Chapter Text
Vox stood in front of a brown wooden door to a pub. He took a deep breath before slowly opening it; the door creaked as he stepped inside. As he walked through the bar, he looked around at his surroundings, he had never been here before, he thought. The place seemed rather old, almost like one of those cowboy saloons you’d see in TV shows on Earth. The shelves were decorated with fancy wine bottles, and to his right was the bar. Further down the bar, there he was: Alastor, the Radio Demon, sitting and waiting, sipping from a mug of what appeared to be beer.
Vox called out, “Alastor!”
The Radio Demon’s ears twitched, which in Vox's eyes was oddly adorable.
"Ah, Vox! Perfect timing! Come here," Alastor said, gesturing to a stool next to him.
Vox began walking toward the stool, the floorboards creaking slightly under his feet. Slightly concerning, but it was an old building, for goodness’ sake; of course they'd creak! He innerly facepalmed. He was such an idiot at times. As he reached the stool, he sat down and looked at Alastor.
"Hello, Alastor. How are you this evening?" he said, smiling.
Alastor readjusted his tie before replying, "Ah, I've been splendid. How about you?"
"Well," Vox said abruptly. He wasn’t necessarily here for small talk, but he’d take it either way.
Alastor looked up properly, meeting Vox’s eyes. "May I know why you invited me here to chat?" he asked, tilting his head.
"Ah- ah, yeah, I have a business proposition," Vox said, slightly nervous, which was obvious in the way he stuttered.
Alastor leaned in closer. "Oh? Do tell."
Vox felt a spark of confidence. The Radio Demon seemed interested, that was a good sign. "Well, I was thinking of starting an Overlord group, and I was wondering if you'd… perhaps like to join?"
Alastor looked almost mortified, perhaps even disgusted. "Are you suggesting a… partnership‽" He almost started laughing.
All of Vox’s previous confidence almost completely disintegrated. "Yeah…? Is that an issue?" he said, looking down at his hands and clenching them into fists. "I just thought… because we are friends… you know?" His voice was small.
Alastor began cackling. "Oh-ho-ho! Friends‽ There are no friends in Hell, Vincent!" He slammed a hand on the table as he laughed.
Vox felt tears welling in his eyes, his throat tightening. He continued staring at his hands as Alastor’s words stabbed him like a knife. He thought the Radio Demon was done—he was far from it.
Alastor finally stopped laughing. "And here I thought you were close to my level. It seems you’re far from it. You need to learn independence, not rely on others."
Vox bolted from the bar, the wooden door slamming behind him. The cold air hit him like a wall, but he barely noticed. He stumbled into the alleyway, his breaths coming short and sharp, chest tight as if the world itself were pressing down on him.
Everything spun. The walls of the alley leaned in, the trash bins looming like monsters. His hands shook, fingers clawing at his hair, at his face, at nothing at all. He tried to slow his breathing, tried to tell himself he was fine, but the words dissolved into static in his mind.
“Not… not now… I can’t…” he gasped, knees buckling as he sank against the brick wall. The sound of distant laughter, or was it a memory? Echoed in his ears. Vox pressed his palms to his face, fingers digging into his skin, grounding himself while the panic clawed up his throat.
His heartbeat pounded louder than anything else. Every pulse was a drum, every inhale a jagged knife. He curled into himself, rocking slightly, wishing, praying, for it to stop. For one second of silence. But it wouldn’t. It never would.
Finally, with ragged breaths and trembling limbs, he forced his body to move, shuffling deeper into the shadows. He couldn’t go back in there. Not yet. Not until the storm in his chest quieted, even if only for a heartbeat.