Chapter Text
— He always drinks too much after a good show. Velvette is probably on her tablet, planning her next heist. And you… well, you’re here.
They reached the bedroom door. Vox paused for a moment, typing a code into the side panel with a free hand. The door slid open with a soft creak, revealing the dark interior: a bed too big for one person.
He pushed the chair inside and closed the door behind him. The lights came on automatically, cold and clinical, illuminating Alastor from head to toe. Vox released the wheels, locking them in place with a simple gesture. The cables around Alastor’s body loosened slightly.
— There — said Vox, taking a step back and assessing him as if he were a defective product. — Time to rest. Or… whatever you do now.
Alastor blinked slowly, his red eyes clouded by the forced whiskey and accumulated fatigue. He tried to move his arms, but the movement came out slow, uncoordinated, as if his muscles had forgotten rhythm. His head tilted slightly to the side, and a low sound escaped—not a word, just a weak grunt.
Vox tilted his head.
"What? Still trying?" He chuckled softly, moving closer. "Seven years, Alastor. Seven years away, and you come back like this... broken. Pathetic."
Without warning, Vox raised his hand and delivered a hard slap to Alastor's face. The impact echoed in the empty room, his head snapping to the side with a crack. Reddened skin appeared immediately, but Alastor didn't scream. His eyes widened for a moment, static flashing in them, but his body didn't react as it should—no counterattack, no instinctive defense. Just a slight tremor, as if the nerve signal had been lost along the way.
“This is for running away,” Vox murmured, his voice low and controlled, but his eyes gleaming with something wild. He grabbed the collar of the loose T-shirt—his own clothes—and pulled Alastor up, forcing him to look at him. “For thinking you could ignore me.”
Alastor tried to struggle, his arms moving in weak spasms, but the cables still held him tight enough to limit the effort. A clenched fist came, but too slow, too weak—Vox easily blocked it with one hand, laughing.
“Oh, no.” He twisted Alastor’s arm back, pressing hard until he heard a subtle snap of the joint. Alastor gasped, the sound hoarse and incomplete, his body arching involuntarily against the restraints.
Vox didn’t stop. He released the arm and landed a punch to the stomach, hard enough to expel the air from Alastor’s lungs. He doubled over, coughing, the whiskey rising in his throat in a bitter reflux. His legs kicked weakly against the cables at his ankles, but without force—the alcohol, the fatigue, the accumulated control made him sluggish.
"You think this is a game?" Vox hissed, pulling Alastor's disheveled hair back, exposing his neck. Another slap, this time on the other side of his face, leaving a symmetrical mark. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto his shirt. Alastor blinked, involuntary tears welling in his eyes from the sharp pain, but his expression remained blank, broken. He tried to murmur something—perhaps a name, perhaps a curse—but only a gurgle came out.
Vox shoved him violently back into the chair, the impact making the backrest creak. He circled around, like a predator assessing its prey, and kicked the side of the chair, knocking it aside. Alastor fell to the floor with a dull thud, the cables automatically adjusting to keep him immobilized, but now exposed on the air-conditioned, icy floor.
"—Get up—" Vox ordered, his voice echoing with false patience. "Come on, show me you still have something in there."
Alastor tried. He rolled to the side, his arms trembling as he tried to support himself on the floor. His legs dragged uselessly, the cables cutting into the skin where they grazed. He managed to lift himself up a little, propped up on his elbows, breathing heavily, blood staining the floor. But it was slow, pathetic—none of the old powers, no shadow or static to save him. Just weakness.
Vox laughed, stepped on his chest, pressing down with his heel until he heard ribs creak. Alastor gasped, his eyes blinking in panic, but his body didn't fight back, his hands gripping Vox's shoe too weakly to push him away.
"This is what you deserve," Vox said, leaning down, his face too close. "For making me wait."
Vox removed his foot from Alastor's chest, but didn't back away. Instead, he crouched down quickly. His hands gripped Alastor's disheveled hair, holding on tightly—not just the strands, but also his sensitive ears, pulling them up as if holding a rabbit by the ears, forcing his head to lift off the ground.
Alastor let out a muffled sound, a hoarse groan, his hands scratching the floor in vain.
"Look at you," Vox hissed, his voice low and heavy with contempt. "The great Radio Demon, reduced to this. A frightened animal."
Without loosening his grip, he lifted Alastor's head a few inches off the ground—enough for his neck to stretch painfully—and slammed it back against the floor with force.
The back of his head colliding with the cold floor. Alastor arched slightly, a painful buzzing running through his body, but he didn't scream; just an uneven gasp, blood flowing more freely from his split lip.
Vox didn't stop. He lifted again, his fingers digging into his ears, twisting them maliciously as he pulled, and struck again. Harder. The sound was wetter this time, as if something inside gave way a little more. Alastor's eyes lost focus for a moment.
"That's for every day you spent in that ridiculous hotel," Vox murmured, repeating the movement. He lifted. He struck. Third time. "For every fake smile you gave those losers."
Fourth. Alastor's head bounced inertly now, his whole body trembling in uncontrolled spasms, his legs dragging weakly against the cables. A trickle of blood.
It trickled from his left ear, staining Vox's fingers, but he didn't care—he just kept going, fifth impact, sixth, until Alastor's resistance movements were reduced to mere muscle spasms, his eyes half-closed and glazed.
Finally, Vox released his hair and ears with a disdainful shove, letting his head fall one last time with a soft thud. Alastor rolled to the side.
The room fell silent, broken only by Alastor's shallow, uneven breathing.
Vox straightened his suit, his smile returning as if nothing had happened.
"We'll continue tomorrow," he murmured, turning to the door. "Sleep well."
Dawn broke, the clock embedded in the wall read 9:17 the following morning.
Alastor was still on the floor.
During the night, the cables had partially retracted, leaving him free enough to crawl a few inches, but not enough to stand up. He had curled up against the foot of the bed, his body bent in a position that attempted to protect his cracked ribs and throbbing head. Dried blood formed dark scabs at the corner of his mouth, on his left ear, and in a thin line that ran from the nape of his neck to the collar of his shirt. His breathing was shallow, punctuated by small spasms when the air touched the most injured areas.
The door slid open without warning.
Vox entered with light steps, already dressed for the day—a new suit, dark metallic blue, a perfectly aligned tie. He carried a simple tray in his hands: a glass of water, a plate with toast cut into triangles, and a thin syringe at his side, discreet but visible. His smile was serene, very relaxed.
"Good morning," he said, too cheerful for the environment. He stopped when he saw Alastor still on the floor and tilted his head, feigning surprise. "Ah. You didn't get on the bed? How stubborn."
He calmly bent down, placing the tray on the floor within his reach. Vox's eyes scanned Alastor's body slowly: the purple bruises blooming on his face, the swelling around his ears, the way his right arm was bent awkwardly, as if the joint still hurt too much to straighten.
Alastor didn't respond immediately. His red eyes opened slowly, blurry, trying to focus. When they finally recognized Vox, there was a slight tremor—not obvious fear, but something deeper, a conditioned reflex that he himself seemed to hate. He tried to stand up, supporting himself on his good elbow, but the movement triggered a wave of pain that made him gasp sharply, his body stiffening.
Vox observed.
"Calm down," he said, extending his hand as if to help, but stopping halfway. "Don't force it. You took quite a beating yesterday, didn't you? Sometimes I get carried away."
He picked up the glass of water and brought it to Alastor's lips. He instinctively turned his face away, a slow, weak gesture of refusal. Vox sighed patiently.
"You'll need to hydrate. And eat. We have a busy day ahead of us."
Without waiting for permission, he held Alastor's chin with firm fingers—not brutal like the night before, but non-negotiable—and tilted the glass. The water trickled down. Part
It went in, some of it dribbling down his chin. Alastor swallowed reflexively, coughing soon after, the movement shaking his aching ribs.
Vox wiped away the excess with his thumb, almost affectionately.
"Better," he murmured. "Now the food."
He broke off a piece of toast and brought it to Alastor's mouth in the same way: he held his chin, waited for the reluctant opening, pushed the piece inside. Alastor chewed slowly, his teeth grinding slightly in pain in his swollen jaw. Each movement was simply terrible.
When half the toast had disappeared, Vox picked up the syringe. The liquid inside was clear, slightly viscous.
"Analgesic mixed with a stabilizer," he explained, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "It will help with the pain and… with the focus. You'll need to be presentable this afternoon. We have a meeting with advertisers, and you'll make a short appearance. Just stand there. Smile, if you can."
Alastor tried to pull his head away as the needle approached his neck, but the movement was too weak. Vox held firm, injecting the contents with precision. The liquid burned briefly as it entered, then spread a warm numbness that began to dull the sharpest parts of the pain.
Vox stepped back, watching the effect take hold: Alastor's shoulders relaxing against his will, his breathing becoming more regular, his eyes losing some of that glazed, suffering glint.
"Great," Vox said, standing up. "I'll be back in an hour to get you ready. Shower, new clothes, makeup on the bruises. You'll look great on camera again."
He paused at the door, looking back.
"And Alastor…" the tone was light, almost affectionate. "Try not to annoy me today, okay? I prefer it when you cooperate. It makes everything more… cool."
Vox left the room with the same light step as someone who has just completed a routine task. The hallway was empty, great! No staff in the residential wing.
Entering the open kitchen that connected to the living room, she found Valentino already awake—which was rare before noon. He was leaning against the counter, disheveled, wearing only a half-open pink silk robe, smoking a long cigarette while distractedly stirring a cup of black coffee. His multiple eyes blinked lazily when they noticed Vox.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Valentino purred, his voice still hoarse from sleep and the excesses of the previous night. "You look like you've already started the day productively."
Vox smiled, picking up a clean mug and pouring herself some still-hot coffee from the machine.
"Someone has to keep things on track," she replied, taking a sip. "You seem surprisingly awake. A miracle?"
Valentino took a long drag, releasing the smoke in a perfect ring that floated to the ceiling.
"I had a delightful dream about audience numbers. It awakened my entrepreneurial instincts." — He tilted his head, his eyes scanning Vox with mischievous curiosity. — And you? Have you been to our special guest's room yet?
Vox leaned against the opposite counter, casually crossing his arms.
— I went. I gave him food, medicine, instructions. He's… cooperative. More or less.
Valentino chuckled softly.
— Cooperative. What a pretty word to describe that. — He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and approached, his robe slipping a little further off his shoulder. — I saw the new bruises when I walked through the door.
Vox raised an eyebrow, his smile unwavering.
— Meticulous is my middle name. He needed a reminder. And today he'll be in the meeting. Just a special appearance, sitting in the back. The advertisers love to see that we're "reviving classic icons."
Valentino moved closer, one hand sliding down Vox's arm to his chest, playing with the top button of his jacket.
— And you really think he's going to stay there quietly, all cute, with his swollen face and makeup on? — His eyes gleamed with genuine amusement. — Or will he need another… reminder first?
Vox put down his mug, holding Valentino's wrist firmly, keeping it in place.
"If you need to, I'll give it to you. But for now, he's docile. The stabilizer helps." He leaned slightly, his voice lowering. "And you? Are you going to show up at the meeting or would you prefer to stay behind the scenes?"
Valentino smiled, showing sharp teeth.
"I need to give a message to that bitch Angel, does she think she can just hide out in the hotel without doing any work? It's like she doesn't even know what a contract means."
Vox chuckled softly, finishing his coffee.
"Do whatever you want with them."
"And in the meantime…" he murmured, his voice falling to a lower, more intimate tone, "are you really going to put makeup on that wrecked face of his? I want to see the before and after. I bet with a little concealer and the right lighting, he'll look almost… respectable."
Vox held Valentino's chin for a second, lifting it slightly, their eyes meeting with a familiar spark. — I'll leave some visible bruises. Just enough to remind everyone who's in charge. — She released him gently. — And you can watch, if you want. I'll be back in an hour to fix you up. Assisted bath, new clothes, everything. It'll be like dressing a broken doll.
Valentino licked his lips, clearly amused by the image.
— Let me know when it starts. I want a front-row seat.
Vox nodded, already turning towards the hallway.
A few kilometers away, at the Hazbin Hotel, the morning was also beginning.
The television in the common room was still on, repeating the final part of the previous night's speech in a loop of sensationalist news from hell. The screen showed Vox smiling triumphantly, with Alastor strapped to the chair in the background.
Charlie stood in the middle of the room, her arms crossed tightly, staring intently at the screen as if she could change what she saw with a whim. Vaggie was beside her, a hand on her girlfriend's shoulder.
"This is…this is awful," Charlie murmured. "He didn't look…like himself. Not at all."
"Because it wasn't him, Charlie. Not the Alastor we know. Those sons of bitches did something to him. Look at his face. That's not just bad makeup."
Husk, leaning against the counter of the makeshift bar, was wiping a glass more violently than necessary. His tail wagged irritably.
"I warned you from the beginning that messing with the Vees was stupid," he grumbled, his voice deep and hoarse. "But nobody listens to a drunk, do they?" Now look at that: the guy became background decoration for Vox to think he's the king of the hill.
On the couch, Angel Dust was huddled, legs crossed, staring at the screen with an expression that mixed disgust.
"He was… empty," Angel said quietly. "Like, I've seen destroyed people, broken people, people who pretend to be okay… but that? That was worse. It was like they turned him off." He swallowed hard. "And I know exactly what it feels like."
Baxter, who rarely left the basement lab, was leaning against the door of the room, glasses crooked, a clipboard forgotten in his hand. He adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat.
"From a neurological… or demonic, whatever… point of view, that looked like heavy chemical suppression combined with external control. His eyes had delayed pupillary response, and the static was minimal." He paused, annoyed. "Whoever did this knows exactly what they're doing." It's Not Just Violence
— If we want to bring him back, we need more than brute force. Selective explosives, perhaps— Baxter said.
Vaggie, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, shrugged. Her expression was cold, almost bored.
— Honestly? I don't care— she said dryly. — Alastor has always been a selfish manipulator. He helped the hotel, yes, but only because it served his interests. Now he's paying the price for messing with the Vees. Let him learn his lesson on his own.
When everyone turned to her expecting the usual explosion of hope and determination, she shook her head slowly.
— No— Charlie said firmly. — We're not going to save Alastor.
Silence fell like a stone.
Husk raised an eyebrow.
— What did you say?
Charlie turned to the group, her voice serene, without hesitation.
— He's strong. Stronger than all of us put together, when he wants to be. I don't know what he's plotting inside that sick head of his. — She sighed, almost smiling. — Alastor doesn't need our help to get out of there. He's never needed anyone's help. If we go now, we'll only mess up his plan.
Angel opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again, thoughtful.
Vaggie uncrossed her arms, a slight smile of approval appearing.
— Finally you're thinking with your head, love — she murmured. — He's always been a lone wolf. Let him fend for himself.
Baxter scratched his head, confused.
— But… what if he really is… broken?
Charlie looked back at the screen, where the loop restarted: Vox opening his arms, Alastor motionless in the background.
— He's not broken — she replied, convinced. — He's just waiting for the right moment to bite. And when he bites… the Vees will wish they'd never laid hands on him.
Husk snorted, but put the glass away and shrugged.
"Okay. If the boss thinks the guy's going to save himself... I'll save my bullets."
Angel stood up slowly, still looking at the screen.
"I hope you're right, toots," he said quietly. "Because if you're not... someone's going to have to do something. And that someone's probably going to be me."
An hour later, Vox returned to the room. Even with so many tasks to complete and employees to observe, he had scheduled some free time.
The tray lay on the floor, the half-eaten toast ignored, and Alastor still curled up against the foot of the bed, his body stiff and aching, but the numbness from the painkiller beginning to mask the sharpest pains. His eyes slowly lifted as the door opened, a dim glint of recognition.
Vox snapped his fingers, and the remaining cables retracted completely, freeing Alastor enough for him to move, but with a low buzzing warning: any sudden movement would activate a corrective pulse.
"Bath time," Vox announced casually, as if speaking of a mundane routine. He reached out to help Alastor to his feet, but when he didn't react immediately, he grabbed his good arm and pulled it up with force
ignoring the hoarse groan that escaped. "Come on, don't complicate things. You reek of sweat and old blood. You won't appear on TV like this."
Alastor staggered to his feet, his weight unevenly distributed on his trembling legs, his ribs creaking with the effort. His twisted arm throbbed, and his head still buzzed from the repeated impacts against the floor. He tried to straighten his posture, but his body betrayed him, leaning slightly to the right side.
Vox guided him—or rather, pushed him—to the adjacent bathroom, a sterile white room with cold tiles and a wide shower built into the wall, no curtain, no privacy. Bright LED lights illuminated every corner, no shadows to hide in. A reinforced plastic chair was positioned under the water jet, with hooks for cables—a setup designed for "guests" like him.
Or rather, exclusively for him.
"Sit," Vox ordered, forcing Alastor down into the chair. The cables extended from the floor again, securing his ankles and wrists to the supports, leaving his torso free but immobilized enough to prevent any attempt at escape or defense. Alastor blinked, his heart weakly racing under the effect of the stabilizer, a slow, muffled panic growing in his chest.
Vox turned on the tap, and the water gushed out cold first—icy as initial punishment. Alastor gasped, his body involuntarily contracting as the jet of water hit his skin, soaking his baggy T-shirt and shorts, sticking them to his misshapen body. The water trickled over the recent bruises, reactivating the dormant pain: his ribs creaked, his twisted arm throbbed, and his sensitive ears burned as if they were being burned alive.
"Too cold?" Vox asked sarcastically, adjusting the temperature to hot—scalding, actually. The steam rose rapidly, and Alastor hissed through his teeth, the heat penetrating the open wounds, turning the shiver into seething agony. The skin around the cuts swelled, red and irritated, and the dried blood began to dissolve, running pink down the drain.
Vox grabbed a rough sponge from a wall holder, lathering it with a neutral gel that smelled of chemical disinfectant—nothing gentle, nothing comforting. He began with Alastor's face, rubbing with deliberate pressure over the purple bruises. The sponge scratched the sensitive skin, reopening the cut on his lip, making fresh blood mix with the foam. Alastor turned his head instinctively, a low groan escaping, but Vox held his chin with his free hand, forcing him to remain still.
"Stay SHIT," Vox murmured.
— You need to get clean. You don't want to show up dirty in front of the advertisers, do you? Imagine the fucking scandal
The sponge slid down to his neck, scraping against the collar that still hung crookedly, exposing his prominent collarbone. Alastor trembled, his whole body convulsing slightly as the hot water ran down his cracked ribs, each breath becoming a struggle against the excruciating pain. He tried to arch his back for relief, but the cables held him down, forcing him to endure the direct contact. Involuntary tears mingled with the water, not from emotion, but from pure nervous reflex.
Vox didn't stop. He pulled off the soaked T-shirt with an impatient tug, exposing his scarred torso: layers of bruises, superficial cuts from previous nights, and the fresh marks of the cables cutting into his skin. He scrubbed his chest with excessive vigor, the sponge pressing directly against his ribs, eliciting a muffled cry from Alastor — the first loud, hoarse, broken sound echoing in the damp bathroom. “—Ah, did it hurt?” Vox feigned surprise, but increased the pressure, swirling the sponge in circles over the swollen area. “It’s to clean it properly. You’ve accumulated a lot of dirt in these seven years. Mental dirt, physical dirt… everything.”
Alastor gasped, his eyes blinking weakly, the world blurring between pain and dizziness. The heat of the water made everything worse: the suffocating steam, the sweat mixing with the blood, the nauseating chemical smell. He tried to close his eyes, to switch off, but Vox angled the jet directly at his face, forcing him to open his mouth to breathe, choking on the water that entered his lungs. He coughed violently, his body convulsing against the restraints, each spasm sending waves of agony through his ribs and twisted arm.
Vox chuckled softly, now washing his arms—pulling the injured man to stretch him out under the water, ignoring the subtle crack of the protesting joint. The sponge scraped over the wrists cut by the cables, opening fresh wounds, the soap burning like acid in the grooves. Alastor bit his lip, blood trickling again, his whole body trembling in a cycle of internal cold and external heat, his mind fragmented between the urge to scream and the inability to react.
"Almost there," Vox murmured, moving down to his legs. He removed his shorts with the same impatience, exposing everything, without shame or pause. The sponge attacked his thighs, his injured ankles, rubbing forcefully over the cable cuts, reopening them. The pink water flowed abundantly now, and Alastor arched his neck back, his horns banging against the back of the chair.
The bath went on longer, Vox didn't mind. Vox paused to adjust the temperature, alternating between icy (to "wake up") and scalding (to "purify").
Vox washed Alastor's hair with a harsh shampoo, designed for industrial disinfection—the strong chemical smell invaded his nostrils, burning from the inside as much as the water burned from the outside. He pulled at the disheveled strands with deliberate force, his fingers digging into the throbbing scalp from the previous night.
Each press sent sparks of agony through his head, as if the thumping against the floor were happening again, in slow motion. Alastor tried to turn his face away, a weak reflex to escape, but Vox held the nape of his neck with his other hand, forcing him to remain exposed to the direct jet, the water filling his eyes, his mouth, forcing him to swallow bitter gulps mixed with soap.
He went lower, aggressive and deliberate, invading intimate areas without any pretense of care or hygiene. He gripped with cruel firmness, squeezing and twisting the sensitive flesh between his fingers, the harsh soap burning on the delicate skin, transforming each touch into a mixture of excruciating pain.
Alastor writhed, not from pleasure, but from pure agony and invasion. His legs instinctively tried to close, but his trapped ankles kept them open, exposed, defenseless. Hot tears mingled with the shower water, streaming freely as he blinked blindly, the world reduced to unbearable sensations: the brutal grip that crushed and pulled, the scalding heat of the water amplifying every exposed nerve, the soap that burned like acid on the most vulnerable parts.
"Just look at you," Vox whispered against his ear, her voice low and heavy with contempt as she increased the pressure, her fingers digging deeper, playing with sadistic aggression, alternating between violent squeezes and twists that made Alastor's body arch.
Alastor tried to bite his lip to stifle the sounds, but another aggressive tug elicited a muffled cry.
He pulled his hand back, rinsing the soap away with a sudden, cold jet that made his body convulse one last time in shock.
Finally, Vox turned off the tap, the sudden silence echoing like an illusory relief. He threw a rough towel over Alastor, drying him with abrupt movements that grazed the newly irritated wounds, eliciting another weak groan. His body trembled uncontrollably now, exhausted, drenched in pain, violation, and humiliation.
"There," Vox said, satisfied, untying the cables. "Clean as new. Now let's get you dressed. The interview starts soon."