Chapter Text
The soft hum of neon woke you before the alarm did. A glow of blue light spilled across the bedroom wall, familiar and steady. You blinked yourself awake, rolling over to see Vox already up, already dressed, his sleek frame reflected in the mirror as he fixed the sharp line of his tie.
He always looked flawless like this—suit pressed to perfection, screen gleaming with its usual crisp glow. You propped yourself on your elbow, watching him the way one might admire a painting. You never got tired of it.
“Staring again, doll?” he teased lightly, eyes flicking to meet yours in the glass. “Careful, I’ll start charging for the show.”
You smiled sleepily. “Worth every cent.”
He chuckled, adjusting his cufflinks. Then, so casually you almost thought you imagined it, he added, “Don’t feel very good this morning.”
Your brows furrowed faintly, but before you could say anything, he smoothed over it with a grin. “Nothing major. Just… tired.”
You hummed softly as you settled back into the sheets. “Maybe you just need more coffee.”
~
The hum of monitors and static filled the air, punctuated by the occasional flicker of a screen or the electronic ping of a message coming through the network. The Voxtek Studios office always had a kind of charged, caffeinated energy—like the entire place ran on raw signal and static electricity. But today, something about it felt… off.
You stepped out of the elevator and onto the executive floor, heels clicking lightly against the polished floor, only to pause. The familiar rhythm of the office—background chatter, digital chirps, the occasional distorted Vox laugh booming from his private office—was noticeably subdued.
You made your way past the reception desk and down the hallway toward Vox’s office. His door was cracked open, which was rare in itself. Usually, it was either fully open in invitation or sealed tight when he wanted privacy. You gave a quick knock and pushed it open the rest of the way.
“Hey, boss man, you—”
You stopped short.
Vox was behind his desk, slouched in his chair in a way that immediately threw you. Normally, he sat with the self-assured posture of a king on his throne, always poised, always sharp. But now? His screen flickered subtly—just once, barely noticeable—but it sent a pang of concern through you. He looked pale, or at least as pale as someone made of television static could look. His glow was dimmer, his tie askew, and he was pressing a hand flat against his stomach like he was holding something in.
“…You okay?” you asked gently, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind you.
Vox sat up straighter immediately, too quickly. “Of course I am, doll,” he said with a tight, strained grin. “Just knee-deep in meetings and digital crap. Glamorous as ever.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, watching him as he tapped a few buttons on his interface—only for his fingers to hesitate halfway through the motion. His hand trembled. Just a little.
“You sure?” you asked, taking a few steps closer. “Because you’re not glowing as brightly as usual.”
He scoffed, but there was no bite to it. “Not glowing? Please. I am the glow, sweetheart.”
You folded your arms, watching him more closely. “You sound weird.”
“Charming, is the word you’re looking for.”
You stepped around the desk, ignoring his scoff as you came closer. His posture was off—still poised, still Vox, but under tension, like holding still was taking more effort than it should’ve. You caught the way one hand stayed pressed near his abdomen, tucked low and discreet.
“Seriously,” you said more gently now, crouching just slightly so you were eye-level. “You doing okay?”
He looked at you, and for a split second, his screen dimmed again, static lining the edges of his grin.
“I’m fine, sweetheart.”
A pause. Then, quieter, like he couldn’t help it: “Just... tired.”
You tilted your head. “That’s what you said this morning.”
His eyes flicked away, and he scoffed like the conversation bored him, though you could see how tightly he was gripping the edge of his desk.
“Running a media empire takes a toll. It’s nothing. I’ve pushed through worse.”
You frowned, but didn’t push—yet. You laid a hand on his, gentle but firm.
“Okay,” you said carefully. “Then let’s call it a slow day. Just take it easy.”
He clicked his tongue in faux offense. “Taking it easy? You trying to kill me with boredom?”
You leaned in with a smirk of your own. “You’re ridiculous.”
That earned a low laugh from him, warm and crackling. But again, it ended abruptly, almost strained. He winced slightly, and that hand at his stomach pressed a little firmer.
Still, when he looked back at you, the mask was up again, and he was grinning like the king of the airwaves.
“Seriously, babe. Don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control.”
You weren’t convinced.
~
The set was alive with hellish flair—stage lights casting sharp shadows, cameras gliding on rails, crew members weaving between prop pieces and lighting rigs. The usual buzz of production wrapped around you like a second skin as you reviewed the day’s call sheet and kept an eye on the talent warming up under the hot glare of the studio lights.
You were mid-discussion with a lighting tech about a color gel when the atmosphere shifted. Not dramatically. Not even noticeably to most. But you felt it.
A sudden shift in the air. Like a signal just came online.
You turned toward the sound of heavy designer shoes echoing off the polished studio floor. There he was—Vox.
But not quite the Vox you were used to.
He wasn’t wearing his usual full three-piece ensemble. His jacket was gone, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing lean arms and navy blue skin that you rarely saw outside of your apartment. His tie was loosened, undone in a way that seemed more desperate than stylish. He was holding a water bottle—no, clutching it—like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
He didn’t glide into the room like he usually did, exuding digital confidence. He walked with purpose, yes, but with an edge—rushed, erratic. Like he was trying to act normal but couldn’t quite pull it off.
You caught up to him just as he neared the director’s monitor.
“Didn’t expect to see you down here,” you said, keeping your tone light, teasing even. “Checking in on the peasants?”
He gave a half-smile—too slow. “Someone’s gotta make sure the content’s still worth the bandwidth.”
You blinked. His voice—glitchy again. Not just raspy now, but unstable, like a bad transmission. And now that you were up close, you saw it. The pale flicker across his screen. A sheen of sweat was starting to form on his collar, barely hidden under the fabric. The way his hand shook slightly as he lifted the bottle to his lips and downed the rest of it in a single, desperate gulp.
“Thirsty much?” you asked, concern bleeding through your sarcasm.
“Lights in here are a nightmare,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Who designed this place? Satan?”
“Technically, yeah.”
He let out a weak chuckle. Then, without warning, his fingers dug into his side again—barely noticeable, but you caught it. The way his posture leaned, the subtle wince that flashed across his face before he smoothed it out with a flash of his teeth.
“Vox,” you said quietly, stepping a little closer. “You look like you're running low on signal.”
He rolled his eyes, though it lacked the usual smugness. “Wow. My girlfriend thinks I look like crap. That’s comforting.”
“I didn’t say crap. I said glitchy. There’s a difference.”
He waved you off, but the motion was lazy, sluggish. “I’m fine. Just needed to stretch my legs.”
“By storming a set and drinking a gallon of water like you just crawled out of the fifth circle?”
That earned you a sideways glance. “You done analyzing me, or are you gonna charge for a diagnosis?”
You were about to press further when someone called your name from across the set. You hesitated, then turned back to him.
“I’ll be right over,” you called back, then looked at Vox again—really looked. “Don’t wander off.”
He gave you a wink, but it was half-hearted. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You walked away, but you didn’t stop watching him out of the corner of your eye. And sure enough, the second he thought no one was looking, Vox leaned against the nearest wall—just for a moment. Just long enough to steady himself.
You’d seen this man tear apart contracts with a smile and host a live-streamed network launch with half of Hell watching. But now? He looked like he was one wrong move away from crashing.
The cameras rolled.
You stood just behind the main monitors, headset nestled over one ear, script notes in hand. The scene unfolding in front of you had been rehearsed a dozen times already, but today was a final take—tight timing, no room for error. Your focus was sharp, your voice calm as you relayed cues and notes to the crew. Everything was in motion.
And then… you felt it again.
That off-kilter energy.
Vox stood a few paces behind the lighting rig, just outside the camera’s view, arms crossed and watching. Or at least, pretending to. He was trying hard to look like he was supervising—like he had everything under control. But something in the way he was holding himself made your skin prickle.
He was swaying.
Subtle, like someone shifting their weight. But not the casual kind. No—it looked like his knees were going soft beneath him.
Your eyes flicked back to the monitor. The actors were mid-line. The take was going perfectly.
You glanced back—Vox had uncrossed his arms. One hand gripped the edge of a scaffolding bar, the other pressed to his stomach. He doubled forward slightly, teeth clenched like he was swallowing something back.
Your breath hitched.
He stumbled.
It was so quick most people wouldn’t have caught it. He turned on his heel, staggered slightly, and walked—fast—away from the set, toward the back hall that led to the green rooms and studio bathrooms.
Your stomach twisted.
He didn’t say anything. No cocky farewell, no dramatic quip. Just a sharp turn and gone.
“Cut!” the director called, right on cue.
Applause broke out around the set. The actors relaxed, the crew started shifting equipment for the next setup, and chatter picked up like static after a signal cuts.
But your eyes stayed locked on that hallway.
Something was wrong. Really wrong.
You didn’t see where he went. You didn’t hear any glitchy joke or tossed-off excuse. Just… the tension in his face. The desperate grip on his side. The flush of static rippling unevenly across his screen before he vanished from sight.
“Hey,” someone called to you. “We need clearance for the next scene. Props are looking for you.”
You blinked, forcing yourself back into motion. Your job wasn’t done. The set still needed you. You couldn’t exactly chase after your glitched-out boyfriend with an entire production counting on you.
But your heart wasn’t in the work anymore.
As you gave the next round of instructions, your eyes kept drifting toward that dark hallway.
He wasn’t okay.
And this time, you weren’t going to let him pretend he was.