Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[Good evening listeners! Welcome back to the airwaves - It’s a cloudy, misty night here in New York - just the sort to keep those windows fastened tight and the fireplace burning warm!]

Vox groans as his stiff body sinks into the plush couch as the familiar crackle of the radio static fills the quiet room, letting it wash over him, tuning out everything else. He presses his arm against his eyes, feeling relief in the pressure, savoring the moment of peace.

Goddammit why were all his employees so fucking useless.

He’d spent the entire day running around the studio like a headless chicken, darting from one crisis to another, like some underpaid salesman tasked with fixing problems he’d had no hand in creating. It wasn’t his fault they were idiots, so why was it always his job to clean up the mess?

[Well, well, dear listeners, you’re in for a real treat tonight!] The radio host's smooth voice broke through his thoughts. [We have a very special guest joining us - a true delight and one of a kind. So, without further ado, let’s give a warm welcome to the one and only... Charlie Morningstar!]

Vox’s ears perk at the name, a flicker of interest sparking in his mind. Charlie Morningstar? Daughter of one of the CEO's of the big corporations he was up against. The girl was practically royalty in their world, and yet, here she was, appearing on a small local station at this time of night. The idea surprised him. What on earth was she doing in a place like this?

[This is so exciting! It’s a pleasure to be here!] A bright feminine voice answered. 

The only time he truly got to himself was late at night. He used to spend those hours at the bar, sipping on expensive cocktails, flashing easy smiles at pretty girls who were all too eager for an invitation back to his place. But lately, he’d found himself steering clear of the bar scene. Maybe he was getting old, or maybe the thrill had simply dulled. Instead, he’d become drawn to the quiet crackle of the radio. 

[The pleasure is truly all mine.] The young show host responds smoothly. [Tonight…]

Vox leans back as he tunes out the rest of the conversation, simply lost in thought. 

Everyday was the same grueling routine. At exactly six AM, his alarm clock would blair through the silence, jarring him awake with a sound that grated on his nerves before throwing it off his bedside table to shut it off. He’d then drag himself to the bathroom and freshen up where he’d splash his face with cold water and slather on enough gel to subdue his stubborn bedhead using so much it looked like it was super glued to his scalp. Once he was presentable for the cameras, he'd head to his office where the first offense of the day awaited him: a cup of dreadful black coffee, courtesy of his useless assistant. Why he kept her around was a mystery, considering she couldn't even manage a simple coffee order.

It’s a black coffee. How could you even fuck that up? 

His irritated train of thought was broken by the shrill ringing of his landline that began echoing through his home. He groans, knowing exactly who was on the other end. Reluctantly, he peels himself from the couch and trudges his way over, picking up the receiver. 

“Vincent speaking.” he answered, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of patience.

[Sir! Glad you’re still awake. We urgently need you back in the studio.]

“Now?” Vox glances at the clock. The short hand hovered just shy away from twelve. “Do you know what time it is?” 

The other side of the line pauses for a moment followed by a nervous breath. [Please sir. Valentino is…] The sound of a loud crash and some frantic yelling erupted in the background.

“Are there seriously no other fuckers around who can handle him?”  snapped, his fist clenching as he fought the urge to punch the wall. Last time he did that, he spent a fortune getting it repaired. “Or are you all just useless?” he spats.

The line went silent. 

Vox grits his teeth, already regretting what he was about to say. “Fine, I'll be there in twenty. Just get that fucker under control until I arrive.” He doesn’t give them the time to respond before slamming the receiver down, ending the call. 

So much for a peaceful evening. He thought to himself before grabbing his coat off the hanger and rushing out the door with his keys. 

By the time he reached the studio, it wasn’t much better.

He stepped under the glaring studio lights, he squinted against the harsh brightness. You'd think that being constantly under the bright lights would mean you would get used to it, but they still hurt his eyes when he entered the studio.

“What the hell is it this time Valentino?” Vox mumbled, a deep scowl etched into his face as he watched his coworker hurl a chair at one of his interns. “Hey, can you keep the damage down this time? Replacing these cameras ain't cheap.” 

Valentino barely registered his words, instead proceeded to shatter another glass lens with a swift punch. The studio looked more like a warzone than a living room set.

“I thought I told you fuckers to get him under control.” Vox growled to the assistant standing beside him, said assistant wincing at his words.

“Well we tried-”

“Well you didn’t try hard enough!” Vox sighs disappointedly before directing his attention to the shit storm infront of him. “Get the fuck out of here before I decide to do it myself.” He frowns.

“Yes sir.” 

The assistant quickly backed away, not wanting to be part of the chaos. The other staff members had already cleared out, having learned the hard way that getting between Valentino and his tantrums was a recipe for disaster.

Just another fucking day with Val…

He took a deep breath as he mentally prepared for the bullshit he would have to endure. “Valentino!” he called out, his voice strained, his patience wearing thin. At this rate, he was sure every frown line etched into his face could be directly traced back to his so called coworker. 

Valentino whipped around, chest heaving in rage standing over the remnants of the broken chair he'd flung moments earlier. “Fucking finally.” he snarled, voice laced with venom. “Can you believe what that piece of shit did? The ungrateful whore!”

Vox raised an eyebrow, barely fazed. “Uh-huh. Which whore are we talking about this time?”

“Fucking Angel Dust . Who the hell else would I be talking about? That fucking slut walked out on me! Me! I fucking made him.” Valentino spat, punctuating his words by slamming a fist onto the desk, its surface already littered with broken glass and splinters.

Vox let out a weary sigh, rubbing his temples. “I went home for ten minutes before I get called back because you decided to go on a little tamper tantrum?!” His voice dripped with fatigue.

“Oh please!” Valentino scoffed, throwing his hands up. ”I have full rights for my actions. You didn’t see what that ungrateful, good for nothing whore tried to pull-”

Vox felt like he was staring right at one.

“I’m going to fucking kill everyone that dares to cross me I swear to god-”

“ VAL ” Vox grips onto Valentinos shoulder with more strength than necessary, his nails digging deep into his skin. “Think about it. Our brand is perfection , and what do you think chasing whores around town will do to our image?”

Valentino blinked, tilting his head in sudden, dim realization. “Uh, fuck it up?” 

“ Right !” A large but tired grin plastered to his face. ”Do you want people thinking you can’t control your employees?”

Valentino pauses for a moment before shaking his head. “Uh , no.”

“ Exactly !” Vox snaps his fingers. “And hey, he's still under contract so you should…”

Vox couldn’t help but feel like he was one of those fill in the blank sentences you would get in elementary school to help you write a shitty essay that didn’t even matter in the first place.

“Not kill him?” Valentino slumped disappointingly. 

“ Great idea !” Vox released his iron grip, giving him a hearty pat on the back with a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Now that's why I pay you the big bucks. Now…” he cast a deadpan look around the wrecked studio, the scene resembling more of a crime scene than a workplace, “let’s get this place cleaned up and get our story straight. I’d hate for anyone to hear about your little… episode tonight.”

Valentino slumps, leaning against what used to be a table, but now was a table with a crack running down the center. “Can’t you just get one of your little minions to do it? Isn’t that what we pay them for?”

“What I pay them for.” Vox corrected, rolling his eyes. “Now get to fucking work or else I’ll cut your spending.”

Valentino’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth dropping open. "You wouldn’t dare!" he sputtered, looking as though Vox had just slapped him across the face.

“Oh you’d better believe I would. I don’t care who does it, just get it done.” Vox gave him one last pointed look before turning and striding out, leaving behind a trashed set and a pissed Valentino. He silently prayed he wouldn’t do anything more stupid as he walked away. He doubted it.

He’s not paid enough for this. 

He trudged down the quiet hallway toward his office, the sharp click of his shoes echoing off the walls. Most of the building had gone silent for the night, but the thin lines of light spilling from beneath closed doors hinted at the few employees that would probably be here all night. Poor them , he thought, though he knew he wasn’t any better.

Sliding into his office, he dropped his bag onto the floor and grabbed a pen, quickly scratching out a familiar list on a yellow sticky note. New chairs, a replacement camera lens, two broken lights... maybe a new door frame this time. His fingers moved quickly, having written these items too many times before. Another expense thanks to Valentino. He considered for the hundredth time if it might be cheaper to fire him, but the man was just as ingrained in the studio’s name as Vox himself. Trouble can be profitable. That was the thought that kept Valentino on the payroll.

He set the list aside, adding a note for his assistant to deal with it in the morning. No way was he wasting time tracking down broken glass or crushed furniture. Not like I’m getting paid to clean up after him, he thought grimly.

He glanced at the stack of paperwork piled high on his desk.

Might as well, He was here anyway. 

With a sigh, he settled into his seat and began flipping through reports, endorsement contracts, complaints, and meeting summaries. You’d think being the face of the studio would mean glitz and glamor, but it just means more forms, more signatures, and endless review sessions.

The clock struck two, its soft chime slicing through his drowsy haze. He hadn’t meant to stay this late, and now his eyes were nearly burning from the strain. With a long sigh, he gathered the scattered papers into a pile, tapped them into a neat stack, and pushed them aside for tomorrow.

Finally, he flicked off the lights and trudged out, letting the door click shut behind him as he made his way through the dim hallway to his car. His footsteps echoed softly in the stillness, the distant hum of city traffic a reminder that New York never truly slept. By the time he slid into the driver’s seat, he was practically a ghost, barely keeping his eyes open.

Vox slumped into the driver’s seat, jammed his key into the ignition, and twisted. Instead of it turning on, the engine sputtered with a series of odd grinding noises before falling completely silent. He twisted the key again, harder this time, but the only response was a series of clicks.

With an exasperated groan, he pounded his fist against the dashboard. “Come on, you piece of junk,” he muttered, as if his words could will the car to life. When nothing changed, he dropped his head against the steering wheel, letting the cool leather press into his forehead. “ Fuck my life… ”

He just wanted to go home.

Finally, with a long, defeated sigh, he resigned himself to the only other option. 

Fine. He’ll take the damn bus.

Maybe he should have listened to the forecast a bit more, but he sure was surprised when he began walking and the dark cloud overhead finally broke as raindrops began to fall one by one spotting the ground and tapping against his shoulders. He muttered a few curses under his breath, quickening his pace to reach the bus stop, the cold drizzle quickly turning into a downpour.

By the time he arrived at the bus station, he was soaked through.

“ Great ,” he muttered, hugging his coat closer. He leaned against the cold metal bench, shivering as the rain soaked through his clothes. He should have just stayed home, he thought bitterly, eyes fixed on the empty street stretching before him.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the empty street, growing louder as they approached the bus stop. Vox shifted slightly, glancing over as a figure appeared beside him, ducking under the awning to escape the rain. The man was younger, shorter, with a neat appearance. He was dressed in polished shoes and a tailored coat. Rain glistened off his dark skin and dampened the edges of his sleek, combed hair. His glasses caught the glow of the streetlamp above, casting faint reflections as he stared down the street.

The rumbling of an approaching bus broke the quiet. Vox glanced down as the bus pulled up, but the other man didn’t make a move, waiting instead for Vox to board first.

Moments later, the man followed, choosing the seat across from him. They were now face to face, each on opposite sides of the aisle. Vox settled in, stealing glances as the bus rattled to life. He noticed the way the man’s expression remained unreadable, almost serene, despite the storm outside and the dim, flickering lights of the bus.

Silence hung between them, punctuated only by the gentle hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of rain against the windows.

The stranger’s gaze flickered up, sharp and observant behind his glasses. 

“Why aren’t you sitting in the back of the bus?” Vox asked, his voice low but edged with a hint of intrigue, maybe even irritation.

The man raised an eyebrow, his tone calm as he responded, “The seats are open, aren’t they? Normally, nobody’s on this bus at this hour, so nobody minds. I’d hoped you wouldn’t either.”

Vox let out a weary sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m too tired to give a damn.”

The man tilted his head slightly, an amused but almost wary glint in his eye. “You’re saying that, but you still brought it up. Seems like it was enough of a… bother for you to mention.” He shifted, starting to rise, his movements measured and quiet, as though he were used to slipping out of places.

Without thinking, Vox’s hand lifted in a brief motion to stop him. “Look, you don’t have to move. I don’t- I don’t care.” He heard the words fall out of his mouth, an unfamiliar softness slipping into his tone.

The man paused, the faintest crease appearing on his brow before he settled back down. His shoulders relaxed, and he gave Vox a nod, his expression neutral but with a flicker of acknowledgment in his gaze. “Well, then. Thank you… for tolerating me.”

For a moment, they sat there in silence, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Vox shifted in his seat, giving the man a sideways glance. “I feel like I’ve heard your voice before.”

The man’s eyes brightened behind his glasses, and a faint smile appeared. “Really?”

“You do anything with the media?”

The man adjusted his coat, a proud gleam in his eye. “As a matter of fact, I do. I'm the voice behind a nightly radio broadcast.”

Vox’s eyebrows lifted. “Channel 01.01?”

“Why yes indeed!” the man responded, nodding enthusiastically. “Are you perhaps a listener?”

Vox shrugged, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Time to time…”

He couldn’t say that he listened to it every night to unwind. That's weird.

He studied the man for a moment, taking in his slight frame, his calm but intense demeanor, and the way he sat poised even in the discomfort of a bus bench. The revelation surprised him. He hadn’t pictured the voice behind the nightly broadcasts as belonging to a man like this. Small. Short. Lanky. A colored man, at that.

The man looked Vox over in turn, amusement flitting across his face. “And you’re the man from the picture box, if I’m not mistaken?”

Vox let out a low chuckle. “That’s one way to put it. Guess you’d be surprised to find a CEO on a bus like this, especially on a night like this without an umbrella, huh?”

The man chuckled softly, adjusting the glasses on his nose. “I’ll admit, it’s not exactly what I expected. You of all people, choosing the humble bus ride in this weather… quite a rarity.” He leaned back, his posture somehow both relaxed and dignified. “But then, life always does have a way of catching us off guard, doesn’t it?”

Vox nodded, not quite sure how to respond. For once, he wasn’t in control of the conversation, and he found himself oddly intrigued by this stranger who didn’t seem to give a damn about who he was. It was nothing like the fan girls who’d swoon over his handsome face or the buyers who’d throw money at him just to get close to his name.

It was refreshing.

Vox raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued as he studied the man across from him. The bus rattled along its route, the soft hum of the engine filling the brief silence between them.

"And what should I call you, then? You never reveal your name on air,” Vox pressed, keeping his tone casual but unable to mask his intrigue.

The man smiled faintly, his gaze lowering as if choosing his words carefully. “I prefer to keep my anonymity. My listeners tune in for the stories, the music, not for who's behind the mic.” He paused, adjusting his glasses thoughtfully. “And besides, you know as well as I do... most wouldn’t like the thought of a colored man speaking into the microphone.”

Vox nodded slowly. He’d dealt with plenty of obstacles in the entertainment industry. Power plays, politics, and backstabbing were all part of the game. But his challenges had always come with a safety net from being born into a world of wealth and connections. He knew he could slip up and still land on his feet. Mistakes for him meant disappointment or losing a deal. For this man, a single misstep could mean losing everything, his life even.

And as the rain drummed on the windows, Vox couldn’t help but respect that in a way he rarely felt for anyone.

“Well,” Vox replied, leaning back as the bus jolted. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Vox’s bus stop finally loomed ahead, the sign flickering dimly in the rain soaked night. He glanced down the road, noting that the stops after this one led into less than ideal neighborhoods. A sense of unease lingered in the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside for now.

He stood up, smoothing out the creases in his coat, and glanced over at the man across from him. "I still didn’t get your name," Vox said, his voice casual but carrying an undercurrent of curiosity.

Alastor’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then a smile crept onto his lips. There was something warm in the way he spoke, something genuine that Vox wasn’t quite used to. "Alastor," he replied, the words rolling off his tongue with a hint of pride.

"Nice to meet you," Vox said, offering a nod as he made his way to the door. "Have a good night, Alastor."

"You as well," Alastor returned, his voice still carrying that calm, almost melodic tone.

Vox stepped off the bus, the cool night air hitting him like a wave as he made his way down the street. His apartment was just a short walk away, and he barely noticed the dampness clinging to his clothes as he entered the building.

Once inside, he shuffled toward his room, his body heavy with exhaustion, the events of the night already fading into the background. With a sigh, he collapsed onto the bed, still fully clothed and soaked from the rain. It didn’t matter. Sleep was all he needed, and within seconds, he was lost to it, the weight of the night’s conversation slipping into the depths of his unconscious mind.

Alastor huh?

Chapter Text

“I saw your car parked outside this morning, but you weren’t anywhere in the office. Where the hell were you?” Velvette strode into Vox’s office, tossing the latest issue of Velvet Vogue. onto his desk with a smirk.

Velvette was an unusual case in Vox’s sprawling network. As the head designer and president of the fashion magazine division, she wielded power and influence, running a part of the VEE empire with a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue. Her magazine Velvet Vogue had its finger on the pulse of every new trend. From the latest colors to daring cuts, Velvette’s vision set the standard. She managed everything from overseeing layouts to dictating fashion spreads that would make or break careers, all from the shadows.

But there were strict limits on how visible she could be. To the public, Velvet Vogue was the glamorous magazine with an anonymous creative head. Vox wouldn’t dare reveal her identity. Not because he valued her privacy, but because the sight of a powerful woman of color at the helm would shake up the carefully polished image his company portrayed. As far as he was concerned, as long as she turned a profit, Velvette’s identity could remain hidden indefinitely.

Vox, for his part, didn’t care who filled the positions below him as long as the numbers stayed green and the people were happy. In fact, it was much cheaper to hire people of color. He privately saw it as a “smart investment”. Of course, they were hidden away from the public eye. 

Vox sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I took the bus home."

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. "You're joking, right? You took the bus?"

He ran a hand through his gelled hair, barely holding back an exasperated sigh. "My car broke down."

At that, she laughed, a rich, unapologetic sound echoing in his office. "Oh, that’s too good. Big shot Vox stranded and taking the bus!"

He rolled his eyes, but a corner of his mouth lifted. "Glad my misfortune amuses you."

Velvette just grinned, giving the magazine a tap. "Consider it karma."

Vox leaned back, quirking an eyebrow. "So, what's this week's magazine summary?"

She rolled her eyes. “You're not even going to bother to read it?”

“Don’t have the time,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Maybe you should." Her gaze traveled over his outfit, and she shook her head in mock disappointment. “That tacky coat you’re wearing? It’s so last year. Might want to consider a few tips from the pros.”

Vox scoffed, glancing down at his outfit defensively. “Hey, this is not ‘tacky .’ This is called classic appeal. The viewers love it.”

Velvette raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “The viewers will love anything as long as your face is attached to it. Bunch of fools if you ask me.”

“Oh, don’t be jealous you can’t pull this off,” he shot back with a smirk.

She snorted, crossing her arms. “Please, if I wanted to pull off that look, I’d do it better with a blind fold on.”

Vox laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, Velvette. But stick to your spreads, alright? I’ll manage just fine without your fashion advice.”

“Hmf. You’ll look back on it and regret not asking for my help. ” Velvette scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest. 

Vox waved her off. “Great conversation, Velvette, but I got a grand  total of two hours of sleep, so if you could kindly fuck off, that would be lovely.”

She smirked, unbothered. “Remember, you need to be in the studio looking presentable by six tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He dismissed her with a lazy wave, glancing at the calendar in the corner of his desk. His eyes widened. “Shoot, it’s Friday…”

Velvette didn’t miss a beat. “Might want to catch a nap.” She shot him a knowing look, pausing in the doorway. “Your tired eyes won’t exactly dazzle the audience.” With that, she turned and sauntered out of the room.

Vox grimaced, rubbing his temples. Vox 2 Nite , his late night TV show was a big hit, but today, the idea of putting on a perfect smile and playing host felt more like a chore then the usual thrill it was.

A timid knock at the door made Vox’s head snap up, and he spotted his assistant peeking in with a tentative look.

“Spit it out,” he ordered, lifting his eyes from the endless stack of papers in front of him.

The assistant shuffled in, his voice low. “Well, we... we couldn’t get the repairs scheduled right away, so your car might not be ready for-"

“Can’t you fix it?” Vox cut him off, voice dripping with annoyance. “Honestly, for the last goddamn time, why do I have to fix everything for you shitheads? If you can’t handle something as simple as this, then what good are you?”

The assistant swallowed hard, his face going pale. Vox shot him a dark look. “Now listen carefully . Get my car fixed, and if I find even a scratch on it, you’re fired. Got it?”

The assistant gave a hasty nod and backed out of the room, clearly eager to escape Vox’s glare.

Without him, nothing would ever get fucking done. He wasn’t sure whether he loved power or it just meant more responsibilities. 

Hours blurred by as Vox powered through documents, barely noticing the clock inching closer to showtime. The exhaustion weighed heavily on him, and the lack of a nap gnawed at the edges of his patience, but that's what made money. 

Dragging himself into the studio, Vox felt his mood sour even more as he moved on autopilot during preparation. With a sigh, he dropped into his designated chair. It was the one with his name stenciled on the back in large, unmistakable letters.

Makeup artists dabbed under his eyes, trying to erase the dark circles, while an assistant fussed over his hair, adding yet another layer of gel until it practically shone under the lights. He swore he could have used it as a mirror because it was so shiny. 

He barely had a chance to relax before an assistant scurried over to steam his suit, but as they leaned in a bit too close, the hot iron brushed his shoulder.

“ OUCH ” Vox shot up, eyes blazing. “Are you trying to burn me?!” snapped, voice slicing through the studio.

The assistant stammered out an apology, paling as they scurried away. Vox slumped back into his chair, his sleep deprived brain barely holding back a pounding headache. All he wanted was to get through tonight's show and live to see the next day without having to punch someone in the face. Preferably, not on live television.

“Are you ready, sir?” one of the stage managers asked, giving him a quick nod as the countdown began.

“ Always .” Vox slipped on his signature grin, shaking off any remaining irritation. 

It was showtime.

As he rounded the corner and stepped onto the stage, the crowd erupted. The buzz of the cameras, the lights beaming down on him, the applause echoing across the room washed over him, filling him with that electric thrill he’d almost forgotten in his haze of his exhaustion. He winked at the front row, threw a casual wave, and even added a little bow as he made his way to his desk, the noise growing louder with each step.

He gave a sweeping gesture with his arms that brought the audience to a hush. He let the silence linger for just a moment, savoring the anticipation building in the air.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, to another unforgettable night on Vox 2 Nite!” he announced, settling into his seat. “I hope those of you at home have kicked back, because tonight…” He paused, leaned forward, and shot a charismatic smirk toward the camera, “we’ve got a lineup that’s going to keep you glued to your seats.”

As he launched into his usual pleasantries, the fatigue slowly slipped away and was replaced by that familiar rush.

“Tonight, we have a very special guest,” he continued, reading smoothly from the teleprompter, “an upcoming actor from an award winning movie, Into the Frontline .” He glanced up with a practiced smile. “The story follows our main character, a young man driven to join the army during World War Two after his father was killed, and the trials he faces on the front lines.”

But if Vox were being honest, he’d admit he didn’t give a damn about these movies. He’d produced so many of them over the years that all the storylines had begun to blur into one predictable reel. They always kicked off with some overly heroic main character who went through a few tragic scenes, then wrapped up in the arms of their lover, usually with a tear streaked, “ I made it home .”

War films especially had become the ultimate crowd pleasers since the country’s victory. The bravery, sacrifice, and victory kept audiences loyal. But for Vox, they all felt like slight variations of the same tune. He’d stopped watching his own premieres years ago, having seen enough wartime melodrama to last a lifetime. It was all money and metrics now. The emotional beats were just background noise.

“Please give it up for Angel Dust!” Vox announced, extending an arm as the crowd erupted. Angel walked onto the stage with a confident stride, blowing a kiss to the audience as he took the seat beside Vox. The two of them waited as the cheers finally quieted.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here, Angel Dust,” Vox greeted him, flashing his signature grin. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” Angel replied with a wink, “just trying to keep things… interesting.”

The audience chuckled, sensing his playful tone, and the two bantered back and forth, mixing light jokes with the typical interview fare about the film. Vox leaned in, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Now, this latest film of yours, Into the Frontline, let’s just say, it has a bit of a mature twist to it, hmm?”

Angel gave a coy smile. “Well, you know how it is. War brings out the most intense parts of people, doesn’t it?” he said, his tone suggestive.

“True, true,” Vox replied, raising an eyebrow. “There’s, ah, some… passion, let’s say, between certain characters in the frontlines. Some might even call it forbidden passion that caused quite the stir.”

Angel chuckled, but there was a hint of tension in his smile. “Guess we all find ourselves craving connection, especially in desperate times. It made people do things that, well… they’d rather not talk about.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a laugh that felt a little forced.

“Of course,” Vox nodded, settling back into his usual charismatic demeanor. “We all know the story. You win the war, atone your sins, make your peace, return to the comforts of home and your lover, and everyone’s happy.” His tone was smooth, almost playful. 

Angel flashed a smile, playing along. “ Happy endings ,” he said, voice dripping with irony. “The audience just loves a happy ending…”

Vox could remember when they first published the movie, one of the scenes had caused quite the outrage due to its… questionable nature. Blasphemy some may call it. He should have known that even the hint of a relationship between two men, however “sinful” it was portrayed, would provoke backlash.  He should have screened it before the premiere, but he'd assumed it was the same predictable plot as usual and decided to skip it. He would have to keep a closer eye on Valentino from now on. Thankfully, after a few strategic edits and carefully crafted statements, they managed to shift public perception just enough to cool things down.

But now, it was time to switch topics.

“In recent news,” he began smoothly, leaning toward the camera, “I’m sure you’ve all heard about this… troubling situation. A serial killer has been prowling the streets of Manhattan, leaving victims in alleyways, their bodies… Well, let’s just say it’s not a pretty picture.”

Angel raised an eyebrow, leaning in with a mischievous grin. “Y’know, some people might call that a ‘unique’ type of passion. I mean, chunks of flesh? Missing organs? Sounds like somebody’s got a really unconventional hobby.”

Vox rolled his eyes, holding back a smile. “Angel, please. This isn’t the time for that.”

Angel put on an exaggerated pout, crossing his arms with a mock sigh. “Fine, fine. But y’know, maybe this killer just needs… someone to give ‘em a good talking to, or maybe a little talk about consensual dismemberment.” He winked at the audience, a few chuckles slipping through the otherwise tense crowd.

Vox shot him a deadpan look. “Always taking things to that place, huh?” He shook his head but couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright, alright. All jokes aside,” He paused, eyes flashing as he straightened up, his tone shifting into something more enticing. “Now, while you’re taking the necessary precautions, why not make sure you’re really safe? VoxTech Security’s got you covered. Let me tell you about the latest in home protection, folks. We’ve got state of the art door alarms, motion sensitive lights, and advanced telephone based alert systems!”

As he spoke, images of sleek, high tech security devices flashed on the screen behind him. The cameras zoomed in on each product, showing off the polished designs with captions detailing their features.

Oh, how he hated doing these segments, but boy did he love seeing the numbers go up.

”And don’t forget our reinforced locking systems, built with the most durable materials available.” Vox leaned forward, his voice dropping into a smooth, inviting tone. “With VoxTech, you’ll know exactly who’s lurking around your block, and keep your home secure no matter what. Protect what matters most. Because nothing’s more important than your safety.”

In reality, none of the products were quite what they were cracked up to be. The door alarms? Cheap sensors that triggered at the slightest disturbance. Whether it was a burglar or a stray cat, the damn things went off without fail and were nearly impossible to turn off without a good whack. The motion sensitive lights? More like blinding beams that lit up like car headlights on high, practically forcing you to fumble around half blind trying to get your key in the lock. And the "reinforced" locking system? Just your average hardware store lock, slapped with a shiny VoxTech logo to make it look special. He’d picked it open himself a dozen times for fun. But it wasn’t going on his door, so why bother? As long as people kept buying, that was all that mattered.

“Trust us.” He smirked, letting the pitch hang in the air. 

With a final, cheeky grin, Angel nodded, before Vox turned to the audience, Vox flashed his usual winning smile, ready to wrap up the show. “Well, folks, it seems our night is coming to a close. Let’s give one last round of applause for our lovely guest, Angel Dust!”

The crowd erupted into applause, and Angel gave an exaggerated wave, blowing kisses toward the audience.

Vox adjusted his suit and turned back to the camera, his voice smooth and confident. “Thank you for tuning into another unforgettable night on Vox 2 Nite. Trust us , and make sure you’re secure with VoxTech. Until next time, good night!”

The lights dimmed, and Vox leaned back in his chair, exhaling a deep sigh of relief as the buzz of the show faded. The set was dismantling around him, crew members chattering and packing equipment as he stood up. 

Just a bit more business before he could finally unwind…

As he strode off the set, weaving through the flickering lights and bustling workers, a young intern approached, clutching a clipboard tightly to their chest. "Mr. Vox! That serial killer segment was… intense," they stammered, awe in their voice. "How did you learn so much about these cases?"

If the intern thought tonight’s segment was intense, they should try tuning into Alastor’s radio show. Vox had merely skimmed the details, refining them into something digestible for TV. Alastor, on the other hand, had no qualms about diving headfirst into the grittiest, uncensored most disturbing aspects for his late night audience.

Vox paused, his face perfectly calm as he glanced at the intern. “I do my research,” he said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks. 

Vox thrived on praise, no matter the source. To him, every compliment was proof of his superiority. Even when the admiration came from someone below him, it carried its own flavor of satisfaction. It was confirmation that he was leagues above them, that he stood somewhere they could only aspire to reach. He soaked it in, each word like fuel, each nod of approval like a spotlight. 

He knew he was good, but being told so? That was a thrill all its own.

In truth, nearly every detail had come from the late night radio show he listened to in his apartment. A guilty pleasure he’d never openly admit to. That host who he now knew as Alastor would delve into details about the grittiest parts of the dazzling city. The crimes, the suspects, all the dark happenings that Vox found… strangely compelling.

But to the intern, he simply nodded. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got more work to do.” With that, he turned and continued down the hallway.

If only he could get someone like Alastor on his team, they would be pulling in viewers tenfold. He’d be raking in ratings like never before. Shame that Alastor’s show only aired at midnight, tanking his numbers.

Just when he thought he’d finally get a moment to breathe, someone would interrupt him yet again. 

“ Vincent ” Valentino’s voice purred as he sauntered closer, hips swaying with each step.

Vox’s jaw tightened. “Don’t call me that.”

Valentino’s smirk widened. “Such a shame. Vincent is such a sexy name.” He placed a hand on Vox’s shoulder, which Vox immediately shrugged off, leaving Valentino momentarily confused.

“I’ll go by Vox, thank you very much,” he gritted out.

Valentino pulled a pipe from his pocket, flicking a lighter. The acrid smell of smoke already began filling the air. “But whenever you answer the phone, it’s always, ‘Vincent speaking ,’” he teased, fluttering his lashes with exaggerated innocence.

Vox rolled his eyes. “That’s because I never know who’s on the other line. I have to sound professional.”

“Oh, I think you need a break from ‘professional ,’” Valentino leaned in, lowering his voice into a whisper. “Angel and I are planning a little… getaway , if you catch my drift.” His  breath reeked of smoke and something bitter. Vox resisted the urge to cough.

“I’ll pass,” Vox replied flatly, his expression unmoved.

Angel suddenly popped into view, grinning mischievously. “Don’t be such a buzzkill, old man! Just ’cause you’re aging doesn’t mean you can’t have any fun!”

Vox raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “ First off , I’m twenty five. Second, fuck off .” He shot Angel a dismissive middle finger.

Valentino laughed, wrapping an arm around Vox’s shoulders. “Aw, come on, Voxy, it’s been sooooo long since you joined us!” His tone was half pleading, half mocking. “We’ll make sure to get you the prettiest of girls… and maybe a few charming men, just for you!”

“Tempting… but I said no .” Vox’s voice had a finality that made it clear the conversation was over. “I have more important things to do.”

Valentino scoffed, unfazed. “Important things like what? Counting your money? Pretending you don’t do anything fun anymore? When was the last time you went to a party or had a good fuck?”

Vox’s expression remained unmoved. “Important things like… stuff .”

He could never admit that he just wanted to head home, kick off his shoes, pour a glass of wine, and just relax on the couch with the radio playing softly in the background. Alone .

Maybe Angel Dust was right. He was aging. Mentally only of course. 

“ Stuff ?” Valentino raised an eyebrow, giving him a sly grin. “Is this ‘stuff’ some secret lover we don’t know about?”

Vox grimaces as memories flashed through his mind. “No. Just ‘stuff.’ You wouldn’t get it. Plus, last time I was in a relationship, the press went nuts and I don’t need a repeat of that.”

Valentino feigned disinterest, shrugging as he backed off. “Suit yourself, Mr. Professional. But one of these days, you’re gonna realize that all that ‘important work’ or ‘stuff’ isn’t what life’s about.”

“If that’s your excuse to blow off work, go ahead,” Vox said dryly. “Just don’t drag me into it.”

With that, he walked briskly toward the parking lot, leaving Valentino behind. Vox climbed into his car, a sleek Mercedes he hadn’t taken out of the garage in a while. Of course, he had more than one luxury vehicle. What kind of image would he maintain if he didn’t?

The cool leather of the seat pressed against his back, a small but satisfying comfort as he shut the door with a tired sigh. He started the engine, the quiet purr. As he pulled onto the road, he flicked the radio on, twisting the dial to his favorite guilty pleasure. Channel 01.01 . The familiar crackle of static gave way to a smooth voice that filled the car.

Vox’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel as he listened. He had missed the beginning, and once again the familiar sound of Charlie Morningstarrs voice escaped the speakers.

[ Well then, Charlie, would you like to share your latest project with our listeners once again tonight?] Alastor’s voice oozed with feigned interest.

[ Of course!] Charlie’s voice came through, bright and earnest, [ So, my team and I have been working on a rehabilitation center for those facing difficult struggles. It’s in an old hotel, mostly unused and falling into disrepair. But we’re fixing it up, and anyone is welcome to come in, whether they want to talk or even stay with us for a while. It’s all about creating a safe space, no questions asked. ]

Vox sneered, tightening his grip on the wheel as he listened. "That's ridiculous," he muttered under his breath. Nobody with any sense would waste their hard earned money on trying to “help” lunatics' who have no shot at recovery. Once you're that far gone, you’re gone for good. Crazy is forever.

He almost wanted to turn the dial, but something kept him listening.

[Well, you heard it, folks!] Alastor’s voice dripped with theatrical enthusiasm. [ An old, dilapidated hotel turned sanctuary for the so called 'troubled souls' of our fair city!] He let out a mocking chuckle. [ Why, who wouldn’t want to check into the grand ‘Hazbin Hotel’ where the amenities include second chances and endless optimism?]

“ Hazbin Hotel… ” Vox muttered, the name rolling off his tongue with a hint of amusement. It didn’t have a bad ring to it. He would have to find a way to slip it into his next broadcast. 

Alastor chuckled, the sound laced with sarcasm. [ Come one, come all! If you’re down on your luck, or just plain lost your marbles, there’s a bed waiting for you at dear Charlie’s little passion project .]

Vox couldn’t help but smirk, rolling his eyes as he drove. "What a joke," he muttered, more amused by Alastor’s mockery than anything else. He was glad he wasn’t the only one who could see through the naiveness of her plan. People who believed in " saving " others were only fooling themselves.

Maybe he should do a bit of digging on this Alastor fellow. Quite the entertainer, Vox mused. And if this Hazbin Hotel became the talk of the town, well… having a little leverage on the guy could be quite useful considering his collaboration with a Morningstar.

Time to do a little research. 

Chapter Text

There was no such thing as “weekends” in Vox’s vocabulary. Every day was another day for money to be made. There was no time to slack off.

With this mindset, he was in the office on a Saturday morning, staring blankly at his desk, only to find two unidentified human beings comfortably lounging in his office chairs like they owned the place.

“Who the fuck are you ?” Vox snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes darted toward the hallway, searching for an assistant to explain, but then he remembered, nobody but the weekend news department worked Saturdays.

That was in a different building entirely.

Fuck.

His jaw tightened as he scanned the room. It seemed, at least for now, that they hadn’t touched anything. His meticulously organized files and awards were untouched, thankfully .

Maybe it was time to beef up security, to stop randoms from wandering into his space uninvited. He swore he’d told his assistants to lock every door, every window, and every possible entrance after the first time someone had broken in and stolen some of his very confidential, very private files. It wasn’t fun cleaning up that mess. 

And yet, here was another set of thieves who were sitting in his office like it was a cafe lounge.

“How the hell did you even get through the security sensors without a key?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes at the intruders. The irritation simmered in the back of his mind left unfocused to instead figure out what was going on. 

He didn't know who, but someone would be paying for this on Monday.

He carefully placed a hand over his chest, fingers brushing against the concealed pistol beneath his coat. If it came to it, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. He'd done it plenty of times before.

The intruders spun around to face him and surprisingly, he was met with a bright, optimistic smile from one and a far more expected scowl from the other.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vox!” the taller of the two chirped, stepping forward with unrelenting energy. Before he could react, her hand shot out, clasping his in a firm handshake.

He blinked, momentarily stunned by the sudden, unwelcome contact.

“You might know me already, probably because of my father, but I’m Charlie Morningstar!” she rambled on, completely ignoring the tension crackling in the room. She gestured toward the other woman, who was standing with a sharp scowl etched across her face.

“This is my friend, Vaggie!” Charlie said cheerily, as if the situation were entirely normal. Vaggie just glared at him. 

At least that was a more normal response then… then whatever the hell this was. 

Vox’s brow furrowed as the edges of his lips turned downwards.

“And we were wondering,” Charlie continued, completely ignoring his expression, “if you would be willing to broadcast one of our projects. It’s something we’re really passionate about!”

“Woah, woah, woah, slow down there,” Vox said, pushing her hands off his as he pulled away from the overly enthusiastic handshake. He wiped his hand on his jacket as if it would help with anything. “How did you get in here?” He questioned with a hard glare.

“Oops, my bad…” Charlie said sheepishly, flashing an apologetic grin as her shoulders slumped.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Vaggie grumbled, shooting a sharp glare at Charlie.

“It’s fine though, right? He hasn’t-”

“He reached for his pistol, Charlie,” Vaggie snapped, her voice low but exasperated as she stood a step in front of her. “We were about to get shot .”

The edges of his mouth twitched. This Vaggie girl or whatever had a good eye if she could tell what he was about to do. Despite her short stature, he would have to keep an eye on her. 

“Well, it didn’t happen, so it’s alright!” Charlie countered brightly, brushing off the concern with an optimistic shrug.

Vox pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Are you two seriously debating whether or not you almost got yourselves killed? In my office?”

Lord. Please have mercy on me. Vox wasn’t even religious, but he prayed. 

As he lowered his hand, something clicked in his mind. A Morningstar sitting in his office was no ordinary occurrence. Deals, alliances, even publicity… This was something he could use, if played correctly.

“ A Morningstar, huh..."   Vox’s tone dripped with feigned nonchalance, but inside, he felt a thrill of anticipation, the gears of his mind whirring. How perfectly the stars aligned, just for him.

Originally, he’d been curious about Alastor with the bonus of a Morningstar. And now, against all odds, said Morningstar had walked straight into his office. Vox couldn’t help the victorious grin that flashed briefly in his mind. 

Maybe she could get him a connection…

He’d stayed up late the night before, scouring every lead he could find on the elusive radio host. Connections, affiliations, anything that could give him leverage. Yet, nothing turned up. Not a single solid clue. Even the airwaves offered no help. Channel 01.01, the wave length Alastor broadcast from, had no company or owner officially registered to it.

Vox didn’t want to admit it but… he was good .

And that made him both frustrating and undeniably fascinating.

Now all that was left was the deal.

It was almost like he did a one eighty. Vox might have been thrown off by intruders at first, but when it came to striking a deal, he was in his element. His shoulders squared, his stance shifted, and he straightened his suit with a deliberate flick of his hands.

“Now, tell me more about this project, and I will consider striking a deal. But, if we’re going to talk, she needs to leave the room,” Vox said with a commanding tone, striding to his chair and gesturing for Charlie to sit.

“What? No ,” Vaggie said sharply, immediately stepping in front of Charlie like a shield.

“Then the deal is off,” Vox replied with a dramatic roll of his eyes, his voice laced with practiced indifference.

This Veggie… whatever this woman's name was didn’t matter. What did matter was her sharp instincts. She was the type you never wanted in the same room when striking a deal. She was too protective, too perceptive. The kind who could sniff out a trap before it was even set.

“ Fine , we’re leaving Charlie.” Vaggie spat, glaring daggers at him as she turned toward the door, grabbing Charlie’s hand as she began to drag her with her.

“ Not fine!” Charlie interjected, grabbing Vaggie by the shoulders before she could take another step. “Please, we’re so close,” she pleaded, her voice softening as she unleashed the most devastating pair of puppy dog eyes Vox had ever seen.

Admittedly, they wouldn’t work on him , he had seen plenty of women try it when they asked for him to take them home. It lost its flair over time, but he couldn’t deny their potential. On screen, those eyes could sway the audience, sell any sob story. Perhaps Charlie wasn’t as useless as he initially thought.

“ Fine ,” Vaggie growled, her resolve crumbling under Charlie’s plea. “But if I hear anything from this room, I will break the door down.”

“And if you do,” Vox retorted, smirking, “you’re paying for it. Now shoo .”

As the door clicked shut behind her, Vox leaned back slightly, observing Charlie with fresh interest.

“Sorry about her,” Charlie offered, giving him an apologetic smile. “She can be... quite protective.” She rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly.

“I can tell,” Vox replied, his face twitching in annoyance as he plastered on his usual business grin. He gestured toward the leather seat across from his desk. “Now, please, take a seat.”

This was perfect . Now it was time to test how naive and stupid this girl was. 

“So, about my-”

“I’ve heard about your ‘Hazbin Hotel,’” Vox interrupted, waving his hand dismissively.

He thought it was a sorry excuse for a joke. 

“Really? Where?” Charlie asked, her tone tinged with excitement.

“The radio, of course. I’m a man of media. how could I not hear about it?.” His smirk widened.

If he wasn’t up with the current news, could he even call himself the President of the VEE’s?

“What do you think?” She grinned, fists tightening in anticipation.

Vox's smile dropped. “It’s a waste of time.” He laughed. 

Charlie’s hopeful smile faltered for a moment, and Vox thought he had won for a moment before she quickly regained her composure. “Are you at least willing to give it a try?”

Vox leaned back in his chair, silently amused. The daughter of one of his biggest competitors, standing here with this naive little project. Normally, when he rejected people, they sulked off with their tails between their legs. But this girl? She was different. Annoying, perhaps, but relentless.

“What were your ratings on the radio show?” He tapped his finger on his desk. He doubted they could be anything good considering the host himself made a joke out of it.

Charlie hesitated. “About that… not the best reception.” Her shoulders slumped for a moment.

Just as expected, such a stupid idea wouldn't work. People who believed in "saving" others were only fooling themselves. Where would they get the funds? How would they make the profit?

Vox raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you just go to your father for this? Why come to one of his biggest competitors?”

Charlie froze, her expression betraying her discomfort.

Oops . Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. When striking a deal, there were certain lines you simply didn’t cross. One of them was pushing too far, too fast. It always turned off the other party, leading to a stalemate, or worse, the deal slipping right through your fingers. Vox couldn’t afford that here. He needed a way to get to Alastor.

“Forget I said that.” Vox waved her off. “What I meant was, my company, the VEE Network, has a high reputation. Broadcasting your…” He paused, a sly grin spreading across his face. “…charitable disaster would only ruin our standing.”

“Please!” Charlie pleaded, her voice cracking slightly. “This is the best and last chance I have to make this work.”

“What do you offer in return? Unless you’re paying me big bucks, which I doubt you have, considering the state of your crumbling hotel, I don’t see what’s in it for me.”

He knew he was inching closer to his prize. Just a little bit more. If she wanted this deal badly enough, she would do anything for him. He just had to get her to the right point.

“We don’t have a lot but… could you at least give us one chance?” Charlie asked, her voice trembling with determination.

Vox exhaled, his amusement giving way to sharp irritation. “Why should I give you a chance when all you’ve done is break into my office and waste my time? Unless…” He leaned forward, his grin returning with a glint of intrigue. “…you have something valuable to me.”

Charlie tilted her head slightly, and her expression shifted when she caught a flicker in his gaze.

Jackpot .

“Like… Alastor,” Vox finished, his voice almost purring with interest.

Charlie blinked, caught off guard. “ Alastor ?”

“Yes.” He nodded with a sly grin. “He’s the host of that quaint little radio channel you’ve been advertising on, isn’t he?” He tilted his head.

“Yes…” She nodded nervously.

“It would be a valuable opportunity to connect with someone like him,” Vox’s smirk widened as he leaned back, his fingers steepling in front of him. “This isn’t just about meeting him. It’s about potential. Collaboration. Networking. Surely, you can see the benefit in that, can’t you?”

Charlie hesitated, biting her lip. “He’s not really the… networking type.”

Judging by his lack of existence on the airwaves, he could already tell. He didn’t want to admit it, but that was why he needed her help.

“Everything has their price,” Vox said with a low chuckle. “If you want your hotel to have a real chance, then you know this is an opportunity you can’t pass up. Let’s not waste it.”

Charlie stiffened. “He’s… very private.” She admitted, her tone cautious.

“Ah, what a shame,” Vox mused, his voice mockingly sympathetic. “Because I might just let you on my network if you let me meet him.”

Charlie hesitated.

The air grew tense as Vox’s words hung in the space between them. He could see her weighing her options, and he couldn’t help but relished the silent struggle playing out on her face.

He was so close… Just a bit more…

“Well?” Vox pressed, leaning forward with a smirk.

Charlie sighed, her shoulders dropping. “I can ask him… but no promises.”

He mentally fist pumped. 

Fuck, yeah.

Vox’s grin turned sharp. “Perfect. Get me a connection with Alastor, and you’ll get your little broadcast.”

It wasn’t until she nodded reluctantly that Vox felt the taste of victory. Whatever this ‘Hazbin Hotel’ turned out to be, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting Alastor. If this deal fell apart? Well, he would just have to try some more… dubious ways to get to him.

“Now, let’s talk logistics,” Vox said, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers against the armrest rhythmically. “Who would be your representative on television?”

Charlie blinked, caught off guard. “You mean me?”

Vox tilted his head.. “Do you not have a male counterpart?” Vox asked, raising a brow. “Someone who can… speak for the operation?”

Charlie frowned. “Uh, no? I have Vaggie.”

At the mention of Vaggie’s name, Vox exhaled a long, drawn out sigh, rubbing his temples dramatically. “Do you know anything about television, princess?”

Charlie’s confusion deepened, but before she could respond, Vox cut her off. “The women are there to look good. They’re the garnish , the eye candy , appealing to the men with their charm and poise. But the talking? The business? That’s what the men handle. We can’t have you as the main face of this operation. It’s… it’s not how things are done.”

Charlie crossed her arms, bristling at his words. “But I’m the one running the hotel. I’m the one trying to sell this idea.”

“And I’m telling you, it won’t fly,” Vox snapped. “Is there anyone else who can stand beside you? Someone the audience can take seriously?”

“But Vaggie’s my right hand woman!” Charlie protested, her voice rising with frustration.

“ Right hand, left hand, whatever ,” Vox interrupted with a dismissive wave.

Charlie crossed her arms defiantly. “I said, I’ll go on, and I’ll have Vaggie with me.”

“ HAH !” Vox threw his head back with a laugh. “You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re joking.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened. “No, I’m not.”

“ Fuuuuuuck ,” Vox groaned, dragging the word out as he slumped back in his chair. “There is no fucking way that… Veggie , Vaggie, whatever you call her, is going on television,” Vox sneered. “Just letting you , the daughter of my biggest competitor, step foot in my studio is already bending the rules. Bringing her on too? You’re asking for trouble.”

Charlie stood straighter, her fists clenching at her sides. “But she’s important to me and to the hotel! She’s been there since the beginning.”

“And the world,” Vox said, punctuating his words with a slow wave of his hand, “is not going to be happy seeing her on their screens. Trust me on this, doll.”

Charlie’s face flushed with anger before hesitating, the weight of his words sinking in despite her anger. He knew she hated how he dismissed Vaggie, but she couldn’t afford to lose this chance. Maybe she was finally realizing she was being a bit too hopeful.

Charlie’s shoulders slumped, frustration seeping into her voice. “Fine. I’ll go on alone. But can she at least be in the studio? I want her with me.”

Vox rolled his eyes and leaned back lazily. “Sure, sure, fine, whatever. As long as she isn’t on screen and you follow through on getting me a connection with Alastor, I’ll play nice.”

Vox’s lips curled into a triumphant smile. 

He stood up slowly, his posture oozing confidence, and reached out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Morningstar,” he said, his voice smooth, almost predatory.

Charlie hesitated for a split second, but then she straightened her shoulders and extended her hand to meet his. Their hands shook, his grip firm around her fingers

Oh, this is going to be good . Vox thought to himself.

The deal had been struck.

That night, Vox went home with a surprising pep in his step. He hadn’t felt this eager in a while. The deal with Charlie Morningstar was an outstanding victory, and the thought of finally getting a crack at Alastor was a delicious prospect. He hadn’t made any concrete plans yet, but the momentum shifted in his favor.

In a rare moment, Vox decided to try his hand at cooking dinner due to his high spirits. After all, how hard could it be ? He had a brief, misguided memory of watching some cooking show once. He doubted it would be hard to boil some pasta and throw together a sauce. 

He was Vox . He could do anything .

He picked up a box of pasta with the most confident stride. It didn’t take long before the kitchen was filled with the sound of boiling water, the steam rising as he hummed a tune to himself the latest tunes through Channel 01.01.

[ Your clothes may be Beau Brummelly

They stand out a mile

But Brother,

You're never fully dressed

Without a smile!]

He couldn’t help but sing along with the radio, he was a theater kid at heart. Vox had to admit, Alastor had a knack for uncovering such hidden gems. He made a mental note to ask where he found them. He would slyly borrow the same tracks for his own shows. After all, spectacular music deserved a broader audience, especially one tuned into his channel.

But then… the smell hit.

“ SHIT ”

A few loud curses followed as Vox stared at the boiling pot. 

How in the hell did the pasta catch on fire when it was submerged in water?  

It didn’t make sense. 

“ FUCK- FUCK- FUCK- ”

Vox cursed again, waving at the kitchen in futile attempts to get rid of the smoke. He stared in disbelief at the half raw, half burnt mess in the pot. The water had evaporated somehow, and what remained was a burnt layer of pasta stuck to the bottom, while the rest clung to life in a half cooked state.

He groaned, glancing over at the smoke detector, praying it wouldn’t go off.

Now he remembered why he never cooked.

With a resigned sigh, he dumped the remains of his “meal” into the sink. 

Maybe next time, he’d just leave the cooking to someone who actually knew what they were doing. Until then, he'd settle for a bottle of wine. 

Right after Vox finished washing the burnt pasta off the pots, the familiar shrill sound of his landline rang through the house. It was the kind of noise that set his teeth on edge, cutting through the silence like nails on a chalkboard. He knew exactly who it was before the first ring even finished.

Valentino.

Vox could already feel his blood start to boil. If Valentino had fucked something up again, or if the idiot had managed to find yet another way to drag him into some godforsaken mess… Vox didn’t know how much longer he could tolerate it.

What had Valentino done this time? Did Angel Dust walk out on him again? Was the addict out of drugs, and now Valentino needed a quick fix of chaos to fill the void? Vox could already feel the headache building.

With heavy, deliberate steps, he stomped toward the phone. His irritation flared as he reached the receiver, snatching it up with far more force than necessary. The plastic nearly cracked under his grip, but Vox didn’t care. If this was what he thought it was, he was fully prepared to put a hole in the wall with his bare hands in the next ten seconds.

“ Goddamnit if its it fucking Valentino -” he snapped into the receiver, his voice sharp with anger and exhaustion before he was interupted.

[ Oh, my! I shouldn’t have expected anything less than sharp words from you, Vox.] A voice on the other end of the line was smooth and dripping with amusement, each syllable laced with a dangerous charm. [I must say, I'm thrilled to have caught the attention of a renowned man. It makes me wonder what this is all about .]

The man on the other side of the line chuckled in amusement, the deep, smooth tone sending a jolt of recognition straight through Vox.

Fuck. This wasn’t Valentino.

“Excuse me, who am I talking to?” Vox demanded, his grip tightening on the receiver as his mind started racing.

[ Have you already forgotten?] the voice responded, slightly mocking but laced with an edge of familiarity. [ It’s Alastor .]

Vox froze for a second. How did he not realize it was him? Maybe the distortion was clearer this time or perhaps he was so wrapped up in his irritation that his brain just didn't make the connection. But now, hearing that voice, there was no mistaking it.

“No, of course not.” Vox’s shoulders suddenly stiffened. “Just surprised you answered so quickly.”

[ Oh, I do love to surprise.] Alastor’s voice lightened. [ Tell you what, if you’re feeling particularly generous, we can meet. How about the bus stop? 3 a.m. sharp. 

Don’t be late now .]

Before Vox could even respond the sudden monotone hum of the disconnected call grated on his ears. The line had gone flat.

What the hell?

What did he think he was doing? Bossing him around like he ran the place? Acting all cryptic while somehow leaving no trace of himself anywhere? It was infuriating, and yet, Vox couldn’t deny the intrigue that came with it.

" Son of a- " he muttered, slamming the receiver back onto the cradle. He pitched the bridge of his nose. At least it wasn’t Valentino this time. 

It wasn’t much, but it was a starting point. 

Now all that remained was to slowly uncover who he really was.

Chapter Text

Vox was never nervous. Why would he be? His bank account was filled with numbers indescribable to the common man, and he commanded every room he entered with a presence money alone couldn’t buy. There was no point in being antsy.

So why the fuck was he nervous now?

He hadn’t slept a wink last night. Worse yet, he’d overslept, something he never did. Vox rushed to his office an hour late, cursing under his breath. Fortunately, only a handful of people were around to catch him in his sorry state, and if anyone noticed, they wisely said nothing other than a small glance. 

Even Valentino, of all people, had noticed. Somehow, the slimeball had dragged himself into the studio on a Sunday evening, and of course, he couldn’t resist a comment.

“You look like you were hit by a truck. Twice .” Valentino had said with his usual smirk plastered to his face. 

It wasn’t his fault he was nervous okay?

It was like time moved in slow motion. Whenever he glanced up from his work, the minute hand had moved barely an inch. His leg bounced under his desk, badly creasing his leather shoes. The subpar instant coffee from the break room did little to steady him.

By the time night rolled around, Vox felt like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap. Slipping out of the office unnoticed, he made his way through the bustling streets of New York, the city's noise doing little to distract him. His coat and hat concealed his face as he moved through the crowds, blending in like just another shadow.

He glanced down at his Rolex, its polished face glinting under the streetlights. He was five minutes early.

It seemed that, once again, he was the only one at the bus stop tonight. The emptiness was oddly jarring for a city that prided itself on never sleeping. The usual hum of life was replaced by an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional distant sound of a car horn or footsteps echoing in an alley.

When was the last time he had been the one to reach out to a potential partner? When he really thought about it, most collaborators were always trying to earn his favor, scrambling to secure his attention like moths to a flame.

For once in his life, the tables had turned. Vox wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it. Displeasure prickled at the edges of his ego, but overriding that was a desire to have Alastor firmly in his grasp.

Vox stood beneath the awning, his posture rigid. His eyes betrayed his restlessness, flicking down to his wristwatch every few seconds. The polished glass face reflected the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp as the hands crept forward at a pace far too slow for his liking.

{2:55}

{2:56}

{2:57}

{2:58}

{2:59}

Dammit! Where was he?

The bus would be coming at any moment now, and Alastor was nowhere in sight.

{3:00}

"Unbelievable," Vox muttered under his breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. The cold air nipped at his face, but the heat of his rising anger was enough to keep him warm.

This was a mistake. A goddamned waste of time. He should’ve known better than to trust someone who operated like a phantom, someone who didn’t even have a traceable identity. And now? He was standing alone in the middle of the night, looking like an idiot. Vox felt like the punchline to some joke, and he hated being made to look like a fool.

The bus screeched to a halt in front of him, its brakes letting out a shrill, almost mocking whine. The dim lights barely cut through the grime covered windows. 

He was about to turn back around, teeth grinding, when a hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder.

His whole body tensed, his irritation briefly giving way to alarm. He whirled around, ready to throw a punch at whoever thought it was a good idea to sneak up on him.

But before he could get a word out to yell at the aggressor, a slim finger pressed against his lips.

" Shhh ," came Alastor's voice with unsettling ease. "No need for words, my dear Vox. I’m here now. Isn’t that what matters?"

Vox froze, his words catching in his throat. His eyes burned with anger, but Alastor’s grin only widened, his hand falling away as if nothing in the world could faze him.

" You’re late ," Vox hissed, his voice low.

"And yet, perfectly on time," Alastor countered cheerfully.

Vox glanced down at his watch, only to watch the minute hand to strike three-o-one. 

He rolled his eyes before stepping onto the bus, Alastor following silently behind him, a small grin carved into his face. Vox’s leather shoes clicked against the worn floor as he moved past the first few rows of seats without so much as a glance.

Alastor watched him with mild curiosity, his brown eyes following every step. “Where are you headed?” he asked, tilting his head.

“To the back of the bus,” Vox replied curtly, not bothering to look back.

“ You ? A white man sitting at the back of the bus?” Alastor’s voice carried a lilt of amusement, the grin on his face widening as he strolled after him.

“The fact I’m even here is a fucking miracle,” Vox muttered under his breath, his tone sharp with irritation. He glanced at the bus driver briefly before lowering his voice. “I don’t want the driver listening.”

“ Ah . How... expected.” Alastor chuckled, his footsteps light and unhurried. His eyes gleamed as he leaned slightly forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But I do enjoy a man who values privacy. It makes things so much more intimate .”

Vox shot him a glare as they reached the back of the bus, the hum of the engine filling the silence between them.

“Of course,” Alastor continued, his voice dripping with mirth as he slid into the seat across from Vox. “You’re quite the enigma tonight, aren’t you? A man of power, sitting where the rules would prefer you didn’t. How delightfully ironic.”

“You’re one to talk about following rules.” Vox shot back. “I don’t think you know your fucking place.”

Vox hadn’t met a lot of people who dared to talk back to him. Those who did usually found their careers hitting a dead end before they even had the chance to take off. He should have been offended by Alastor’s audacity, by the sheer nerve of the man to speak to him like an equal, or worse, like a superior. And yet, to his surprise, he found himself entertained.

“Oh, but I do!” Alastor’s grin stretched wider with a flash of yellow teeth. If only they were white, that smile would do great on television. “The trouble is, I’ve always found their idea of my ‘place’ to be so… uninspired. And where’s the fun in playing along with a game so dreadfully predictable?” It was clear Alastor wasn’t one to follow rules. 

Alastor leaned back into the seat, peering over the rim of his glasses with a glint of amusement. “I must say, I never expected to meet an admirer of my radio show.” His voice was smooth, his words dripping with a sort of charm he remembered from his radio show. 

Vox snorted, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the worn seat. “I’m not some obsessed fan, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he rolls his eyes. “I just know good media when I see it, that’s all.”

That was a lie. Vox was quite the fan. He would never admit it in a million years though. 

“Oh, but of course!” Alastor’s voice carried an exaggerated cheerfulness, his hands gesturing theatrically. “It’s always flattering to see someone… shall we say, inspired by my radio broadcast. After all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, isn’t it?”

Ah, about that…

“If you’re going to lecture me about using the same songs or stories you broadcast, save it. It’s not like I’m trying to steal your non-existent spotlight or anything.” He smiled. “Unless you’re mad about it. In that case, if you’re planning to kill me for it, you’ve got me cornered already.” He laughed off, before pausing when Alastor didn’t move.

The air in the bus seemed to shift as Alastor’s grin stretched unnaturally wide, his sharp teeth flashing under the flickering overhead light. 

Only at this moment did Vox notice how unsettling Alastors eyes were. 

For a moment, they reflected back a vivid, unnatural red, like the eerie glow of a predator caught in headlights. Alastor’s gaze was wide and unblinking, almost deer like in its intensity, but there was nothing innocent about it. His eyes gleamed with a sinister glint, sending an involuntary chill down Vox’s spine. For a moment, the world felt still, as though holding its breath.

But then, just as suddenly, Alastor relaxed, his grin returning to its usual smile. “ Kill you ?” he said with a laugh, his voice bouncing with mirth. “Oh, Vox, don’t flatter yourself! If I wanted you dead , you’d already be decorating the pavement outside this charming little bus. No, no, I’m here because I was quite intrigued to hear from Charlie that such a high profile figure would be interested in a humble radio show host like me,” Alastor said, his tone teasing. “You’re not planning anything malicious or unsatisfactory, are you?”

Vox raised an eyebrow. “No? Why would I?”

Vox had only agreed to Charlie's request for one reason: to get closer to Alastor. Maybe even hire him if he turned out to be as impressive as he seemed. So far, though, Alastor seemed to be doing a bit too much talking. Yet, despite himself, Vox didn’t mind.

It was a rare change of pace, having someone else fill the silence for once. As much as he loved the sound of his own voice, his vocal cords weren’t invincible. As much as he hated to admit it, he had his limits. For now, letting Alastor prattle on wasn’t the worst way to pass the time. If nothing else, it gave Vox an opportunity to observe him.

Alastor's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with that unsettling mix of curiosity and danger. “ Hmm ...” He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to send a shiver down Vox’s spine. “I’ve heard countless tales of the fates of your competitors.”

Vox couldn’t help the sinister grin crawl onto his face. There were people, ones who had dared cross him, the ones who had tried to outshine him. The ones who hadn’t made it out alive. He knew exactly where Alastor was going with this.

“Not a lot of them left standing,” Vox replied, his voice tight, betraying nothing but the briefest flicker of dark satisfaction. The deaths of his competitors had been... necessary . Business was business, after all. And in the world he ran, weakness had no place.

Alastor chuckled, but it wasn’t the gleeful sound Vox had come to expect. No, this was colder, sharper. “Ah, I thought as much. You do have a particular... disposition for dealing with competition, don’t you?”

"I handle things as they come. Not everyone is built for this game." Vox smirked, though the weight of Alastor's gaze made the edges of his lip twitch. "If you think I’m going to hurt her, there’s no point,” Vox retorted, his tone sharp. “There is no benefit for me. Why waste my precious time and money?”

Alastor’s eyes flickered briefly, the faintest flash of an emotion Vox couldn’t quite place crossing his features before he masked it with a neutral expression. “I do not care about Charlie Morningstar or the prospects of her hotel.” His words were deliberate, cold, dismissing any further argument before it could take root. "But I would hate to see her meet the same fate, given how inconvenient it would be if anything were to disrupt the... delicate balance she upholds."

Vox leaned back in his seat as he nodded. Speaking of Charlie… “I hope she was able to tell you about my interest in networking with you,” he said, his eyes briefly flicking toward Alastor.

Alastor tilted his head, his grin curving just a touch wider, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Networking, you say? My, my , and here I thought we were simply enjoying a friendly chat. But alas, business does have a way of barging in, uninvited, doesn’t it?” His voice dipped into something sharper, more pointed. “So tell me, Vox . What’s in it for me ?”

Vox didn’t miss a beat, this was his place of expertise of course. “Simple. You get to stay hidden from the public eye. No cameras, no pesky journalists poking their noses where they don’t belong. Just your voice, your stories, delivered to the masses through the VEE Radio Channel.”

Alastor’s grin faltered for a split second, enough to reveal a flicker of curiosity before it snapped back into place. “Ah, so you wish to make me the star of your airwaves. Flattering , truly. But why, pray tell, would you seek me out for such a… partnership?”

Vox smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Because you’re unique. Your voice, your perspective… It’s unlike anything else out there. And, let’s be honest, Alastor…” He gestured vaguely to the empty, dimly lit bus around them. “You don’t strike me as someone content with obscurity forever.”

Alastor chuckled softly, the sound low and unsettling, like a distant rumble of thunder. “An interesting proposition, Vox . But you must understand. I have no need for fame or fortune. Those things are trivial .”

“And yet,” Vox countered smoothly, his gaze unwavering, “you love an audience. I’m offering you one without the mess of being seen. Just think about it. Your stories, your words, reaching millions. This is a one in a million offer.”

Alastor’s lips twitched at the edges, the corners of his grin widening just a fraction. “And what is it that you’re after in return, hm ? You can’t possibly be offering me such a grand stage for nothing.” His tone was light, but his words held a certain sharpness.

Vox's lips curled into a sly smile. “Money, naturally. If fame and fortune don’t pique your interest, then consider the audience. All that means is I get to keep a little more for myself.”

Alastor’s eyes flickered for a moment, his grin momentarily faltering as he processed Vox’s words. The implication hung in the air. He leaned back in his chair, adjusting the hem of his coat with a smooth motion, then peered over the rim of his glasses. “Money, hmm ? But I must say…” He paused, his voice dipping lower, like a dangerous lull before a storm. “You’re rather bold , aren’t you?”

Vox didn’t flinch, his tone still smooth, calculated. “I’ll give you the ability to keep the spotlight, without letting it burn you. You don’t want to play by anyone’s rules but your own. This is an opportunity to do just that.”

Alastor chuckled softly, the sound almost a growl, a dangerous edge to it. "No strings, huh? I'm not so sure I believe you, Vox. Nothing in this world comes without a price, and I have the feeling that you're offering something that costs far more than what I might receive in return.”

Vox’s eyes sharpened, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let’s just say… I’m willing to let you be in control for once. In this world, that’s more power than you’ll find anywhere else. As long as I keep most of the profit.”

For a moment, Alastor said nothing, his brown eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he studied Vox. Finally, his grin returned, sharper than ever. “I must admit, you’ve piqued my interest. Very well. I’ll consider your offer… provided you can keep things as entertaining as you claim.”

“Entertainment is what I do best,” Vox replied, his smirk widening.

“Well then, if you say so.” Alastor’s voice was smooth and inviting, His smile remained unwavering as his fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest. 

FUCK. YEAH.

Vox silently cheered in his mind.

“Why don’t you come and stop by the hotel?” Alastor broke him from his thoughts. 

Him?

Vox. The Vox, walking into the Hazbin Hotel? Blasphemy .

Vox’s lips curled in an incredulous sneer, his gaze narrowing. There’s no way in hell anyone was going to watch him walk into that shit hole. He felt a flicker of distaste at the thought of associating with such a mess of a place. It was the kind of place where even a rat wouldn’t dare to scurry inside.

Alastor, however, didn’t seem phased by Vox’s immediate rejection. He simply shrugged nonchalantly, his grin never faltering. “If you come, I’ll introduce you to my broadcasting studio,” he added with an almost imperceptible gleam in his eyes. “You might find it... enlightening .”

Vox’s eyebrows twitched slightly at that. Broadcasting studio, he thought. The prospect of seeing Alastor’s inner workings was tempting. The corners of Vox’s lips twitched as he considered the offer. 

Fine. One visit. 

Just to see what kind of setup this guy has. It was too intriguing to pass up if he was interested in becoming a business partner.

He gave a small, almost dismissive shrug of his own, masking the curiosity now worming its way into his chest. “Alright, I’ll bite. But don’t expect me to be impressed by your little hotel.”

Alastor’s grin widened before the bus screeched to a halt. “Tuesday. 8 a.m. Don’t be late,” The faint flicker of amusement in his eyes was impossible to miss.

The jolt of the brakes tugged Vox from his thoughts. He glanced out the window, recognizing the dimly lit streets of his stop. Alastor tilted his head with exaggerated curiosity. “This is your stop, isn’t it?”

Vox stood from his seat as he smoothed his coat. He turned to Alastor, his voice cool but not entirely without warmth. “A pleasure doing business with you, Alastor. I’m looking forward to getting to know you more.”

He extended his hand with a firm gesture. Alastor’s eyes widened briefly, his grin faltering just enough to reveal a flicker of surprise. For a split second, his energetic smile slipped, replaced with something unreadable.

Then, just as quickly, Alastor’s neutral expression returned. His grin crept back into place, but this time, there was something sharper behind it, a glint of intrigue that hadn’t been there before. He reached out and clasped Vox’s hand with a theatrical flourish, his grip firm yet eerily cold.

“I’m excited to see where our partnership will go,” Alastor said smoothly.

As the bus doors groaned open, Vox nodded sharply, withdrawing his hand and stepping down onto the curb without another word. The hiss of the closing doors followed him as he walked off before finally processing what he had agreed to.

What the hell was he getting himself into?

Chapter Text

Vox was used to rumors. Being the CEO of the top broadcasting company meant constantly living in a whirlwind of speculation, whispers, and headlines. Some painted him as a genius, others as a tyrant, but he thrived in the noise. It was his game, after all.

So when he first heard about Neon Network, he didn’t give it a second thought. There was always some shiny new tech or broadcasting startup claiming they’d revolutionize the industry, but none of them ever managed to hold a candle to the VEE empire.

He figured they were just another shining star about to burn out. Sure, their advertising campaign was loud, but their flashy gimmicks never lasted. Their numbers would surge, stealing the spotlight for a moment, only to plummet into obscurity once the novelty wore off. Vox had seen it happen time and time again.

At first, he hardly noticed. The slight dip in revenue didn’t bother him. It was all part of the numbers game. He’d lose a fraction one day and gain it back tenfold the next. But this time, something was different. The numbers didn’t bounce back. Instead, they kept trickling down, steadily, stubbornly, like a slow leak in a fortress he’d built to withstand anything.

That’s when Vox decided it was time to pay attention.

Neon Network, the more he looked into it, the more unsettling their success seemed. Their streaming platforms, their ad campaigns, their content. it all felt a little too polished, a little too deliberate, like someone had taken a page straight out of his own playbook. And worse, their audience wasn’t just expanding; it was stealing from his.

It felt like a shameless replica of his work. Their visuals mirrored his sleek aesthetic and their storytelling format reeked of his signature style.

Sure,  he had “borrowed” a bit from Alastor’s work—if you could even call it that—but that was different. He was collaborating with Alastor now, wasn’t he? That made it a mutual arrangement, practically a compliment. Besides, Alastor didn’t even have an audience to speak of, so what was the harm?

They were ripping off the biggest name in the industry. His industry. The nerve of it was staggering, and worse, they were getting away with it. It wasn’t admiration like Vox had felt for Alastor’s show, but was outright theft. And Vox wasn’t about to let them think they could steal from the king and survive unscathed.

He was a hypocrite, but he couldn’t care less. 

Davis, the leading CEO of Neon Network had crossed a line with their latest campaign. Billboards plastered across the city boldly declared Neon Network as the future of entertainment, mocking “ traditional media dinosaurs ”. One tagline, in particular, made Vox’s jaw clench every time he saw it:

[Don’t let relics of the past hold you back—step into the Neon age!]

But what truly sent his blood boiling was the interview Davis’s Brown had given to The Neon Dispatch. The smug grin on his face practically leapt off the page as he casually dismissed Vox and his empire with a single, cutting line:

[Vox? Oh, he’s yesterday’s news.]

The audacity of it burned like acid. This wasn’t just a challenge—it was a declaration of war.

Vox was anything but the past.

He wasn’t some outdated relic collecting dust in a museum. He was the future . He was the one .

Vox was fresh, with a name that carried influence in every corner of the USA. He was new, the trendsetter others could only dream of keeping up with. He was young and handsome, something every woman loved. 

A relic?

No.  

Vox was the blueprint, the one everyone else desperately tried—and failed—to replicate. Neon Network could try to mock him all they wanted, but he wasn’t going anywhere. They’d learn that soon enough. If Neon Network wanted to play in his arena, he’d make damn sure they knew who owned the game. And if that meant stepping out from behind his polished desk and into the shadows to deal with the competition head-on, then so be it.

“Excuse me, sir,” Vox’s assistant began hesitantly, peeking around the edge of the office door. “I was wondering how to handle our current collaboration with Charlie Morningstar.”

Vox pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Right. That.

“I’ll figure it out tomorrow when I go to the Hotel.” He waved dismissively, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. “For now, we focus on Davis Brown and his stupid company.”

The name rolled off his tongue like a bitter pill. Of course, the CEO of Neon Network had to be  a Davis Brown . The man was a walking cliché. Two last names mashed together, and neither carried an ounce of flair. Brown—the dullest color imaginable, the very antithesis of everything neon stood for. Brown was the end result of someone screwing up a painting. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

“You’re… going to the Hotel?” The assistant blinked, his voice faltering slightly.

“Yes,” Vox said curtly, fixing him with a glare. “And if you value your pathetic excuse of a life, you will not breathe a single word of this to anyone.”

The assistant gulped audibly, clutching his clipboard like a lifeline. “Of course, sir,” he stammered, eyes darting to his notes. “Not a single soul.”

“ Good .” Vox leaned back in his chair, flicking his hand toward the door. “Now get out. Go do something useful for once.”

His assistant hesitated, shuffling awkwardly. “Speaking of that, sir…”

Vox’s eye twitched. “What now?”

“Well,” the assistant fumbled with his notes, clearly debating whether this was the right time to bring up whatever trivial nonsense he had to offer. “There’s been… another development regarding Neon Network.”

Vox straightened slightly, his irritation turning to sharp interest. “Spit it out.”

The assistant took a deep breath, his voice lowering as though afraid of being overheard. “It seems that they just secured another exclusive deal… with one of our former sponsors.”

Vox drew in a sharp breath, his chest rising. His hands came down on the desk with a thunderous slam, sending pens and papers scattering across the surface.

“ HOW DID YOU LET THIS HAPPEN ?” he barked, his voice venomous.

The assistant flinched, clutching his clipboard like it was a shield. “I-I’m sorry, sir. It appears one of your former employees, someone you let go, managed to secure a position with Neon Network and facilitated the deal.”

Vox’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Name?”

“Barnes, sir. Jackson Barnes.”

“Oh , that idiot .” Vox leaned back, folding his arms as his lips curled into a sneer. “I fired that incompetent fucker ages ago because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Always yapping about ‘ideas’ no one asked for. And don’t get me started on that accent. I couldn’t understand a fucking word.”

The assistant blinked, hesitating before offering cautiously, “Sir, he was from the South. He...still spoke English.”

Vox’s gaze snapped to him, cold and sharp. “Tell me you’re not defending him,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Unless, of course, you’d like to end up fired like he was. Or are you trying to tell me his slurred, incomprehensible drivel was worth something?”

The assistant paled, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words. “No, sir! Of course not. I didn’t mean—”

“Go,” Vox interrupted, his tone flat and final. It was less a dismissal and more a command.

The assistant didn’t wait for further instruction, scurrying out of the office like a mouse escaping a trap.

Left alone, Vox exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the edge of his desk as his mind raced. The web of annoyances surrounding him was growing by the day, and now Barnes was screwing him over tenfold. 

“Well,” he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “isn’t that just fantastic?”

Vox snatched his phone with practiced ease, his fingers curling tightly around it as though he were suffocating it. His hands, steady despite his bubbling irritation, punched in the number from his phone book.

He silently thanked his own foresight for once—keeping his paperwork semi-organized had finally paid off.

The phone rang, the dial tone an irritating noise that grated on his nerves. His leather shoes tapped a sharp rhythm against the polished floor as his free hand rested on his hip. Each ring felt longer than the last, testing his already thin patience. Finally, a voice crackled through the speaker.

[Eh, excuse me, who is this?]

Vox groaned quietly, pulling the phone slightly away from his mouth to ensure the mic didn’t catch it. Fantastic, he thought. I could barely understand him in person; now I have to decipher his nonsense over the phone?

“Am I speaking to Barnes? Jackson Barnes?” Vox asked, his tone sharp but polished, betraying none of the anger simmering beneath the surface.

[Why yes indeed! And who might I be speaking to?]

Jackpot . Vox’s lips quivered into a sly smile.

“It’s me—Vox,” he began, then quickly added, “Or you can call me Vincent. I’m no longer your boss, so I thought we could be more...casual.”

He let the words hang in the air, leaning into the smooth, almost conversational tone he knew would catch Barnes off guard. Vox hated giving even an inch of himself away, but he knew from experience that trust was a currency more valuable than money. Offering something personal—even something as innocuous as his real name—was often enough to lower defenses. Besides, his name wasn’t exactly a secret; anyone with a bit of searching could dig it up.

Still, the thought of sharing even the smallest part of himself left a sour taste in his mouth. Vulnerability, even feigned, was a distasteful necessity. But if it got Barnes talking...it would be worth it.

Plus, he wouldn’t be saying it for long.

“I was wondering if you’d be open to a collaboration between our companies,” Vox said smoothly, his voice honeyed with false cheer.

There was a pause, followed by a sharp laugh on the other end of the line. [Why should I trust you? You fired me, remember?]

Dammit , Vox thought. Not as dumb he thought he was. Maybe he grew a few brain cells over the past year. He rolled his shoulders back, forcing himself to maintain his composure.

“Well, you see, that was my mistake,” he began, his tone dripping with faux regret. “I didn’t fully realize your potential at the time. While I won’t insult you by trying to bring you back to the VEE Network, I’d like to propose a collaboration between our platforms. Of course, you’ll receive full credit with your name front and center on the cover.”

Vox’s words were carefully chosen, deliberate. He understood human nature all too well. People loved money, sure, but there was something even more intoxicating than wealth: validation. Recognition. The kind of acknowledgment that fed egos and made them pliable. He knew because he craved it himself.

The line went silent.

Vox tightened his grip on the phone, his patience wearing thin with each passing second. His mind raced, teetering between frustration and desperation.

Take the hook. Just take the damn hook , he willed silently, tapping his fingers against his desk.

Finally, a muffled sigh came through the receiver. Vox’s lips twitched into a satisfied smirk. 

Got him.

This fucker was just as stupid as he remembered.

[I’d be interested,] Barnes replied, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and caution. [What are the details?]

Vox’s smirk widened as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, since it’s a delicate matter, I’d prefer to discuss it in person. Are you free Wednesday night? Let’s say, 9 p.m., at the corner of I.M.P?”

Barnes hesitated, and Vox could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

I.M.P was a nondescript office building at first glance, the kind of place most people would walk past without a second thought. But for those in the know, it was something else entirely—a hub of shady dealings and under-the table arrangements. Vox had used their services once, but their sloppy clean up had left him with more headaches than solutions. The last time, evidence had nearly made it to a front page! Thankfully, he’d been too far removed to face any real fallout, but the ordeal had taught him a valuable lesson: never trust someone else to handle your mess.

[Yes, ] Barnes said finally.

Vox nodded, satisfied. “Good. But before we seal the deal, there’s one small condition.”

Barnes sounded suspicious. [What’s that?]

“I need your discretion,” Vox said, his tone dipping into something colder. “Don’t mention this meeting to anyone. Not a soul. If anyone asks, just say you’re pulling overtime or handling a last-minute project. If you keep your lips sealed, you’ll still get your front cover credit.”

[And if I don’t?]

“Then the collaboration ends before it even begins,” Vox replied smoothly, his voice laced with just enough threat to make his point clear.

Barnes went quiet for a long moment, and Vox could feel the tension in the air. Then came the words he was waiting for:

[I agree.]

Hook, line , and sinker .

He was just too good.

A triumphant grin stretched across Vox’s face. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he said smoothly before slamming the phone down onto the receiver.

The moment the call ended, Vox threw his fists into the air, unable to contain his excitement. “OH YEAH!” he hollered, spinning around in his chair like a child who’d just won at a carnival game. “DID YOU SEE THAT? People are so fucking stupid!”

His voice echoed through the office, a little too loud, and he caught the faint sound of concerned whispers filtering in from outside the door.

“Is he okay?” someone murmured.

“Should we... check?” another voice asked hesitantly.

Vox paid no mind to the whispers, reveling in his victory. He leaned back in his chair, basking in the glow of his own brilliance. This deal wasn’t just a win; it was a stepping stone, and Vox never passed up the chance to step on someone else to rise higher.

That idiot was definitely going to tell someone—Vox could see it coming a mile away. Barnes probably couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. But it didn’t matter. Barnes was too small time, too insignificant to pose any real threat.

Even if he blabbed, Vox was untouchable. The man wouldn’t have the connections or the clout to leverage the information into anything meaningful. A low level pawn like him couldn’t so much as scratch the surface of Vox’s carefully constructed empire.

Leaning back in his chair, Vox let out a dry chuckle. “Let him run his mouth,” he muttered to himself. “By the time anyone tries to act, they’ll be so far behind, it won’t even matter.”

He reached for a drink on his desk, taking a slow, satisfied sip. The wheels were already in motion, and it was time to get moving.

Let them whisper. Let them worry. He was Vox, after all—the mastermind behind the media empire. Nothing and no one could stop him.

Shit. He had to go to the hotel tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

Vox silently wished he’d never accepted Charlie's ridiculous proposal, even if he had been the one to initiate it, if it meant standing in front of this disaster of a building. It was an eyesore of peeling paint, crooked signage, and flickering neon lights that buzzed intermittently like they might give out at any moment.

He rubbed his eyes, the motion slow and deliberate.

Yeah, he wasn’t dreaming. 

The great CEO of VEE’s, a man who owned entire skyscrapers and commanded billion dollar deals, was standing on the cracked sidewalk outside a sad husk of a hotel. Out of all the places he could be, penthouse suites, high end studios, luxury lounges… The Hazbin Hotel was nowhere on the list.

His lip curled in distaste. This wasn’t just a mistake. This was an insult to his very existence.

“Vox! I’m so glad you were able to come! You don’t understand how excited I was to hear that you were coming here for a tour of the hotel.” Charlie’s voice rang out as she darted toward him, practically skipping from the stained glass doors that looked as though they might shatter with a strong breeze. A bright grin stretched across her face, oblivious to the sorry state of her building.

Behind her, Vaggie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and eyes narrowing as at Vox. Her glare was sharp, a silent warning that didn’t escape his notice.

He suppressed the urge to scoff. He wouldn’t admit, even to himself, that he’d willingly stepped into this dump just to dig deeper into Alastor.

“It’s a… pleasure… to be here,” he said, each word forced through clenched teeth as though it physically hurt to say them.

Charlie clapped her hands together, her grin growing even wider. “Fantastic! Come on in, I can’t wait to show you around!”

Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel and gestured for him to follow. Vox sighed, resigning himself to the ordeal, and stepped through the door. He silently prayed that the media would not catch wind of his current position. He held his breath, bracing himself for a flood of mildew, rot, or worse.

Vox hesitated for a fraction of a second before following, taking a sharp breath and holding it as he crossed the threshold.

The inside was bad . No denying it. Dust clung to every surface like an unwelcome guest, and cobwebs draped lazily across the high ceiling. 

Still, it wasn’t as bad as he had imagined. There was furniture, at least, and the place didn’t immediately reek of rot, which felt like a miracle in itself. Someone had clearly tried to clean, judging by the haphazard streaks on the floorboards where a mop had been dragged. There was effort here, pitiful as it was against the decay of the place.

“Well,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning the dimly lit lobby, “this should be... interesting.”

The chandelier hanging precariously overhead swayed ever so slightly, as if mocking him.

Actually, maybe he should take his words back. The garish red wallpaper, patched in places with uneven strips, was already grating on his eyes. Combined with the mismatched furniture ranging from lavish, velvet-lined chairs to something that looked like it had been dragged out of a dump. It all felt like the visual equivalent of a migraine.

Fantastic , he thought dryly. If this was Charlie's idea of ‘hospitality,’ he could only imagine what the rooms looked like.

Charlie beamed as though he’d offered her a glowing review. “I know it’s still a work in progress, but wait until you see what we’ve done with some of the rooms upstairs!”

“Charming,” Vox replied, deadpan, his skepticism practically radiating off him. The things he did for business…

“Vox! How marvelous that you managed to navigate your way here without getting caught by the media!” Alastor’s voice echoed with amusement as he descended the creaking staircase. Dust cascaded with each step he took, drifting lazily through the stale air like confetti at some celebration.

Vox rolled his eyes, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. “This place is simply charming . I’ll make sure to write a glowing review of the dirt avalanche you call a staircase.” he couldn’t help himself sarcastically. 

Alastor chuckled, the sound as smooth against his ears. “Ah, but you see, Vox, every particle of dust adds to the hotel’s… vintage charm.” He spread his arms as if presenting the crumbling structure as a masterpiece. “Why, you’re practically standing in history!”

Vox scoffed, brushing some imaginary dust off his sleeve. “Yeah, well, history could use a mop.”

From the corner of the lobby, Charlie looked ready to jump in, but Alastor held up a hand, his smile stretching impossibly wider. “Why don’t you leave him to me, Charlie dear? As the hotel’s host, it’s my duty to entertain our visitors.”

Vox arched an eyebrow, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “What strings did you have to pull to snag the title of ‘Hotel Host?’”

Alastor’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a glint of something sharp behind his gaze. “Oh, just as many strings as it took you to build your little empire,” he replied, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Which, if I’m not mistaken, is absolutely none.”

Vox chuckled, the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk. Alastor knew nothing, but he was fine keeping it that way. If the public believed he made it look easy, then good for him. “Well, aren’t you charming? Alright, let’s get this tour on the road, shall we?”

Vox couldn’t wait to get out of this shit hole, but maybe Alastor would make it a bit more bearable.

“Why, of course, Vox,” Alastor purred, the grin widening ever so slightly.

Without warning, Vox hooked his arm around Alastor’s, catching the man off guard. For a split second, a flicker of surprise crossed Alastor’s face, but it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. Vox felt the subtle tension in Alastor’s posture, the stiffness in his arm with faint resistance. 

With a disarming smile, he tightened his hold just enough to seem friendly without crossing a line. “Come on, Radio Star. Show me what all the fuss is about.”

Alastor’s grin returned, this time sharper, almost predatory. “Oh, Vox, I’m more than happy to oblige. But do be careful, you might not like everything you see.”

“Oh, I think I’ll manage,” Vox shot back with a chuckle, already savoring the way the smaller man clung to his arm.

He was far too used to young women throwing themselves at him, draping over his arms and begging him for a piece of his time or a ride home in his flashy car. This felt different... Alastor wasn’t seeking attention; if anything, he seemed to be testing Vox, seeing how far he could push before Vox pushed back.

They started with the basics, Alastor gesturing dramatically as he showed off the modest kitchen tucked into a corner of the hotel’s ground floor. “Here, our charming residents can whip up all manner of culinary creations,” Alastor said, a small flicker of excitement shining in his eyes behind his glasses. “I personally excel at Jambalaya, though I do have a knack for a mean gumbo, if I say so myself.”

Vox raised an eyebrow. “Really? Didn’t peg you as the cooking type.”

“Oh, Vox, I’m a man of many talents. Shall I add you to the guest list for my next dinner soirée?”

Vox arched an eyebrow, glancing at Alastor from the corner of his eye. “We’ll see,” he replied with a smirk. His tone was casual, but the hint of amusement in his voice betrayed his intrigue. “What exactly happens at one of your so-called soirées?”

Alastor let out a rich laugh. “Oh, far more than that, my dear friend! Though…” he added with a sly grin, “I make no guarantees about the safety of the hors d’oeuvres.”

Vox chuckled, shaking his head. “Right. Poison appetizers. How very on-brand.”

“Only for those who aren’t quick enough to catch the clues,” Alastor quipped, his grin widening. “But for you, Vox, I’d ensure the menu was... tailored to your tastes. After all, I wouldn’t want to upset my newest business associate.”

Vox rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t hide the faint upward twitch of his lips. “You’re something else, Alastor.”

“And you, my dear Vox, are the perfect audience,” Alastor replied smoothly.

The real show began after what felt like climbing the most stairs Vox had ever endured in his life. Was there seriously no elevator in this relic of a building? Or was the place so outdated that an elevator wasn’t even an option? By the time they reached the top floor, Vox was huffing and puffing like an out-of-shape old man.

Maybe he was out of shape. His viewers wouldn’t take kindly to seeing their sleek, confident media mogul looking anything less than his sharpest. Maybe it was time to spend less time sitting behind his desk and more time at the gym. Not that he’d ever admit that to Alastor, who was watching him with a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Is everything alright, Vox?” Alastor asked, his tone polite but laced with just enough smugness to be irritating. “You seem a bit winded. Perhaps I should’ve warned you about the climb.”

Vox straightened his posture, forcing himself to appear unbothered. “I’m fine. Just admiring the…charm of this place,” he said, though the sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.

“Good,” Alastor said, turning back toward the hallway with a skip in his step. “Because the best is yet to come!”

Vox rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “It better be worth it.” But as he followed Alastor, a small part of him couldn’t help but feel intrigued.

As Alastor rambled on, gesturing animatedly about the history of the building and its so-called “charm,” Vox found his gaze lingering on the man for longer than he intended. He had to admit, begrudgingly , that Alastor was quite a handsome man, in his own peculiar way.

Sure, he was stick-thin, practically a walking skeleton with a smile that was almost unnervingly wide. His stature wasn’t exactly imposing either; a couple of inches taller wouldn’t hurt. Yet, despite all that, there was something undeniably striking about him.

His sharp features were framed perfectly by the round glasses perched on his nose, giving him an intellectual charm that suited his overly eloquent way of speaking. 

And his skin, though darker than what Vox had grown accustomed to seeing in most of his circles, seemed to glow with an unbothered confidence. It was rich, warm, and smooth, a tone that complemented his neatly combed hair and crisp, old-fashioned red vest. There was no denying it: Alastor had a presence.

Vox blinked, realizing he was staring. Get a grip , he thought, shaking off whatever odd train of thought had brought him here. He blamed the ridiculous climb up the stairs for clouding his judgment. Still, as Alastor continued to prattle on about the architectural marvels of a rickety old banister, Vox couldn’t help but think to himself, Yeah, alright, he’s not half bad-looking.

He smirked, slipping his hands into his pockets as he watched Alastor out of the corner of his eye grabbing keys from out his pocket. 

As they reached the door at the very end of the dimly lit hallway, Alastor’s eyes sparkled with that same mischievous twinkle Vox had noticed earlier. Vox arched a brow at the sight of the door. Unlike the other janky, peeling entrances they had passed, this one was surprisingly well kept. The wood was polished, the handle sturdy, and even the number plate seemed to shine brighter, as though it belonged to another building entirely.

Alastor produced a key from his pocket, unlocking the door with a satisfying click. “Welcome,” he said with a flourish, swinging the door open. “To my humble little corner of paradise.”

The room was modest but undeniably alive with personality. At its center stood a worn recording studio setup, surrounded by an eclectic array of decorations. A deer head mounted above the desk caught Vox’s attention first, its antlers dusted clean and polished to a gleam. The rest of the room was a mix of practicality and eccentricity with mismatched rugs covering scuffed floors, shelves lined with vintage trinkets, and the unmistakable scent of aged wood mixed with faint traces of coffee and dust.

“Quite the setup, isn’t it?” Alastor beamed, spreading his arms. “She may not be cutting edge, but she’s reliable and brimming with charm.”

Vox’s eyes narrowed as he stepped further in, gravitating toward the heart of the room: the radio system. He studied it with a critical gaze, noting the knobs, dials, and wires. Many of the pieces were outdated, relics of a time long past. “No wonder I couldn’t get any proper tracings off this thing,” Vox muttered, running a finger over one of the panels.

But, despite its age, the equipment was in impeccable condition. Not a speck of dust lingered on the knobs, and every surface gleamed as though Alastor had polished it daily. It was clear that while the system had seen better days, it was cherished.

Vox let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he turned back to Alastor. “The rest of this hotel is absolute dog shit,” he said bluntly, gesturing vaguely toward the hall, “but this room? It ain’t bad.”

“Why, thank you!” Alastor replied, his grin as wide as ever. “I’ve always believed that one’s space should reflect the best of oneself. And, well…” He spread his arms dramatically. “You’re standing in mine.”

Vox smirked, crossing his arms. “Yeah, I can tell. It’s weird, it’s outdated, and it’s got your fingerprints all over it. But I’ll give you this, it’s not a total eyesore.”

Alastor’s laughter filled the room, a sound somewhere between genuine amusement and theatrical delight. “High praise indeed, coming from a man with such refined tastes.” Alastor chuckled, clearly unfazed by the jab. “Why, thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t,” Vox shot back, but his tone lacked its usual edge. He leaned against the desk, brushing a hand over one of the clean, polished panels. “I can tell you care about this place, though. You’ve kept it spotless, even with all this junk.”

“Junk?” Alastor echoed, feigning offense as he gestured to the setup. “Why, these are vintage treasures! But, yes, I do take care of my own. It’s all about pride in one’s work, you know.”

Vox chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, I know. Guess this isn’t all bad after all. Reminds me of where I started.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment. 

Vox’s smirk faltered for just a moment as his gaze swept over the room again. Something about the small, beat-up recording setup reminded him of his early days in the film industry. Back when everything was a gamble, and he spent hours crammed into tiny, stifling booths where the lack of airflow made his head spin.

Those booths weren’t much better than this room, cramped, hot, and barely functional. But they were where he had learned the ropes. He could almost feel the weight of the headphones he used to wear, the way his voice echoed in the narrow space as he practiced line after line.

He had come a long way from those days. Now, he commanded the attention of a live audience every night, lights flashing and screens buzzing with his name. But something about Alastor’s studio, the mismatched yet clean setup, the evident care behind every piece of outdated equipment, stirred a quiet flicker of nostalgia.

For all its quirks, this room had heart. It was a small, personal sanctuary, much like those booths had been for him once upon a time.

“Alright, let’s see what this thing can actually do, Mr. ‘Hotel Host.’”

Alastor’s grin widened, and with a flourish, he took his place at the console. “Prepare to be amazed, dear Vox. She may be old, but she’s got a few tricks up her sleeves yet.”

Vox rolled his eyes, but a small smirk tugged at his lips. He had to admit, as strange and out of place as the room and Alastor were, there was something endearing about it all. “Alright,” he said, resting a hand on the back of the chair by the console. 

Vox leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed casually as he watched Alastor fiddle with the ancient radio equipment. Normally, he’d be annoyed by how long this was taking, but for once, he didn’t mind. The conversation between them had been oddly... easy. It wasn’t something he was used to. Most people either stumbled over themselves to impress him or barely managed to string a sentence together, too intimidated by his reputation.

But Alastor? Alastor was an entirely different breed. He spoke to Vox like they’d known each other for years, his tone light but sharp, his words toeing the line between playful banter and outright mockery. And Vox, against all odds, found himself enjoying it.

“I gotta hand it to you,” Vox said, his tone dipping into amusement, “you’re not half bad at holding a conversation. Most people would’ve shut up by now, but you? You keep talking like we’re old pals.”

“Well, perhaps we are,” Alastor replied with a toothy grin, glancing at Vox over his shoulder. “In spirit, at least. After all, I’m no stranger to charming the likes of you.”

“Is that so?” Vox raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ve got me all figured out?”

“Oh, not entirely,” Alastor said, turning back to the console. “But I do find you fascinating. A man of your... caliber, shall we say? It’s not every day I meet someone who radiates such confidence, and yet hides so much beneath it.”

Vox blinked, momentarily thrown off. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Alastor chuckled, the sound low and unsettling, though not entirely unpleasant. “Oh, nothing at all. Just an observation.” He paused, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the panel. “You remind me of the stars I used to hear about in my youth. Larger than life, but still human underneath all the glitz and glamour.”

Vox snorted. “Stars from your youth? What, you mean silent film actors? How old are you, anyway?”

Alastor turned to him fully this time, his grin widening. “Why, I was born in 1927.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and Vox stared at him, his disbelief obvious. “ You’re kidding .”

“Not at all,” Alastor said, his tone almost cheery. “January 1st, 1927, to be precise.”

“No way.” Vox straightened up, looking him up and down as if the answer was written somewhere on Alastor’s thin frame. “You’re older than me?”

Alastor let out a laugh that sounded almost musical, though there was a sinister edge to it. “Surprising, isn’t it? Did you think I was younger?”

“Yeah, but twenty-seven?” Vox snorted. “You talk like you’ve been alive for centuries. That’s barely older than me.”

Alastor’s grin widened, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. “Well, I do appreciate the compliment, dear Vox. Older often implies wisdom, after all.”

“Or it just means you’re a fossil,” Vox shot back, though there was no real bite to his words.

Alastor chuckled, the sound low and melodic, yet unsettlingly amused. “A fossil? My, my, Vox. You certainly know how to flatter a man.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Vox said, shaking his head with a smirk. “You’re not that impressive.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Alastor replied smoothly. “But we’ll see if I can’t change your mind.”

Alastor laughed again, the sound echoing through the small room. “Touché, my friend, touché. But enough about my age. Surely you have more interesting questions than that?”

Vox leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms again. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of questions. Like, how the hell you managed to survive this long with that mouth of yours, for one.”

“Ah, now that,” Alastor said, raising a finger, “is a story for another time. Let’s just say I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. The world has a funny way of keeping you on your toes, especially when you’re as... resourceful as I am.”

Vox tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. “Resourceful, huh? That what you call it?”

“Indeed,” Alastor replied, his tone almost smug. “And if you’re lucky, perhaps some of that resourcefulness will rub off on you.”

Vox barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ll pass. I’ve got enough going on without adding whatever you’ve got into the mix.”

Alastor merely smiled, his eyes twinkling with that same unsettling charm. “Oh, Vox. You say that now, but give it time. You might find my methods... inspiring .”

Vox wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a promise, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Alastor was strange, sure, but he was also undeniably entertaining. And maybe, just maybe, Vox liked the idea of having someone around who saw him more than just his money for once.

“Alright, old man,” he said with a smirk, “let’s see what you’ve got. Impress me .”

Alastor’s grin widened, and he turned back to the console. “Oh, I intend to.”

It was refreshing to listen to Alastor banter on about his setup, his voice animated as he explained which knobs controlled what and how each adjustment could shape the sound. Vox tried to follow along, but in reality, he’d gotten lost minutes ago. Alastor was rattling off terms like “gain,” “compression,” and “frequency response” with the same enthusiasm one might use to discuss a thrilling novel.

Meanwhile, Vox’s mind wandered back to his own experience with recording. When he first started, the systems had been a bit newer, sleek with dials he never had to touch. He’d been the face of the operation, not the hands. Engineers handled the knobs and sliders while he delivered the voice or presence they wanted on screen.

“And that’s why you must always ensure proper calibration before you start recording,” Alastor concluded with a flourish, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

“ Uh huh ,” Vox replied, giving a nod as if he hadn’t completely zoned out. “Makes total sense.”

Alastor’s raised an eyebrow. He definitely knew he didn’t understand any of that.

Oops . 

Alastor’s grin turned sly. “Now, how about we celebrate with a drink? There’s a fine bottle of whiskey waiting downstairs in the lobby.”

Vox blinked, glancing at the old clock on the back wall. “It’s not even lunch.”

“There’s never a wrong time for a good cup of whiskey,” Alastor countered smoothly, straightening his glasses with a flourish. “You strike me as a man who appreciates quality.”

Vox snorted but couldn’t entirely suppress his amusement. “Alright, you’ve twisted my arm. Let’s go see if this place has any redeeming qualities besides your room.”

Before they left, Alastor took a moment to lock the studio door again with a deliberate click, ensuring it was secured. Vox raised an eyebrow at the gesture. “Don’t trust the residents here?”

Alastor gave him a sideways glance, his grin never faltering. “Oh, not in the slightest, dear Vox. Shall we?”

With that, the two made their way back down the creaky staircase, the faint hum of Alastor’s cheerfully tune following them.

Cute.

Wait what?

Alastor led Vox down to the bar, the faint buzz of conversation growing louder as they approached. 

Vox couldn't focus on it, though. Why the hell was he even thinking about it? 

Alastor? 

Cute ? 

What the fuck ? 

He barely knew the guy. Sure, Alastor was a fine-looking fellow, someone who seemed to connect with him, made him laugh, had this charisma that was hard to ignore. But that didn’t mean anything, right? He didn’t like him, not like that. He just enjoyed his company. 

Yeah, that was it. He wasn’t the type to get attached quickly. Definitely not.

At least they were going to have a drink soon to calm his nerves. Vox was silently grateful for that. Nothing like a good drink to shake off strange thoughts.

It wasn’t like he was against the idea of being with a man, either. He had hooked up with a few in his time, mostly when Valentino invited him to parties. It was fun for the night, a way to blow off steam. But it was always just that. Nothing more. No afterthoughts, no lingering feelings. Just a good time in the moment.

Besides, a white man messing around with a colored person? Vox didn’t care, but he knew how the media would spin it. People would make a fucking spectacle out of it, try to turn it into something it wasn’t. Society loved to keep things neat and tidy in their boxes, and people were meant to stay segregated. That was the way it always had been.

But still… the thoughts lingered.

The lobby’s dim lighting gave way to a warm amber glow from the bar’s overhead lamps, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. Seated at the far end was… Angel Dust?

Angel Dust shared a laugh over something indecipherable but clearly amusing to something between him and the bartender.

Angel threw his head back, his hair tossing behind him. “I told him, ‘Sweetheart , if you’re gonna lie, at least pick something believable!’” he said, cackling.

The bartender snorted, shaking his head as he nursed a half empty glass of whiskey. “Yeah, well, you’re one to talk about believable stories,” he retorted, his gravelly voice dripping with sarcasm.

Alastor’s and Vox’s arrival cut the banter short. Vox crossed his arms, his glowing visor narrowing in a way that could only be described as suspicious. “What are you doing here?” he asked Angel Dust, his voice sharp.

In reality, Vox didn’t give much of a flying fuck about Angel Dust. The guy could do whatever he wanted; Vox really didn’t care. Why should he? Angel Dust wasn’t under his contract, he was under Valentinos.  Plus, if he wanted to waste his time on whatever he was into, Vox had no problem with that. After all, the man made him money, and that was all that mattered in the grand scheme of things.

But the real issue wasn’t with Angel. It was with Valentino. That was where Vox’s attention went. Valentino was a different beast entirely. Angel was a loose cannon, Valentino was the one who could cause real damage.

Angel smirked, unfazed. “Crack is expensive,” he replied with a casual shrug, as if that answered everything.

Vox groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Does Valentino know you’re here?”

For a brief moment, Angel froze. His grin faltered, but he quickly plastered it back on, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “If he did, I’d be dead,” he said lightly, waving a hand in the air as if to dismiss the thought. “But he doesn’t, so it’s all good. Please don’t tell him.” His whispers as an afterthought with a grim expression.

Vox glanced at the bartender, who was sipping his drink with a bored expression. The older man, a shorter, shaggy bearded figure whose dark skin contrasted sharply with his scruffy white shirt, seemed completely uninterested in the drama. His weathered features gave him an air of weariness, and Vox couldn’t help but notice he shared the same skin tone as Alastor, though their vibes couldn’t have been more different.

“Well, this is turning into quite the circus,” Vox muttered.

Alastor clapped his hands together, his grin as wide as ever. “Indeed! But unfortunately, the stage is a little crowded for my liking.” He stepped forward and waved a hand dismissively at the other two, his tone overly cheerful. “Husker… would you please take your delightful banter elsewhere.”

Angel Dust pouted dramatically, tossing his boa over one shoulder. “Oh, come on, we were just getting started!”

“ Out ,” Alastor repeated, his grin never wavering but his tone firm.

The bartender he now knew as Husk grumbled under his breath but slid off his stool, glass still in hand. “Yeah, yeah, don’t have to tell me twice,” he muttered, trudging toward the exit.

Angel hesitated for a moment before blowing a kiss in Vox’s direction. “See ya later, sparky!” he teased before following Husk out, his heels clicking against the floor.

As the two ascended the staircase too… who knows where, Vox didn’t really want to know since the only other thing up there was a balcony and the bed rooms.

Alastor, with a sly grin, slid off his stool and walked around the bar as if he owned the place. His movements were smooth, almost theatrical, as he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf. 

“Careful,” Vox said, watching with mild amusement as Alastor deftly uncorked the bottle. “Don’t break anything. I’m not paying for it.”

“Oh, perish the thought,” Alastor replied, his tone laced with faux innocence. “I’ve got the touch of an artist.” He poured the rich amber liquid into two glasses, careful to make it an even pour. “And besides, Husk owes me a favor or two.”

Satisfied, Alastor returned to Vox, placing the glasses on the counter with a flourish before taking the seat next to him. He raised his glass, that ever-present grin stretching wider. “To good company,” he said, his voice smooth and warm, with a slight edge of mischief.

Vox raised his own glass, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “And good whiskey,” he added before clinking his glass against Alastor’s.

They both took a sip, the smoky, rich flavor burning just enough to be satisfying. Vox watched Alastor out of the corner of his eye. The man seemed entirely at ease, leaning back in his chair as if they were old friends catching up after years apart. In contrast, Vox’s shoulders remained tense, his fingers drumming rhythmically against the glass as though trying to expel the nervous energy coursing through him.

The two settled at the bar, the warm amber glow of the overhead lights casting a soft sheen across the polished wood counter. Alastor swirled his glass of whiskey lazily, his ever-present grin firmly in place, radiating an air of effortless confidence. Vox, however, shifted slightly in his seat, his jaw tight as his eyes darted toward the other patrons before snapping back to his drink.

Alastor’s keen eyes glimmered as he leaned back slightly, observing Vox with a knowing grin. “I can tell there’s something on your mind,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity beneath the teasing tone. “Care to share, or shall I keep prattling on about myself?”

Vox huffed, his lips curving into a faint smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He pretended to ignore the jab, gripping his glass a little tighter. The sharpness of Alastor’s gaze left little room for evasion, and Vox finally exhaled, the tension in his posture only slightly easing. He took a slow sip of whiskey, savoring the burn, before setting the glass down with deliberate care.

“Have you heard of NeonNetwork?” he asked, his voice steady but lacking its usual casual flair. His hand lingered on the glass, the rhythmic drumming of his fingers now replaced by a slight tap tap.

Alastor’s grin widened instantly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the bar. “Of course, who hasn’t? The man’s name is practically synonymous with a certain... brashness in the industry.”

Vox let out a low growl of frustration. “He’s been causing me all sorts of problems. He’s siphoning off my revenue streams with his shady tactics, undercutting my contracts, and taking clients who should’ve been mine. It’s like the guy’s made it his personal mission to ruin my business.”

Alastor’s grin faltered, his expression darkening ever so slightly. “Ah, yes, he’s quite the opportunist, isn’t he? But my disdain for him isn’t so much professional as it is personal. The man’s morals, or lack thereof, are deplorable.”

Vox raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Explain.”

Alastor rested his chin on his hand, his tone shifting to something colder, more serious. “NeonNetwork’s CEO, Davis Brown, got a reputation for crossing personal boundaries. Particularly with women.”

Vox rolled his eyes, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “As if that’s anything new.”

When you’re in the entertainment world, what do you expect? It’s a winning game for people like him. Male, rich, and famous? The whole system’s designed to let you do whatever you want and get away with it. Those women? They have nothing on that kind of power. 

“Hell, they probably wanted it.” Vox muttered as an afterthought.

Alastor’s hand paused mid motion as he swirled his glass, and his brown eyes darkened so intensely they almost appeared crimson. His grin thinned into something sharp, dangerous. “You would do well to swallow those words, my dear Vox, if you knew what was good for you.”

Vox raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Didn’t peg you for the type to preach women’s rights, Alastor.”

Alastor set his glass down with precision, the sound of it meeting the wood unnervingly sharp. He turned to face Vox fully, and for the first time, his ever present grin seemed to harden into something far less friendly. His voice, though calm, carried an unsettling weight that cut through the casual atmosphere like a blade. “And why wouldn’t I be? Women, for all the ways society mistreats and undervalues them, are the backbone of this very world. They raise the children, keep households intact, and endure more from men like you than you could ever fathom.”

The change in Alastor’s demeanor made Vox blink, his usual air of confidence faltering. Had he hit a soft spot? “Uh, okay, but-”

Alastor raised a hand, the motion swift and silencing. His eyes gleamed with a cold, almost predatory light, and his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, laced with an authority that sent a chill down Vox’s spine. “ Do not mistake my respect for women as some sentimental gesture. I do not like being seen as lesser than anyone, man or woman. But I recognize their strength, their sacrifices, and their importance. Without them, this so-called society you exploit would crumble into dust.”

For a moment, Vox was speechless, his smirk wiped clean as he stared at Alastor like he’d grown a second head. This wasn’t the playful, bantering man he’d been speaking to moments ago. This was someone far darker, far more serious than he’d expected.

When he finally found his voice, it came out quieter than he intended. “Alright, point taken. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”

Alastor’s grin returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, as if the tension had vanished into thin air. “Good. Now, where were we?”

Vox exhaled slowly, his mind still reeling. He’d never thought he’d be rattled by Alastor, of all people. For once, he didn’t have a retort. Instead, he reached for his whiskey, taking a long sip as Alastor’s words echoed in his mind.

Alastor’s lips curled into a sharp grin again, though his eyes remained cold. “But it seems we share a common disdain for the man. Perhaps that could work to both our advantages, hmm?”

Vox raised an eyebrow, his frustration with the said CEO mixed with slight curiosity. “What are you suggesting?”

“Oh, nothing specific,” Alastor said smoothly, swirling his whiskey with an almost casual air. “But if ever there were a time for creative solutions to a shared problem, now might be it.”

Vox smirked despite himself. “ Creative solutions , huh?”

He let the words hang in the air as he took another sip of his drink. Vox’s thoughts drifted to possibilities, darker than he cared to admit aloud. One particular solution, involving a gun and a dead body, lingered in his mind. Though he doubted Alastor would appreciate hearing about it without raising an alarm, or at least an eyebrow.

Breaking the stillness, Vox shifted his weight, his tone turning slightly more businesslike. “So, about our deal. Do you accept?” He leaned back, casual in appearance, though his sharp gaze studied Alastor carefully.

“Ah yes… the main reason you’re here.” Alastor’s grin widened, sharp and teasing as ever. “As much as I’m sure you’d love for me to jump the gun, I’ll need a bit more time to process.”

Vox nodded, hiding his disappointment but relief behind a smirk. At least Alastor wasn’t cutting him off entirely. That was a good sign. Something about the man was oddly soothing… His playful nature, his sharp wit. It was rare to find someone who didn’t tiptoe around his status, who wasn’t constantly trying to please him or use him. Bantering with Alastor felt... natural, almost refreshing.

He hadn’t felt this way in a long time.

Maybe Valentino had been right, he thought begrudgingly. Maybe he was shutting himself off too much.

“Take your time, then,” Vox said, swirling his drink before taking a sip. “But don’t take too long. I’m a busy man, after all.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting forever, darling .” Alastor’s voice carried its usual charm, but his eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

Vox wouldn’t admit it, but he felt his heart stop for a moment at the words.

“Well, if you want to get some insight, you can come down to the studio on Sunday and see it for yourself,” Vox offered, leaning forward slightly, his glass still in hand. “We’ve got the newest tech state of the art everything. You’ll be impressed.”

Alastor arched an eyebrow, his grin twitching wider. “If I were the average person, I’d say I’m quite honored by the invitation. But I must admit... I’m intrigued.”

“Good. Because I don’t just want you to come in for a visit,” Vox said, his tone sharpening. “I want you to work in the same building. It makes sense. Collaboration, efficiency, and you’d have access to the best tools money can buy.”

Alastor chuckled, his voice light but with an undertone of skepticism. “Now, why would I need to leave the comfort of my own studio for yours? I’ve been running my operation just fine from where I am. Why change what’s already working?”

Vox rolled his eyes, setting his drink down on the counter with a light clink. “Because my studio is better, that’s why. Better tech, better resources, better everything. You’d be able to take your work to the next level.”

“And yet,” Alastor mused, tapping a finger against his chin, “I’ve managed to thrive without all of that. What’s the real reason you want me there, Vox? Surely it’s not just out of the kindness of your heart.”

Vox scoffed, though he couldn’t quite suppress a small smirk. “Fine, I’ll admit it. It’s easier to keep an eye on you if we’re under the same roof. And-” he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest, “I’d rather have someone with your skill set nearby. You’ve got potential, and I’d hate to see it wasted in some outdated studio.”

Alastor’s grin softened into something more thoughtful, though his eyes still gleamed with mischief. “I appreciate the flattery, dear Vox. Truly, I do. But you’ll have to make a better case than that to get me to uproot my operation. Let’s just say... I’m not one for change unless it’s truly worth my while.”

“Come on Sunday,” Vox said, his voice low and persuasive. “Take the tour. See what I’m talking about. You’ll understand once you see it.”

Alastor considered this for a moment, his smile returning to its full brightness. “Very well. I’ll humor you, Vox. Sunday it is. But don’t think for a moment that I’m easily swayed.”

“We’ll see about that,” Vox smirked, his tone light but confident.

As the conversation shifted to other topics, Vox’s thoughts wandered, barely containing his anticipation. Showing off the studio meant impressing Alastor. The sleek, high tech facilities, the state of the art equipment, the undeniable energy that buzzed in every corner of the VEE’s headquarters. He wanted Alastor to see it, to feel it, and maybe, just maybe, to appreciate the world Vox had carved out for himself.

But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? Vox’s lips twitched into a faint smirk as he leaned back in his chair. Spending more time with Alastor was an unexpected perk. Vox wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he looked forward to seeing that ever present grin light up when Alastor would eventually enter his world and get to broadcast to a wider audience.

Maybe it was ridiculous to feel this excited over a simple tour, but the thought of having Alastor there, even briefly, left a lingering warmth in his chest. Sunday couldn’t come soon enough.

“What did you think of the hotel?” Charlie’s cheery voice interrupted the quiet moment between Vox and Alastor. She beamed at Vox, her enthusiasm practically bouncing off the walls.

Vox jumped in surprise, not expecting her to come from who knows where. “It’s... charming,” Vox replied, his tone noncommittal but polite enough to avoid raising an eyebrow from Charlie. “Not quite my usual scene, but I can see the appeal.”

Charlie clapped her hands together, her grin widening. “That’s great! It makes my heart so warm to see Alastor warming up to someone.” She cast a fond glance at Alastor, her sincerity shining through.

Vox raised an eyebrow and glanced toward Alastor, only to be met with the glare of the shorter mans round glasses obscuring his eyes entirely. If there was any emotion there, it was hidden behind his smile. Vox couldn’t tell if Alastor was genuinely amused by Charlie’s statement or if he was just playing along.

“Ah, dear Charlie,” Alastor chimed in, his voice light and pleasant as he adjusted his glasses, his grin not faltering for a moment. “I’m always open to charming company. Right, Vaggie?”

Vaggie stopped in her tracks and gave him a hard, suspicious glare. “No, Alastor,” she replied bluntly, crossing her arms. “You’re never nice to new people. So, yeah, you’re currently freaking me out.”

Charlie’s expression turned slightly awkward, caught between laughter and concern. “Vaggie, come on. Alastor’s just being polite.”

“Polite?” Vaggie scoffed, crossing her arms and glaring skeptically. “He’s never polite to anyone unless he’s plotting something. So either you’ve sparked his interest or you’re walking straight into one of his schemes.”

Alastor’s schemes? Vox almost laughed at the thought. As if he could be tricked by anyone, let alone Alastor. He prided himself on being a step ahead, on seeing through lies and manipulation before they even had the chance to take root. Alastor might have his charms, but Vox wasn’t some clueless fool to be lured into a trap.

But in his world, trusting too easily could mean losing everything.

Alastor tilted his head, his grin widening, though the look in his eyes hinted at mischief. “Why, Vaggie, I’m hurt. Can’t a gentleman simply enjoy a pleasant exchange without suspicion?”

“ No ,” Vaggie deadpanned.

Vox, watching the exchange, couldn’t help but smirk. “Seems like your reputation precedes you, Alastor.”

“It’s a burden I bear with pride,” Alastor replied smoothly, raising his glass in mock salute.

Vaggie sighed, tugging Charlie by the arm. “We’ve got to go. Nifty is probably setting something on fire by now.” She shot Alastor a warning glance. “Behave.”

“Always,” Alastor replied with a chuckle, waving them off as they disappeared toward the lobby.

Vox leaned closer to Alastor, his amusement clear. “I think she likes you.”

“Oh, Vox,” Alastor replied with a sly smile. “I’m certain the feeling is mutual.”

With their cups empty and the pleasant buzz of whiskey fading, it was time for Vox to go. He stood up slowly, trying to push aside the unsettling feeling that had been gnawing at him. Vox had spent the last few hours with Alastor, chatting and laughing, but there was something about the connection between them, something Vox couldn't quite define, that left him feeling uncomfortably warm.

No way , he thought to himself. He couldn’t be feeling this. He barely knew the guy, and here he was, acting like some stupid high schooler. 

Get it together, Vox.

Alastor rose from his seat with a smooth elegance, that familiar grin on his face. “It’s been a pleasure, Vox. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Yeah, of course,” Vox muttered, trying to brush off the strange feelings stirring inside him. He took a deep breath.

Alastor led him to the door, where they stood for a brief moment, the silence between them almost comfortable. As Vox made his way toward the door, he noticed something, Alastor’s collar was ruffled slightly, hanging out of place.

Without thinking, Vox reached out, his fingers brushing gently against Alastor’s collar as he straightened it. As Vox stepped closer to adjust Alastor's collar, he couldn't help but notice something. Alastor was shorter than him. It wasn’t by much, but it was enough that Vox had to tilt his head down slightly as he reached up to smooth out the ruffled fabric.

He hadn’t really thought about it before, but now, standing face to face with the colored man, it became apparent. Vox had always been taller than most people, but this felt… different. Alastor’s sharp, well tailored vest made him seem taller than he was, but in this moment, as Vox reached out, he realized that the top of Alastor's head barely reached Vox's chin. 

Vox’s fingers brushed against the smooth fabric of Alastor’s collar, adjusting it carefully. He stepped back quickly, his heart suddenly beating a little faster than it should. “There you go,” he muttered, clearing his throat.

Alastor blinked, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. For the briefest moment, Vox thought he saw something flicker across the other man’s expression, something soft, a look of unexpected gratitude. But it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.

“Ah, thank you, Vox,” Alastor said, his voice carrying a note of appreciation, though he quickly masked it with his usual charming smile. “I do appreciate the gesture.”

Vox nodded, his face flushing ever so slightly. “No problem,” he mumbled, trying to keep his composure.

“Well then,” Alastor said, opening the door with a flourish, “until next time, my friend.”

Vox gave a final wave before stepping out, the door closing softly behind him. As he walked away, he couldn’t help but shake his head. What the hell was that? But no matter how much he tried to brush it off, he knew one thing for sure: something about Alastor had gotten under his skin, and he couldn’t quite shake it.

Fuck. Why was his heart beating so fast?

Chapter Text

Vox knew he was being a hypocrite, considering how often he reprimanded others for tardiness. He hated waiting, time was money after all. But when it came to his own schedule? Who said he had to be on time ? So at exactly 9:05 PM, Vox walked up in front of the IMP building, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement.

He spotted Jackson Barnes immediately. The man was short, with an unassuming demeanor, his looks too plain and generic to remember fully.  But Vox could practically feel the masked nerves radiating from him. Barnes tilted his head back to meet Vox’s gaze, his expression neutral but his eyes betraying a flicker of unease. Vox smirked. People like Barnes were used to looking up at him in more ways than one.

Without a second to waste, Vox spoke in a low voice, barely audible over the city’s ambient noise. “Follow me.”

Barnes didn’t respond, merely falling into step beside him as they weaved through the bustling New York City streets. Vox could tell that Barnes was cautious, his shoulders tense as he followed. He, on the other hand, didn’t feel a thing other than the growing excitement in his chest. He didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to know no one was following them. 

This wasn’t his first rodeo.

After several turns, they reached a secluded park near the river. The trees were tall and uninviting. It was the kind of place people instinctively avoided, and Vox knew from experience that no one would stumble upon them by accident. He’d orchestrated this scenario countless times before, and it always played out exactly as he intended.

Stopping in the middle of the empty park, close to the fenced off river, Vox turned to Barnes. “Alright,” he said coolly, his voice cutting through the silence. “Let’s get to it.”

Vox leaned casually against the wire fence, the faint flicker of a street lamp a few feet away casting long shadows. He tilted his head slightly, a smug smile playing on his lips as he regarded Barnes.

Barnes shifted nervously, his coat pulled tightly around him as if to shield himself from the cold, or perhaps from Vox’s penetrating gaze. He silently hoped it was the latter. 

It was time to put this fucker in his place.

Suddenly, a faint rustling noise broke through the stillness, coming from the bushes at the edge of the park. It was almost imperceptible, but enough to make Barnes flinch and glance nervously in its direction.

Vox’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his sharp eyes flicking toward the source of the sound. He knew exactly who it was. 

That fucker... he thought irritably. 

If they do so much as sneeze and blow his cover, he swore he would be the next one he would toss into the river.

“Something bothering you?” Vox asked, masking his annoyance with a tone of mock curiosity.

Barnes cleared his throat, attempting to steady himself. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, his voice lacking conviction. “Probably just the wind.”

“Hmm,” Vox murmured, straightening up from the wall and letting his hands rest loosely in his pockets. “Let’s hope so.”

Vox, none the wiser, turned his attention back to Barnes. “Now, where were we?” he said smoothly, the rustling forgotten. 

For now. 

“So, Jackson,” he drawled, his tone deceptively pleasant, “what information do you have on this collaboration between us? Anything worthwhile you’d think the people would love?”

Barnes hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting nervously, but Vox’s smooth voice and disarming smirk had a way of pulling people in.

“I’ll give it to you, Barnes. You’ve got every right to be cautious,” he said smoothly. 

“Yeah, real reassuring…” he muttered, his voice laced with skepticism.

Vox chuckled, his grin sharpening. “Oh, but you’re here anyway. That says something, doesn’t it? You’ve always been sharp, haven’t you?” Vox continued, his voice laced with charm. “One of the best at sniffing out what’s beneath the surface. That’s why I liked having you around. Your instincts are second to none.”

Barnes straightened slightly, a flicker of pride crossing his face. “Well, I do have a knack for these things,” he admitted, the tension in his shoulders easing.

“I’d say more than a knack,” Vox said, leaning in slightly. “It’s rare to find someone with your talents. Not everyone has the intelligence or the... adaptability to succeed in this business.”

Barnes chuckled nervously, but the compliment had landed. “I guess you’re right about that,” he said, a small grin forming on his face.

“Of course I’m right,” Vox said smoothly, his praise flowing effortlessly. “You’re someone people underestimate, and that’s what makes you dangerous. You know how to play the game. You’re a valuable asset.”

Barnes practically preened under the attention, his chest puffing slightly. “I appreciate you saying that,” he said, his tone almost bashful. “I’ve always thought you recognized my potential better than anyone else.”

Vox’s smirk widened, though his eyes gleamed with calculated intent. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise, would I? Now, about that information…”

As Barnes soaked up the compliments like a sponge, Vox maintained his polished smile, but inwardly, he sneered. Feeding other people’s egos felt like a chore. It was one he despised but had mastered. To him, the world was full of empty compliments, hollow words exchanged like cheap currency to grease the wheels of manipulation. He played the game when it suited him, but that didn’t mean he respected it.

Barnes, clearly riding the high of Vox’s praise, nodded enthusiastically, eager to please. “NeonNetwork’s been doing some under the table deals,” he said, his words tumbling out with growing confidence. “Stuff that could really make waves if it got out.”

“Go on,” Vox urged, his voice soft but insistent, the praise having worked its magic to loosen Barnes’ lips further.

Every word of praise that left his lips felt like a betrayal of his own principles. Why should he waste time building others up when their only purpose was to serve him? Compliments were tools, nothing more, meant to manipulate and control. In the grand scheme of things, they were as disposable as the people they were directed toward.

Vox’s irritation simmered just beneath the surface as he watched Barnes preen. The man had no idea how meaningless the words were, how little effort it took for Vox to craft them. If Barnes wanted to believe he was special, that was fine. Let him bask in the illusion of his own importance.

It was pathetic how easily he bent to his words.

“Things are moving.” He paused.

Yeah, and youre stating the fucking obvious small man . Vox couldn’t help but sneer in his mind. 

Vox’s eyes narrowed slightly, his intrigue masked by a calm facade. “Go on,” he urged, his voice smooth but commanding.

“It’s Brown,” Barnes said firmly. “He’s planning something big. A deal. Next Saturday night.”

“Details?” Vox prompted, his tone sharp enough to cut through the night air.

“Somewhere in the Bronx.” Barnes continued without missing a beat. “It’s not just the usual backdoor business… It's big . They’re hiding something, and they’re willing to put a lot on the line for this.”

Vox tilted his head, “You’re surprisingly well informed, Jackson,” he said smoothly, though the praise was calculated, only meant to draw out even more.

Barnes smirked, clearly proud of his intel. “I don’t waste time on rumors, Vincent. This is solid. Browns playing a high stakes game, and if you’re smart, you’ll use it to your advantage.”

Vox’s expression faltered for the briefest of moments at the sound of his real name slipping from Barnes’ lips. His polished composure cracked just enough to reveal a flicker of irritation before he smoothed it over with a tight, humorless smile.

He hated hearing it. It felt too personal, too real. It was an intrusion on the carefully curated image he’d constructed. Vox was a name of power, control, and status. His real name, though? That was just a shadow of who he used to be.

Regret prickled at the edges of his mind. Letting Barnes know even that much was a mistake. But Vox quickly dismissed the thought, his smug demeanor returning.

After all, it wasn’t like Barnes would be around long enough for it to matter.

“Oh, I will,” Vox said, his grin sharpening. He adjusted his tie with a deliberate motion, already considering the possibilities. “And it’s good to know you can deliver when it matters.”

Barnes straightened, exuding confidence as he met Vox’s eyes. “I always deliver. Just make sure you do your part, too.”

Vox raised an eyebrow, pretending to mull over the information while inside, satisfaction coiled in his chest. “See, Jackson, this is the kind of thing I was hoping for. Valuable insight.” 

Barnes sat up straighter, emboldened by Vox’s approval. “There’s more,” he offered. “They’re bringing in someone from out of town. A middleman, maybe? It’s big enough that they don’t trust their usual guys.”

“Now that,” Vox said, straightening his tie with a glint of satisfaction, “is something worth knowing. Well done, Jackson.”

Barnes puffed up slightly, a faint grin tugging at his lips. He clearly enjoyed the rare moment of validation, even if Vox inwardly scoffed at how easily flattery worked on people. "Glad I could be useful,” Barnes said, his voice carrying a note of pride.

“Oh, you are,” Vox replied smoothly, already filing the information away. "For now."

Vox studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He had to give the man credit. People like Barnes were exceptional weasels. They could uncover secrets with an uncanny knack for staying under the radar. That kind of skill was both impressive and irritating, particularly when Vox was on the receiving end of it.

And that, Vox mused, was one of the main reasons why he’d fired Barnes from VoxTech. The man’s talent for sniffing out information had been useful. Too useful. It was only a matter of time before Barnes’s habit of digging in the wrong places would have bitten Vox where it hurt. But it seemed that Barnes’s actions had come back to help him instead.

Barnes, still riding the high of his own confidence, failed to notice the shadow that crossed Vox’s face. Soon, none of this would matter, Vox thought, his fingers brushing idly against the face of his watch. Not to him, anyway.

“Well, Jackson, you’ve certainly outdone yourself this time.” Vox finally said, his tone nonchalant but his mind already turning over the new information. 

Vox smirked, reaching into the inner pocket of his tailored coat and pulling out a crisp envelope. He held it out to Barnes with a flourish, his grin sharp and knowing. “Here,” Vox said smoothly. “I brought you a little gift. Consider it a token of appreciation for your... stellar work.”

Barnes eyed the envelope suspiciously for a moment before snatching it from Vox’s hand. He tore it open with fumbling fingers, his breath catching when he saw what was inside.

A pristine $100 bill. 

His face lit up in disbelief, a wide grin stretching across his face. It was the kind of money that could make a man feel untouchable.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Barnes muttered, holding up the bill to the dim light as if to confirm it was real. “This is some serious appreciation, Vox.”

Vox chuckled, the sound low and smooth. “Oh, don’t mention it. But you know me, I like to go above and beyond. In fact...” He trailed off, slipping his hand back into his coat.

His smirk deepened, his hand brushing against the cool surface of what was tucked inside his coat. His smirk didn’t waver as he pulled out a sleek pistol equipped with a silencer. Without hesitation, he raised it and fired. The muted pfft of the gunshot echoed in the empty park as Barnes’ eyes widened in shock, his body crumpling to the ground in an instant. 

Vox’s aim was flawless. This wasn’t his first time, and it wouldn’t be his last.

The bullet pierced Barnes’ skull with brutal precision, leaving no room for survival. The impact shattered bone and tore through brain, Vox lowered his weapon, his expression cold and detached. As far as he was concerned, Barnes had already served his purpose.

He stood over the twitching body, tilting his head as he admired his handiwork. A sadistic grin stretched across his face as he watched the blood pool beneath Barnes, painting the cold pavement in dark crimson. "Such a shame, Barnes," Vox muttered, his tone mocking. "You were always good at getting information. Too bad you didn’t know when to stop talking."

The body was going to be a hassle, though. Barnes was technically probably still ‘alive’ per say, but he wouldn't be for long before his heart could no longer pump enough oxygen to his brain. 

Vox grimaced, his gaze flitting briefly to the lifeless body sprawled on the ground. The thought of dealing with it, of touching it, sent a shudder of revulsion through him. He had always considered such tasks beneath him, far too grotesque and undignified for someone of his caliber. Handling a corpse was a job for the desperate and expendable, not someone of his refined status.

Vox crouched down, carefully prying the blood soaked envelope from the man’s fingers as they twitched. The slickness of the blood made it harder to grip than he’d expected, and for a moment, he grimaced in annoyance. “Even in near death, you’re inconvenient,” he muttered under his breath.

He would have to throw away his gloves. It was a shame, it was one of his favorites.

As he straightened up, removing his gloves from his hands and throwing it onto his dying body, a faint shuffling noise caught his attention. Vox’s sharp gaze snapped to the bushes behind him, his body immediately tensing.

The rustling grew louder, and Vox’s fingers instinctively twitched toward his coat pocket where his pistol was hidden. His voice cut through the quiet like a knife. “Whoever’s there, you’ve got about three seconds to show yourself, or I’ll assume you’re not friendly.”

 “Jeez, calm down, drama queen . It’s just me!” Blitzo popped out from behind the bushes, looking smug as ever.

Vox’s shoulders relaxed, though his expression didn’t soften. “Took you long enough,” he said dryly, pocketing the envelope. 

His shoulders relaxed, though his expression remained as sharp as ever, his gaze shifting to Blitzo.

Vox couldn’t help but inwardly sneer at the colored man's theatrics. Men with a background like Blitzo’s, especially those from the lower classes, couldn’t be trusted with anything important. They were opportunists, scavengers who clawed at scraps and cut corners wherever they could.

But Blitzo wasn’t the worst of the lot. His competence, though irritatingly inconsistent, wasn’t negligible, and Vox couldn’t deny that hiring him provided a certain convenience. Cheap labor was always a bonus, and while Blitzo might not have been a shining example of loyalty or finesse, he got the job done when properly supervised.

Blitzo smirked. “You know, for all your big talk about being efficient, you sure like dragging things out.”

Vox’s lip curled in irritation, but he dismissed the comment with a flick of his hand. “Just clean up the mess and spare me the commentary.”

Hiring Blitzo made things simple. Sure, he despised the lower class weasel and his relentless mouth, but Blitzo’s knack for cleanup was undeniable. As long as Vox didn’t have to deal with the body, he didn’t much care who did it.

Blitzo rolled his eyes, his gaze drifting to the corpse. “Yeah, yeah. I can’t believe you did the fun part without me. The killing’s the best part! I fucking hate being on clean up duty.”

“The body’s going to leave a trail, and I’m not dealing with the mess. Vox rolled his eyes, already regretting the decision to involve him. "You’re here to clean, not complain. Just drag the body and toss it into the fucking river like I ordered ."

Blitzo muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue, crouching to inspect the body. “Nice work, though. Clean shot. Almost artistic.” 

Vox gave a slight, humorless chuckle, the smirk returning to his face. “I have my talents.”

Blitzo crouched down, grabbing Barnes by the arms and grumbling under his breath. His boots scraped against the pavement as he tried to lift the surprisingly heavy corpse. "This guy weighs a shit ton! You couldn’t pick someone fucking smaller to shoot?!"

Vox observed Blitzo’s small frame struggling to hoist the average-sized man, the scene almost comical in its futility. He felt a flicker of amusement, though it was quickly swallowed by his usual disdain. The poor fool must have been cursed in a past life, Vox mused coldly, to end up this short and scrappy, a man of color destined to scrape by in the underbelly of society.

If Vox were a better man, he might have spared a shred of pity. But compassion wasn’t in his nature, especially not for someone he deemed so far beneath him. Instead, he leaned against the park bench, his expression a mask of detached superiority, as though even being present for this grim cleanup sullied his image.

“Try not to drop him, Blitzo,” Vox drawled lazily, his tone oozing condescension. “Or should I hire someone else to carry the load since this might be a little too much for someone of your... stature?”

Blitzo muttered curses as he began hauling the body toward the river, clearly struggling with the weight. “You know,” he huffed, “you could at least pretend to be fucking grateful.”

Vox smirked, leaning against the wall and watching with mild satisfaction. “I’m paying you for a reason. You should be grateful I’m giving you worthless people work.”

Vox had long since grown accustomed to Blitzo's unfiltered, vulgar way of speaking. At first, every crude comment and snarky quip had grated on his nerves, igniting a fiery urge to put the man in his place, preferably with a few broken bones to drive the point home. But over time, Vox had come to a begrudging realization that Blitzo wasn’t going to change, and silencing him wasn’t worth the effort.

Instead, Vox had adopted a more dismissive approach, letting most of Blitzo's remarks slide with nothing more than an eye roll or a flicker of annoyance. It wasn’t that he liked the colored man's constant stream of profanity, it was more that he’d built up a tolerance.

These days, Blitzo's words barely registered. Vox’s energy was too precious to waste on disciplining someone who seemed to thrive on pushing buttons. Whether he liked it or not, the man's obnoxious chatter had become background noise.

With one final heave, Blitzo reached the riverbank, tossing the body and his body gloves over the edge. A loud splash echoed as Barnes' lifeless form disappeared beneath the dark, swirling water. 

Vox adjusted his tie, brushing off invisible dust from his pristine jacket. He fidgeted with his sleek, silver watch, the quiet click of the strap barely audible over the distant hum of the city. 

“I heard some rustling earlier,” Blitzo said as he glanced around the dimly lit park stopping Vox in his spot. 

Vox raised an eyebrow, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. “That wasn’t you?”

Blitzo shook his head, looking slightly offended. “No? I came alone today since Moxxie's on a date or whatever.”

Vox chuckled dryly, his smirk returning. “I doubt it was anything. Just a stray rat, or maybe another one of your kind lurking in the shadows.”

“Hey, watch it,” Blitzo shot back, pointing a finger at Vox.

“Now, how about you stop whining and finish the cleanup?” He shot back.

“Fine, fine,” Blitzo muttered, turning his attention back to the patch of blood stained on the ground. “But seriously, next time, try not to make it so messy.” 

“Duly noted,” Vox replied, his grin widening as he watched Blitzo grumble his way through the task. 

Vox couldn’t help but let his eyes linger between the ticking hands of his watch and the darkened horizon as if midnight.

Blitzo, dragging the last remnants of the cleanup toward a corner of the park, noticed the unusual behavior and cocked an eyebrow. “Alright, what’s with the fidgeting? You’ve got ants in your pants or something?”

Vox shot him a withering glare. “I have very important matters to attend to,” he replied curtly, flicking his wrist to glance at his watch once more.

Blitzo’s lips curled into a mischievous grin, the kind that only spelled trouble. “Important matters, huh? Lemme guess… Finally got yourself a girlfriend? He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and added with a mock serious tone, “Let me guess! Late night rendezvous? Candlelit dinners? Or, you know” his voice dropped to a teasing purr “some after hours activities?”

Vox groaned, rubbing his temple as if the mere act of acknowledging Blitzo’s nonsense would drain his remaining patience. “Anything but that, you cretin ,” he snapped.

Blitzo cackled, clearly delighted by Vox’s irritation. “Oh, come on, big guy. You’re practically buzzing like a love struck teenager over there. You sure it’s not some scandalous secret you’re hiding?”

Vox’s lips curled into a thin, exasperated smile. “Blitzo, if you don’t stop this insipid prattle and focus on finishing your job, I’ll make sure the next ‘important matter’ involves you scrubbing your own blood stains from my carpet.”

Blitzo couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, come on, Vox. Spill it. What’s so important you’re acting like the world’s gonna end if you’re not home by midnight? You don’t strike me as the Cinderella type.”

Vox’s jaw tightened, and he refused to look at Blitzo, instead glancing once more at his watch. “It’s none of your business,” he said coolly, but there was a slight edge to his tone, betraying his irritation.

But Blitzo wasn’t deterred, the mans grin only growing. “Man, you’re really bad at keeping secrets. If you’re trying to hide something, you’re gonna have to do better than that.” He paused, tapping his chin mockingly. “Then again, nobody listens to people like me anyway, right? So what’s the harm in telling me?”

Vox paused for a moment, his mind weighing the situation. He hated how Blitzo managed to worm his way under his skin, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. The power imbalance between them made any secrets shared with Blitzo essentially worthless. Vox’s status as a white man in a world designed to favor his kind ensured that someone like Blitzo, colored, lower class, and overlooked, could scream the truth from the rooftops, and no one would believe him.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Vox’s lips. The imbalance of power was intoxicating, and he loved feeling untouchable. “Fine,” he said, his tone almost dismissive. “If you must know, I need to get home by midnight to listen to a radio broadcast.”

Blitzo blinked, taken aback. “A... radio broadcast?” he repeated, incredulous. “All this fuss over some late night talk show? What are you, eighty years old?”

Vox groaned, rolling his eyes in exasperation. It wasn’t the first time Blitzo’s relentless nosiness had tested Vox’s patience, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Blitzo burst into laughter, clutching his sides. “Dude, I’m, like, ten years older than you, and even I don’t listen to the radio! What a loser. How old are you anyway? Twenty going on ninety?”

Blitzo chuckled, clearly unfazed. “You already regret it, don’t you?” he quipped, a sly grin spreading across his face. “It’s written all over your snooty face. Bet you regret a lot of things, huh? Like, I don’t know, not having anyone who actually likes you?”

Vox’s expression darkened, his fingers twitching as he shot Blitzo a withering glare. “You’re one to talk,” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut through the tension. “For the record, I get way more women than you could ever dream of, so do yourself a favor and shut the hell up.”

Blitzo snorted, leaning back with an exaggerated laugh. “Pfft, women? Yeah, nah, I’m not into that. But hey, congrats on being the king of boring ass heterosexuals, I guess.”

Vox’s jaw clenched, a flicker of annoyance flashing in his eyes. “Who said anything about being boring?” he retorted. He straightened his tie with an air of nonchalance, his smirk returning. “For the record, Blitzo, I get more men than you could ever dream of.”

Blitzo’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide with mock shock. “No way! You? You’re into guys? Holy shit, I didn’t see that coming!”

Vox’s face immediately twisted into a scowl. “I am not gay, you idiot. It’s just... something I do for fun. Don’t read into it.”

The words tasted bitter the moment they left his mouth, and he didn’t even know why he’d said them. Perhaps it was because Alastor had been on his mind more than usual lately, his sharp grin and grating laugh lurking in the corners of Vox’s thoughts like an unwelcome ghost. 

Why was he, Vox, the CEO of Voxtech, wasting his precious time arguing with a colored man like Blitzo? He didn’t even know, and yet here he was, stooping to this level.

He rubbed his temple in frustration. Perhaps he was going crazy. Or maybe, deep down, he recognized the bitter irony of it all and hated himself for letting it happen. Either way, it only fueled his growing irritation, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he cursed Alastor all over again for making him question himself.

Blitzo shrugged, his grin only widening. “Eh, whatever floats your boat. Fuck you for the extra competition, though!”

Vox let out a long suffering sigh, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Why am I even wasting my time talking to you? This conversation is beneath me.” He prepared to leave, his voice sharp and commanding as he added, “Just make sure nobody, and I mean nobody, finds out about this.”

Blitzo saluted mockingly, unable to suppress his laughter. “Aye aye, captain! Your big, bad secret’s safe with me. Scout’s honor!” His grin faltered as he noticed the blood soaked envelope being handed his way. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, recoiling slightly. “Ugh, what the fuck? That’s fucking disgusting!”

Vox rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed by Blitzo’s reaction. “Relax. The money’s safe. You want your payment don’t you? It's much more than I usually pay you for such a shitty job but, I’m feeling… gracious today. Don’t waste it.”

Blitzo carefully took the envelope, holding it between two fingers like it might bite him. He opened it just enough to see inside, the corners faintly stained but otherwise intact. “Huh. At least you didn’t ruin the cash.” He smirked, tucking the envelope into his jacket.

“I aim to please,” Vox said with a mock bow, his tone dripping with sarcasm before shooting him a withering glare before striding off, muttering under his breath about the incompetence of colored fuckers like him and how he really needed to reconsider his choice in hired help. Blitzo, meanwhile, leaned back against the bushes, still chuckling to himself. 

The thought of a fine cup of wine and the soothing tones of his midnight broadcast occupied his mind, pushing away the irritation Blitzo had stirred up. 

He wasn’t gay. 

He was straight as could be. 

Of course, Blitzo would swing that way. He was as unholy as a sinner in church, flaunting his twisted preferences like a badge of honor.

People of color could never reach the level of refinement or superiority that white men like Vox embodied. That was just a fact of the world he’d grown up in, a truth he lived by. They were coarse, loud, and untrustworthy, always scrambling for the scraps left behind by their betters.

He just had fun with men. Yeah... that was it . Fun . Nothing serious, nothing worth examining too closely. Just indulgence when the moment struck him. After all, why shouldn’t he?

Adjusting his coat, Vox muttered under his breath, 

“ Imbeciles, all of them .”

Chapter Text

Vox groaned as he face planted onto his wooden desk, sending pens rattling in their cups and papers skidding to the edge. His head throbbed, not from exhaustion but from the relentless thoughts spiraling through his mind.

Thoughts of him .

Ever since he and Alastor had hung out together at the hotel, Vox couldn’t get the man off his mind. It was maddening . The way Alastor carried himself, that grin, and his voice... 

Don’t judge him when he says Alastor’s voice is kinda sexy….

Okay, very sexy. But that’s not the point.

The point was that he had only known Alastor for a little over a week, and somehow, inexplicably, he’d already fallen hard. It was humiliating. He wasn’t Valentino, chasing after fleeting desires like some kind of shameless whore. 

Vox had standards , damn it. He was better than this .

And yet, here he was, grappling with feelings he couldn’t even begin to rationalize. Of all people. A colored man at that. The thought made Vox’s stomach churn with frustration and something uncomfortably close to guilt. He’d built his empire on control, on being above the chaos of the world, and now one man had him spiraling.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he muttered, his voice muffled against the polished wood of his desk. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the ache in his chest would subside, but all he saw behind his lids was that damned smile.

It was weird to like men.

No, scratch that. It was wrong to like men. A sin, even. Vox gripped his hair tight, his nails digging into his scalp as if that might force the intrusive thoughts out of his head. Not that he really went to church or cared for its teachings, but it was obvious how society viewed it. People of the same sex liking each other? That wasn’t something that came without judgment, without consequences.

He wasn’t against it, though. Not really. Valentino could lounge around with other men all he wanted, messing around with Angel Dust or whoever else caught his fancy. Vox didn’t bat an eye at their actions, so long as they didn’t make the company look bad. As long as he was guaranteed success.

But this? This was different .

He couldn’t be gay. No way. Not Vox, the famous, glorious face of the VEE’s. The Vox who built an empire of tech and entertainment, who commanded respect and envy from everyone. What would people say if they knew? What would it do to his image?

Ruin it. That’s what.

His stomach churned as the thought clawed its way through his mind. He slammed a fist down onto his desk. “ No ,” he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp and brittle. “This is nothing. Just... just a stupid phase or something.”

Vox squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back in his chair, breathing hard. He wasn’t Valentino, chasing after fleeting desires. He wasn’t Angel Dust who was willing to sacrifice his body for money. He wasn’t Blitzo, born a sinner from the beginning.

He was Vox.

And Vox couldn’t afford to let something so... trivial destroy everything he’d built.

The one time he’d been caught messing around with another man, dragged into it by Valentino, of course, the press had pounced like vultures. The flashes, the questions, the headlines. It was a nightmare.

Vox had spun the story in his favor, claiming to the media that they’d both been heavily intoxicated, slurring half truths about how nothing had really happened. Just two guys, a little too drunk, getting carried away. But the truth? He wasn’t all that drunk. Sure, he’d had a drink or two, but he wasn’t stumbling around, mind lost in a haze. He knew exactly what was happening, and part of him had wanted it just for the hell of it.

He still silently cursed the paparazzi who’d managed to snap those damning photos. It had been a harsh lesson, one that drilled into him the importance of caution. You could never be too careful, not when you lived your life in the spotlight.

He couldn’t be gay. 

He couldn’t.

I just can’t , he thought, his chest tight as the mantra repeated in his head. I can’t. I just... I just can’t.

The sound of Alastor’s smooth, almost jovial voice filled the room as Vox leaned back in his chair, sipping his midnight coffee to keep him from falling asleep after a full day of work. 

Work life balance? What was that? 

[And in other news, my dear listeners,] Alastor’s voice chirped, his tone chipper as usual [a curious case of a missing Neon Network employee who knew more than he should have! Speculation swirls that he may have been unceremoniously dumped into the river after a fatal gunshot directly in the cranium, though, alas, the body has yet to be found. Intriguing, isn’t it? I truly wonder what secrets the man must have known to meet such a fate.]

Vox froze, his hand tightening around the mug. His blood ran cold as he processed the words. Last night. It happened just last night. The man had disappeared, and Vox had ensured it was clean. Meticulous. Nobody should have known… Not yet, at least. 

Had it been Blitzo? But not even he was stupid enough to botch a job that badly. Or reckless enough to leave a trail, knowing full well what the consequences would be.

Still, doubt gnawed at the edges of Vox's mind. Blitzo was unpredictable, and unpredictability had a way of spiraling into disaster. If he had screwed this up... well, Vox wasn't sure who he'd kill first. Blitzo for his incompetence or himself for trusting a lower class man like him in the first place.

If it wasn’t Blitzo, who else could it be? Vox’s mind raced as he set the mug down with a sharp clink, fingers drumming against the desk. He had even bribed the right people at the station to keep it quiet. It was foolproof with plenty of corrupt officers in the NYPD to choose from.

The NYPD. So famous , yet so infamous for being utterly dog shit at their jobs. When Vox flashed a few bills, it was like giving a treat to a starving dog. It was instant obedience, no questions asked.

But if someone had talked, if there was a leak, then it wasn’t just incompetence. It was betrayal. And betrayal didn’t come cheap.

“How the hell...” Vox muttered. His mind raced, piecing together how this information could have slipped through. The police hadn’t released any statements, and there hadn’t been any witnesses. He had made sure of that. The bribes had been substantial enough to guarantee silence, hadn’t they?

Yet here was Alastor, gleefully broadcasting it to his audience like it was a juicy piece of gossip. Vox’s gut churned. There’s a traitor in the station. There has to be.

He stood up abruptly, pacing across the room. “Damn it,” he hissed under his breath, his fingers drumming against his thigh. He would have to be more careful. Someone within the police force had leaked the information. 

It had to be him.

Adam. Adam had been the one he paid off, the one who always played both sides but knew how to keep his mouth shut. Or so Vox had thought.

His face flashed in his mind, and a grimace spread across Vox’s face. He had always known the man was slippery, playing holy in his uniform while pocketing cash on the side. But to think he’d turn around and sell him out? That was a new low. Or maybe... maybe Alastor had a way of pulling strings that Vox hadn’t accounted for.

Vox’s teeth clenched. He hated being outmaneuvered. Worse, he hated not knowing who was responsible. Was it Adam alone, or was someone else feeding information to Alastor? Either way, it was clear he’d have to be more vigilant from now on.

And as for Adam? Well, Vox would deal with that little betrayal soon enough.

[Well, well, well, dear listeners! It seems our little midnight rendezvous has been picking up quite the audience. How thrilling! I must extend my deepest gratitude to all you delightful souls tuning in. I’ve received quite the flurry of requests to send in letters and stories, but alas, due to certain circumstances beyond my control, I am unable to accept such correspondence. Tragic, truly! But fear not! The show must go on, and I do hope you’ll continue to indulge in our little nocturnal escapades. Now then, onto our next story…]

Vox exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as Alastor’s smooth voice faded into static. He turned his attention back to the endless diagrams of his stocks and market trends, each dip and plateau a reminder of the thorn in his side.

Neon Network.

They had gone unchecked for far too long. Stealing his audience, his revenue, his spotlight. It was more than a nuisance now. It was personal. And if there was one thing Vox didn’t tolerate, it was someone daring to play in his territory without consequences.

His fingers tapped against the desk rhythmically. He had danced around the issue for long enough and now, he had the information to act on it.

It was time to meet Davis Brown face to face.

As he leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk curled on his lips.

Oh, did he love the color red. 

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp as Vox's bright, impossibly shiny car rolled up to the hotel entrance, its engine purring like a content cat. The vehicle gleamed obnoxiously under the sunlight, catching the attention of passersby and turning heads. Vox was leaning back casually in the driver’s seat, sunglasses perched on his nose, looking as composed as ever.

He had almost been late, emphasis on the almost. 

He had woken up late after sleeping past his alarm from staying up too late. Not because of work, but just the thought of showing Alastor around something he had worked hard for and was proud of had thoughts racing through his head. He would have to show him his office, the recording studio with their best sets, the old fashioned coffee maker that really needed replacing but Vox wasn’t ready to say goodbye to it just yet, and of course last but not least, the audio recording studio.

After he had ungratefully awoken from his restless slumber, he had spent most of his time in front of the bathroom mirror gelling his hair and trying to wrangle the bird's nest into something decent.

Out of all days to have the worst case of bed head… he had thought to himself. 

He was nervous, but he would never admit it. 

Thankfully, not many people were around the hotel, away from prying eyes. 

As Alastor stepped out of the hotel doors, his usual confident grin was plastered on his face, but the sight of the car gave him pause. He tilted his head, taking in the absurd vehicle, and let out an amused laugh.

“Well, well, Vox,” Alastor said, strolling up to the car with that usual smug grin and hands folded neatly behind his back. “This is certainly... a statement. Though I must admit, it’s perhaps the least discreet vehicle I’ve ever laid eyes on. Tell me, are you trying to get caught, or is this just the byproduct of questionable taste?”

Vox, already perched by the driver’s side, lowered his sunglasses just enough to peer over them with a withering look. “Questionable taste?” he echoed, voice flat. “It’s a custom import, Al. Not a clown car.”

Alastor clicked his tongue and began to slowly circle the car like a critic in an art museum. “Oh, but the shiny finish! The borderline illegal spoiler!”

Vox scoffed, planting a hand on the roof of the car protectively. “You don’t have to like it, but you could try not insulting it within ten seconds of seeing it.” His fingers tapped an irritated rhythm against the metal. “Some of us happen to appreciate craftsmanship.”

“Of course, of course,” Alastor said, waving a hand airily. “I’m just saying, it’s less 'getaway car' and more ‘crime scene centerpiece.’”

Vox gave a sarcastic smile and reached over to unlock the passenger door. “Do you want a ride, or should I call you a cab with less personality?”

Alastor chuckled, sliding into the passenger seat with far too much smugness. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of missing this. But I do hope you have a solid plan for sneaking me in. Your approach to subtlety is about as delicate as a wrecking ball in a glass shop.”

Vox muttered something under his breath as he started the engine, refusing to look at him. “Says the man in pinstripes who talks like a theater major.”

“Flattery,” Alastor said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh, “will get you everywhere.”

Vox put the car into gear, the engine roaring to life as he pulled away from the curb. “I have a plan,” he muttered, heart skipping a beat as Alastor sat directly next to him.

That was weird…

Alastor was... immaculate. Vox hadn't really noticed it before, or maybe he had but hadn’t given it much thought. His vest and collared shirt were perfectly pressed, the fabric smooth and unwrinkled as if it had just been tailored that morning. His glasses, perched neatly on his nose, were free of even the faintest smudge, gleaming in the light that filtered through the car windows.

And his hair was brushed into place, yet it still retained a soft, fluffy quality that seemed effortless. Not a strand was out of line. Even his posture was flawless. Alastor sat with his back perfectly straight, his demeanor radiating poise and control, as though he were always ready to take center stage at any moment.

He wouldn’t look half bad on the screen.

Vox found himself momentarily fixated, his mind spiraling into unwanted thoughts. He shook his head, trying to shove them aside. 

Pull yourself together. It's not like you’ve known him for long. You’re acting ridiculous.

“Something on your mind, my dear Vox?” Alastor’s voice broke through his thoughts, his sharp grin curving upward. He turned his head slightly, those eyes glinting with amusement.

Vox quickly averted his gaze back to the road. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Ah, thinking, are you?” Alastor drawled, his tone playful but probing. “Well, do share! I always find your thoughts so… illuminating.”

Vox snorted, though his grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Trust me, this one isn’t worth your time.”

Alastor hummed softly, his grin widening. “If you insist.”

Vox sighed, pretending to focus on traffic as the back of his mind churned with those pesky emotions before suddenly yelling out. 

“Oh, come on!” Vox yelled, slamming his hand down on the horn. “Stay in your lane, jackass!”

A chuckle floated from the passenger seat, smooth and infuriating. “My, my, I didn’t know you had such a temper! Then again, I should have expected it,” Alastor mused, his voice laced with amusement. “But tell me, dear Vox, why do you insist on driving in this cramped city when there’s plenty of public transportation at your disposal? And yet, you choose to pride yourself on owning a clown car.”

“Gotta keep up the looks,” Vox says, gripping the wheel tighter. “Plus, nobody’s got time to walk to a damn bus stop.”

Alastor hummed in thought, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Back in my hometown, nobody had enough to buy a car. We’d walk a good forty five minutes just to reach the nearest bus stop! Builds character, I’d say.”

Vox rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he switched lanes. “Yeah, well, I’m not looking to build character, I’m looking to get to my damn meeting on time.”

Vox sighed, switching lanes as he shot Alastor a glance. “So, you weren’t always raised in the city?”

“No,” Alastor replied, a playful lilt in his voice. “I came from a small town in Louisiana. Do you know where that state is?”

Vox rolled his eyes. “I’m not that stupid.”

Alastor chuckled, clearly entertained. “With the way you speak, I can tell you’re not from here either, are you?”

Vox raised a brow. “How’d you tell? I thought I nailed the accent a while ago.”

“Hmm… How do I explain it?” Alastor tapped his chin, as if deep in thought. “The way you present yourself… the confidence, the bite in your words, the little traces of a dialect you think you’ve erased…” He grinned. “It’s all very telling.”

Vox smirked. “Go on, then. Take a guess.”

Alastor’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Give me a few moments… Definitely somewhere nearby, and definitely on the East Coast. You still have that very straightforward, no-nonsense air about you. New Jersey?”

“Close,” Vox admitted. “But Pennsylvania. Philly, to be exact.”

Alastor nodded knowingly. “Ahh… So coming to the big city wasn’t too much of a surprise for you, then.”

“Not really,” Vox said with a shrug. “My father owned a nice big house on the outskirts of town, but I’d always head downtown to hang out. That’s where things were actually happening.”

Alastor hummed, watching him with amusement. “So, you’ve always had a taste for the fast life, haven’t you?”

Vox smirked, gripping the wheel. “What can I say? Sitting still was never my thing.”

“Times of youth,” Alastor mused, leaning back with a nostalgic sigh.

“You’re not that old yet,” Vox scoffed.

“Why, thank you! I’d like to think I look quite young for my age,” Alastor said with a grin, adjusting his tie with exaggerated flair.

“When was twenty-seven considered old?” Vox raised a brow.

“Since these young kids began using vocabulary I don’t even understand,” Alastor huffed, rolling his eyes.

Vox chuckled, shaking his head. 

Alastor leaned back in the passenger seat, arms folded, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“So tell me, Vox… what do you do for fun when you’re not being a walking advertisement?”

Vox didn’t even glance over, keeping his eyes on the road as he steered smoothly through the streets.

“Fun? I don’t really do hobbies. Running an entertainment empire tends to eat up your afternoons.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Come on. With all that money and power? You don’t take a moment to enjoy anything?”

Vox hesitated. “I guess… my cars? I like collecting them.” He winced slightly, realizing how lame that sounded out loud.

“Ah, so it is a hobby.” Alastor grinned. “You know, for all my complaints, I do appreciate a bit of vintage flair. If we weren’t, you know, doing something wildly suspicious right now, I’d have taken a moment to admire this beast.”

Vox smirked. “You’re warming up to her, huh?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Alastor said with mock offense. “She’s still obnoxiously shiny.”

“Takes one to know one,” Vox muttered with a grin.

There was a beat of silence before Vox tilted his head slightly. “What about you, Mr. Personality? Let me guess… Scrapbooking and singing off-key to dramatic musicals?”

Alastor laughed, eyes twinkling. “Off-key? I’ll have you know my pitch is impeccable. But no, scrapbooking is a bit too... delicate for me.”

“Pity. I bet you’d make cute little murder collages about the stories from your radio show.” 

“Oh, how charming,” Alastor quipped. “No, I prefer the kitchen, actually. I find cooking to be a rather calming activity. Therapeutic, even.”

“A chef, huh?” Vox side eyed him. “I’d like to say I’m good in the kitchen, but honestly? I can barely boil pasta.” He huffs.

Alastor leaned in a little, a sly grin on his face. “That just means you haven’t had the right teacher.”

Vox chuckled. “What’s your specialty then? Soufflé? Crème brûlée?”

“Butchering,” Alastor said casually. “Nothing like a good roast.” He paused. “Of meat, of course.”

“Butchering,” Alastor said casually, rolling the word off his tongue with far too much ease. “Nothing like a good roast.” He paused, letting the weight of the word hang in the air before adding with a sly grin, “Of meat, of course.”

Vox huffed a short laugh, almost too quick. “Well then, you’ll have to teach me sometime.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and he immediately regretted it. Too eager, too casual, dial it back-

“Of course,” Alastor replied, voice smooth as ever. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Vox stiffened for half a second, blinking. Shoot. That meant… what? That they were going to meet up again? Outside of business? Maybe at his place? Was his apartment even clean enough for someone like Alastor? Not that it mattered. How would he sneak Alastor in? He didn’t even own the building and he'd have to sneak Alastor past the night staff, and the cameras, and-

What the hell was he even thinking about?

This was getting ridiculous. He didn’t get flustered. He didn’t plan ahead for people. He definitely didn’t get worked up over what some smug, snickering radio gossipist might think of his interior decorating.

And yet…

He couldn’t stop the stupid little flicker of excitement bubbling in his chest. Another time. Another excuse to talk again. To see that smile… Real or fake, he didn’t care. It was something.

Get it together, he told himself. This is nothing. It’s just meat. A roast. A lesson in stabbing things properly.

Still, he couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Another time.

The two had finally arrived at the studio, it was impossible to ignore amidst the dense city skyline. The building was a spectacle of glass with a perfect reflection of Vox’s personal brand; flashy, loud, and demanding attention. Large eye-catching billboards hung promotional ads on its exterior, with young attractive stars that made it look more like a host club than a workplace.

Inside the car, Alastor sat unnervingly still, but with his usual grin in place, yet Vox caught the slightest twitch in his leg. It bounced ever so slightly, a subtle movement that betrayed him. Nervousness? Excitement? It was hard to tell with him. 

“You’re telling me your brilliant plan was to just drive in like usual?” Alastor finally asked, his tone playfully incredulous.

Vox rolled his eyes, one hand lazily gripping the wheel. “Yeah? And? What’s your point?”

Alastor chuckled, shaking his head. “My dear Vox, you’re a public figure. A very controversial one at that. And you think waltzing in like it’s any other day is a wise decision?”

Vox scoffed. “It’s a Saturday. Not many employees are working today.”

“I’m honestly shocked you even allow them a break.” Alastor’s grin widened.

Vox smirked, putting the car into park. “Hiring people is expensive. Why pay for five when two overworked ones get the job done?”

Alastor let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You’re even worse than I thought.”

Ignoring him, Vox smoothly pulled into the underground parking lot, the hum of the car’s engine echoing against the concrete walls. Normally, he had one of his drivers take care of this mundane task, but today, he’d decided to handle it himself. It wasn’t like he didn’t trust his staff… Well, actually, he didn’t in some cases but that's beside the point. There were just some things he preferred doing personally.

With a practiced ease, Vox shifted the car into park and unbuckled his seatbelt. Stepping out, he quickly rounded the vehicle, opening the door for Alastor with an exaggerated flourish.

Alastor arched a brow, clearly amused by the gesture. “Oh my, such chivalry! I might just swoon.”

Vox rolled his eyes but smirked nonetheless. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get used to it.” 

Alastor stepped out gracefully, straightening his coat as he gave Vox a satisfied smile. “Oh, but I will.”

Vox's heart fluttered at the words.

Employees still lingering around despite it being a Saturday, their eyes flickering toward Vox and Alastor as they passed through the pristine hallways. Some of them quickly averted their gazes, pretending to be busy, making sure their boss doesn’t see them slacking. Otherwise, the employees didn’t really care, sticking to their usual duties. 

“I thought you said not many people were working today.” Alastor grinned as he glanced back and forth.

“Yeah?” Vox tilts his head. Compared to the busy weekdays, this was nothing.

Alastor rolled his eyes. 

Vox led the way with a smug air of confidence, gesturing toward the new sleek design of the building. The walls were polished black with white lighting. Papers were framed up or stapled to the cork boards with displayed stock updates, broadcasting schedules, and company achievements. The floors were pristine, a glossy white that reflected the artificial lights overhead.

"Isn’t it nice?" Vox smirked, spreading his arms as he glanced at Alastor. "Got it renovated. The old walls were hideous. Tacky, outdated, made the place look like some corporate graveyard. Now, this? This is the future."

Alastor tilted his head slightly, taking in the stark surroundings. His eyes scanned the space, expression unreadable, before he finally hummed in thought.

“It’s… lifeless,” he mused, the usual lilt of amusement still in his voice but something was missing.

Vox shot him a look, unimpressed. “You’re really not afraid to say your opinion, huh?”

A bead of sweat crawled down the back of Vox’s neck. He couldn’t help it. Why wasn’t Alastor impressed? This place, this building, was everything. His legacy, his power, the thing people would kill to just see the inside wood works. And yet here Alastor stood, hands in his pockets, like he was walking through a grocery store.

Alastor grinned, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “That depends.”

Vox huffed but didn’t push the subject further. They continued walking, passing a cluster of desks where a few employees sat hunched over their workstations, clicking away at their pens or scanning through data. Papers and folders were scattered haphazardly on some desks. 

Unacceptable, in Vox’s opinion, but he’d deal with it later.

“Most people are off today,” Vox noted, his gaze flicking over the lingering workers. “But some of them like to stick around. Guess they just love their jobs.”

Alastor chuckled. “Or they’re terrified of what happens if they slack off.”

Vox only smirked in response.

Vox led Alastor into the break room, waving a hand as if presenting some grand masterpiece. However, now that Alastor had pointed it out, Vox had to admit, it was kind of boring. The walls were plain, a dull shade of off white that could easily become an eyesore, and the seating arrangement was painfully basic. Just a few rows of black leather chairs lined up in a way that screamed “corporate blandness.” There were no decorations, no distractions. Just a stale, practical space.

“Huh,” Vox muttered, tilting his head. “I might need to spice this place up.”

Alastor chuckled. “Ah, so you do take criticism well! What a pleasant surprise.”

Vox rolled his eyes, already moving on. “Come on, let’s get to the fun stuff.”

He led the way toward the recording studios, where they could already hear the loud clunking of objects being moved around. Unlike the waiting room, the studios were filled with energy. The walls were lined with soundproofing, expensive microphones sat perched on sleek stands, and flashing control panels blinked from every corner. 

Vox grinned, spotting a camera left hanging around on a nearby table. “Oh, this is perfect. Hold still,” he said, reaching for it.

But before he could snap a photo, Alastor’s hand moved in a flash, slapping the camera out of Vox’s grip with a force that sent it flying to the floor. A sharp crack echoed through the room as the lens shattered on impact.

Vox’s eyes widened. “What the hell was that for?” 

For a second, Vox just stared at the broken camera, stunned.

What the hell just happened?

That had to be a mistake. Right?

He didn’t even care about the camera. It was the way Alastor reacted. Sudden. Sharp. Way too much. Vox had seen people get camera shy before, but not like this. Not violent.

His heart thudded in his chest as he looked at the shattered lens, still trying to process it.

Alastor froze, his usually confident grin faltering. His red eyes flicked down to the broken camera before darting back up to Vox. It was subtle, but Vox caught the way his fingers twitched slightly, the briefest hesitation before he spoke.

“…Ah,” Alastor cleared his throat, his usual playfulness slipping into something more uneasy. “That was-whoops! My mistake! Reflexes, you know how it is.”

Vox raised an eyebrow, studying him. “You don’t like getting your picture taken?” His lips curled into a smirk. “Shame, your looks aren’t half bad.” He tried to lighten the mood. 

Vox would pretend he didn’t have some specific thoughts of him at night with the looks he was granted.

Alastor let out a short, almost nervous laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, please! This face? It was made for radio.”

Vox leaned back slightly, unimpressed. “I strongly disagree.”

For the first time since they’d entered, Alastor looked just a little unsettled. It wasn’t much. Vox wouldn’t have even noticed if not for the slight way he adjusted his collar, fingers tugging at the fabric despite the room being perfectly chilled.

Vox exhaled through his nose and shrugged. “Eh, don’t worry about the camera. I can buy a new one easy.”

Alastor’s brow quirked at that, his posture relaxing slightly. “Ah, the joys of wealth.”

“Exactly,” Vox smirked. “Money makes everything replaceable.”

Alastor chuckled, but something about his expression lingered, just a little too guarded.

As they walked deeper into the studio, Vox felt a strange weight pressing down on his chest. It wasn’t like him to get nervous. This was his territory, his domain, but as they neared his personal space, an uneasy feeling began creeping in.

The door to his office was slightly ajar, and the sight that greeted him made his stomach twist.

When had he even come home last night? Did he clean up? He didn’t remember.

But he definitely noticed what he hadn’t done.

Papers were everywhere. Stacks of documents cluttered his desk, some teetering on the edge like they were ready to give up and fall. Others had already scattered across the floor, curling slightly from the draft sneaking in through the cracked window.

And it wasn’t just junk or drafts. These were the important ones. Confidential reports. Business projections. Contracts. A few files even had "Neon Network" scrawled across the top in his own rushed handwriting.

He swore under his breath and stepped inside, careful not to step on anything sensitive. 

What the hell was he thinking, leaving it all out in the open like this?

FUCK.

He raked a hand through his hair, frustration simmering in his chest.

Alastor, of course, immediately took notice.

“My, my,” he hummed, strolling in without hesitation. His sharp red eyes flicked across the papers with clear amusement. “You really should be more careful with such sensitive information. Leaving documents like these out in the open? Tsk, tsk. Anyone could just walk in and take a peek.”

He could feel his cheeks redden in embarrassment or anger, he couldn’t really tell. 

Vox tried to play it off, quickly gathering a handful of papers and stacking them haphazardly. “Oh? And what, you can read?” he quipped, flashing a lopsided grin.

Alastor’s friendly smirk dropped, his entire body going rigid. His gaze darkened.

Vox barely had time to register the shift before Alastor took a step forward, his voice dropping into something unnervingly smooth.

“Just because I’m a man of color,” he said, tone still sickeningly polite but dripping with something far more dangerous, “does not mean I didn’t get an education.”

For the first time since they met, Vox felt his own grin falter. He hadn’t meant it like… that… It was just a dumb joke, but the weight behind Alastor’s words made his stomach twist.

“…Alright, alright,” Vox muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Shoot. Why could he do nothing right today?

First, he scared the guy off with a stupid photo and now here he was spewing jokes that didn’t even land. 

Great. Real smooth.

Get your game together, Vox.

This was supposed to be impressive. Sleek walls, top-grade gear, charm turned up to max. Instead, it felt like he was fumbling through every moment, trying too hard, saying too much or too little. And Alastor? Other then freaking him out with a camera he was one of three emotions. Unbothered. Unimpressed. Untouchable.

He turned away before Alastor could read too much off his face. Not that he would. The guy seemed impossible to read anyway.

But still, a tiny part of Vox hoped, maybe, Alastor hadn’t seen how off balance he really felt.

Alastor watched him for a moment longer, then let out a chuckle, light, but undeniably sharp. “Of course! Just a bit of humor, right?” His smile returned, but there was an edge to it now, one that made Vox feel like he was toeing a very thin line.

Vox let out an awkward laugh, hurriedly shoving the rest of his papers into a drawer. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, let’s not snoop through my business, huh?”

Alastor tilted his head, amusement returning. “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t need to snoop, you’re terrible at hiding things.”

Vox twitched, forcing a tight smile. “Let’s head to the audio recording studio today instead. I’ll show you my office another time when it’s... less of a disaster zone.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, his smirk curling with amusement. “Really? And miss out on all those precious awards you’ve so graciously bestowed upon yourself? Tragic.”

Vox let out a strained laugh, already walking ahead. “Trust me, you’ll live.”

Vox led Alastor into the recording studio with a triumphant grin, spreading his arms wide as if presenting a grand stage. The room was pristine with state of the art equipment lining the walls, from top tier microphones to advanced soundboards that could make even the roughest voice sound silky smooth. The walls were soundproofed with sleek modern panels, and with a large mixing console

It was a complete 180 from the rundown excuse of a studio Alastor had back at the hotel. That place looked like it had barely survived the Great Depression, with its dusty equipment, faded wallpaper, and a sound system that crackled more than it functioned. This? This was the pinnacle of sound engineering, the best money could buy.

Vox leaned against the doorway, waiting for a reaction. He expected something. Excitement, admiration, anything.

But Alastor just stood there, hands neatly folded behind his back, his sharp eyes sweeping across the studio with a quiet sort of contemplation. He didn’t touch anything. He didn’t grin. He didn’t even hum.

Vox’s confidence wavered.

What the hell?

Shouldn’t he love this? This was his thing! This was radio! The best recording studio in the entire city, and yet.. nothing? Not even a flicker of that usual theatrical enthusiasm?

“…What, cat got your tongue?” Vox finally asked, forcing a smirk to cover up the unease creeping up his spine. “I figured you’d be all over this place.”

Alastor finally turned to him, his expression unreadable. “Oh, it’s quite… impressive,” he said, voice light but distant. “Very clean.”

That wasn’t the reaction Vox was hoping for.

He narrowed his eyes. “And? Come on, you of all people should be drooling over this setup.”

Alastor chuckled, but it was softer than usual, almost… restrained. “It’s lovely, truly,” he said, taking another glance around. “But… well…”

Vox crossed his arms. “But what?”

Alastor’s gaze lingered on the polished equipment, the soundproof walls, the sheer perfection of it all. And for the first time, Vox saw something in his expression he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before.

Something almost like… detachment.

“…It doesn’t have much soul, does it?” Alastor mused, smiling to himself.

Vox blinked. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Nothing was going to plan today.

This whole thing was supposed to impress Alastor. Show off the studio, the equipment, the power, the success. Vox had imagined it going differently. He’d show him the pristine setup, the tech that made every other station look like a joke, and Alastor would finally look impressed. Maybe even a little envious. But no. All he’d gotten so far was a raised brow here, a snarky comment there. Amusement at best. Otherwise? Indifference. Or worse… Thinly veiled disgust.

Normally, Vox wouldn’t give a damn. Most people were nobodies, and their opinions slid right off him like water off vinyl. He was better than them. Smarter. Richer. More important. So what did it matter?

But Alastor… Damn him, was pulling his strings, and Vox couldn’t even figure out how. Or why. He felt like he was flubbing every word, every move, second-guessing himself like some insecure intern. It didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t care what this random, smug, man of color thought of him. And yet here he was, stuck in his own head, rethinking every sentence or joke, wondering if he’d already screwed everything up.

It was infuriating. And a little terrifying.

He had never doubted himself before in these types of things, and for the first time he was nervous, but he shoved it down like everything else. 

Vox leaned against the edge of the control panel, watching Alastor with a knowing smirk, trying to cover his nerves.

“So,” he drawled, “I was listening to your little radio show last night.”

Alastor quirked a brow but said nothing, simply waiting.

“You mentioned wanting to receive mail from your listeners, but… oh, what was it again? Circumstances prevent you from doing so?” He tilted his head. “Sounds like quite the inconvenience.”

Alastor hummed, fingers rhythmically tapping against his wrist. “Ah, yes. A dreadful shame, really,” he said airily. “So many eager listeners, so many stories to be shared! And yet, alas, no proper means to collect their letters. My ratings have skyrocketed in the past month, actually. Despite its late hour, the show’s been gaining quite the following. Word of mouth, you know… People tuning in for the voice, staying for the drama. I’ve even had a few rival stations drop off the airwaves entirely. Can’t say I planned it that way… but I won’t pretend I’m not enjoying the spotlight.” He smiled, all teeth.

“Shame indeed,” Vox echoed. He pushed off the panel, stepping closer. “But, you see, I don’t have that problem.”

Alastor’s eyes flickered to him, sharp and assessing.

“I could take care of that for you,” Vox continued smoothly. “Set up a mailing system, have letters sent in, filter through them, make sure the interesting ones get to you. No fuss, no mess, no risk.”

Alastor chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “My, my, how generous of you.”

Vox rolled his eyes. “Oh, cut the act. You and I both know why you can’t do it yourself.”

Alastor’s smile twitched, but he said nothing.

Vox crossed his arms, his tone turning casual. “Let me guess. There’s nowhere safe for you to pick up mail without it raising suspicion. You send it to some regular old postal office? Risky. Some fancy service? Even worse. And a Black owned business?” He scoffed. “Yeah, I don’t think you’d get away with that one, especially if anyone starts poking around about who’s getting all those letters.”

Alastor’s expression remained pleasant, but his fingers had stopped tapping.

Vox knew he was right.

“Face it,” Vox pressed, “you need a middleman for this. Someone with connections, someone who can make sure those letters don’t just vanish the second they hit the post office.” His grin sharpened. “And lucky for you, I happen to be in that exact line of business when it comes to fan mail.”

He wouldn’t admit that ninety nine percent of fan mail would make it to the shredder within point five seconds of it making it into the mail bin after being sorted by staff, but he would keep that a secret.

Alastor chuckled again, this time with a little more amusement. “You do make a rather compelling argument.”

“So?” Vox leaned in slightly. “Do we have a deal?”

Alastor didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

Then, ever so slightly, he smiled.

“…I do believe you’ve piqued my interest.”

Vox just had to push a few more buttons before he could get the ball rolling. He rolled up his sleeves before taking a deep breath.

"You know," he starts, casually, "I didn’t think you were the sentimental type. But here you are, making a big fuss over some fan mail."

Alastor, seated across from him, tilts his head ever so slightly, his expression unreadable. "And why wouldn’t I?" he asks smoothly. "People listen to me. They trust me. Some of them have no one else to talk to."

Vox raises a brow, expecting something a little more self- indulgent, something about admiration, about being a beloved voice in the dark. But instead, Alastor’s words are… surprisingly genuine. "Huh. You actually care about these people."

Vox didn’t give a damn about any of his fans. As long as they kept the money rolling that's all that matters. Their words meant nothing to him. 

"Shocking, isn’t it?" Alastor grins, but it lacks his usual playfulness. "They pour their hearts out in ink, knowing I’ll read them. Maybe even respond in some way. It’s… a connection." His voice lowers slightly, as if admitting this makes him uncomfortable. "A safe one."

Vox watches him carefully, tapping his fingers against the desk. "You mean safe because they don’t actually know you?"

Alastor chuckled, though the sound was hollow, his eyes distant. “You could say that.” He stood a little straighter, voice light but pointed as he shifted gears. “And what about you, Vox? I imagine you don’t dabble in anything that doesn’t pad your pockets. Knowledge is my currency, but for you, it’s all about the bottom line, isn’t it?”

Vox scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Don’t act like I’m some money hungry demon with no heart."

Alastor lifts a brow. "Aren’t you?"

Vox opens his mouth, but no immediate response comes. He hesitates, something flickering behind his usual confidence. He exhales through his nose. "I built all of this." he gestures around at the studio, at the sleek, modern equipment, "because I wanted to. Because I could."

Alastor watches him intently, waiting for more.

Vox shifts slightly in his seat.

And yet… it doesn’t feel the same as it used to. He was always chasing that rush… that feeling of doing something new, something big. but it always faded too fast.

 His fingers drum against the table before he shrugs, forcing a smirk. "Maybe I just got too good at what I do."

Alastor studies him for a moment, then laughs softly. "Ah, so you're bored."

Vox glares at him. "I wouldn’t say bored."

"But you are restless." Alastor leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. "That’s a dangerous thing for men like us, isn’t it?"

There’s something knowing in Alastor’s gaze, something that makes Vox feel seen in a way he wasn’t sure he liked. He scoffs, pushing away from the desk. "Oh, don’t get all philosophical on me now."

"Fine, fine," Alastor chuckles, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "But I’ll tell you this… Chasing after excitement won’t do you much good if you don’t know what it is you’re actually looking for."

Vox falters for just a second. 

Why was he actually listening to his advice?

He never let anyone get in his head… So why was this different?

But then his smirk returns, lazy and self assured, trying to hide the doubt curling at the back of his mind. "And let me guess… You think you know what I need?"

Alastor grins, sharp and teasing. "Oh no, dear Vox. I just know that whatever it is… you haven’t found it yet."

There’s a pause between them. Not tense, but… charged. Something lingers in the air, something unspoken.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. Vox tries to ignore it. "Let’s get back to business before you start acting like my therapist."

Alastor chuckles, but the look in his eyes lingers.

“So here’s the deal,” he said, arms folded as he leaned against the console. “Let me run a trial batch. One delivery cycle. If I screw it up, I’m out. If not, you admit I know what I’m doing.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed slightly, arms clasped behind his back. “I don’t want anyone but me touching my mail.”

Vox blinked, a little amused. “Really? If you get hundreds of letters, we could sort it for you, mark what’s real and what’s trash. Make it manageable.”

“No.” Alastor’s smile didn’t budge, but something colder slid in beneath it. “Every letter addressed to my show is mine and mine alone. Not to be filtered, not to be handled. Not even peeked at by your staff.”

Vox raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No touching the precious fan scribbles. Just delivery, then. My team moves them from Point A to Point B, straight to you. Sealed. Untouched. That sound fair?”

Alastor studied him for a moment, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the mic stand. “And in this so called trial, you’ll abide by all of my terms?”

“Cross my heart,” Vox said, lips curling. “No tricks.”

A beat passed.

Then Alastor reached into his coat and pulled out a neat notepad from his inner pocket. With a sharp flourish, he snatched a pen from the desk and began scribbling furiously on the paper.

“There,” he said, handing it to Vox with a flourish. “A binding contract.”

Vox stared at the neatly written terms:

[All mail addressed to Channel 01.01 shall be delivered sealed and in its original, unsorted state. Under no circumstances is any party other than the designated recipient (Alastor) permitted to handle, open, or process said mail.

This agreement permits delivery assistance only. Ownership and content control of Channel 01.01 remain solely under Alastor's authority.

Any violation of these terms shall result in the immediate termination of delivery privileges.]

It was simple. Direct. Strangely official despite being handwritten on a random scrap of paper.

Vox skimmed over it again, eyebrows lifting slightly. No glaring loopholes. No vague phrasing or exploitable fine print. He was almost impressed. And, frankly, a little annoyed that he couldn’t poke holes in it for fun.

Not that Alastor could sue him if things went south. Even if he broke the agreement, no one in this part of town was going to side with him in a legal spat. 

Not against him.

Still, he took the pen and signed his name with a quick flick of the wrist.

Alastor leaned over, watching with mild surprise. “You’re one of the few to actually read through one of my contracts.”

Vox scoffed. “It’s not that long. Comes with the territory. What kind of businessman would I be if I didn’t read it?”

Alastor chuckled, low and rich. “A reckless one. My favorite kind.”

Vox met his gaze and smiled. “Guess you’ll just have to settle for responsible.”

He knew that was a lie.

“Keep me updated once it’s ready,” Alastor said.

Vox practically lit up inside. That meant more time with him, more chances to impress, to talk, to figure out what it was about Alastor that kept pulling him in. He’d get right on it after the tour, no question.

For now, though, Alastor had already drifted toward the soundboard, his fingers dancing curiously over the maze of knobs and switches. “I’d be tempted to twist something just to see what chaos erupts.”

he murmured with a faint smile, flicking a few levers without much aim. 

Vox leaned back, watching him with a lazy sort of amusement. “You’d probably blow the speakers out. Or start a fire.”

Alastor leaned down to squint at one of the labeled buttons. “What does this do?”

Without warning, Alastor hit play on a random reel. A screechy jingle blared through the room, clearly some rejected ad copy from who knows when. The lyrics were clunky, the voice actor far too excited, and the product? Unclear at best.

Alastor blinked. “What was that…?”

Vox barked out a laugh. “Some useless invention or something equally dumb.”

“Well,” Alastor sniffed, “it’s good to know even with time, nothing can stop its share of artistic disasters.”

They both started laughing before eventually, Alastor shook his head, regaining his composure with a low chuckle. “I’ll admit, that was delightfully terrible.”

“Glad you approve,” Vox said, still lounging. “We’ll add it to the collection of cursed tapes.”

“Why don’t we try recording something?”

“Why Mr. Producer, what would you like to record?” There’s a glint in his eyes.

“Earlier you said you were quite the singer. Would you like to live up to your statement?”

Alastor smirks at him as he stands up and enters the booth, putting in his ear piece.

Vox would accept the challenge. 

“Would you like a back track?” He offered.

“No need. Do you know which buttons to click”

“Of course.” Vox rolls his eyes. He knew this place like the back of his hand.

Alastor clicks the button. The sign turns red that it is now recording.

Vox doesn’t know what he expects, but he doesn’t expect Alastor’s voice to come through as smooth as velvet, rich with an charm that could silence a room. It had… soul. 

Hey, hobo man

Hey, Dapper Dan

You've both got your style

But Brother,

You're never fully dressed

Without a smile!

Your clothes may be Beau Brummelly

They stand out a mile 

But Brother,

You're never fully dressed

Without a smile!

Who cares what they're wearing

On Main Street,

Or Saville Row,

It's what you wear from ear to ear

And not from head to toe

(That matters)

So, Senator,

So, Janitor,

So long for a while

Remember,

You're never fully dressed

Without a smile!

Vox blinked, stunned. 

Holy shit.

Alastor sounded amazing. His voice had always been distinct, sure, but when he sang, that accent of his came through like velvet and smoke. Vox could barely breathe.

Was he really falling for this man?

Somehow, this scrawny, sharp tongued, impossible man of color had somehow given him something to look forward to. Vox couldn’t remember the last time someone made him feel that.

He needed to know him more, Vox thought, leaning forward slightly as his eyes locked onto Alastor’s soft smile, heart hammering.

He didn’t even realize he was staring until Alastor let out an unguarded laugh.

“I’m glad the audience enjoyed it,” Alastor said brightly, flashing a smile.

And Vox… Vox just about lost it.

It wasn’t that usual grin. This one was different. Genuine. Real. It reached his eyes. There were soft lines at the corners of his mouth that made him look so soft.

And somehow, impossibly, Vox fell ten times harder.

Alastor extended a hand with a sly smile. “Would you care to sing with me?”

Vox recoiled slightly, eyes wide. “Oh- no, no. I can’t sing.”

“Nonsense,” Alastor replied, wiggling his fingers insistently. “It’s fun! We don’t even have to record anything this time.”

Vox hesitated, glancing at the hand like it might bite him. But after a beat and a very convincing look from Alastor he sighed and muttered, “Fine. But if I embarrass myself, I’m blaming you.”

He stepped closer, visibly tense. Singing wasn’t his thing. Lying? Sure. Being in front of a camera? Easy. Looking good while doing it? A given. But this? This was out of his element.

Alastor seemed to notice but didn’t press. Instead, he asked, “What kind of songs do you normally listen to?”

Vox shrugged, sheepish. “I… don’t know. I don’t really listen to music anymore. Too busy, I guess.”

Alastor’s smile softened. “That’s a shame. You’ve got to have at least one song in your soul. What was the song of your youth?”

Vox blinked, caught off guard by the question. He hadn’t thought about that in years.

Vox shifted on his feet, eyes distant. “When I was a kid… my mom used to play The Very Thought of You by Al Bowlly. Said it was her favorite.”

Alastor’s gaze lit up with something soft, almost nostalgic. “Your mother has good taste,” he said, voice low. “Why don’t you give it a try?” There was a subtle glint of excitement in his eyes now. 

Vox looked away. “I don’t know…”

Before he could make an excuse, Alastor’s hand closed gently around his. “Come on.”

His hands were so soft…

He tugged him toward the piano tucked into the far corner of the studio, worn but polished. Vox barely had time to protest before he found himself seated beside him on the narrow bench, shoulders brushing with an undeniable blush across his cheeks.

Then, without a word, Alastor began to play. Slow, deliberate keys filled the room with the opening melody. Vox turned to look at him, startled.

But the notes were warm and familiar, and before he even realized it, he began to sing despite the feeling of his heart about to beat out of his chest.

I don't need your photograph to keep by my bed

Your picture is always in my head

Vox’s voice came out shaky at first and barely above a whisper, his nerves crawling under his skin. He stumbled over a few words, his usual confidence nowhere in sight.

I don't need your portrait dear, to bring you to mind

For sleeping or waking dear,

But beside him, Alastor offered a soft, encouraging smile, his fingers steady on the keys. It wasn’t mocking or smug. 

Just warm.

That alone was enough.

 I find the very thought of you and I forget to do

The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do

Bit by bit, Vox pushed through. His voice grew steadier, fuller, He still tripped up once or twice, but he didn’t stop. By the end of the song, he was tapping his foot to the beat along with Alastor’s piano keys, without realizing it with a rare smile tugging at his lips.

I'm living in a kind of daydream and I'm happy as a king

And foolish though it may seem, why to me that's everything

Alastor let the last note fade before glancing over. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Vox shook his head, still smiling.

Alastor chuckled. “You said you weren’t a singer, but your voice…” He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. “It’s like velvet through static. Unpolished, but… strangely charming.”

Vox blinked in surprise, but pleasantly so. Compliments were usually shallow, transactional. This one felt real. Earned.

He looked over and noticed something else too. Alastor’s guard had dropped just a little. No grin, no act. Just him.

And Vox felt a little closer because of it.

Vox wanted to live in that moment forever. He could see the crinkle of genuine smile at the corners of his eyes and the rare softness in his voice.

In a world full of noise, Alastor was the one sound he wanted to hold onto. One day, Alastor would be his. He just had to be patient…

He felt the click of his watch on his arm before glancing at it.

Damn. How had it gotten so late? 

“Almost dinner already,” he muttered, then turned to Alastor with a small grin. “Care to join me? My treat.”

But the moment the question left his mouth, something in Alastor shifted. The ease from earlier and the spark in his eyes while singing had faded like a radio cutting to static. He straightened up, polite but distant.

“Thank you for such a gracious opportunity, but I’ll have to decline m,” he said, tone gentle but firm.

Vox raised a brow in surprise. Had they just not had a good moment?

Was he reading this wrong? Hadn’t they been, well, not bonding, exactly, but something had been forming. Right?

“Come on. I’d even pick the nicest place in town just for you. Instant reservations. You just need to say the word.” He winked, trying to salvage it with his charm.

It always worked. Why wasn’t it working?

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but the edges of his mouth pulled tighter. “And what do you think will happen, hmm? Don’t be foolish.”

Vox frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“You want to parade me into a high profile restaurant?” Alastor asked, voice light, but not playful. “That's just begging to make headlines. I’d rather not be a spectacle tonight.”

Vox’s chest sank, just a little. He hadn’t thought it through… he should’ve, but he hadn’t. Not really.

Shit. They were going in such a good direction too… He had to, of course, mess it up, didn’t he?

Still, he kept his cool, gave a quiet sigh, and said, “I’ll drop you off.”

Alastor nodded, his smile still in place but that genuine glow from before? Gone.

Before he knew it they were back in the car. The drive back was quiet. The kind of quiet that wrapped around them like a thick fog. Vox tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, glancing at Alastor every now and then, trying to find the right words. 

Nothing came.

When they pulled up to the hotel, Vox unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the door handle. “I’ll get it for you-”

“No need,” Alastor interrupted gently, already opening his door.

He stepped out but paused, leaning slightly into the open window. In the dim glow of the streetlights, his eyes looked softer.

“I had fun today,” he said, with that same smooth cadence Vox had heard over the radio a hundred times, but this time, it felt different. “Thank you for showing me around. While it wasn’t quite my taste, it was… enlightening to see a bit of your world.” A small smile tugged at his lips. “Have a good night.”

Then he was gone, walking calmly into the hotel lobby without another word.

Vox blinked. His heart did something stupid. Holy shit. Maybe I didn’t mess this up.

“G-Goodnight!” he called out, voice cracking embarrassingly as he leaned toward the window.

Too late.

Alastor didn’t turn back.

Vox slumped in his seat and let his forehead drop hard against the steering wheel.

HOOOONK

The car horn blared through the quiet night.

He was down bad…