Chapter Text
When Vox was alive, he used to thrive in rooms like this.
Busy bars, loud chatter, the strong smell of liquor used to excite him greatly. But now? Well now he serves for those who he used to parade around with. On earth that was. Now he’s in hell, damned to serve the elite.
It sure does feel like that’s his punishment. To be a bartender to those who flounce into the finest bars of hell, much like the one Vox works at now.
He stands behind the bar, day in and day out.
Pouring drinks. Everyday.
A forced smile plastered across his screen. Everyday.
The reality of his afterlife is a rather sobering one for Vox. He was once a man full of success, relevance and power.
Now? No one here knew what he used to be.
Although he’d only been working here a few weeks, he’d already perfected the art of appearing unbothered. Charm the customers. Flirt with the staff. Secure a ride home so he won’t have to walk the streets of hell back to his small apartment late at night.
Vox stood attentively behind the bar, pouring a glass of wine for one of the regulars. It was a Saturday night, the busiest night of the week. The bar is decorated with beams of red and purple neon lights, large windows that overlook Hell and a luxurious rooftop terrace. Sinners that belong to the elite are dotted around, holding glasses with liquid that cost more than Vox’s daily wage.
A short woman with blonde hair, a curvy figure and the most grating voice to have ever graced hell stood in front of the bar, her voice pulling him away from his day dream.
“Oh honey…” The blonde woman started, a slight condescending giggle lingering on her words. “You should know I always ask for a red wine by now.”
There was a glint of smugness in her eyes, something Vox despised. This job is a necessity for him, he has to work to survive. Despite the long hours, smelling like a brewery and the constant moving, the thing he detests the most is the clientele. They never fail to remind him of how he is at service to other people.
“You asked for a wine, I presumed that meant to surprise you.” Vox shot back, his eyes darting down to look at the woman, he was gathering all of his will not to throw the very glass he held in his hand in her face.
Oh how he wishes he could do that, to watch the horror in her eyes and his coworkers cheer him on. But he is a good man. This is a new job, he must keep it.
The blonde woman huffs, a hand tucked beneath her chin while she grinned. “Ain’t the customer always right? I think you should-“
Mimzy’s sentence was cut short. Not gradually, it was as if someone had reached into the room and pressed mute.
The sound of laughter dwindled. Sinners held glasses of their drinks halfway to their mouths, eyes glued to the entrance of the bar.
Vox noticed the sudden shift however ignores the sudden quiet, irritation buzzing beneath his skin. How dare she try to outsmart him?
“Right lady,” Vox sighs, swiftly placing the glass down at the bar. “If there’s a particular type of wine you’d like I suggest maybe next time try asking nicely.”
His words seem to have hit a brick wall as the woman’s attention was now focused on the figure stood at the door.
After receiving no answer, Vox lets out a loud huff and grabs the first bottle of red wine that he sees.
While he’s pouring the second glass, silence still drifts throughout the room however the sound of footsteps fill his receivers.
He takes the chance to glance up, still pouring the glass of wine.
His gaze is met with crimson red ones stood across the bar from him. A tall sinner, just about his own height but with a slightly smaller frame. His posture was perfect, not stiff and fighting for attention like many sinners in the room, but casual and oozed confidence. He wore a dark red suit, red hair pulled into a ponytail.
Something about him radiated assertiveness, but not in the flashy and obnoxious way that Vox is used to.
He wasn’t demanding attention, he already had it. Every sinner in the bar was gazing up at the man, eyes fixated, words hushed.
Vox’s attention drifted back to the cheap bottle of wine in his hand, a droplet of red stained his sleeve. He felt majorly underdressed and dishevelled, he could only dream nowadays of walking into a place like this dressed in the finest suit, all eyes leading to him.
As the man made his way over to the bar, eyes followed him. Not out of curiosity or awe, Vox couldn’t decipher why everyone was looking at the stranger.
He was now stood directly opposite Vox, not so much as a quick glance going his way.
“So did you want that glass of wine?” Vox spoke suddenly, a sad attempt to redirect attention back to the task at hand and the woman who stood before him.
Alastor’s eyes snap over to him, assessing him. Vox had been used to being sized up by customers, especially in a bar like this where the elite often waltz in with overcompensating pride. But this felt different.
Vox felt the need to straighten his posture, his fingers tightening around the stem of the wine glass. His eyes dart down as he notices he hadn’t stopped pouring the wine, cool liquid spills over the rim and onto the side of the bar.
A buzz of electricity rushed within him, it wasn’t fear. He reassured himself, but irritation. Why did the entire bar fall into silence for some neatly dressed stranger? It bothered him.
Mimzy was now stood beside the stranger, a gleam on a smile on her face. “Oh, Alastor!” She exclaimed.
For once she didn’t sound condescending or rude.
“Mimzy,” The man greeted the woman beside him.
Vox took note of how smooth his voice was, a hint of wealth within it. Rich and certain, but not screaming for recognition.
No, he didn’t demand the attention. His voice travelled effortlessly, attention finding him.
The man’s gaze shifted towards Vox.
“And you are?” He asked, politely.
Vox couldn’t help but feel how the question felt mild, like he was an afterthought. It was like the man was rewarding him with attention.
Heat flared in Vox’s chest, hot and immediate.
He didn’t fear the man before him, but he felt challenged. He furrows his eyebrows. Well I’m stood behind the bar, what do you think I am?
Vox regained his composure, his smile only growing tighter.
“Vox. I manage things around here.” He says, a bit too proudly.
“Do you?” The man tilted his head, his tone dripped in amusement. “How ambitious.”
This made Vox frown.
“I run this bar, when the general manager isn’t here.” He corrected himself, his tone stiff. He didn’t mean for irritation to become apparent through his words, he took this show of annoyance as a wound to his ego.
Which only made him more frustrated with the man sat before him.
“Ah,” The stranger hummed. “Temporary authority.”
This made Minzy giggle, cupping a hand over her mouth as if not to burst into laughter.
Vox rolled his eyes, placing a hand on his hip and his other hand against the wooden bar while he tapped a pointed claw impatiently. “And you are? Believe it or not I haven’t got a clue who you are, buddy.”
A slight smile flickered on his screen. Vox felt proud of himself with that one, some elite sinners deserved to be knocked down a peg or two.
The man ignored him and instead leaned over the bar in a slow manner, not hurried or rushed but calculated and controlled.
He brushed a finger against the rim of the wine glass that Vox had overfilled, bringing his finger up to examine it.
“Oh what a waste,” He observed with a tone of pretend disappointment in his voice.
Annoyance surged through Vox. “I’m sure we’ll survive the loss.” He responded quickly.
“I’m certain you can.” The man said lightly, like he was just engaging in casual conversation.
The contrast of tone between them irked Vox, how was this man so calm and collected while he felt irritated, challenged and frustrated?
Vox turned his back, desperately searching for something to busy himself. Where is the abundance of glasses that need polishing when you need them…
“If you’re here to order do so. If not, there is a queue.” Vox said, back still turned.
There was a brief pause. The man’s eyes averted towards the empty space beside him, there was no queue.
“You seem tense.” The stranger noted.
“I’m working.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I can see that, well done.” The man’s grin only grew wider, his stare never faltering.
Something about the way he said it made Vox feel as though he were being studied carefully.
The man leaned in slightly, his eyes boring into Vox’s screen. He wasn’t invading space, however was close enough that Vox had to decide whether to lean back.
If he leant back it would be giving in, right?
“Pour me your best whisky,” the man commanded, it was not a request. Although no manners, the demand still felt polite and poised.
Vox held his gaze. “And if I don’t?” He replied plainly.
The smile that followed was small, patience evident within his gaze.
“Then I suppose we’ll both discover whether you truly manage things here.” The man said with an amused sigh.
The air felt tight.
Vox became very aware that every person in the room was waiting to see what he would do.
Begrudgingly, he turned swiftly on his heel and walked over to the display of whisky on the bar. He reached for the finest bottle.
Vox hated that he did. He wanted to give the man the cheapest bottle, hoping to jab at his ego. Something within him told him that would not be wise and that the stranger wouldn’t take that too kindly. Not that he cares, but he has a job to do.
“Good choice,” the man said enthusiastically, his eyes following Vox’s movements.
The words stuck with Vox for a moment, it almost felt like praise.
He poured carefully this time, his hands almost shaking from how concentrated he was. Not because he was nervous, but because he was eager to prove himself.
Once the drink was poured, Vox moved back to the side of the bar where they were sat. When he set the glass down he made sure to do so with a bit of force, his hand lingering on the glass.
Vox looked down, the man’s fingers briefly brushing his own as he reached for his drink. The action should’ve felt awkward, but it didn’t. It felt deliberate.
“The name is Alastor,” the man said at last, bringing the glass to his lips.
Oh. The radio demon. That explains a lot. Vox had heard many stories about his broadcasts and his rise to becoming an overlord, he held a position in hell no one dared to question.
Vox watched as Alastor took a sip, a hum of approval following while he rotated the glass slowly.
“I do so enjoy discovering new management,” Alastor continued pleasantly. “It’s fascinating to see who adapts… and who breaks.” He says with a gesture of his hand, drink never spilling.
Vox smiled, sharp as cut glass. “I don’t break.” He said sternly, eyes staring back into those bright red ones. Challenging.
Alastor’s eyes gleamed, a strong stare fixated on Vox’s screen.
“No,” he agreed sharply. “You splinter.”
The next time Vox meets Alastor again is exactly one week later.
Like usual on a Saturday night the bar was bustling, but notably busier than usual. Loud music danced through the air along with booming chatter and echoed bursts of laughter. Wealthy sinners clung to their glasses of expensive liquor and wine, taking slow sips while they engaged in loud conversation.
Vox was running around the bar, serving customers with little ease. He was spinning on his feet to grab bottles of booze, running to the till when a customer wanted to pay their bill.
It all felt rather overbearing to Vox. The music, the chatter… it was all getting a bit too loud. He was struggling to hear himself think, the constant questions and interference from his colleagues was making him reach his boiling point. Vox wasn’t opposed to a busy night, in fact he usually thrived in it. The constant busy atmosphere provided him with a lot of distraction, making the long hours of his shift filter by quickly. He was the assistant manager after all, he should be able to manage this.
But in all honesty, he was struggling.
After every inconvenience, every glass that would shatter or bottle that would spill due to everyone moving around the bar too quickly he managed to gather himself, despite the will inside of him dwindling even more each time.
Putting on a bright smile, straightening his posture and readjusting his tie he turned swiftly back to the row of people in front of the bar.
The smile on his screen faltered slightly when he saw who was in front of him. Alastor. Once again, with his red hair pulled neatly back into a ponytail and wearing a suit that looks as if it was made of the finest fabric in a rich dark red.
And of course, his glowing smile.
Vox internally took a deep breath, a loud groan almost escaping his lips.
How could this night get any worse?
After a brief moment of silence while their eyes met for a moment, Vox became too aware of the long stare shared between them. It didn’t feel awkward, but instead felt inviting. Alastor was inviting him to converse, Vox felt like this was similar to a predator challenging its prey.
“Whisky?” Vox spoke up, his gaze drifting to the row of glasses beneath the bar, his hand reaching to grab for one.
“Oh my! You’ve remembered my usual already?” Alastor mused. “I’m rather impressed.”
Vox almost let out nervous laughter. Okay, perhaps he’s not so bad? Maybe Alastor just makes his first encounters with others frustrating for the fun of it, he is an overlord after all.
Before he finished pouring the expensive bottle of whisky into the finest crystal glass, Alastor’s voice sunk into him once again.
“I didn’t expect such thoughtfulness from you, Vox.” Alastor finished with a remark, his smile unchanged.
Instead of letting his annoyance win, Vox simply chirps back. “I’m a bartender, we’ve got to remember these things.”
Alastor hums at this while he leant an elbow onto the surface of the bar, holding out a hand in an expectant manner, awaiting for his drink to be placed into his hand.
Vox looks down at the glass of whisky in his own hand, the strained smile on his screen beginning to dwindle. As he places the glass on the bar, one of the staff members rush over to him.
“Vox! We really need your help- the glasses they…” She stops to take a breath, panic in her tone and stress apparent from the way her eyebrows furrow. “They’ve all been mixed up on the shelves!”
Vox’s attention swiftly turns to the rows of glasses that adorn the shelves around the bar. Crystal glasses placed with wine glasses, champagne flutes mixed generously with pint glasses.
A little lost for words, Vox manages a simple response. “So? Just take the glasses you need, it’s not that hard.” He chirps back, glancing over quickly at Alastor to see if he’s watching.
And he is. Attentively. Leaning against the bar, his drink in hand, all attention focused on the situation in front of him.
This makes Vox shudder, straightening his posture once again.
The girl lets out a groan of frustration, before she can continue another staff member chimes in.
“This is going to make everything so much harder now!” The young demon exclaims, fingers pinching the bridge between his nose.
“How are we expected to work in conditions like this?” Another member of staff interjected.
“This shift is going horribly, I should’ve called in sick!” Another groaned.
Vox stares at the frustration and stress in their eyes, all looking at him. Every single one of them, including Alastor’s watchful gaze.
It was as if he was an unprepared performer, pushed into the spotlight with an awaiting audience observing his every move, anticipating what he might do next.
He glances over at the crowd behind the bar, all waiting to be served. He feels tense, the collar of his shirt feels like it’s becoming tighter. He already felt under pressure, the dial had just been turned up higher. The watchful eyes felt even more suffocating, it was consuming him whole.
He swallows. Usually, he is more than capable at handling a situation like this. But something as peculiar as this… has never been something he’s foreseen.
Within a burst of the staff voicing their frustrations and Vox internally panicking, Alastor’s voice breaks the discourse.
“Vox,” He speaks up, holding up a pointed claw beckoning him towards himself.
Vox gladly accepts, not because he wants to speak to Alastor in particular but because he needs an escape.
He leans across the bar, now eye level with Alastor.
“Handle it.” Alastor says sharply, voice only loud enough for Vox to hear.
Vox frowns, his screen flickering. “What do you think I’m doing?” He says, voice slightly raised with nervous laughter following.
“Lower your voice.” The man replies, eyes fixated on Vox while he takes a slow sip of his drink.
Alastor’s response wasn’t said with rudeness or mockery, more as a gentle reminder. A reminder of his position, a reminder that he is in charge here. It felt weirdly empowering for Vox. Although it was a demand, it was like Alastor was offering support to the situation.
The strained smile on Vox’s screen finally breaks, his body feels tense. The loud bustle of the bar bores into him further. Too much chatter, too much clinking of glasses and too much rowdy laughter. The staff are still arguing, the loud noises eat at him.
“I’ve got it.” Vox snaps, the words aimed at everyone around him. He intended to sound stern, but there is slight distortion in his voice. “Just.. give me a second.”
Another glass shatters somewhere behind him.
He clenches his fists.
Still observing the situation from across the bar, Alastor doesn’t move. He stays as he is, drink in hand and smile pulled into a thin line.
However, what follows isn’t a gesture of mockery.
“Vox.” Alastor says firmly, beckoning him over once again. “Look at me.”
And Vox does, he takes a small step towards the edge of the bar. The room suddenly becoming a blur, the sound still prominent but his focus narrowed on Alastor.
“Your staff require direction,” Alastor says calmly. “Not panic.”
Vox swallows, panic is written all over his face.
There is a part of him that wants to argue back, tell him to get lost. But he doesn’t, strangely the panic in his chest begins to dissipate with every word Alastor says.
Vox’s eyes begin to wonder back over to the mess of the staff behind him, but Alastor’s voice brings him back.
“Breathe.” He says simply, it’s not a suggestion. But a command, one that feels quiet and intimate.
Vox inhales without thinking.
“There,” Alastor continues. “Now. One instruction at a time.”
Something unfamiliar but a feeling of warmth fills Vox’s chest. The feeling of relief, it was prominent and loud but brought so much comfort.
After taking a moment to breathe, literally. Vox turns back to the staff and instructs them on what to do. Everyone rushing off to busy themselves, some being delegated to sort the glasses gradually as they serve incoming customers at the bar while others resume their previous tasks. The chaos settled and the night continued somewhat swiftly, there were still obstacles of course.
Although Vox was much calmer, every time an inconvenience occurred, his eyes would wonder towards the direction Alastor was sat in. The man would often murmur a variation of words in response to every side glance Vox gives him.
Alastor would grant him with gentle reminders, such as, “instruct, lead, delegate.”
Vox doesn’t know why, but the words pulled him back down. Grounding him. Reminding him of his position.
Alastor sat calmly at the left side of the bar the entire night, although the place was heaving with sinners, the bar stools either side of him remained empty. It was a bit of an odd sight, usually when it’s this busy customers would sit anywhere.
His gaze was almost always met with Alastor’s crimson eyes, he was watching him. Not with mockery or intimidation, but observation.
As the night draws to a close, the bar begins to empty. There are still customers, but significantly less loud chatter.
Alastor rises from his seat, Vox walks over to take his empty glass in silence.
“You prefer direction to chaos.” Alastor said nonchalantly, lifting his suit jacket from the back of his chair and grabbing his staff.
Vox gave him a look of confusion, once again he was feeling studied. Like an unknown specimen smaller than its observer, being placed into a Petri dish. But he didn’t feel cornered, challenged or lesser.
It felt like an unknown feeling of understanding.
Before Vox had a chance to respond, the other man’s words danced through the air.
“I’ll be here next Saturday, I ensure you’ll prepare my Whisky in time before I arrive.” Alastor says smoothly, his back now turned to Vox as he walks towards the tall glass doors at the entrance of the establishment.
Vox felt a slight subtle surge of disappointment filling his chest as he watches the other man leave, however an ounce of anticipation and somewhat excitement lingered.
See you Saturday.
The next week drags slowly, Saturday night arriving like it was holding itself back. The events of last week lingered in Vox’s mind, but what lingered more were the words that spoke to him.
I ensure you’ll prepare my whisky in time before I arrive.
The expectation rolls around inside Vox’s thoughts, taunting him. But not in a way that brought annoyance, in a way that encouraged him. He wanted to reach the expectation, not because he’s searching for Alastor’s approval but because he wants to show his competence. He is good at his job.
A good bartender never forgets his regular customers drink orders. An excellent bartender makes sure that drink is made before the customer arrived, but not too early that the ice melts. Just in time, during that window where the ice is still fresh but the drink is ready.
Vox is efficient, prepared and professional.
As the bustle of the usual Saturday night fills the bar, warm hues of red light bounce from each reflective surface. Conversation drifts throughout the room and spills into the rooftop terrace, an array of sinners outside, strings of smoke dancing through the air.
The time is 8:50pm.
Alastor usually arrives at 9pm, not sharply or on the dot, but within the earlier minutes of the hour.
After glancing at the time on his phone, Vox turns to his colleagues.
“I’m going for a smoke break.” He says, “I won’t be long, continue as you are.”
The other staff members stood before him, busy in their work. Some were polishing glasses, serving customers and others were garnishing overloaded cocktails. A few of them hummed in acknowledgment, all too lost in thought to give him a proper response.
Vox took the few hums he received as a grant to leave his colleagues for a few minutes, nothing could go wrong.
His feet carried him strongly through the back doors of the bar, walking through the corridors and exiting through a side door. The area where the trash was kept, no wealthy sinners would ever see this area, it was tucked around the corner in a dark alleyway however only a few steps away from the entrance of the bar.
He took out the carton of cigarettes from his pocket, placing one between his lips and taking a deep inhale.
Breathe.
As a rush of nicotine filled his senses, his eyes caught notice of a sleek black car arriving to the entrance of the bar. Vox caught the glimpse of red hair and a shadowy figure with perfect upright posture.
Alastor.
Vox scrambles to look at his phone, 8:55pm. He then glances down at the hardly smoked cigarette between two claws, ash gathering at the end.
With a groan of disappointment, he threw the cigarette onto the purple concrete floor. He was really looking forward to that.
Hastily he swung open the door and rushed back in, fully unaware of his slipping tie and untucked shirt that had occurred during his rush through the corridors and back into the bar.
Once he was behind the wooden panel of the bar, his hands instantly reached for the finest bottle of whiskey and shiniest crystal glass he could find.
So deep in his actions, Vox almost misses the sudden shift that had occurred in the room. It wasn’t complete silence, but hushed whispers and attention centred.
“You’re improving.” Comes that voice he’d been waiting to hear, smooth and rich as usual.
Vox turns, half poured whisky in his hand.
“I’m preparing your drink, like you asked.” He says, dumbly. There was little attitude in his tone, more matter of factly instead of a spew of sarcasm.
Vox finishes pouring the whisky and places it calmly on the bar. “There’s your drink,” He says, tone now picking up a few layers of harmless teasing. “Don’t spill this, I’ve already had to instruct three members of staff to mop up countless spilt drinks.”
Alastor’s smile widens into a thin pointed line in response while he takes his seat, a few sinners that were crowded around the bar begin to get up and move elsewhere with no words exchanged, just subtle glances.
“Although I prefer my drink to have already been made and ready before I enter,” Alastor takes a break in his words to have a sip of his drink. “I must say, I am rather amused. I didn’t expect you to be so eager to impress me, Vox.”
Vox sniggers at this, his hands flat on the surface of the bar.
“Don’t flatter yourself, I’m a bartender. My job is to provide drinks, you ordered a drink.” Vox replies, busying himself with polishing a glass.
“Yes, and that order was made last week, how attentive of you.” Alastor says with a subtle hum, one arm resting against the back of his chair, legs crossed and shoulders back.
The confidence never leaves him, Vox thinks to himself.
“You seemed to have been crafting this drink in such a hurry,” The tip of Alastor’s claw dances around the rim of his glass. “I guess there are still areas for improvement.”
Vox remains silent, his ignorance to the large queue growing behind the bar was showing.
“Oh my, how I should scold you! Although I cannot deprive you of an opportunity to learn, hm?” Alastor finishes slowly.
“You’re awfully invested in my development.” Vox spits back.
“I enjoy competence,” Alastor replies, his wrist rotating in a gesture like it was obvious. “It appears to be tragically rare these days.”
Vox rolls his eyes, playfully. “I don’t need a supervisor.” He chirps back, a hand now resting on his hip.
“No,” Alastor replies pleasantly. “You need structure.”
The statement lands heavier than Vox expected, his chest rising slightly as he inhales. After a brief moment of processing, he looks down and realises his untucked shirt. A bright haze of embarrassment filtering onto his screen in the form of a blue blush.
Vox’s hands hastily rushes to tuck his shirt into his slacks, “I handled last week just fine.” He murmured back.
“You nearly fractured under auditory overload,” Alastor replies calmly, his fingers resting on the side of his glass. “But you responded well to correction.”
Vox’s screen flickers.
“I don’t think I asked for it.”
“And yet you accepted it.”
There is a pause as their eyes meet, the air between them becoming thin. Not overbearingly, but enough to signify tension.
Vox takes the silence as an opportunity to lean against the bar, eyes still locked.
“You enjoy that, don’t you? Watching me struggle.” He says in a hushed voice, a proud smile appearing on his screen.
Alastor tilts his head slightly, his back still firmly leant against the back of his chair. “I enjoy watching potential tested.” He responds, coolly.
Vox’s expression scrunches at this. “I’m not a little project for you to work on, believe it or not.” He argues, leaning back up and grabbing another glass to polish aimlessly.
“Oh, how you are quite correct,” Alastor agrees. “You are far too ambitious to remain little.”
The compliment provides a pleasant sting to Vox’s mind, it felt bittersweet. Annoyance rushes through him. Not because of the teasing, but because that feeling of warmth floods through his chest once again.
He hates that Alastor can see right through him, identify when he’s overwhelmed yet doesn’t tease him for it. Instead, he provides him with relief. It sickens him. The way that when chaos comes his way, he looks for red.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Vox continues to busy himself with hopes of appearing unbothered. “You don’t intimidate me.” He says, quietly but not fearful.
“That’s not what I intend to do.” Alastor responds quickly but calmly.
“Then what is this?” Vox suddenly breaks, not an outburst of emotion or loud, but his words are sharp.
“Observation.” Alastor responds, taking another sip of his drink, his claws tapping absentmindedly against the bar. “You’re rather fascinating, Vox.”
Vox laughs, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, just leave me to do my job.” He says, too aware of his own lie.
Don’t leave me alone, continue.
“Once again, I am simply observing.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” Vox responds, a bit too quickly.
“No,” Alastor says gently. “But I do know that you fall under pressure and perform best when instructions are clear.”
Vox inhales, sharply.
He feels stripped of all his barriers, a twisted linger of embarrassment flickers through him. He hates how accurate Alastor’s judgement is.
Before Vox can conjure up a response, Alastor is already on his feet, a couple bills pressed against the bar.
“Something is telling me that you benefit greatly from a life of structure. However, that structure isn’t there… is it?” Alastor questions rhetorically.
Vox’s breath hitches.
“If that is something you feel you require, structure outside of employment.” Alastor continues, reaching for his staff. “You know how to contact me.”
Vox looks puzzled at this, taking a moment to glance down at the bills left on the bar.
On the top of the notes, a small red business card with gold embellishments stares back at him.
On the back lies a phone number.
Vox can’t shake the complexity of the embarrassment from being read to filth along with a pointed feeling of intrigue.
Structure outside of employment.
Vox scoffs at this, taking the business card and stealthily slipping it into his pocket.
Yeah right, like he needs that.