Chapter Text
The floor was sticky.
And it smelled of smoke, sulfur… and something like burnt meat.
Vox opened his eyes and blinked several times. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, or why his body felt so heavy. His last memory was a microphone, a crowd chanting, and the scent of incense mixed with blood.
—Where… am I? —he whispered, pushing himself up.
The sky was red. The air hummed with a constant buzz. Demons of all kinds strolled without hurry, laughing, arguing, trading. And he… had no idea what to do. He was lost, wandering streets that split into thousands more, like some kind of Romanesque neighborhood. He walked aimlessly through the alleys. The architecture was a strange mix: tall buildings reminiscent of New Orleans, but twisted, warped. Radios blared everywhere, playing old songs, laughter, voices.
He had no temple. No followers. Nothing but the clothes on his back, an elegant suit, and that uncomfortable feeling that something was watching him.
And among one of those laughs, he heard something different.
A voice—clear, soft, almost enchanting.
—“Dear listeners, welcome to another night of eternal joy. Don’t forget to smile… even if you no longer have a reason to.”
Vox turned toward where the broadcast came from. A small, half-abandoned shop, with a sign that read “Kill Tony.”
He stepped inside.
The sound came from an old microphone, and in front of it, a man… or what remained of one.
A burgundy suit, a bow tie, pointed ears, and a smile that never moved an inch.
Alastor looked at him immediately.
—Oh, my, a new face. How odd to see you standing so soon. Most arrive… disoriented.
—Really? —Vox asked, feeling oddly flattered. This man was real—sharp, perceptive, almost likable. —I suppose I had training in feigning calm, —Vox replied, his tone low.
—Training? —Alastor tilted his head, curious.
—Before I died, I led a religious community. Thousands followed me. —Vox lowered his gaze—. They said I spoke with God.
Alastor let out a dry, quick laugh.
—Oh, that’s brilliant! False prophets are everywhere here. But you… you have an interesting voice. You sound like you still believe in something.
—I only believe in sound. —Vox said, without overthinking it.
—In sound?
—In what leaves a mark. A single word can change someone—even if you never see their face.
Alastor smiled wider.
—That sounds… very much like me.
Vox studied him carefully. There was something strange about this man. He wasn’t like the other demons. He seemed too cheerful to be dead.
—And what are you? Another speaker?
—One could say that. —Alastor shrugged—. Before I arrived here, I had a radio show. I told stories, played music, entertained the masses.
—So… we’re in the same business.
—Perhaps. But I don’t convince people to follow me. I just make them laugh.
That hit harder than he expected. Vox crossed his arms, staring at the floor.
—Faith isn’t manipulation.
—It depends on who holds the microphone. —Alastor replied calmly.
A short silence followed. The man was right—and that irritated Vox.
—And what will you do now, preacher? —Alastor asked.
—I don’t know. I want to work. I’m not going to just wander.
Alastor scanned him from head to toe, analyzing every detail.
—You’ve got voice, presence… but zero sense of humor. You won’t last long here without it.
—I didn’t come here to entertain anyone. —Vox clenched his teeth—. I just need a purpose.
—Then stay awhile. —Alastor walked toward a tangle of cables—. I’m setting up my own station. I could always use an assistant… or a new listener.
Vox frowned.
—Was that an invitation or a mockery?
—Both. —Alastor laughed.
The tone was mocking, yet something in his voice carried warmth. Vox didn’t understand why, but he accepted. He stepped closer to the microphone, brushing his fingers against the cold metal surface.
For the first time since he arrived, the noise didn’t overwhelm him.
—What if I ruin your show? —he asked.
—Then it’ll be the most fun one I’ve ever had. —Alastor replied, winking.
Vox watched him for a moment longer, unsure whether to laugh or hit him.
—I suppose I can stay awhile.
—Excellent, dear Vox. —Alastor said, rolling his name with a playful lilt—. You’ll see… in Hell, the best stories always begin with a bad idea.