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Summary
Vox’s body was almost done shutting down all around him. He was aware of it, of every muscle and nerve ending not responding to his command – the only things still his were his conscience and his left eye, pulsing with power and fear as he moved it around to look at the walls in front of him, the floor, his desk, his dead phone, his mug.
He stopped. The object was the only thing with clear edges now, the words printed on it on focus like never before, and they echoed in his mind, latched onto it, became the only thing he could concentrate on.
FUCK ALASTOR