, acting like you own the place.” His smile widened, revealing the tips of his teeth. “I really wonder who’s exploiting whose generosity.”

The smirk on Valentino’s face froze, replaced by pure rage. His long, thin finger pointed at Alastor’s chest, right at the bandaged area. He didn’t touch, but hovered threateningly. “You can’t stay in this tower for even a second without my permission. I’ll have you thrown out in no time, left to fend for yourself in that wounded state.” His finger lightly brushed the edge of the bandage, almost imperceptibly. “And you…” His eyes fixed on Alastor’s chest, “…aren’t as strong as you think, are you? The Man really gave you a good beating. You’re still fragile.”

The proximity of the finger and the humiliating truth in the words made Alastor tremble inside. He wanted to flush with anger, to attack savagely but Valentino was right. The Man’s curse still burned quietly inside him. As Valentino’s finger neared that sensitive spot, a sharp, burning pain exploded deep in his chest. His breath caught, eyes involuntarily squinted. All his pride, all his threatening posture collapsed at once. His knees felt like giving out. Unable to endure, he bowed his head, clenching his teeth to fight the pain. A groan barely escaped his throat. His hands stuck to his sides, vulnerable, writhing in pain.

Valentino watched Alastor’s sudden collapse, this moment of weakness. A disgusting victorious grin appeared on his lips. He finally withdrew his finger, shaking it lightly. “There,” he murmured, voice dripping with contempt. “Your true face. Behind all that noisy threat, that arrogant grin, this is all you are. Fragile. Weak.” He shook his head twice, putting on fake sadness. “It’s really surprising Vox gives you so much attention. Maybe… he feels sorry for you.” He emphasized “sorry” mockingly.

Alastor didn’t lift his head. Sweat dripped from his brow, his breath was harsh and irregular. The wave of pain was slowly subsiding, but it left an overwhelming shame and anger behind. He had fallen like this in front of Valentino. He had shown weakness to him. His ears pinned completely back, his teeth clenched so hard his jawbones whitened.

Valentino watched this pitiful state for a moment longer, then let out a disdainful snort. “I have to go now,” he said, voice tired and indifferent. He looked at Alastor one last time, then turned his back and walked down the corridor, the sound of his expensive shoes echoing on the floor.

When the distant sound of the closing door came, Alastor was still where he was, head bowed, back against the wall. The corridor had emptied. Valentino’s heavy perfume lingered in the air, making his stomach turn. The ache in his chest was now more like a burn, but this time it wasn’t from the wound’s pain it came from the pain of defeat, humiliation. He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palms. Valentino’s words echoed in his ears: Fragile. Weak. A burden.

Footsteps approached. Vox entered the corridor and saw Alastor standing with his head bowed, leaning against the wall. His expression changed immediately. Concern and a trace of guilt filled him.

“Alastor?” he called softly, carefully. He approached but didn’t dare to touch. “What happened? Did Valentino… do something to you?” His eyes flicked to Alastor’s chest, to the bandage, as if to check whether Valentino had done anything physical.

Alastor slowly raised his head. His face was pale, the area around his eyes red, but now his red eyes only held deep fatigue and an empty shell left from anger. He looked at Vox’s worried gaze. He didn’t want to repeat Valentino’s words, didn’t want to retell that humiliating scene. His pride wouldn’t allow it. He only shook his head twice, voice low: “Nothing. Just… an unexpected pain.”

In response, Vox clicked the metal clasp of the first aid kit open. The familiar scent of sterile gauze pads and antiseptic bottles spread through the room.

“Alastor,” Vox spoke while putting on his gloves. “Come. It’s time to change the bandage. The infection is under control, but regular cleaning is necessary.”

Alastor didn’t turn. His spine was tense. That moment when Valentino’s finger grazed the edge of the bandage that helpless burst of pain… Proof of weakness and Vox had probably seen that scene on the cameras. Now he had come here, pretending not to have seen it, to dole out mercy. Disgusting.

“No need,” he hissed. “I can take care of myself.”

Vox sighed. This stubbornness wasn’t new, but it was sharper today. Valentino’s visit had poisoned everything. “Alastor,” he said, testing his patience. “The cursed energy that man left might still be seeping out. We can’t neglect it. Come here.”

Finally, Alastor turned. His red eyes drifted to the gauze in Vox’s hands, then to his face. Inside boiled anger and deep disgust. Valentino’s touch, his words, and now Vox’s insistent “help”… They all blended together. He felt his control slipping away. Vulnerable.

“I told you, no need!” His voice suddenly rose. His ears pinned back fully, showing his teeth. He took a step toward Vox. “I don’t need your charity, Vox. Go back to Valentino. Leave me alone!”

The mask of patience on Vox’s face cracked. His hand involuntarily clenched the gauze into a crumpled ball. “The only reason I’m here is because that filthy Adam tore you apart! To make sure you heal! Do you understand? For you!”

“For me?” Alastor laughed mockingly, his voice cruel. “Ah yes! To strategically kill your own existence in your own hands, right? Or if the little radio ghost dies in someone else’s hands, Vox’s reputation would be damaged!” His eyes fixed on the dark purple bite mark on Vox’s neck, then returned to his face. “Maybe Valentino didn’t give you enough ‘aftercare,’ so now you cling to me? Are you here to fill that void?”

Vox recoiled as if struck physically. His face drained white. That vulnerable confession from that night… Alastor was using it as a weapon. Attacking his weakest point, his deepest shame. Anger welled up inside.

“You…” Words stuck in his throat. He raised a trembling hand, as if to grab Alastor’s collar. Electricity crackled at his fingertips. His expression was a mix of pain and anger. “You ungrateful…”

But he didn’t touch him. The raised hand hovered trembling in the air, not placing itself on Alastor’s chest, right over the bandage. What he saw beneath Alastor’s anger for a brief moment was that crushed, hurt expression stamped by Valentino’s words, and it stopped him from striking. This was Alastor’s escape from his own pain.

A sudden weakness washed over Vox. He slowly lowered his raised hand. The spark in his eyes faded, replaced by deep exhaustion. His shoulders slumped. As if all his energy had suddenly drained. “Don’t,” he whispered, voice broken and incredibly tired. He no longer wanted to fight. “Please. Just… don’t.”

A heavy silence settled in the room. Alastor watched Vox’s sudden collapse. That aggressive attitude, that electric fury extinguished all at once.

Vox’s hands trembled slightly as he put the crumpled gauze back in the kit. He didn’t lift his head. “Antibiotics are on the table,” he murmured. “Take them on time. If your pain increases… call Peppermint.” There was nothing more to say.

He closed the kit. Without looking at Alastor, he left the room. This time, he closed the door behind him.

As soon as the door closed, Alastor let himself drop onto the edge of the bed. Vox’s exhausted, broken look wouldn’t leave his mind. He hadn’t wanted to hurt him like that no, actually he had. He was looking for a target to vomit Valentino’s poison on, and Vox was there. It was easy but what he felt now wasn’t regret, it was emptiness.

He leaned against the wall, feeling a burning pain beneath the bandage on his chest. The spot where Valentino’s finger had touched still ached. Weak. Burden. Those words were engraved in his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he could still feel the moisture gathering in his red eyes that he couldn’t hide.

Vox slammed the door of the study. His breath was quick and uneven. Alastor’s poisonous words echoed in his ears. His hands trembled as he brought them to his forehead. Why was it always like this?

Seeing the empty coffee cup on the table, he remembered last night. That strange, intimate moment with Alastor... Then Valentino’s arrival. He clenched his fists. Enough.

Alastor had been sitting in the same position for hours. The antibiotics sat untouched on the table. He remembered Vox’s worried look. His heart ached. Why was he so stubborn? Why did he refuse help? Maybe... if he accepted it, he was afraid to admit he needed it. I don’t need anyone. That belief crushed him from beneath.

Slowly, suppressing the pain, he stood up. He walked to the table and took the medicine box in his hand. He poured two white pills into his palm. For a moment he hesitated. Then he threw his head back and swallowed them. Without water. They stuck in his throat, hurting. Even taking the medicine felt like a defeat.

Footsteps in the corridor. Light, hesitant. It was Vox. He stopped in front of Alastor’s door. He raised his hand, about to knock. He stopped. He couldn’t find the right words to enter. "How are you?" Too ordinary. "Do you want anything?" Silly. "Sorry..." Insufficient. He rested his forehead against the cold door. He sighed quietly.

From the other side of the door came a faint cough. Alastor was there. Listening. Vox’s heart pounded fast. Maybe... maybe just knowing he was there was enough. Slowly, almost whispering, he spoke. “Did you take the medicine?” No answer. Only a deep, slightly hoarse breath was heard.

“Do you… want something? Something warm? Soup? Or…” He hesitated, gathering courage. “…that ice cream I mentioned?”

Again silence. Then, from behind the door, a low, tired voice. “Vanilla… if you have it.”

An involuntary smile spread across Vox’s face. A small, fragile victory. “I do,” he murmured, his voice softening a little. “I’ll bring some soon.” As he walked away, his shoulders felt a little lighter. They had built a bridge. Fragile, small, but it was there.

The fridge light illuminated Vox’s tired face. He found the vanilla ice cream, scooped two balls into a bowl. Next to it, a spoon.

He knocked lightly on the door and entered. Alastor was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head still slightly bowed. Vox placed the tray with the bowl on the small table next to the bed. “Here,” he said, his voice neutral but with a warmth beneath.

Alastor slowly turned his head, his red eyes first drifting to the bowl, then to Vox’s face. No reaction appeared at the corners of his lips. He was just looking. While Vox tried to understand what lay beneath this silence, he continued, “But… be careful with your throat, okay? That cough… your voice sounds hoarse.” He hesitated, “Maybe… something warm would be good. Tea? Warm water with honey? Cold ice cream might feel good now but could irritate it more later.”

A brief spark flashed in Alastor’s eyes the old sarcastic gleam. Vox’s persistent caretaker attitude, those “be careful” warnings, stirred the stubborn vein inside him. He tilted his head slightly, a thin, sharp smile appearing on his lips. “You look very worried, my dear friend,” he murmured. “Suggesting I drink warm water? As if I’m going to die from a cough.” He reached out and took the ice cream bowl from the nightstand. The cold metal spoon stuck to his fingers. “I prefer the cold.”

Vox sighed, this time audibly and wearily. His shoulders slumped. “Alastor, please. I was just… thinking. Your throat’s sensitive. Cold can increase inflammation.” His concern was genuine. Alastor’s hoarse, fractured voice was another sign of vulnerability alongside the wound on his chest. He wasn’t saying these things out of control obsession, but because he truly cared.

Alastor dipped the spoon into the ice cream. The creamy white scoop clung to the cold metal. He heard Vox’s words, felt his worry but that worry felt like another chain trying to restrain him.

He brought the spoon to his mouth. As the cold melted on his tongue, he closed his eyes for a moment. Just a second. The cold reached the back of his throat, with a slight sting. Vox might be right but he didn’t care. This was his choice. A small victory of his stubbornness, his free will.

Vox watched Alastor bring the spoon to his mouth, close his eyes, then the tiny twitch of his facial muscles as he swallowed. His chest tightened. He regretted bringing it. A part of him wanted to snatch the spoon away and throw it on the floor, force him to drink something warm but the other part understood the small, personal victory Alastor was experiencing. This ice cream, this simple act of disobedience, was perhaps the only control he had now.

He put his hands in his pockets. He stopped warning. He just watched. Alastor took a second spoonful, this time slower, more deliberate. His red eyes fixed on Vox with a challenging look. He brought the spoon to his mouth, licking the ice cream slowly. The cold left a new ache at the back of his throat, but no sign of discomfort showed on his face. Only satisfaction.

“See?” Alastor murmured, his voice a bit more muffled from the cold ice cream. He put the spoon back in the bowl. “I’m still breathing. It’s not the end of the world.” A faint smirk lingered on his lips, emphasizing how exaggerated Vox’s worry was.

Vox shook his head, tired and resigned. “Alright, Alastor,” he whispered. “You’re right. As you wish.” He knew resistance was pointless now. Alastor would bear the consequences of his choices, as always. All Vox could do was be there. Maybe later to prepare a fresh bandage.

They stood there for a while longer. When Alastor finished his ice cream, he set the empty bowl on the nightstand. A relaxed expression softened his face a small look of contentment. Maybe the victory was satisfying, or maybe it was just the simple sweetness of vanilla.

Seeing the bowl empty, Vox asked, “Want some more?”

Alastor shook his head. His gaze was now outside the window, lost in the hellish red landscape. “Enough,” he replied, his voice a little less tense than before. He cleared his throat, this time his voice cracking a little more noticeably. He furrowed his brows slightly but did not complain.

Vox sighed and took the empty bowl. “Alright,” he said. Turning toward the door, he stopped before leaving. Looking over his shoulder at Alastor, he said, “If the pain gets worse tonight or if… the cough,” he carefully chose the word, “gets really bad. Call Peppermint or… me.” The word me hung in the air, a fragile offer.

Alastor did not turn his head. He only gave a very slight, almost imperceptible nod. Was it acceptance or refusal? It was unclear. Maybe just a way to show he heard.

Vox left the room. He didn’t close the door all the way, leaving a small gap. The footsteps in the corridor slowly faded away.

Alastor looked with a small, mocking smile at Vox’s slightly ajar door. After the argument they had earlier today, Vox had fully shut the door instead of leaving it ajar as usual but now, leaving it ajar again was a small step back a sign that the bitterness had given way, even if slightly, to a fragile peace.

Alastor felt a bit relieved by this tiny gesture.

The next day, when Vox gently pushed the door open and entered, Alastor was standing by the window, watching the crimson horizon of Hell. He flinched at the sound of Vox’s footsteps, his ears flattening slightly back, but he didn’t turn his head.

“I’ll be home late today,” Vox said. He placed a small, black, shiny device on the table. A phone. “If you need anything, send a message. Peppermint will bring it.” The words were short, without explanation. He wasn’t saying why he’d be late. As usual, he acted according to his own schedule.

Alastor slowly turned around. His red eyes first landed on Vox’s face, then on the strange, cold object on the table. His lips tightened into a thin line. “Phone,” he spat the word. A static-like rasp echoed in his throat. “Unnecessary. I don’t want it.” Technology… cold, artificial, uncontrollable. Also… this gesture, this “means to communicate,” was poisoned by Vox’s refusal to explain why he would be late.

Vox sighed, deep and weary. He expected Alastor’s resistance but it was still exhausting. “Alastor,” he started, trying to keep his patience. “This is not a favor. It’s a practical solution. You’re injured. Your power is still limited. If you need something, so you don’t have to shout.” He took the phone in his hand and turned on the screen with his fingertip. The blue light lit the room. “Look. Simple. Messages are here. My number is already saved.” He swiped across the screen, tapping and clicking to demonstrate the basic functions. “This button, to open. This button,” he showed the lock screen, “to lock. You need a fingerprint or a password, but I set a simple PIN for you: 1933.” The year Alastor fell into Hell. An intentional touch. “Messages are here,” he opened the app. “New message is this icon. Keyboard pops up. Write. Send. That simple.” His patience was running thin.

Alastor was watching but his gaze was empty. Vox’s finger movements seemed like a meaningless dance. That noisy, shiny thing… just touching it made his stomach churn. “Pointless,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly from side to side. “There’s no need for these technological nonsense when there are old, reliable methods. Leaving a note, writing a letter… those are real ways to communicate.” His voice held the disdain of the whole modern world.

Vox rolled his eyes. “Do you think Peppermint would know about a letter?” he snapped sharply, his patience gone. “It’s a tool, Alastor. A simple tool that your stubborn, old-fashioned mind struggles to grasp.” He put the phone on the table right in front of Alastor, somewhat harshly. Thud. “If you don’t want to learn, don’t.”

The door closed. Alastor was left alone. His eyes drifted to the phone. That small, black object was a tangible reminder of Vox’s presence and an unwanted bond.

Plastic trash, he thought. Even the shadow of the radio is more valuable.

Yet curiosity overcame his anger. Slowly, he picked up the phone. It was cold. It had a strange weight. He pressed the button Vox showed him. The screen lit up, revealing a blue background and a lock icon. He touched the fingerprint sensor nothing happened. He grumbled softly. The PIN. “1…9…3…3.” He pressed the keys clumsily and harshly. The screen unlocked.

Ah. It works.

The icons looked complicated. He tried to remember the icon Vox showed for “messages.” Was it a green bubble? He found it. He touched it. The screen changed. There was a button saying “New Message.” He pressed it. Suddenly the keyboard appeared, the keys small and threatening.

Who would he message? There was only one name. He searched the keyboard for letters to type “Vox.” “V”… “O”… “X”… Where was it? He accidentally pressed “C.” He cursed and tried to find the delete button. He found the backspace and erased it. Minutes passed, sweat forming on his brow, and his wounds ached from the concentration and frustration. Finally, he managed to type “Vox” with trembling letters.

Now… what should he write?

Vox’s being late, the lack of explanation it all spun in his mind. That jealousy, that dark, gnawing thing, swelled in his chest again. His fingers hovered over the keys.

He looked at the keyboard. The letters blurred. Angry, forgetting all subtlety, he slammed his finger down on the keys. A short, sharp, jealousy-filled question. He pressed send, not fully understanding where it was going.

He threw the phone onto the table. His heart pounded fast. What had he done? That small, damned device now carried his dark, uncontrollable jealousy to Vox. Regret rushed in immediately. He reached for the phone to delete the message, but the screen had locked. The touchscreen wouldn’t respond. He cursed and pushed the phone to the other side of the table.

On the table, the screen still lit up, clearly showing the message on the phone:

“Who’re you with?”

Over time, the screen went dark. The silence inside Alastor grew heavier, more suffocating.

“He’s ignoring me,” he muttered to himself, fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table. “Of course he’s ignoring me.” He imagined Vox spending time with Valentino, or with another demon maybe even mocking the fact that he was stuck here. The thought sent a poisonous pang through his chest. It wasn’t jealousy. Never. It was just… uncontrollable anger. Vox had locked him up here, and now didn’t even care about his presence.

The hours dragged by slowly. With each passing minute, the silence of that little black device became more unbearable. Alastor began pacing the room, ignoring the throb of pain from his wound with every step. His eyes kept darting to the phone. Once again, he picked it up and unlocked the screen with his finger. The message was still there. Had Vox read it? Was he deliberately refusing to answer? Or had he not even checked his phone? The uncertainty was driving him mad.

His patience finally snapped. He opened the message screen again. This time his fingers moved with more determination, though still clumsy on the keys. He typed angrily:

You haven’t replied to my message clearly you’re having fun. –A.

He hit send with a sharp press of his finger. The act brought a small sense of satisfaction. At least he had done something but no reply came. The silence continued.

That silence fed the dark thing inside him. A few minutes later, he fired off another message:

Did you have time to make your coffee today? Or did someone else make it? –A.

Then another:

I hope their coffee is terrible. –A.

Each message was a small, irritated dart thrown to get Vox’s attention. Not a single one hit the mark. No answers came. Alastor sank into the chair, covering his face with his hands. What nonsense was this? Why did he care? Why did Vox’s whereabouts and who he was with affect him so much? This was weakness. An unforgivable weakness and yet the feeling was overpowering his logic.

His anger curdled into helplessness. He picked up the phone again. There was no longer any attempt to craft a coherent message. This was just an attack. His fingers jabbed at the screen in fury, pressing random keys, sending message after message without forming a single meaningful sentence:

. –A.
... –A.
–A.
. –A.
–A.
... –A.

Dots, ellipses, just his initial. Meaningless, empty, infuriating bursts of text. Spam. The sole purpose was to make Vox’s phone buzz and vibrate, to annoy him, to remind him that Alastor was here, waiting, angry. Every empty message was a scream: Look at me!

Vox sat at the head of the table, his face a blank professional mask. Across from him were three cunning Overlords with whom he was negotiating Pentagram City’s energy distribution rights. Every word mattered; every concession was worth thousands of souls. The meeting had reached a critical point, the air tense.

Just then, the phone in his pocket began to vibrate quietly. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Vox exhaled sharply. Probably Valentino again, with another crisis in the studio. Glancing at the screen while keeping the meeting going, he saw a name: Alastor. The message was short: Who are you with?

Vox’s brow arched slightly. Now? Really? Without changing his expression, he set the phone on the table. “Pardon me,” he said coolly. “Something unimportant. Let’s continue.” He had no time for one of Alastor’s ridiculous jealousy fits.

But the phone didn’t stop. Even lying on the table, the screen kept flashing. The vibrations tapped faintly against the wood as new notifications poured in.

Vox’s jaw tightened. Alastor was playing childish games. One of the Overlords, a sharp-faced woman, noticed the phone buzzing and raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem, Vox?” she asked in a mocking tone.

“None,” Vox replied smoothly, though he was boiling inside. He flipped the phone face down on the table. “Just… an annoying notification.” Inwardly, he cursed Alastor.

The quiet lasted only a few seconds. Then the phone started vibrating again—nonstop this time. Bzzzt… Bzzzt… Bzzzt… The screen kept lighting up as messages flooded in one after another:

Alastor: .
Alastor: ...
Alastor: –A.
Alastor: .
Alastor: –A.
Alastor: ...

A flood of meaningless dots. Spam. A clear act of sabotage.

“For hell’s sake!” Vox muttered under his breath, his patience gone. He snatched up the phone. The screen was packed with new notifications, all from Alastor, all nothing but spaces and initials. The other Overlords were watching him with a mix of surprise and amusement. The tense air of the meeting had dissolved completely.

Vox’s face flushed with anger. Alastor was humiliating him! His professional image was being shredded by this absurd barrage of messages. His fingers stabbed at the keyboard, not even trying to type carefully, and he sent a reply:

I’M IN A MEETING. STOP.

He hit send and shoved the phone viciously back into his pocket, now set firmly to silent. Forcing a calm expression, he turned back to the others. “My apologies,” he said tensely. “Let’s continue. Where were we on the energy quotas?” The meeting went on but Vox’s concentration was broken, his mind lingering on the cranky, injured radio demon back in the tower and his chest simmering with anger.

In the tower room, Alastor stared at the phone screen. After sending the spam messages, nothing had happened for a while. Then, suddenly, the screen lit up:

Vox: I’M IN A MEETING. STOP.

Short. Sharp. All caps. Angry. An involuntary grin tugged at Alastor’s lips. He’d gotten a reply. He’d managed to get under Vox’s skin. That was a small but satisfying victory.

But the grin faded quickly. The tone of the message… STOP. It was a command. It scolded him, silenced him and “I’m in a meeting” completely ignored the original question: Who are you with? That first, jealousy-laced question had been tossed into the void.

Instead of feeling satisfied, a fresh wave of unease rose inside him. Who was in that meeting? What was it about? Why was it so important?

Chapter 2

When Vox left the meeting, he could feel the weight of the phone in his pocket as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Alastor’s meaningless spam barrage had completely shredded his nerves. His reply I’m in a meeting. STOP. had been sharp but now, alone, a strange curiosity stirred in him. That first message… Who are you with? The jealous tone warmth spread through his chest. I want to hear it, he thought, I want to hear that voice. His anger. His jealousy.

He pulled the phone out and opened the message screen. Dozens of meaningless dots from Alastor were still there. An involuntary, small curve touched his lips. His fingers moved quickly:

Stop sending spam. If you want to be heard, at least use actual words. The meeting’s over. Happy now?

When Alastor saw Vox’s message, he was staring blankly out of the window at the crimson horizon of Hell. The phone’s vibration jolted him. He read the words on the screen: “If you want to be heard…” His eyes narrowed. Happy now? A mocking, condescending tone. He snatched up the phone and struck the keys with anger.

Happy? The only thing I feel about your tedious meetings is profound indifference. Is it really that hard to answer, Vox? Or are the people there keeping you from communicating? –A.

His breath came rough and uneven. He waited. Expecting sharper mockery, something more cutting.

But what came wasn’t a message.

VOX IS CALLING…

For a moment, he froze. A call? Why? To scold him verbally? To make him pay for the ridiculous spam barrage? His fingers twitched on the cold frame of the phone. Not answering was… tempting but the anger inside him and that provocative curiosity, demanded he give in. His fingers trembled as they pressed the green answer button.

He lifted the phone to his ear. What met him wasn’t silence he could hear Vox’s breathing, low and steady, on the other end. Then that familiar, electrically charged voice, laced with a faint static, filled his ear:

“Indifference, huh?” Vox’s voice was a note of mockery in his tone, but underneath it, something else… a provoking satisfaction. “If you were truly indifferent, you wouldn’t have spammed me, Alastor.”

Alastor’s ears flattened back. “Boredom,” he snapped, though his voice didn’t come out as sharp as he intended. “There’s not much to do in this cage, you know. Toying with your ridiculous tech was just… a temporary amusement.” It was a weak defense, and they both knew it.

Vox chuckled softly on the other end a short, low sound from deep in his chest. “Sure, sure. Boredom.” His voice lowered further, more personal, more intimate, as if he were leaning right into Alastor’s ear: “And what about that first message? ‘Who are you with?’ Was that boredom too?”

Alastor’s fur bristled. That tone in Vox’s voice… direct, deliberate. He was goading his jealousy. Waiting for him to admit it. A knot of anger and… shame tightened in his chest. “A momentary curiosity,” he growled. “The idea of someone like you having fun while I’m stuck here waiting was just… amusing.”

“It was just a meeting, Al,” Vox replied, still in that low, unsettling tone. “Energy contracts for the western district of Pentagram City. Carmilla, Zestial, and a few small fry. That’s all.” His voice was dull and professional as he listed the names. “Hours of arguments, fake smiles, coffee breaks… The kind of nightmare you wouldn’t have the patience for. The only interesting part,” he paused, as if deliberately considering, “was Carmilla’s new bodyguard. Quite… an impressive presence. Sharp eyes, sharp mind…”

Alastor’s jaw tightened. The emphasis was obvious. A move meant to feed his jealousy. “How fascinating,” he said flatly. “I hope you found a chance to flirt between breaks. Maybe even lay the groundwork for your next ‘strategic alliance.’”

There was silence on the other end. Then Vox let out a deep, genuine laugh. It crackled through the line, right into Alastor’s ears. “Ah, Alastor,” Vox said between laughs. “That’s exactly what I called to hear. That voice. That sharp, venomous jealousy.”

“Jealousy?” Alastor’s eyes narrowed. “The only thing one could possibly feel in the face of your pathetic little games and self-importance is disgust, Vox. Including Carmilla’s guard dog.” He emphasized it with a forced tone of contempt.

Vox’s breathing was audible on the other end of the line, still sounding amused. “Sure, sure. Disgust. Of course.” He paused for a moment, then his voice took on a mocking challenge: “Then prove it. If you’re so bothered… set up a date. Yourself. With me.”

Alastor’s breath caught. A date? Was Vox expecting him to ask him out? Or was he just trying to corner him and humiliate him? He needed to respond fast, sharp, something to put Vox in his place but the words tangled in his throat. 

The silence stretched. Too long. Vox’s voice came again, “Ha. There it is. All talk, aren’t you, Alastor? Big words, threats, jealous fits… but when it comes to action? Silence. Typical.”

Alastor’s ears flattened completely, his teeth grinding until they showed. His pride was in pieces. “All talk?” his voice crackling like a radio on the verge of losing its signal. “I’ll remind you, it was you who started these ridiculous ‘attention’ games, Vox! Years ago! As if I was the one lurking at your door, trying every trick to get your attention! You were the first one who liked me!” The moment he said it, regret hit him. Why had he mentioned that? Why bring up that old, humiliating history? His face burned hot and even the cold screen of the phone couldn’t cool it.

On the other end, there was a moment of stunned silence. Then Vox’s breathing shifted deeper, more thoughtful. “Yeah." his voice suddenly quieter. The mockery was gone, replaced by a strange acceptance, maybe even a hint of hurt. “Yeah, I started it and you… turned me down. Every time.” He paused. “But now here you are. In my tower. Asking who I’m with.”

Alastor was unprepared for this shift in tone. He wasn’t used to Vox’s vulnerable moments especially not when paired with a confession about the past. The shame was unbearable. His eyes darted around in panic table, books, the Rules list. Yes! Rule 6!

“Rule 6. ‘Spending time,’” he recited, knowing the rules by heart. “I’m bored. Horribly and instead of being trapped in this technological tomb… let’s go out. Now.” It was a logical excuse or at least it sounded like one.

“Go out?” Vox repeated. “Are you using that as an excuse to ask me out now, Alastor?” He paused, then added with unmistakable amusement and challenge, “Is this a date?”

The anger on Alastor’s face faded into blank confusion. Date? What nonsense was Vox spouting? This was just… an offer to escape boredom! A way to follow Rule 6! But that word date shifted the entire situation into a different dimension. Suddenly, he went cold inside. Valentino. That arrogant, dangerous filth. A knot formed in his chest.

“Valentino,” he snapped. A reminder of the truth. “You have a lover, Vox or have you forgotten? Or is it that easy for you to switch?” Why had he said that?

The silence on the other end this time was heavy. Then Vox spoke, his voice unlike any tone he’d used before. The mockery, the amusement, even the anger were gone. There was only… something flat, tired and finally honest. “Valentino,” he repeated, as if the name left a bitter taste in his mouth. “He’s… different. What we’re talking about… this,” his voice trembled slightly, “this is something else.” his breathing filling the line. “So what’s your answer, Alastor? You’re bored. Let’s go out. Rule 6. Yes or no?” The question was simple but the weight behind it was enormous. He didn’t use the word date again but it hung in the air.

Alastor pressed the phone to his ear, listening to Vox’s breathing, to the undercurrent beneath that strange flatness. He’s different. This is something else. What did they mean? A confession? An escape? Valentino’s shadow was still there dark and threatening but the tired honesty in Vox’s voice… and his own unbearable boredom and need to get away… The phone was warm in his palm.

“Yes,” his voice unexpectedly low. He was surprised by his own decision. “Yes. Let’s go out. Now.” The addition of “now” was meant to emphasize that this was just an activity, nothing more. Was he fooling himself? Probably.

On the other end, Vox took a deep breath. “Alright,” his voice still flat but a little more alive. “Five minutes. I’ll be at your door. Get ready.” The connection cut abruptly. Click.

Alastor slowly pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen. “Call Ended.” His palms were sweaty. 

Five minutes. Vox would be at the door. He had to get ready but for what? For what, exactly?

He stood, careful of the bandaged wound on his chest. He raised a hand to his face it was still hot. This is something else, he repeated Vox’s words in his mind. He didn’t know what they meant.

He stopped in the middle of the room, his red eyes scanning the surroundings. What should he wear? The clothes here were limited. A few clean, plain shirts and pants that Vox had brought. He didn't have those stylish, characteristic jackets and bows from the radio tower. This bothered him a bit. Appearance was everything. Finally, he chose his darkest red shirt and black pants. He grimaced as he dressed over his wound.

He stepped in front of the mirror. He fixed his hair, trying to approach his usual sharp and stylish appearance. His facial expression was neutral, but in the depths of his eyes, there was a spark of excitement, of anticipation. He was going out. With him. This thought was both chilling and... arousing.

Just then, there was a light knock on the door. "Alastor?" Vox's voice came from the other side, in a tone that was softer than expected, less mocking.

Alastor took one last look at himself, drew a deep breath, and headed toward the door.

Vox was standing in the hallway. He was wearing a plain gray jacket and a dark t-shirt that made him look different from how Alastor usually saw him less "technological." His eyes scanned Alastor from head to toe, paused, then focused back on his face. "Ready?" he asked, with a hint of tension in his voice.

"I'm ready," Alastor replied. "I was dying of boredom."

A small curl appeared at the corner of Vox's lips. "Alright, then. Let's go." He turned and started walking down the hallway. Alastor followed him, feeling the ache of his wound with every step, but ignoring it.

They got into the elevator. An awkward silence fell. Vox stared at the numbers on the elevator panel, while Alastor watched his reflection in the door.

The elevator reached the ground floor. The doors opened. Vox turned toward Alastor. "So," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Where are we going? Did you pick a place, or are we just wandering around randomly?"

Alastor paused. He hadn't really thought about exactly where to go but Vox's challenge stirred the stubbornness within him. A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes. There was a place in Hell that could make him happy and would definitely make Vox feel uncomfortable.

"If you ask me," his voice was low and alluring, "we're going to a place where we can enjoy the taste of a real meal. After your junk-filled kitchen." He paused to see Vox's reaction. "We're going to the Dark Harbor. I'm sure you know the place called The Meat Merchant there."

As soon as the name left his mouth, Alastor could see Vox's expression change.

Vox's eyes widened, then narrowed with deep disgust and worry. "Dark Harbor?" he repeated. "Alastor, that's... that's a complete nightmare. It's crawling with cannibals. You can't even walk through the stench and that place..." He wrinkled his nose. "That place is one of the worst. Why are you choosing there?"

A dark grin appeared on Alastor's lips. Vox's discomfort was feeding him. "Because," he said, leaning forward slightly, "there's real food there, Vox. Fresh, raw, preferably alive. A flavor you can't find in your world." His ears twitched with delight. "Plus, the atmosphere is quite... lively. It'll be a good change for you, to see the real face of life."

Vox shook his head with a deep, weary sigh. "God," he muttered. "Don't do this, Al. Please. Let's go somewhere else. Find a nice restaurant. Maybe some fish... or steak."

Alastor's grin widened even more. "Ah, but I don't want steak, my dear friend," he murmured. "I want prey. Aren't you coming?" He raised his eyebrows.

Vox looked at his face. At that dark, delighted expression, the red glow in his eyes. He could resist. He could force him to go somewhere else but... he knew how exhausting arguing with Alastor was and a part of him couldn't resist the idea of spending time with him, even in this disgusting place. Finally, he slumped his shoulders in defeat. "Alright," he grumbled. "Alright! Dark Harbor but if any blood gets on me, I'll throw you off the top of this tower, got it?"

Alastor's spirits lifted. "Of course, of course," he waved his hand lightly. He turned and started walking toward the main road leaving the tower, his steps light and eager. After a moment of hesitation, Vox followed him with a sigh and a grumble.

Along the way, Alastor's mood visibly improved. As they headed toward the Dark Harbor, the dirty, bloody streets and screams around him invigorated and strengthened him. This was his natural habitat. Vox, on the other hand, was tense and on alert.

Finally, they arrived in front of the restaurant. Even from outside, the smell of raw meat wafted out. A burly, horned demon stood guard at the door.

Vox had a look of disgust on his face. "Here," he muttered. "Your paradise." Before entering, he straightened his jacket collar.

Alastor took a deep breath, his eyes gleaming. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, it is." He pushed the door and dove inside.

Inside, there was no music just screams, bone-cracking sounds, and gluttonous eating noises. The air smelled of blood, sweat, and raw meat. The walls were painted dark red, with hooks, chains, and other... "kitchen utensils" hanging on them. The customers were all kinds of cannibal demons. Some burly and savage, some skinny and sly. All their eyes were fixed on fresh pieces of meat or live, terrified "ingredients."

Vox froze at the door for a moment, his stomach churning. This was his worst nightmare come true. Alastor, meanwhile, looked around, smiling with satisfaction, spotting familiar faces and giving light nods. He was a legend here.

"Come," said Alastor, grabbing Vox's arm Vox flinched involuntarily and leading him to a table in the back, relatively less crowded. The table was wooden, covered in deep scratches and dark stains. "Sit here. I'll... order something." His eyes drifted to the other side of the room, to a cage holding a group of trembling sinners. His mouth watered.

Vox sat down on the chair, touching as little as possible. His eyes scanned the surroundings, on high alert as if expecting an attack at any moment. "Great," he grumbled. "What a wonderful evening." He looked at Alastor, seeing the pure, savage delight on his face.

A while later, Alastor returned, holding two blood-filled goblets. He placed one in front of Vox. "Drink," he explained. "Fresh. Drink it."

Vox stared at the goblet. The dark red liquid inside sloshed slightly. His stomach turned. "Alastor, I can't drink this,"

Alastor's delight faded a bit. "You will," he insisted, his voice low and threatening. "My rules apply here, Vox. You'll have an experience. That's all." He raised his own goblet and downed it in one gulp, wiping the corner of his mouth with his hand.

Vox took a big breath. He wanted to please Alastor, to take one more step into his strange, dark world. It was disgusting. With a trembling hand, he grasped the goblet. He met Alastor's waiting, challenging gaze. He brought the goblet to his lips. It had a cold, metallic taste. His stomach heaved.

A gag reflex hit him; he barely held it back. His throat burned, his eyes watered. He set the goblet down on the table, coughing. "God," he rasped. "That was awful."

Alastor watched him suffer, a strange expression on his face. Pleasure, pity, or a mix of both it was unclear. "You'll get used to it," he murmured. Then he turned and called over a waiter a demon in a blood-stained apron. He whispered something to him. The waiter nodded and left.

A few minutes later, the waiter brought a live, fear-trembling, young-looking sinner to their table. The sinner's eyes were wide as saucers.

Vox's breath caught. "Alastor, no..."

But it was too late. Shadows began gathering around the table. He reached out and grabbed the sinner's chin, lifting it slightly upward. "Ssshh," his voice deadly soothing. "The pain will be very brief."

Alastor didn't move. He just watched but the shadows moved. The sinner suddenly screamed, then abruptly stopped. His body trembled for a moment, then his eyes stared into the void. His soul was slowly drawn from his mouth toward Alastor's red eyes and vanished. The body slumped lifelessly to the ground.

Alastor took a deep, satisfied breath. "Ah," he murmured. "That's it."

Vox was frozen in place. Alastor's power... raw, primal, terrifying, and absolutely impressive. No technology, no screen could capture something like this.

Seeing Vox's shocked state, a small grin appeared on Alastor's lips. "I see... you're impressed," He sat back down at the table. "Don't worry. Your share of steak is coming too. Cooked."

Vox finally understood. He would never fully control Alastor. He could never tame his wild, dark nature.

The waiter brought a plate of well-cooked meat in front of Vox. Alastor had already attacked his own bloody plate, a happy glint in his eyes.

Vox picked up his fork. His hand was still trembling. With a deep, resigned sigh, "Next time," his voice still tense but with a hint of surrender, "I decide where we eat. Deal?"

Alastor, with his mouth full, just playfully twitched his ears. He didn't respond but Vox could see the red glow in his eyes shining a bit brighter. This was a response far more dangerous than a "no."

Alastor continued to eat his meal with delight, chewing each bite as if savoring every last drop of flavor.

He glanced at Vox out of the corner of his eye. Vox was pushing around his well-done, almost charred steak on his plate. His face showed deep disgust and discomfort. The smell of raw meat around them, the sounds of bones cracking, and the gluttonous eating noises were completely alien to his technological, sterile world.

As Alastor brought another piece of meat to his mouth, he leaned in slightly. There was a small, bloody stain at the corner of his lips. "Well, my dear Vox," he began, "After this feast of flavors, I must ask... Do you have any other plans for today? Work? Meetings? Or," he added with a slightly mocking tone, "a date with Carmilla's sharp-eyed bodyguard or something?"

As he asked the question, he fixed his red eyes entirely on Vox. His intent wasn't just to tease. He wanted Vox's attention, his interest, all of it. This was a continuation of that "Who are you with?" message. He wanted to be with him, to be his focus. Even in this dark, primal place.

Vox set down his fork and looked at Alastor. There was that unique dangerous charm on his face. Bloody lips, sharp teeth, and those hypnotizing red eyes... It was so easy to get lost in them.

"Work?" Vox voice coming out a bit hoarse. He was struggling not to get caught in Alastor's gaze. "No. Nothing else for today. Just..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He wanted to say "Just you," but instead, he shrugged. "Meetings are over. Valentino's at the studio. I'm... free."

A smile appeared on Alastor's lips. He had caught Vox here, on his turf, unplanned and vulnerable. "Ah, how wonderful," he murmured, taking another bite. "So you can give all your..."

Vox understood Alastor's game. He looked into his eyes. Those red eyes seemed to record every detail of Vox's face, as if trying to read the thoughts behind it. There was a strange, unsettling interest in them. As if Vox was the only and most important thing in the universe at that moment. "Yes," His voice had taken on a softer, more personal tone. "It seems... all my attention is on you."

Alastor's ears perked up slightly. Vox's surrender was more direct and deeper than he had expected. The wound in his chest seemed to stop aching at this feeling. He slowly set his fork down on the edge of his plate. "Well then, what do you plan to do with this attention? Take me out of this wild, filthy place to a more... suitable venue? Or," as he leaned across the table toward Vox, "continue watching the show here?" By "show," he meant himself.

Vox flinched at Alastor's approach. The distance between them had become dangerously small. He could feel the warmth of Alastor's breath, the scent of blood and wine on him. "I... I..." He stammered, his words unusually jumbled. He tried to compose himself. "Maybe... maybe we can go somewhere else. To get some air. This smell... it's making my head spin." This was partly true but the real reason was the dizziness caused by Alastor's proximity and his hypnotic effect on him.

Alastor's grin widened even more on his face. He slowly pulled back, leaning into his chair again. "Very well," he said, popping the bite into his mouth, "Getting some air... an acceptable idea but first," he added, "let me finish my meal. I have a beastly appetite, as you can see." He winked.

Vox realized he had been holding his breath. As Alastor put some distance between them, his mind slowly began to clear. "Yes," his voice still a bit shaky. "I see." He looked back at his steak, but his appetite had long since vanished. He just waited for Alastor to finish eating and take him out of this hellhole.

Alastor took his last bite, finished his wine in one final sip and wiped his lips with the napkin in his hand. "It was perfect," he declared to himself, straightening up. "Now, let's go. As you said, let's get some fresh air." He said "fresh" with a mocking emphasis.

Vox jumped to his feet immediately, almost desperate to leave. Alastor rose more slowly.

As they stepped out of the restaurant and into the narrow streets, Vox took a deep breath. The air still smelled heavy and foul but at least those gluttonous eating sounds were gone. Alastor walked beside him, smirking lightly.

"Well," Alastor called out, his voice full of amusement. "Where are we going? Any suggestions for getting air? Or are we just wandering around?"

Vox thought for a moment. His mind was still a bit foggy. Then a place came to mind. A quiet spot in Hell that wasn't well-known. "Follow me," his voice a bit more composed. "I'll show you... a different view."

Alastor's eyebrows rose in interest. "Oh? That's unexpected. I hope it's not another boring tower full of technology."

"Just... a quiet place." Vox murmured as he led the way.

A few minutes later Vox was walking a step ahead, with quick and determined strides, while Alastor followed him. The ache in his wounded chest had intensified from trying to keep up with Vox's hurried pace but Alastor didn't care. His mind was occupied with speculations about what might happen in that 'quiet place' Vox was leading him to.

Just then, a notification sound echoed from Vox's pocket. Vox stopped abruptly and pulled out his phone. His face tensed as he looked at the screen, his lips tightening.

"BOSS URGENT. COME TO THE TOWER. NOW. -PEPPERMINT"

"Damn it," he grumbled, "I have to go back to the tower. There's a system malfunction. Urgent." He shoved his phone back into his pocket and turned to Alastor. "Plans changed."

The curious expression on Alastor's face immediately gave way to disappointment and sarcasm. His red eyes rolled slightly. "Ah, of course. Your technological kingdom is calling you back," he muttered, his voice soft but biting. "Well, my dear. At least we had a good time. Your... partner held up surprisingly well without interrupting." He deliberately emphasized the word "partner" lightly, as if testing Vox's reaction.

Vox didn't even pay attention to Alastor's mocking words. His mind was preoccupied with the fact that Peppermint rarely sent such urgent messages. Something must have gone wrong. "Should I drop you off at Rosie's or..."

"Let's go to the tower," Alastor interrupted. "I'm curious, actually. What's so urgent?" In truth, he wasn't curious. He just wanted to see Vox's reaction to this emergency call, to watch his stress.

Vox simply gave a quick nod and started walking, his steps quickened with worry. Alastor followed him, a slight grin on his face.

When they went up in the elevator and entered the main hall, everything looked normal. No alarms were blaring, nothing was on fire. The silence was almost unsettling.

"Peppermint?" Vox called out, his voice echoing in the vast hall. "Where are you? I got your message."

There was no response. Only the cold sounds of technological devices could be heard.

Vox shrugged, a mix of relief and exasperation on his face. "I guess he handled it," he murmured. "Maybe it was just a system alert." His tension had eased but he still looked strained. The intense experience at the restaurant and the sudden call had worn him out.

After a while, Vox headed to the kitchen without turning around, "I'm dying of thirst." Alastor followed him without a second thought.

They entered the kitchen. Vox headed to the sink, turned on the faucet and filled a glass of water. Alastor leaned against the kitchen doorway. "You know," he began, "our little outing today... was less boring than I expected." He paused, "Seeing how you act outside your technological shell, in the real world... was interesting. Especially that moment when you tried to drink that... beverage." There was a hint of amusement in his voice.

Vox didn't stop filling the water, but he had heard the difference in Alastor's tone. The tension in his shoulders eased a bit more. "Wow," he murmured. "A compliment from Alastor. I guess Hell froze over." He continued filling the glasses. "So, watching me flounder in your natural habitat was fun?"

Alastor smiled lightly, this time a genuine smile, not fake. "Don't get used to it," he trying to return to his old mocking tone, but it wasn't working anymore.

They were both so preoccupied Vox sipping his water, Alastor lightly tapping the table that they didn't notice the other figure quietly entering the kitchen. Valentino stood in the doorway, watching them. His face was twisted with rage and jealousy. He saw Vox chatting comfortably with Alastor, smiling. Him invading his space, his kitchen, his life like this... His eyes shifted to the heavy fruit vase on the side. In a sudden fit of anger, he grabbed the vase and swung it toward Alastor's head.

But Alastor was leaning slightly toward Vox at that exact moment, about to say something more. The movement coincided with Valentino's attack timing.

The heavy vase flew swiftly, missing its target and striking Vox right on the temple.

A hard, dull thud shattered the kitchen's silence.

Vox's glass slipped from his hand, shards scattering everywhere. His gaze, filled with shock and disbelief, locked onto Alastor's face for a moment. Then his entire body went limp, collapsing to the floor. He lost consciousness.

Valentino froze as he watched what happened. The vase's handle was still gripped in his hand. The rage on his face instantly turned to panic. "No," his voice trembling. "No, no, no! Vox!" He dropped to Vox's side, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. "Vox! Wake up! God, I didn't... I... I meant to hit that bastard!" His eyes shifted to Alastor, accusatory. "This is your fault! You shouldn't have come here!"

Alastor remained in place. His red eyes were fixed on Vox's motionless body on the floor. He noticed a bloodstain slowly trickling down from his head. His mind was filled with a sudden silence. For the first time, he was completely at a loss for what to do. It was as if he didn't hear Valentino's accusations. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached but he said nothing. He just watched. Inside him, something complex and indefinable stirred regarding Vox's vulnerable state.

Valentino pulled out his phone in panic and started calling someone, his voice quick and distraught. "Doctor! Send a doctor to the tower immediately! Hurry!" He shouted orders, then returned to Vox's side, trying to talk to him, to wake him up.

A while later, Vox's personal doctor and a few security guards burst in. Valentino tried to explain what happened, pointing at Alastor with his hand, but his words were jumbled and incoherent. The doctor ordered Vox to be carried to his room on a stretcher.

Alastor stood like a ghost in the midst of all this chaos, still at the kitchen doorway. No one spoke to him or looked at him. As Valentino followed Vox, he threw one last furious glance at him.

Hours passed. Alastor waited, staring out the window. His mind was trying to process what had happened and what it meant. Valentino's attack... Vox's injury... This could fundamentally shake the balance and if Vox...

He banished that thought from his mind.

Finally, the doctor emerged from Vox's room. Alastor was waiting in the hallway. The doctor looked tired. "Head trauma," he said, turning to Alastor. "He might be a bit dazed when he wakes up. Memory loss is possible. For now, he needs rest."

Alastor's face was completely expressionless. He just nodded slightly. The doctor walked away without saying anything more.

Alastor slowly walked to Vox's room door. He entered. Vox was lying in bed, his head bandaged, his face calm and expressionless. He was awake but his eyes seemed to stare into emptiness.

Alastor approached the bedside. Vox turned his head and looked at him. His gaze... was unrecognizing. Just curious and a bit puzzled.

"You..." Vox voice weak and distant. "The Radio Demon. Alastor, right?" Then he furrowed his brows slightly. "What... are you doing here? My head... why does it hurt so much?"

The doctor was right. Vox had forgotten everything. Them. The fight. The restaurant. At that moment, a sudden, calculating impulse awakened in Alastor. This was an opportunity. Perhaps the only one. To get rid of Valentino, to tip the scales in his favor...

A soft, almost compassionate expression tried to appear on his face. This was unusual and difficult for him. "Vox," his voice was unusually calm and soothing. "Calm down. You had an accident. Don't think too much." A pause. His heart was pounding rapidly as he told this lie. "I'm... here because..." The words stuck in his throat. He wavered between shame and opportunism. "Because you and I... we have a relationship."

Vox's blank gaze clouded with sudden shock. "What?" his voice a bit stronger. "A... relationship? With you?" He scanned Alastor's face, trying to believe. "This... this can't be true. You... I..." He paused. "Valentino... He...?"

"Valentino is in the past," Alastor continued, his voice hardening a bit. He was trying to overcome the wall of shame inside him. "He... wasn't good for you. We... we've been together for a while." As he told the lies, his stomach churned but he thought it was necessary. This could change everything.

Vox leaned his head back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. His mind seemed to be processing this new information. "Not with Valentino... with you," he repeated, his voice still full of disbelief. His memory told him nothing. There was just a void.

Alastor saw Vox's hesitation. More was needed. He had to be more convincing. He sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly, almost stumbling, he reached out and took Vox's hand from the bed into his palm.

At the moment of contact, both flinched.

For Alastor, this touch was still repulsive and foreign. His skin felt like it was burning from the warmth of Vox's hand. His breath caught but he didn't pull away. He had to do this.

For Vox, this touch... unexpectedly... felt familiar. A strange warmth and sense of relief spread through him. His eyes shifted to Alastor's hand, then to his face. He could see the tense expression on Alastor's face, his slightly flushed cheeks. This... looked genuine. Maybe... maybe it was true.

"I don't understand," Vox voice tired and confused but his hand relaxed slightly in Alastor's, not resisting. "I don't remember anything."

"It'll come back in time," Alastor voice low and hopefully comforting. Holding Vox's hand felt harder than lying. "Rest now. I'm here."

Vox felt his eyelids growing heavy. The ache in his head and the fog in his mind were pulling him toward sleep. Clinging to that unexpected but familiar warmth in his hand, he closed his eyes. "Alright," he murmured, almost inaudibly soft. "Okay."

Alastor sat there until Vox fell asleep, continuing to hold his hand. Then, he slowly withdrew his hand, his palm still burning with the imprint of Vox's. He stood up and left the room.

Outside he was walking with rapid and uneven steps. The wound in his chest throbbed with his panic-accelerated heartbeat, reminding him with pain at every beat.

What he had done... that huge lie... could change everything and if Valentino found out... Alastor's stomach clenched.

There was only one person. Only one person who could bring logic to this nonsense, this horrible plan, pull him out of this mess or at least snap him back to reality by scolding him.

Husk.

He began waiting in front of the hotel's back door. His ears were tensed and laid back, his red eyes fixed on the door. The laughter and chatter coming from inside only heightened his anxiety.

Finally, the door creaked open. Husk stepped out with a trash bag, grumbling something. "Every time the same thing... that spoiled angel one time.."

Alastor saw his chance. He reached out quickly and grabbed Husk's arm firmly.

"Ah! Damn it!" Husk yelled, startled. The trash bag fell from his hand. "Who-" He squinted into the darkness and saw Alastor. He noticed the panicked expression on his face, the unusual gleam in his eyes. "Boss? For God's sake, what are you doing? You almost gave me a heart attack."

Alastor pulled him to a darker corner behind the trash containers, away from the main building. His fingers gripped Husk's arm tightly. "Listen, Husk. Listen to me. Be quiet and listen," his voice low and urgent, almost breathless.

Husk frowned and tried to free his arm. "Okay, okay, boss! Let go of me! What happened?" Seeing the always-in-control, calm, sly Radio Demon looking so disheveled and distraught worried him.

Alastor finally released him but his eyes remained locked on Husk's face. He plunged his hands into his hair, momentarily ruining his perfect appearance. "Where do I start?" he murmured to himself. Then he looked up. "Vox. It's about Vox."

Husk's eyes rolled. "Ah, of course. Again? What's with you and him? What did you do this time? Did you cause technological damage? I don't have money."

"No! Worse!" Alastor snapped, his voice losing control and rising for a moment. He looked around to make sure no one heard. Then he lowered his voice again, the words spilling out quickly and excitedly. "Valentino hit him. By accident. He was aiming for me but hit Vox. On the head and... and..." Saying it even embarrassed him.

Husk started listening more carefully, his brows furrowed. "Hit him? Are you serious? Is he okay? He didn't die, did he?"

"No, no, he didn't die. Mild concussion but... but..." Alastor took a deep breath, closed his eyes. "He lost his memory, Husk... he doesn't remember." He opened his eyes. "And I... oh, this is so ridiculous... I..." His face flushed, he averted his gaze. "I told him that... I said that... we... meaning him and me... have a... a relationship." The last word was almost a whisper, confessing it pained him.

There was a momentary silence on the street. Then Husk slowly shook his head, trying to comprehend. "One minute. You... said what?"

"I SAID WE HAVE A RELATIONSHIP!" Alastor exploded, his voice filling with static for a moment, his ears flattening completely. Then he lowered his voice again, covering his face with his hands. "Ah, this is horrible. Why did I do such a thing? At that moment... it seemed logical! It was an opportunity to get rid of Valentino, to take control! But now... now..."

Husk just looked at Alastor for a while without saying anything. His expression shifted from shock to disbelief, and finally to deep exasperation. He ran a hand over his face and let out a deep sigh. "Ah, boss. This... this might be the stupidest thing you've ever done and don't take that lightly."

"I know!" Alastor groaned, now in an almost desperate tone. "But what do I do now? I can't tell the truth! If Valentino hears this, everything falls apart and Vox... if he remembers..."

Husk shook his head and thought for a moment. Then, he slowly looked at Alastor, an unusual seriousness in his eyes. "Alright. Let's start with the basic questions. Do you really intend to keep up this nonsense?"

Alastor hesitated. "Do I have a choice?" his voice small.

"There's always a choice but alright, let's say you continue." Husk crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, what will you do when he wants to kiss?"

Alastor froze. His mouth parted slightly. "What?"

"Kiss," Husk repeated patiently. "Not just holding hands or whatever, boss. A relationship isn't just about that. What if he wants to kiss you? What if he wants more? Sleeping together or something?" Each word deepened the frozen expression on Alastor's face, making his color a bit paler.

"I..." Alastor's voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. "I... didn't think about that." The confession was almost a whisper. All his clever plans, all his pride, shattered in the face of this simple, physical reality. Touching Vox, even holding his hand, was torture for him, a kiss... or more... the thought made his fur stand on end.

Husk snorted upon seeing Alastor's reaction. "Of course you didn't," his voice now softer, almost pitying. "Because you, boss, are emotionally paralyzed. You want people to love you, you do everything to get their attention, but when someone really tries to get close to you, you run away."

Alastor couldn't say anything. It was true. It was always true. He fixed his eyes on the ground. Staring at the old stones.

Husk watched his state for a while longer. Then he let out a deep sigh. "Listen. If you're going to make this work, you set the rules. Say go slow. Say you're hurt. Say your head hurts. Whatever but set your boundaries and for God's sake, make a plan. Because in your current state, you can't handle it for more than a minute."

Alastor slowly lifted his head. Husk's practical advice had pulled him a bit away from the edge of panic. He was right. He had to keep control. As always. "But... what if he insists?" His voice still insecure.

"Then get creative, boss," Husk said, shrugging. "Faint. Vomit. Something but don't ever tell the truth. Because then it'll become an inextricable mess." He picked up the trash bag from the ground and straightened it. "Now go. Think calmly and next time, come to me before doing something like this."

Alastor stood behind Husk, still trembling. Husk walked to the door, but stopped just before entering and turned back. "And boss?" he said, his voice low. "If you're really going to pull this off... at least try to have some fun. After all, you're in Hell. A little chaos is good for everyone." He opened the door and went inside, leaving Alastor alone in the street's darkness with his tangled thoughts.

Hours later, in front of Vox's room, Alastor froze for a moment with the tray in his hands. On it was Vox's favorite expensive, dark chocolate coffee and a slice of cake beside it. The tray wobbled in his slightly trembling hands. Why are you here? he thought to himself. Why are you continuing this nonsense?

Because there was no turning back. Because, as Husk said, he should try to enjoy a piece of the chaos.

Finally, he knocked lightly on the door. From inside came Vox's voice: "Come in."

He entered. Vox was at the head of one of the monitors connected to the bed, examining the data on the screen. His face showed concentration from trying to remember something and a slight irritation. When he looked up and saw Alastor, his expression softened slightly but there was still a distance. His bandaged temple silently reminded of what happened.

Alastor set the tray on the small table beside the bed. "I thought... maybe bringing something... would help." His sentences were short and clipped. His eyes shifted from Vox's face to the coffee in his hand, then back to Vox's face. Alastor, always masterful with words as a radio host, was now struggling to form a single sentence.

Vox examined what was on the tray. A slight smile played at the corners of his lips. "Coffee. Thanks." He didn't reach for the tray. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, starting to scrutinize Alastor. "Are you... always like this?" he asked directly.

Alastor's breath caught. "Like this? What do you mean?" he instinctively going on the defensive.

"Shy," Vox explained, fixing his eyes on Alastor's hands, then his face. "Bashful. That confident, sly voice on the radio... or those intimidating attitudes at Overlord meetings... aren't those you?"

Alastor swallowed. Ah, yes. That's me but the current 'lover' pretending me isn't. A voice inside him was burying him in shame. "Everyone has... different sides," he averting his gaze. "Especially... around the people they love." That last sentence came out of his throat with difficulty, painfully.

Vox seemed to ponder this answer for a while. Then he shrugged and finally took his coffee. He took a sip. "Nice," his voice a bit warmer. He set the coffee back on the table and turned back to Alastor. This time his gaze was more serious. "Listen, Alastor. This... void... is driving me crazy. I don't remember anything. Nothing about you... about us." He opened his hands in a helpless gesture. "Maybe... you could tell me? Tell me something about us? Maybe it'll trigger something, help me remember."

Alastor's entire body suddenly tensed. His insides turned to ice. Tell? Tell WHAT? Make up memories that never happened? A pure panic expression appeared on his face for a moment but he tried to compose himself immediately. He clenched his hands tightly. "Those... aren't important things," his voice strained. "Just... small things. You... know how I like my coffee. You brought me old radio equipment once." He had started throwing out random details, his mind working frantically. Skipping everything with Valentino, fabricating only moments where the two of them were alone.

Vox was listening to him attentively, his brows slightly furrowed. He noticed Alastor's tension, the tremor in his voice. "Go on," he encouraged, "Maybe... how did we meet? How did... our relationship start?" His eyes seemed to read every expression, every twitch on Alastor's face.

This question was the final blow for Alastor. His face turned pale as a sheet. His eyes fixed on somewhere in the room, on nothingness. How did it start? You showed up at my door years ago, tried to force me into a partnership, and I rejected you every time. It started with your stubborn pursuit and my disdainful rejections. Is that it? Should I tell that?

"This... this is very personal," he managed to say with difficulty. His hands were trembling. "And... and you don't remember. I... having to remember in your place... it's painful, Vox." This last part was perhaps the first completely true thing he had said today. It really was painful.

Seeing Alastor in such a distraught state, Vox's expression softened. His curiosity gave way to a touch of regret. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just... want to feel something. I feel lost in this void." He reached out and touched Alastor's trembling hands.

Alastor instinctively wanted to pull his hand away but the warmth of Vox's fingers and his unexpected gentleness froze him. His eyes shifted to Vox's hand, then to his face. In Vox's eyes, there was a sincere effort and a desire to understand.

"Maybe... when we're ready," Vox gently stroking the back of Alastor's hand with his thumb. "No rush. I just... wanted you to know. Being by your side... even if I don't remember... feels strangely peaceful."

Alastor's heart began to pound wildly. Was this a game? Had Vox believed him or was he mocking him? Or had his memory really been erased and he was clinging to Alastor's lies? This confusion, this uncertainty, was driving him mad.

Slowly, almost stumbling, he withdrew his hand. "Your coffee... will get cold," averting his gaze. He turned his back and walked straight to the door. "You should rest. I'll... come by later." Before leaving the room, he glanced back one last time. Vox was in his bed, looking at his coffee, his face thoughtful and still a bit puzzled.

When he closed the door, Alastor took a deep, trembling breath.

Maintaining this lie was much harder than he had thought and the scariest part was that sometimes, just sometimes, he felt the urge to lose himself in the warmth of that lie.

Then, his greatest fear came to mind. Valentino.

What would happen if Valentino came? His mind was conjuring the most terrifying scenario. Valentino arrives. He talks to Vox. He mentions their marriage, the life they shared and then Vox's face, with that blank, innocent expression, shatters into pieces. The lie is exposed and after that... after that, everything ends.

He had to watch what happened, intervene if necessary. He had to protect Vox... his own Vox. This thought gave him a strange courage.

He made his decision. With quick steps, he returned to Vox's room. When he opened the door, he saw that Vox was still in bed, sipping the coffee he had brought. His face was still thoughtful.

"You're back," Vox said, looking surprised. "Did you forget something?"

Alastor held his tongue. "No. I just... didn't want to leave you alone,"

At that exact moment, the door suddenly opened without any knock or warning.

Valentino entered, his tall frame filling the doorway. He was wearing his usual flashy purple suit, accompanied by a heavy scent of perfume and cigarettes. His eyes first shifted to Vox, then to Alastor. Disgust and anger briefly leaked through the mask of feigned interest on his face, but he quickly composed himself.

"My love," he said, directing his words straight at Vox. "How are you feeling? The doctors said everything is fine." He advanced toward the bed, ignoring Alastor.

Alastor's eyes watched as Valentino approached Vox and leaned over him. Now, he thought, his insides turning to ice. Now everything will end.

But Vox said nothing. He only looked at him with a slightly surprised, perhaps a bit uncomfortable expression. He furrowed his brows slightly, as if trying to make sense of it. He locked eyes with Alastor. His gaze seemed to say, "Why is he addressing me like that?"

Valentino noticed Vox's lack of reaction and Alastor's tense presence there. He sighed. "Well, I'm glad you're okay," he added, the affectionate tone in his voice fading. "Things are busy at the studio. I have to go."

Vox was still silent, only nodding slightly in approval. Valentino gave Vox one last look, then turned and headed for the door.

As he passed by Alastor, he stopped. He lowered his head just enough for only Alastor to hear. His lips barely moved, his voice low, threatening and repulsive in a whisper. "Get out of here."

Then, as if nothing had happened, he straightened up and left the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Alastor, holding his breath, was still staring at the door. Vox, on the other hand, was looking at the spot where Valentino had gone, with a thoughtful and bewildered expression.

Finally, Vox's voice broke the silence. It was soft and questioning. "Alastor?"

Alastor slowly turned to him. His face was still pale.

Vox tilted his head slightly to the side. "Why... why did he address me like that? 'My love?'" he seemed to be trying to make sense of the gap in his mind. "He... Valentino. Weren't I... separated from him?"

Alastor's mind began racing wildly. Lie. RIGHT NOW! His instinct screamed. This was the breaking point.

"He..." he began, trying to make his voice sound broken and sorrowful. "He... during your recovery process... became a bit... overprotective." He raised his eyes, trying to look into Vox's. "You know... our relationship... isn't public to everyone. Especially not to him." He chose his words carefully, weaving a web of half-truths. "As I said, your past with Valentino... still affects him. Sometimes... he addresses you like that. As if nothing happened. As if you and I... didn't exist." His voice trembled with feigned hurt. It was incredibly convincing.

The bewildered expression on Vox's face slowly gave way to a kind of sadness and understanding. He saw Alastor's pain, felt his hurt. This made sense. Even without his memory, he could sense Valentino's possessiveness and manipulative nature. "Ah," his eyes drifted to the door where Valentino had exited, then back to Alastor. "I'm sorry. This... must have bothered you."

Alastor's insides relaxed. Vox was ready to protect him, to take his side. This made him feel even more ashamed and gnawed at him inside. He nodded slightly. "It's okay," his voice still filled with an emotional tremble. "I just... wanted to be by your side. To not let him... bother you." He sat down on the armchair, his mind drifted into thoughts.

Relationship, his mind racing wildly. I really need to understand what this absurd concept is. Just observing isn't enough. I need to study it.

This urge led him to a small research library. Maybe he could find answers there.

As he rummaged through the shelves, clouds of dust billowed into the air. His hands wandered over worn volumes with faded titles. Finally, he found a few: "The Art of Communication in Relationships, Emotional Attachment and You and the most intriguing one, Romance in Hell: Between Torment and Love." He picked up the last one, twisting his lips. What a ridiculous title.

He took the books back to his room. He piled them on the desk and opened the first one. As he flipped through the pages quickly, his eyes skimmed over the lines. "Understanding your partner's emotional needs, Effective listening skills, Ways to boost self-confidence"... Each sentence was a puzzle to him. A look of disgust appeared on his face. How had they gotten involved in such a complex, emotional process? And with someone like Vox?

After a while, he pushed the books aside. This wouldn't work. Theory couldn't replace practice. He needed more concrete, observable data.

The couples at the hotel came to mind. Charlie and Vaggie. Observing their interactions... might give him an idea but going there risked having to explain his current situation.

Then, he found a safer option: Television. One of the giant screens in Vox's tower was constantly broadcasting various channels from Hell. Maybe there, he could see how humans and demons portrayed relationships.

He went to the living room in Vox's tower and picked up the remote. He started flipping through channels. News, violent series, stupid game shows... and then, he stumbled upon a "romantic comedy." On the screen, two demons dramatically declared their love for each other, then fought over some ridiculous misunderstanding and finally reconciled with a kiss in the rain.

Alastor wrinkled his nose and changed the channel. This was too artificial, too ridiculous. The next channel had a darker, more dramatic series. Here, a couple battled each other for power and control, betraying one another, yet still seemed passionately bound. This felt a bit more familiar. At least, he could understand the power dynamics.

But still... something was missing. The images on the screen paled in comparison to the strange, complex emotions he felt in Vox's room.

Frustrated, he turned off the TV. Maybe he should go straight to the source. Husk. He might not be an expert on relationships but at least he'd be honest and brutally practical.

When he found Husk, he got straight to the point. "Husk. We need to talk about relationships."

Husk rolled his eyes. "Again? God, boss, did you forget what I told you? Kissing, bedding, set your boundaries. It's that simple."

"No, no," Alastor insisted. "I need to go deeper. Why do people do this? Why endure such absurd rituals, emotional chaos? Where's the logic?"

Husk started wiping a glass more forcefully. "Logic?" he smirked, with a bitter expression. "That's your first mistake, boss. It has nothing to do with logic. It's all... about feelings. People hate being alone. They want someone to see them, to care. Sometimes that makes them put up with even a crappy relationship." He set the glass aside and looked at Alastor. "In your case, it's a sham, but in real life, people dive into this nonsense willingly. Don't try to understand it. Just mimic it."

Alastor tried to digest Husk's words. Feelings. Willingly endured nonsense. This was far beyond his comprehension but mimicking... yes, he could do that.

The next day, he came to Vox's room not just with coffee but with a small, carelessly plucked flower. The least poisonous-looking one he could find in Hell thorny, dark red. He extended it to Vox, with a tense, rehearsed smile on his face.

"Unusual," Vox examining the flower carefully. "Thanks." But there was no warmth in his voice, only surprise.

Alastor tried to recall a sentence from the books. "I... thought of you," he averting his gaze. The words felt strange and artificial in his mouth.

Vox smiled faintly but his eyes were still questioning. "I think of you too," he replied. "I still don't remember much."

Alastor's insides froze again. Books and shows wouldn't help him with this. He had to expand his own lie.

He closed his eyes, pretending to recall a sweet memory. "You... came to listen to me," he softening his voice. "To my radio tower. Then... we started arguing. Like always but this time... it was different. Then... we went for coffee." The arguments were real. The coffee wasn't.

Vox pursed his lips into a half-smile and tilted his head slightly. “Wait a minute…” A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. “This coffee part… is it a metaphor? I mean…” He let out a short chuckle, “things just get… more appealing after arguments, right?”

Alastor’s face tensed, a faint blush creeping onto the corner of his lips. Seeing this reaction, Vox only seemed to enjoy it more. “Ah, that’s more my style. Arguing with you but then…” His voice dropped into a teasing whisper. “...sweetening things up afterward.” He tried to get out of bed but his body was still weak. Alastor instinctively took a step to help, but then stopped. He still recoiled from contact.

Vox staggered toward the closet. "I need to find a clean t-shirt." He opened the closet door and looked at the neatly folded clothes inside. Then, without hesitation, he began removing his sweat-soaked, possibly blood-stained t-shirt.

Alastor's eyes fixed on the movement of the muscles on Vox's back. Suddenly, he looked away, his face flushing slightly. It was disturbing, repulsive and... confusing for him.

Vox noticed Alastor's sudden movement as he pulled on the clean t-shirt. He lowered the shirt, tilting his head with a grin. "Why are you embarrassed, darling?" he asked in a mocking tone. "You must have seen it plenty of times before." Even without his memory, his naturally flirtatious and provocative demeanor had returned.

Alastor's face flushed more, his ears flattening back. "I'm not embarrassed," he replied quickly. "I'm just... respecting your privacy."

Vox's grin widened. "Ah, of course. How thoughtful." He fully put on the t-shirt.

Alastor opened his mouth to respond but at that moment, he felt a sharp, sudden pain from the wound on his chest. Perhaps from the tension, or the sudden movement. Involuntarily, he pressed his hand over the wound and leaned forward slightly. A pained expression appeared on his face and a muffled groan escaped.

Vox's mocking expression vanished instantly, replaced by concern. "Alastor?" he called, rushing to his side. "What happened? Are you okay?" He touched Alastor's shoulder with his hand.

Alastor shook his head, trying to catch his breath. "Nothing," he managed to say with difficulty. "Just... an old wound. It aches sometimes."

But Vox wasn't convinced. His worried gaze shifted to the spot where Alastor's hand was pressing tightly. "Show me," he insisted, "Please. Maybe I can help."

Alastor wanted to resist but the genuine concern in Vox's eyes surprised him. Slowly, he began unbuttoning his shirt. His hands trembled slightly. He pulled the fabric aside, revealing the ugly, still bright red wound without bandages. The edges had dried and begun to heal, but the center still looked sensitive and inflamed. The trace of Adam's cursed energy glowed faintly beneath his skin.

Vox's breath hitched as he examined the wound. This wasn't an ordinary injury. It was one inflicted by a destructive force. Slowly, he extended his fingers toward the intact skin around the wound, his touch surprisingly gentle. "God, Alastor," he whispered. "This... what is this? How did this happen?"

Alastor felt the warmth from Vox's fingers on his skin. He wavered between disgust and a kind of relief. He closed his eyes. Here was the opportunity. The chance to provoke Vox even more against Valentino, to fuel his hatred.

He placed a pained and hurt expression on his face. He opened his eyes and looked into Vox's. "Valentino," his voice filled with pain and betrayal. As if he didn't want to confess but couldn't hold back. "He... one day... couldn't control his anger. He did this." He placed his hand over the wound. "To... separate us."

Vox's worried expression slowly turned to dull shock, then to a deep, boiling rage. "Valentino," he repeated. His gaze shifted from the wound back to Alastor's face. "I'm sorry," his voice softer now. "For not protecting you."

Alastor felt a strange sense of triumph inside upon seeing Vox's anger. Yes. It had worked but at the same time, Vox's guilt disturbed him. He averted his eyes. "It's not important," his voice still tense. "I'm safe now." That last part was another lie.

Vox looked at the wound a bit longer, then slowly helped Alastor button his shirt back up. His touch was more protective and possessive than before. "Then," his voice filled with determination. "I'll keep him away from here. I won't let him come near you again." 

Alastor nodded, lacking the strength to speak. Vox's protectiveness made him feel safe on one hand, while pushing him into even greater loneliness on the other. Because this protection was based on a lie, a manipulation and the scariest part was that Vox's anger was real. His hatred toward Valentino was now being fueled by Alastor's lie and if Vox ever learned the truth one day, all that rage would turn mercilessly toward Alastor.

Alastor carefully looked at Vox's bandaged temple. He remembered the violence of the blow Valentino had delivered. A genuine worry flickered inside him. "Are you okay?" he asked, "Your temple... Valentino hit you pretty hard." This time, his concern wasn't feigned; it stemmed from real physical worry.

Vox pressed his thumb lightly against the bandaged part of his temple, a pained expression appearing on his face. "You tell me," his voice laced with bitter sarcasm. "If I were okay, I wouldn't have memory loss, would I?" He fixed his eyes on Alastor. "Everything... is blurry. Everything with you, everything with Valentino... it's all behind a fog." Then, he picked up his phone from the nightstand.

Alastor's entire body suddenly tensed. His eyes locked onto that small, black device in Vox's hand. No, he thought, his insides turning to ice. Please no. Don't check the messages. Don't go into the gallery.

Vox unlocked his phone's screen. As his fingers hovered over the display, Alastor's heart pounded wildly in his chest. "I need to check social media," 

Alastor's mind raced frantically. Maybe he won't go into the gallery. Maybe he'll just read the news. Maybe...

"They must have shared photos of us," Vox added in a thoughtful tone, his finger lingering over a social media app icon. "Reporters love Overlord relationships especially."

Alastor's breath caught. "I... we..." he stammered, his throat tightening. A panicked expression flashed across his face, but he quickly tried to compose himself. "Like I told you," his voice attempting to sound shy and hesitant. "We had a secret relationship. No public photos or anything." The words came out of his mouth with difficulty.

Vox's brows furrowed. His eyes shifted from the screen to Alastor's face. "Secret?" he repeated, skeptically. "Why? We're both powerful beings. Why hide a relationship?" Even without his memory, his logic was still intact and this story didn't quite fit.

Alastor's mind spun desperately for an excuse. "Because... because of your reputation," he replied quickly, averting his eyes. "I... I'm the Radio Demon. Old-fashioned, dealing in dark affairs. You, on the other hand... you're modern, the king of technology. Our being together... it could confuse demons. It could weaken your power." The lie sounded plausible. It appealed to his own ego and Vox's.

Vox pondered this explanation for a moment. The doubt on his face lessened somewhat. "Okay," he said, then shook his phone. "What about you? Don't you have an account? Don't you share any photos? Maybe there are some private ones."

Alastor instinctively wrinkled his nose. "I don't use them," his voice unintentionally taking on a condescending tone. "Those... things. Cameras, phones... I don't get along with technology." This was perhaps the most truthful thing he'd said today.

A small, unexpected smile appeared at the corner of Vox's lips. How had he ended up in a relationship with someone who hated technology so much? The irony seemed to amuse him. "Ah, of course," he murmured. "I forgot."

Seeing Vox's smile, Alastor relaxed, but he also felt the need to fix the situation. He had to support his lie. "But..." he added, "Maybe... maybe I'll open an account. For you." As the words spilled from his mouth, his stomach churned.

Vox's eyes lit up slightly. "Would you?" he asked with genuine surprise. "You're considering doing something technological for me? That... would be quite special."

Alastor cleared his throat. "Yes. Of course. For you." Inwardly, he cursed himself. Why? Why did you say that?

A while later, Alastor walked toward the bar to find Husk. His steps were heavy. Husk ignored him while drying glasses, his face sour.

"Husk," Alastor began, his voice unusually hesitant. "I need your help."

Husk let out a deep sigh before rolling his eyes. "What now?"

Alastor face flushing slightly. "You need to open a social media account for me."

Husk set down the glass in his hand and slowly turned to Alastor. Pure shock was on his face. "What?" he bellowed. "You? Social media? Did you hit your head last night?"

Alastor pinned his ears back, adopting an irritated expression. "Vox wanted it. I'll do it for him. It'll be 'special.'" 

Husk stared at Alastor for a moment without saying anything. Then, he burst into loud laughter, his voice filling the bar. "Ah, boss! This is the best! The tech-hating Radio Demon opening a social media account for love! This is a story worth writing!"

Alastor's face reddened with anger. "Shut up and help!" he hissed.

Husk calmed his laughter and wiped his eyes. "Alright, alright. What platform? Voxtagram? Others?"

"Whichever is the most popular," Alastor muttered vaguely.

Husk pulled out his phone and started creating an account with a few taps. "Username? RadioDemon?, Alastor?, VoxsSecretLover?" he asked in a mocking tone.

Alastor shot him a deadly glare. "Just 'Alastor' is fine."

Husk made a few more taps. "Done. Now... I need to take some photos for posts. Profile picture, bio... and so on."

Alastor's ears suddenly stood straight up, then flattened back in a threatening manner. "Photos?" he snarled. "Never! You can take pictures of anything but me." Cameras were his greatest hatred. Trapping his image on a screen was the ultimate betrayal for him.

Husk sighed patiently. He knew Alastor's phobia. "Alright, alright. Calm down." He looked around. His eyes caught the shelf behind the bar, landing on Alastor's old, antique radio. "Let's take a picture of that radio then. It's yours. It'll look aesthetic. Demons will get it."

Alastor looked at his radio. Taking a picture of it... that was more tolerable than one of himself. Finally, he nodded reluctantly. "Accepted."

Husk opened his phone's camera and took a few photos of the radio. He adjusted the lighting, highlighting the wood and brass details. In the end, he selected one that looked quite aesthetic and mysterious. He uploaded it as the profile picture.

"Done," Husk said. "Now bio. What should we write? Hell's Radio Demon. Vox's secret lover. Please no photos?"

Alastor seriously considered it for a moment. "Just... Listen and obey. write." That was his usual threatening style.

Husk rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He wrote it. "There. Your account's ready. Now going to suck up to Vox?"

Alastor snatched the phone from Husk's hand almost violently. On the screen was the photo of his own radio and that small, threatening bio. He felt a strange sensation inside. This was a small, digital piece of his identity. He'd done it for Vox.

Without looking at Husk, he pocketed the phone. "Thanks," he muttered, unusually. Then he turned and left the room.

Husk stared after him. A thanks? Things were really getting serious. Shaking his head, he picked up another glass. "Love," he grumbled to himself. "What it reduces people to."

As soon as Alastor left the room, Vox had resumed examining his phone. As his fingers slid across the screen, his expression was tense. Alastor's "secret relationship" explanation had made sense, yes, but there was a doubt, an unease inside him. Even without his memory, his instincts whispered that something was missing, even wrong.

First, he checked the messages. The conversations with Valentino... Pages full of messages. Most were work-related, harsh, demanding, even occasionally derogatory in tone. Vox frowned as he read.

Valentino: Baby, be at the studio. No being late.
Vox: Power outage. Trying to fix the lower floor. 1 hour.
Valentino: I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR EXCUSES. BE HERE NOW. Or you'll regret it. 💋

Vox felt anger bubbling inside even as he read this message. This wasn't something you'd write to a lover or spouse. This was an order from a boss to a slave.

Then, he glanced at older messages. Among them were more personal, more... passionate ones. Photos Valentino had sent him, taken at home, less clothed, inviting... Vox felt a warmth on his face as he looked at these photos but that warmth quickly turned into shame and disgust. Those poses, those looks... Without his memory, the man in those photos felt like a complete stranger.

Then, he turned back to his social media accounts. Voxtagram... His profile was filled with countless photos with Valentino. At parties, galas, even in more private moments... Arms wrapped around each other, laughing, looking at one another. They looked like the perfect couple on the surface but when Vox looked at his own smile in those photos, he sensed a emptiness, a forced quality in the depths of his eyes.

A deep unease enveloped him. He was caught between what Alastor had told him and what he saw on the screen. On one side was Alastor, trying to protect him, worrying about him, claiming they had a "secret" relationship. On the other was Valentino, raining orders on him, threatening him, but also publicly calling him "baby."

Was I cheating on Alastor? his stomach churning. Or on Valentino? This dilemma made his head hurt even more. Both possibilities were repulsive. If he was cheating on Valentino with Alastor, that would make him a despicable traitor but if he had a secret relationship with Alastor while appearing with Valentino, that was equally hypocritical.

A moment of hesitation. His fingers were about to call Valentino.

Then, his eyes shifted back to the door where Alastor had hesitantly left a few minutes ago. His absence left a void in the room. That strange, unsettling yet somehow familiar presence...

No.

He made his decision.

His fingers began moving quickly across the screen. Select, delete. Select, delete. He deleted every single photo with Valentino. He deleted the messages too. He removed interactions and posts from his social media accounts. He mercilessly erased every digital trace. It was as if he was wiping away his past with his own hands.

This was an annihilation. His memory was already gone and now he was destroying the evidence too but as he did it, he felt lighter, freer. Everything about Valentino had felt heavy and alien to him. Deleting them was like shedding a burden.

When the last photo was deleted and the last message box emptied, he set the phone down on the table. He took a deep breath. The tightness in his chest had eased.

Now there was only Alastor. Only his stories. Only his presence.

And Vox chose to believe. Because the alternative was better than returning to nothingness.

The door opened again. Alastor entered, his face still bearing a tense expression from his recent dialogue with Husk. The phone was still in his hand.

Vox looked at him. The doubt and conflict on his face had given way to a calm, almost peaceful expression. "Did you open the account?" his voice soft.

Alastor flinched slightly, then showed the phone. "Yes. Here it is." On the screen was the photo of that old radio.

Vox looked at the screen with a small smile. "Perfect," he murmured. "Very... fitting for you." Then he turned his eyes to Alastor. "Thanks. For doing this for me."

Alastor, seeing the sincerity and calmness in Vox's gaze, was surprised. When he left the room, Vox's mind had seemed confused and suspicious. Now... he seemed at peace. Why?

He swallowed. "No big deal," his voice a bit hoarse.

Vox leaned back against the bed, closing his eyes. "I think I need to rest a bit," he said. "My head still hurts."

Alastor had extended his hand toward the door of the room for Vox to rest when that voice came from behind him. From the bed, in a tired but clear tone. "Wouldn't we sleep together?"

Alastor's fingers froze on the doorknob. No, he thought inwardly, with a wave of panic. No, no, no. This is too much.

He turned slowly. Vox was leaning against the pillow, looking at him. There was an innocent, questioning expression on his face. With the pure curiosity brought on by his amnesia, he could ask even the most intimate details as if they were normal.

Alastor's cheeks flushed in disarray. He averted his eyes. "I... I sleep a bit wildly," he said, making a meaningless gesture in the air with his hands. "Besides... with these machines around," he added, pointing to the medical equipment beside the bed. "It's not... very practical. I'd disturb your rest."

Vox saw Alastor's shy, hesitant demeanor and it came across as genuine to him. "So," he pressed, "In the past... did we sleep together? Share the same bed?" He seemed to be using the phrase "sleep together" not in the sense of physical intimacy but simply sharing the same sleeping space.

Alastor swallowed. His throat was bone dry. His mind raced wildly. Should he say no? But that would contradict his previous lies. Should he say yes? But that would sink him even deeper into the quagmire. Husk's voice echoed in his head: Get creative.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Then, almost in a whisper, "Yes," his voice was so low that Vox had to lean forward slightly to hear it. "Occasionally."

The curiosity in Vox's eyes turned into a soft warmth. "Really?" he murmured. "How so?"

Alastor's mind went blank. How? HOW? His eyes drifted to the empty space in Vox's bed. In his mind, things he'd read in books and scenes he'd seen in shows flashed by. They were all fake. They all belonged to others.

Then, something came out of his mouth that even he hadn't expected. Maybe from exhaustion, maybe from the weight of this burden of lies. "You'd hug me," His gaze was still fixed on the void. "When you couldn't fall asleep... from behind... against my back." He didn't even know why he'd said it. It was a completely fabricated detail, but even as he spoke it, he burned inside.

He thought of those countless nights he'd slept alone in his room. The cold beds. The sharp-edged pillows. No one's touch. No one's warmth. Had this lie sprung from his deepest, most hidden need?

Vox fell silent in the face of this unexpected, seemingly sincere confession.

Vox needed to rest, but he also needed to eat. This was part of Alastor's role. Being a lover meant caring. He headed to the kitchen. This time, he decided to prepare something edible, not those disgusting foods Vox had brought. Maybe some soup... simple, light.

In the kitchen, as he clattered the pots, his mind was still occupied with Vox's question.

He filled a bowl with the soup and placed it on a tray along with a plate of toasted bread. He picked up the tray and walked toward Vox's room.

When he entered, he saw that Vox was lightly asleep. His face looked calmer under the bandage. Alastor quietly set the tray on the table beside the bed. Just as he was about to pull back, Vox's eyes opened. "Alastor," His eyes shifted to the food on the table. "Did you bring food?"

"Yes, soup. Light. It'll be good for you." Alastor pushed the tray toward Vox's lap.

There was gratitude and a warm expression on Vox's face. "Thanks," he said, sincerely. "Really... you're so thoughtful." He reached out and touched Alastor's hand. "You're doing all this for me." Then he started eating his food. After a few spoonfuls, he looked at Alastor again. "Seriously," he repeated, his voice soft. "Thank you so much." Then, suddenly, he acted on an impulse. He leaned toward the bed and brought his face closer to Alastor's. His intention was to plant a light kiss on his cheek.

Alastor froze instantly.

When Vox's face approached, his eyes widened. With an instinctive panic, he suddenly pulled his head back, causing Vox's kiss to land in empty space. His heart began pounding wildly. His face was flushed with embarrassment. He immediately averted his gaze, fixing it on the other side of the room, on the wall. Contact. Kiss. Disgusting. Horrifying.

There was a moment of silence.

Vox froze in place. He slowly pulled back. There was shock on his face, followed by deep embarrassment. Alastor's violent reaction had shaken him. "I," he murmured, his voice small and hesitant. "I... I just... without thinking. Did I go too far? Normally... don't we do things like this?" His amnesia made him vulnerable.

Alastor's panic was gnawing at him inside. No, we never do! he wanted to scream but he couldn't. He had to maintain his lie. He swallowed, forcing down the lump in his throat. Without turning his face to Vox, his voice came out trembling: "No. No. I... I just... was surprised."

Vox looked at Alastor's tense back and his bright red ears. He interpreted his shyness as a natural part of their relationship. He felt a bit relieved inside. "I understand," he whispered, "I won't push it. I just... wanted to thank you. It was a stupid move. I'm sorry."

Alastor was still struggling to breathe. "No! I... I'm sorry!" he forced out his voice with difficulty. His hands were shaking. "It was sudden. I wasn't prepared. I..." The words were knotting in his throat. Why am I apologizing? he thought to himself. He invaded my space!

But Vox's gaze was so guilty and sad that... Alastor tried to compose himself. He tried to fix his face, control his breathing. "I... I'm a bit sensitive... about touch," he tried to explain, "Especially... suddenly." This was perhaps the most truthful thing he'd said today.

Vox's worried expression softened a little, but he still looked sad. "I understand," he whispered. "I... forgot. Please forgive me."

Alastor nodded quickly. "There's nothing to forgive." Then, Husk's words came to mind. Be creative. Set your boundaries. He took a deep breath. "Maybe... maybe next time... you warn me first." He couldn't believe that sentence had come out of his mouth. Next time? Why had he said something like that?

A small spark of hope lit up in Vox's eyes. "Of course," he replied immediately, his voice more relaxed. "Of course. I'll warn you first." Then, with a shy smile, he added, "So... is there permission for next time?"

Alastor's face flushed again. Oh, damn it. He'd trapped himself. He cleared his throat. "Maybe," his voice was almost inaudible. "When the time comes... we'll see."

Vox turned back to his soup, but now his appetite seemed gone. He took a few more spoonfuls and then set it aside.

Though Vox couldn't see it, a deep expression of indecision and fear formed on Alastor's face. This game was dragging him into places he never expected, and the scariest part was that he was starting to want more and more.

"I think I need some fresh air," Vox said finally. "Being trapped between these four walls is going to drive me insane." He tried to get out of bed, looking stronger this time. "I need to go outside. Maybe take a walk."

Panic surged through Alastor. Outside? "Maybe… maybe it’s too soon," he mumbled. "You’re just starting to recover. You should rest."

But Vox was resolute. "No. I really need this." He sat on the edge of the bed and began putting on his shoes. "Are you coming?" he asked, looking at Alastor. "Will you come with me?"

Going out was risky, but leaving Vox alone could be even riskier. To keep things under control, he needed to stay by his side. Finally, he nodded tensely. "Of course. I’ll come with you."

They walked down the corridor together. Vox’s steps were still a bit unsteady, occasionally needing to lean against the wall for support. Alastor instinctively reached out to help but pulled back at the last moment. Touch… it had become even more complicated now.

When they stepped out of the tower’s main entrance, Hell’s stifling air hit their faces. Vox took a deep breath.

Alastor, meanwhile, scanned their surroundings with wary eyes. Danger or a familiar face could appear at any moment and then, his worst fear came true.

In the marketplace, there were Charlie, Vaggie, Angel Dust and even Husk trailing behind them. They seemed to be out for some kind of "group activity."

Alastor froze. In an almost instinctive move, he hid behind Vox, using his body as a shield to conceal himself. "No," he whispered, his voice trembling with panic. "Please. Ignore them. Let’s get out of here."

But it was too late. Charlie’s eyes had already locked onto them. Her face showed shock, then deep concern. "Alastor?" she called out, starting to walk toward them with the group. "Oh my God, where have you been? We were all so worried! Are you okay?" Her gaze shifted from Alastor’s battered appearance to Vox standing beside him. Seeing them together clearly stunned her.

Vaggie immediately went into defensive mode, her hand reaching for her spear as she glared at Vox. "What did you do to him, Vox?" she growled, her voice menacing.

Alastor shrank further behind Vox. "I… I’m fine," he managed to say, his voice barely audible from behind Vox’s shoulder. "Just… talking with Vox… about some things." His words were halting and disjointed.

Charlie’s brows furrowed. "Talking?" she repeated, her expression skeptical. "Alastor, you disappeared! This guy nearly killed you! And you’re talking in Vox’s tower?" Her worry was giving way to suspicion. Alastor’s defensive, hiding behavior struck her as odd.

At that moment, Husk’s face remained its usual bored and indifferent self, but there was a glint in his eyes. He’d pieced it together. He saw Alastor’s panic, Vox’s confused but protective stance. "Leave them be, Charlie," he said, his voice deep and weary. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "They’re clearly a couple. Having some private time. Don’t bother them."

Charlie’s eyes widened in shock. "A… couple?" she stammered, her gaze darting between Alastor and Vox. "But… how? I mean… when? Why?" She seemed utterly baffled.

Vaggie’s aggressive stance softened, replaced by complete astonishment. She lowered her spear. "Are you serious?" she whispered, glancing at Husk.

Alastor’s face paled, then flushed bright red. He could’ve sunk into the ground from embarrassment. He pressed himself even closer behind Vox, practically clinging to his back. "Husk," he hissed, his voice trembling with anger and panic. "Shut up!"

Vox’s protective instincts kicked into overdrive. He subtly raised his arm to shield Alastor better. "Yes," he said calmly, politely. "We are, and right now we’re having… a bit of private time. If you’ll excuse us." He gave Charlie a slight bow, slipping into his old, charming Vox persona.

Charlie was even more stunned by Vox’s unexpected courtesy and admission. Her face was a mess of confusion. "Oh! Of course! Sorry! We’ll give you some space!" she mumbled excitedly, gesturing with her hands. She started pulling Vaggie and Husk back. "Have… have a good time! Really! Great! Okay, let’s go, guys!"

As the group retreated, only Alastor and Vox remained. Alastor was still hiding behind Vox, panting, his face burning red.

Vox slowly turned around. "Hey," he whispered, his voice gentle. "It’s okay. They’re gone." He reached out to touch Alastor’s shoulder but hesitated and pulled back at the last moment. "Warning," he added with a small smile. "I’m touching."

Alastor felt Vox’s hand rest on his shoulder. The touch still felt repulsive, but this time… it was also oddly comforting. Vox had saved him from that humiliating situation. He slowly straightened up, though his eyes remained fixed on the ground. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"You didn’t talk to them at all," Vox said, aware of Alastor’s responsibilities to the hotel.

Alastor swallowed hard. "Only… Husk knows about our relationship," he admitted, his voice still shaky. "He’s… trustworthy." This was another truth he’d spoken today.

Vox shook his head, still reeling. "Unbelievable," he muttered.

Alastor felt the gnawing weight of shame and guilt. Every word dragged him deeper into the lie but confessing now… was impossible. "Yeah," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "It’s not a secret anymore."

Seeing Alastor’s lingering tension, Vox decided to change the subject. "Alright," he said in a lighter tone. "How about a walk with me? I still need some fresh air and maybe… being out in public with you will do some good."

Alastor took one last deep breath. Finally, he gave a slight nod. "Alright," his voice still weak but more composed. "Let’s walk."

Together, they began strolling through Hell’s crowded streets. Vox glanced around, as if trying to jog his memory.

Suddenly, Vox’s head spun, his vision darkening. He stumbled, forced to lean against a nearby building’s wall. His breathing was ragged, his face pale. The pain from his bandaged temple radiated through his body in a dizzying wave.

"Vox?" Alastor’s voice spiked with sudden panic. He stepped forward and grabbed Vox’s arm, steadying him against the wall. Touch still felt strange but it didn’t matter now. "What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

Vox squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head slightly. "Just… dizzy," he mumbled with difficulty. "Came on suddenly. I’m fine." But his voice was weak and trembling. "I think… we need to head back. This walk was enough."

A conflict stirred within Alastor. On one hand, Vox looked genuinely unwell, and he was worried. On the other, returning to the tower meant being trapped in that suffocating, lie-filled room but he had no choice. "Yes," he agreed, his voice unusually soft. "Let’s go home. Now."

They looked around for a taxi, but finding an empty one was nearly impossible. The streets were teeming. Vox’s color was fading, his strength waning. Alastor’s worry turned into desperate urgency.

Just then, Alastor’s eyes caught an old, dusty car parked at the entrance of a narrow alley. The keys were left in the ignition, and no owner was in sight. His instincts kicked in with their usual solution: If you need it, take it. Rules don’t apply to you.

"Wait," he muttered to Vox. Leaving him leaning against the wall, he swiftly approached the car. He opened the door, slid inside, and turned the key without hesitation. The engine roared to life with a sputter.

"Alastor, what are you doing?!" Vox’s voice rose with shock and worry. "That’s not your car! Wait, we can find a taxi! Just hold on!" But his dizziness left him too weak to follow.

Alastor gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "No time," he snapped, his voice tense. "I need to get you home now." This was for Vox’s sake, he told himself. Everything else was irrelevant.

Just as he prepared to drive off, a voice rang out. "Hey! That’s my car!"

Alastor’s head snapped toward the sound. At the alley’s entrance stood a tired-looking young couple holding ice cream cones, with a small girl eating ice cream beside them. The man’s face was red with fury, his eyes wide at the sight of a stranger in his car.

"Get out of my car, you filthy thief!" the man shouted, tossing his ice cream to the ground and storming toward the vehicle. The woman pulled her daughter back in fear.

Alastor gritted his teeth. He felt a surge of anger and a momentary falter. His plan had fallen apart. Things were getting messy. He turned off the engine and pushed the door open, stepping out. His face was shadowed with a dark expression. He’d wasted time. Vox was still sick, and now he had to deal with these foolish humans.

The man charged at him. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?" he jabbing a finger at Alastor’s chest.

A dangerous glint sparked in Alastor’s red eyes. The urge to harm, to punish, was as strong and tempting as ever.

But then his gaze fell on the little girl clinging to her mother’s skirt, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. Her ice cream had fallen to the ground, and she was crying.

In that moment, Alastor’s aggression, his fury, evaporated. That small, defenseless face… that pure fear… stirred something unexpected and utterly foreign within him. A child, his mind registered, stunned. She’s just a child.

This hesitation was a sign of weakness to the furious man. His anger flared hotter. "I’m talking to you!" he bellowed, and with all his strength, he swung a fist at Alastor’s face.

The hard punch landed on Alastor’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. Warm blood trickled from the corner of his lips, but he didn’t react. He raised a hand and calmly wiped the blood away. The demon inside him screamed to retaliate, that familiar darkness beckoning but he just… stood there. He’d rather swallow his pride than amplify the fear in that little girl’s eyes.

The man, stunned by Alastor’s lack of reaction, grew angrier. "Well? Say something!" he shouted again.

Vox, staggering but determined, stepped in front of Alastor. His pale face was etched with deep anger and exhaustion, but his stance was firm. "ENOUGH!" His voice, though weak, carried unyielding authority. He placed a hand on the man’s chest, pushing him back. "Touch him again and you’ll regret it." The blue glow in his eyes flickered dangerously with electric fury.

The man flinched at Vox’s sudden intervention and threat. He hesitated. He knew Vox was an Overlord. This was a big risk for him.

Seeing the man’s hesitation, Vox seized the opportunity. Suppressing his anger, he spoke in a calmer tone. "This was a misunderstanding. We thought we were borrowing the car. It was an emergency. I’m sick." He pointed to his bandaged temple. "See? I wasn’t thinking straight." Then he pulled a thick wallet stuffed with cash from his pocket and shoved a stack of Hell’s banknotes into the man’s hand. "Take this. For your bruised pride and the ice cream. Are we done here?"

The man stared at the money in shock. The amount was far more than the car’s worth. His anger dissolved under greed and fear. He averted his eyes from Vox’s stern expression. "F… fine," he mumbled. "Just… don’t let it happen again."

Vox nodded, a faint trace of disgust on his face. "It won’t." Then he turned to the family. He softened his expression as best he could. "I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean to scare you." He bent down slightly toward the little girl. "Sorry, little lady. For your ice cream." He pulled a lollipop from his pocket and offered it to her.

The girl hesitated at first but took the lollipop after her mother’s approving nod. Her tears had stopped.

The family quickly gathered themselves and left, the man still staring at the money in disbelief.

Only Vox and Alastor remained in the street. Vox suddenly collapsed with exhaustion, gasping for breath. The effort had drained what little energy he had left.

Alastor stood frozen, the pain of the punch and the taste of blood lingering but his mind kept replaying Vox stepping in to protect him, apologizing to that little girl. This… this wasn’t part of the plan.

Vox caught his breath and slowly turned to Alastor. His face was still pale, but his eyes held deep concern. "Alastor," he whispered, his voice trembling with fatigue. "God, your cheek…" He reached out but hesitated, pulling back. "Why… why didn’t you fight back? You could’ve obliterated him. Why did you stop?"

Alastor met Vox’s gaze. "It doesn’t matter," he murmured. "Just a punch."

Vox grew more worried by Alastor’s detached, almost numb demeanor. "Look at me." Carefully, he gently tilted Alastor’s chin to examine the wound in the light. "It’s swollen. We need to get ice on it back at the tower."

Alastor didn’t resist Vox’s touch. He was unusually compliant. His eyes tried to focus on Vox’s face. "Why did you do it?" he whispered, his voice still hoarse. "Why did you apologize to them? Give them money? They’re… nothing." His words carried confusion and disbelief.

Vox paused at the question. Why had he done it? Because it was the right thing. Because that family was innocent. Because he didn’t want Alastor to resort to violence in front of a child but explaining that felt too complex. "We shouldn’t have been there. It was my fault. I insisted on going out." A sigh. "And you… you didn’t defend yourself. That worried me."

Alastor processed Vox’s words. Vox had been worried about him. He was taking the blame. He shook his head slowly. "No, it was my fault," he whispered. "I got in the car. It was a stupid move." A rare moment of self-criticism.

Vox, seeing Alastor’s uncharacteristically subdued and vulnerable state, attributed it to the injury and shock. "Alright," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "Just calm down. Let’s go."

Together, they walked slowly back to the tower. Both were silent, lost in their own thoughts.

When they entered Vox’s room, Vox immediately went to the mini fridge and grabbed a handful of ice, wrapping it in a cloth. "Here," he said, handing the ice pack to Alastor. "Put this on your face. It’ll help with the swelling."

Alastor took the ice pack and pressed it against the bruise. The cold dulled the pain but also grounded him in reality. He began to think about what Vox had done, what he’d said.

Vox sat on the edge of the bed, watching Alastor. "That kid," he began, his voice thoughtful. "She… got to you, didn’t she? I’m grateful you didn’t hurt her." It was a risky thing to say but his curiosity got the better of him.

Alastor pressed the ice pack harder against his face and closed his eyes. "Kids… they’re innocent," he murmured. "We shouldn’t drag them into the mess." He reserved his sins and punishments for adults.

Vox was surprised by this admission. He hadn’t known Alastor had such a moral line. It was like learning something new about him. "I understand," he said softly. Then they fell silent for a while.

Vox stood and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, handing it to Alastor. "Drink. You might be in shock."

Alastor lowered the ice pack and took the water. He sipped it, the cold liquid reviving him slightly. His eyes caught the worried expression on Vox’s face. "Thank you,"

Vox gave a faint smile. "No big deal." Then he headed toward the bed. "I think I need to sleep. My head’s still pounding." Exhaustion had settled back into his features. He let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the pillow. His eyes were just about to close when something nagged at Alastor's mind. The bandage on Vox's temple... the spot where Valentino had hit him... Was it still hurting? Was it healing?

"Vox," he whispered, his voice unusually soft. Vox's eyes snapped open, looking at him. "Your wound... is it okay? Do I need to change the bandage?" The suggestion had slipped out on its own. Maybe this small act of care would ease the poisonous guilt gnawing at him.

Vox smiled faintly, grateful for this 'thoughtful' offer. "I think it's fine," he murmured. "But you'd know better." He tilted his head slightly toward Alastor, showing the edge of the bandage.

Alastor's fingers reached out, trembling lightly. Being this close to Vox's skin, his hair... it still felt strange and repulsive. He carefully lifted the edge of the bandage. As the adhesive tape peeled away from the skin, Vox winced slightly. Alastor involuntarily held his breath.

When the bandage was fully removed, Alastor froze.

The wound didn't look dry and scabbed over. On the contrary, it was slightly swollen, and from the edges, a dark, almost black blood was oozing. The blood was slowly trickling down from Vox's temple toward his ear line. The sight was disheartening and alarming.

"No," Alastor whispered, his voice laced with shock. His eyes were fixed on that dark red trail. "No, it's not fine." His hands suddenly sprang into action, in a panic. "I need to dress it. Right now." He headed to the sink, searching for clean cloth and antiseptic. As he rummaged through the drawers, his voice trembled. "How did I not notice? So much blood... so much swelling..."

Vox tried to see his wound in the reflection of his phone. A pained expression appeared on his face. "I didn't notice." But his voice sounded weak and distant. The dizziness seemed to be starting again.

Alastor returned with the supplies. His hands were still shaking, but his movements were quick and skillful. He dipped the clean cloth in antiseptic and began gently cleaning the blood around Vox's wound. "I'm sorry," he murmured, almost to himself.

Vox was surprised by Alastor's panicked state and his unusual apology. "Calm down," he whispered, trying to place his hand on Alastor's arm. "I'm fine. It's just a small scratch." But the pained expression on his face told otherwise.

Alastor finished the cleaning and carefully placed a new bandage. After securing it, he pulled back. His face was pale as a sheet. "This isn't enough," he insisted. "It might be infected. Or worse..." He couldn't bring himself to say the words. "I should call a doctor. Right away."

Vox wanted to protest, but the throbbing in his head and the panic in Alastor's eyes stopped him. Finally, he nodded weakly. "Alright," he murmured. "But I think you're worrying for nothing."

Alastor quickly opened his phone and called Vox's personal doctor. He tried to keep his voice steady. "Come immediately. Hurry."

The next few minutes passed in heavy tension. Alastor paced the room, glancing at the door every second. Vox lay on the bed, eyes closed, trying to regulate his breathing. Alastor's worry was palpable.

Finally, the doctor arrived. With a professional and calm demeanor, he began examining Vox. Alastor stood in a corner, arms crossed over his chest, watching every move, barely breathing.

The doctor removed the bandage, inspected the wound, checked Vox's pupils, and performed a few simple neurological tests. His face grew increasingly serious. "There's the beginning of an infection," he confirmed. "Strong antibiotics and rest are necessary, but the real concern..." He paused, looking at Vox, then at Alastor. "The concussion seems more serious than expected. This memory loss... Mr. Vox, I'd like to ask you a few simple questions. Do you know today's date? Do you remember what you last ate?"

Vox tried to answer the questions. He mixed up the date, couldn't recall the meals. Alastor's face grew paler with each wrong answer.

The doctor took a deep breath. "The short-term memory loss and confusion are persisting," he explained. "This indicates the trauma's effects are ongoing. The recovery process... is uncertain. It's possible the memory won't fully return. Some gaps could be permanent."

A chilling silence fell over the room.

"Permanent?" Alastor's entire face froze. "What... what do you mean permanent?"

"What I mean," the doctor continued in a ruthlessly clinical tone, "is that Mr. Vox may never regain memories from certain periods of his life, especially those close to the trauma. The brain might have deleted those memories instead of protecting them. This is common in such cases."

Alastor just stood there. Permanent. Never coming back. Everything with Valentino... his real past with him... and most importantly, all the lies Alastor had fabricated... they would remain as truth in Vox's mind forever.

A deep emptiness filled him. This wasn't a victory; it was a curse. Vox would never be the same again and Alastor would have to build every moment with him on this massive lie.

Vox was trying to process the doctor's words. "So... everything I've forgotten... it won't come back?" His voice was fragile.

"It's possible," the doctor confirmed. "But remember, the brain is a resilient organ. You'll continue forming new memories." Then he began packing his bag. "I'm leaving you antibiotics and painkillers. Rest. Avoid excessive stimuli. I'll check back tomorrow."

When the doctor left the room, a heavy silence remained.

Alastor was still rooted in place. His eyes were fixed on the empty, lost expression on Vox's face. Something inside him had shattered.

Vox slowly turned his head and looked at Alastor. "Everything about you... about us... I really won't remember."

Alastor's throat tightened. He averted his eyes. "It doesn't matter," he forced out. "What matters is... now. The future."

Vox saw Alastor looking away. He misinterpreted his sorrow and shock. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice filled with genuine regret. "I wish I could remember."

Vox's "I'm sorry" stung him even more. He was apologizing. He felt regret for not remembering. Alastor's stomach churned. "I need... some fresh air," he murmured, in a sudden panic. He turned his back and headed for the door. His feet wanted to take him away from there. Away from this room, this lie, this hell he'd created himself.

In the hallway, he leaned against the cold wall. His breath felt trapped in his chest, coming out fast and ragged. Run, whispered the voice inside him, that old, reliable instinct. Right now. Go back to the hotel. Let it fade into oblivion. In time, everything will return to normal. He'll remember, and you'll forget.

It made sense. It was the safest path. To leave before losing control completely, before things got even worse.

But... but then?

Vox would be left alone. His memory in pieces, his mind confused... and abandoned to Valentino's merciless clutches. Alastor imagined how Valentino's rage would turn on Vox. How he'd take advantage of his vulnerable state...

Vox wasn't the arrogant, ruthless television demon Alastor knew. He was someone else.

Anger, fear, and disgust clashed with something new and foreign: a kind of... attachment. This feeling scared him. It was weakness but it was undeniable.

His hand on the door handle loosened slightly. Running... would be the easiest way but also the most cowardly.

A deep weariness washed over him. He was tired of being stuck in this dilemma.

Slowly, he cracked the door open again and stepped inside.

Vox was still in bed, eyes closed, but not asleep. There was a slight crease on his forehead. When he heard Alastor enter, he opened his eyes. His gaze immediately shifted to Alastor, with a question in it. "You came back." There was a small surprise in his voice and... relief.

Alastor stood in the middle of the room. He couldn't find the right words to say. "Yes."

"Alastor," Vox's voice was tired but surprisingly clear. "This... must be hard for you."

Alastor remained frozen in the middle of the room. He was stunned by this unexpected outburst. "What... what do you mean?" he stammered, his mind racing wildly in search of a defense, an explanation.

Vox fixed his eyes on the floor. "I... I'm a burden. Like this." He brought his hand to his bandaged temple. "I don't remember anything. You... us, I don't remember."

Alastor's breath caught. Vox had summed up the situation with a frightening clarity. He swallowed, his throat dry. "Vox, it's not like that-" he tried to protest but Vox cut him off.

"Being this patient... continuing to recount memories that have no reciprocation... dealing with someone who says they love you but doesn't know you..." A momentary pause. "You don't deserve this. No one does."

Alastor heard every word Vox said, every emphasis. Was this a test? Had he sensed the truth?

A storm raged inside him. Yes! his inner voice shouted. Go! Even he is saying it! It was the perfect opportunity to save himself.

But... the expression on Vox's face... Others would fear him or try to use him, but Vox... Vox was encouraging him to leave.

This thought shook his entire being.

"Leave... you?" Alastor repeated, his voice muffled and incredulous. The words felt strange and foreign in his mouth. His eyes roamed Vox's face, searching for a game, a deception.

Vox shrugged lightly, with a bitter smile. "It's the logical thing. I... I'm not the person you remember. Maybe I never will be. I'm afraid of disappointing you... or worse, hurting you." He averted his gaze. "You've suffered enough already."

The wound Valentino caused, Alastor thought, his insides crushing. That lie I fabricated. The burden was becoming even more unbearable.

In a moment of panic, he took a step forward. "No," he said, his voice sharpening unintentionally. "Don't... think like that." He was struggling to find the right words. How could he explain? How could he say he didn't want to leave, that he wanted to stay?

"I..." he began, his voice trembling. "I... just..." His mind desperately searched for Husk's advice to "be creative," but this time, creativity wasn't enough. "No," his voice for the first time with real emphasis, almost desperately. "Don't... think like that."

Vox looked at Alastor's protest, surprise appearing in his eyes. This was an unexpected resistance. "Alastor," he began, his voice soft but weary. "Think this through better. Right now, in this state... I'm not a good partner for you."

Alastor swallowed. "You seem to have made up your mind," his voice low and trying to be controlled, but with a tremor underneath.

Vox nodded lightly, his eyes still indirect. "No. I just... think this is the best for you. Maybe... some time... for me to get my head together." A sigh. "But yes. I think this... is the most logical."

That phrase "the most logical" broke Alastor's last resistance. Vox was giving up on him. He was accepting sending him away. This should have been part of his plan, right? He would gain his freedom, but why did it hurt so much?

Alastor straightened slowly. His expression slipped back into that usual mask, that dull, dangerous calm. All that panic, that conflict, was buried deep where no one could see. "Fine," his voice now cold, "Then let's part ways."

Vox said nothing. He just shrank in his bed, his head slightly bowed forward. He had accepted it.

Alastor turned one last time in the room. His eye caught the empty plate on the table, the chair, the spot where Vox's jacket was hanging. This place was a prison, yes, but at the same time, strangely, it was also a sanctuary. Now, he was heading back to his own prison.

He slowly moved toward the door. He placed his hand on the knob. He paused. His back was still to Vox. There was one more thing to say. A warning? A farewell? A confession?

"I'm going back to the hotel," this was a statement. Not a beginning, but an end.

No sound came from behind him. Only Vox's raspy, irregular breathing could be heard.

Alastor opened the door and stepped out. He waited one more moment in the hallway. Maybe Vox would open the door, stop him. Maybe he'd say, "Stay."

But the door remained closed. The silence continued.

Finally, he pushed himself off the wall. He directed his steps toward the tower's exit. Each step took him further from Vox, back to his own complicated, lonely world.

When Alastor reached the door to his room, he extended his hand toward the doorknob but paused just before turning it. The door… looked different. It was darker, heavier, a wooden door adorned with strange, gold-embossed angelic figures. It wasn’t his simple, unassuming door.

His brows furrowed. He stepped inside.

And froze.

The room was unrecognizable. In place of his old, comfortable chair stood an ostentatious, gold-gilded, silk-upholstered armchair. The shelves on the walls, once filled with dark magic books and personal belongings, had been replaced with rows of grinning duck figurines. His radio still sat on the desk, but it was draped with a dusty cloak.

His face twisted first with shock, then with deep anger. He had done this. The Little King. He had invaded *his* space, his sanctuary, and turned it into a tasteless, gaudy exhibition.

Just as he was about to storm out in a rage to track down Lucifer, a voice called from behind.

“Alastor!”

Charlie came running down the corridor, her face lit up with a wide but slightly nervous smile. “You’re back! We were so worried! Where were you? Are you okay?” She approached, as if to hug him, but Alastor’s rigid posture and furious expression stopped her in her tracks.

Her eyes drifted to the room, and her smile vanished instantly. “Oh,” her voice shrank. “I… can explain.”

Alastor turned to her slowly. The red glow in his eyes flickered with a dangerous glint. “Please do,” he said, his voice slipping back into its sharp, old radio tone, but simmering with barely contained rage. “Because when I left, my home did not look like this, my dear.”

Charlie began wringing her hands. “Dad… I mean, Lucifer… decided to make some changes around the hotel. For security and… and morale. He wanted to turn your room into… a special relaxation space for him, but don’t worry!” She rushed on, seeing Alastor’s fury. “He’s gone now, and we’ll put everything back to normal right away! We’ll clear it all out! I promise!”

Alastor watched Charlie’s panicked state. Lucifer was gone. After this brazen invasion, he’d left behind this abomination and vanished. Instead of triumph, Alastor felt a deep weariness. He didn’t have the energy to fight to fix this. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest.”

Charlie hesitated for a moment, then nodded quietly and left. “Of course. Of course. Welcome back, Alastor. Really.” She closed the door behind her.

Alastor stared at the closed door for a while. He hadn’t forgotten his belongings from Vox’s tower either. He placed his radio down. His fingers brushed against it. Cold, familiar, real. He took a deep breath. Yes. This was his place. His chaos, his anger, his order.

But the silence and solitude quickly began to gnaw at him. His eyes drifted to the cellphone on the desk. That sleek, black, repulsive device Vox had given him.

An impulse stirred within him. I should text him. Why? To tell him I’m okay? To make sure he’s okay? Or just… to keep that connection alive?

His fingers pulled back from the phone. No. That was weakness. Vox had sent him away. He’d done the logical thing. This was the cleanest way to end this nonsense.

Alastor clenched his teeth. With a sigh, he picked up the phone. He unlocked the screen. He opened the Voxtagram app. The stupid profile Husk had set up appeared: a picture of his radio with the caption “Listen and Obey.”

He found Vox’s profile. No updates yet. He went to the messages.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of what to write. “Are you okay?” sounded too caring. “I’m sorry” was impossible. “What’s up?” was utterly ridiculous.

He tossed the phone onto the desk. This was pointless. Why was he forcing himself to do this?

Because he was alone, and Vox whether with lies or truth had cared about him. Had noticed his existence.

He stormed out of the room, heading straight for the bar. What he needed was a strong drink.

When he entered the bar, Husk took one look at Alastor’s conflicted and tense expression and sighed. “Goddamn it, not again. What happened now?”

Alastor sat down at the bar. “Get me a drink,” he growled.

Husk paused for a moment, then shrugged and pulled the strongest whiskey from the shelf, pouring it into a glass. He slid it across to Alastor. “Here. Drink. Then talk.”

Alastor grabbed the glass and downed it in one go. The alcohol burned his throat, made his eyes water, but it did nothing to ease the tension inside him. He slammed the glass back on the counter. “Another.”

Husk poured a second, but this time more slowly. “Boss, seeing you like this… it’s creepy. Did Vox hypnotize you or something?”

“Don’t mention Vox,” Alastor snapped, sipping the second glass quickly.

“Oh,” Husk said, raising his eyebrows. “So that’s it. That’s why you’re here. Did you two break up? Have a fight?” His mocking tone only grated on Alastor’s nerves further.

Alastor slammed the glass down again. “He sent me away,” he burst out, his voice rising against his will. “He did the logical thing. He doesn’t remember.”

Husk looked stunned for a moment, then his face grew serious. “He sent you away? Wow.” He poured himself a glass too. “Well, that’s… more civilized than I expected. Usually, you kill people, not the other way around.” He studied Alastor carefully. “But you… you seem upset about it.”

“Upset?” Alastor’s laugh was bitter and unconvincing. “Don’t be absurd, Husk. I’m just… glad this nonsense is over. I’m no longer in that technological tomb. Everything’s back to normal.” But the tremor in his voice betrayed his words.

Husk studied him for a moment longer. Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You’re thinking about texting him, aren’t you? That’s why you’re here. You were gonna ask me what to say.” Normally, he wouldn't have noticed but the way Alastor was tightly gripping his phone gave him away.

Alastor was caught off guard by how easily Husk read him. He looked away. “Maybe,” he muttered. “Just… to make sure he’s okay. After all, I left him… with Valentino.”

Husk let out a deep sigh. “Listen, boss. Here’s some free advice. If you’re gonna text him, keep it short. Keep it simple. Something like ‘What’s up?’ or ‘You okay?’ But don’t you dare write anything emotional. Or apologize. Just… a message. Then put the phone down and don’t think about it. Got it?”

Alastor listened to Husk’s words. It made sense. Controlled. A way to keep that connection without showing weakness. He swallowed. Then nodded. “Got it.”

He looked at the phone, his fingers still trembling slightly. He did as Husk suggested. Short and simple.

Alastor: You okay?

He hesitated for a moment before hitting send. Then, with a sigh, he pressed the button. The message was sent.

He immediately placed the phone face-down on the counter, as if afraid to look at it.

“There you go,” Husk said, nodding. “Good job. Now keep drinking or go sleep. If he replies, he replies. If not, you’re better off.”

Alastor's hands trembled slightly from the chilled whiskey, but the alcohol wasn't the real cause of his shaking. He leaned back, his face still flushed red, his eyes wide with a bewildered expression. He was trying to comprehend how Vox had managed to get to him so easily, how he had caused this vulnerable state.

Husk paused for a moment, observing Alastor's reaction. Then he slowly shook his head, almost with a pitying look. "Well," he muttered to himself as he turned to grab another glass. "So that's how it is." There was no mockery in his voice, only a kind of resignation. "That's it, folks. The Radio Demon's in love."