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Vox had finally been allowed back into the space of Overlord meetings, albeit on a limited basis. Many had realized just how much they relied upon him for power and network updates, discovering they could actually tolerate him far better than the other two Vees.
The air in the auction house had curdled, thick with heat and the quiet, tense murmur of Hell's elite. It had been a grueling four hours of ego-stroking and empty threats, but the true climax of the evening had nothing to do with the auction block. It was the silent, vicious standoff happening over a single antique.
"I am not letting you walk out of here with this, you archaic piece of shit," Vox hissed, his neon screen flickering a violent, unstable blue. His hand was clamped tightly around the heavy brass neck of the artifact—a pre-war ribbon microphone laced with ancient, calcified soul-binding magic.
"Oh, come now, old friend!" Alastor purred, though his smile was dangerously wide, his claws wrapped firmly around the opposite side of the vintage casing. "A beautiful, historical masterpiece like this belongs in a studio with taste. In your hands, it would be melted down to make more of your tacky, glowing toys."
"It's a powerful magical conductor, and it's going in the Vees' vault," Vox snarled.
Now, some might question why the fuck the Vees would need such a thing. Wasn't their whole brand built on new tech—anything sleek, modern, and shiny? Well, yes. But anyone who looked into Voxtek’s rich history would know that Vox actually had a soft spot for older technology. When he died, he had been surrounded by the up-and-coming tech of his era. Whenever a rare piece from that time surfaced, by Hell, he was going to add it to his private collection.
But of course, Alastor just had to have it, didn't he?
The argument quickly dissolved into violence. Vox’s patience snapped first, a blinding current of high-voltage electricity surging down his arm to blast Alastor away from the pedestal. But Alastor was ready. Pitch-black shadows bled from the floorboards, tearing upward like jagged claws to intercept the lightning.
Vox poured more power into the connection, his digital systems screaming as he tried to override Alastor’s defenses. Alastor’s radio-dial eyes glitched violently, his dark, eldritch static roaring to life to drown out the modern hum. The vintage microphone was caught dead in the center of the crossfire—trapped between a tidal wave of raw, electric current and a crushing vortex of ancient shadow magic.
The sheer pressure of Vox’s high-tech digital signal violently slammed into the dense, archaic wavelength of Alastor’s soul, forcing the two opposing forces into a terrifyingly tight bottleneck.
The ancient microphone couldn't handle the strain.
With a deafening, ear-splitting screech that forced every other Overlord in the room to cover their ears and dive for cover, the artifact shattered.
The feedback loop hit like a lightning strike directly to Vox’s core. While the physical explosion threw them both backward, the metaphysical blast wave tore right through Vox's consciousness. His screen flashed a stark, blinding white before going entirely dead, his internal systems freezing solid. For a single, agonizing second, his heart rate—simulated but terrifyingly real—spiked into a flatline.
"Fucking... cheap... outdated garbage," Vox wheezed a moment later, his screen sparking violently as it forced a hard reboot. He pushed himself off the marble floor, brushing soot off his expensive lapels while glaring at the melted brass and shattered glass scattered between them.
He felt weird, a little rattled, and his processor was running hot, but he assumed it was just the aftermath of a massive power surge. Adjusting his coat, Vox turned on his heel and walked out of the venue with his usual sharp, aggressive stride, barking orders into his phone to his assistants. He was entirely unaware that the violent collision of their powers had permanently bridged a gap he had spent decades trying to close.
Across the city, the rain in the Pentagram fell in its usual dreary, rhythmic patter against the stained-glass windows of the old radio tower.
Alastor stepped into his studio, shedding his damp, slightly singed coat with a faint, tight hum. His ears were still ringing from the explosion. The auction had been a bust, but forcing the Media Overlord to short-circuit in front of their peers had been mildly amusing, even if he hadn't secured the artifact. He walked over to his main console, intending to cue up a piece of vinyl to wash away the lingering headache of the evening.
He reached for the dial. Before his claws could even touch the brass, his own internal frequency glitched.
A sharp, static pop rang out in the center of his mind, followed by a low, rhythmic
thump-thump, thump-thump.
Alastor froze. He blinked, tilting his head as his deer ears twitched beneath his hair. The sound was coming from inside his own skull.
...need to reroute the power grid in the Pride district before tomorrow morning... if Valentino throws another tantrum about the studio lighting, I’m going to lose my fucking mind... God, my head hurts... why does my head always hurt...
Alastor’s smile strained, his eyes narrowing to razor-thin slits. The voice was unmistakable. It was loud, fast-paced, and vibrating with a frantic, high-voltage energy that made Alastor’s jaw clench.
Vox.
At first, Alastor’s grip tightened on his microphone cane, a dark, dangerous flare of malice ignited in his chest. Was this some new, repulsive stunt? A pathetic trick by the media mongol to worm his way into places he didn't belong? Alastor was prepared to channel his own shadow magic down the connection to rip the intruding signal apart violently.
But as he focused on the frequency, intending to destroy it, he realized something that made his breath catch.
There was no barrier. No firewall, no filters, no broadcast equipment to fight against. It was just Vox—completely unedited, entirely defenseless, and drowning in a chaotic, high-voltage downpour of his own frayed panic.
...just five minutes. If I can sit down for five minutes without someone needing something from me... no, no time. Move, move, move...
Alastor slowly let go of his cane, allowing his shadow to catch the wood and sink it into the floorboards. He let himself fall back into his worn leather armchair, the shadows in the room pooling anxiously around his feet. He closed his eyes, tuning out the steady patter of the rain outside, and completely centered his attention on the bizarre, uninvited station now playing inside his head.
It should have disgusted him. It was the absolute embodiment of the noisy, frantic modern era he despised.
But as the minutes turned into hours, the signal’s rhythm shifted. Vox had finally returned to the Vee Tower. The frantic pace of his thoughts began to slow, cooling from a chaotic fire into a steady, pulsing warmth. Gradually, the low, rhythmic hum of Vox’s resting processor aligned perfectly with the steady beat of his heart.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
And then, Vox’s thoughts drifted.
I wonder if he was laughing at me tonight. He looked right at me before the blast. Just for a second. Standard arrogant prick look. God, I hate him. I hate how he looks down his nose at everything I’ve built. I hate that I still look for him in the crowd. Decades. It's been decades, Vox, get a fucking grip, he doesn't care, he never cared...
Alastor’s eyes snapped open in the darkness of his tower.
The shared frequency bled deeper, carrying the raw emotion beneath the thoughts. Right then, the signal flared with a heavy, aching longing. It was a decades-old warmth that Vox was desperately trying to crush beneath layers of anger and static. Alastor sat perfectly still, his breath shallow, his chest tightening in a way it hadn't in a century. The sheer, naked intimacy of it made him feel certain things he really didn’t want to confront in this moment. Yet the more he listened, the more he couldn’t pull himself away.
To hear another's thoughts… Alastor wondered whether this connection was the other way around. Desperate for answers, he tried to force his own thoughts down the frequency, hurling them directly toward Vox.
Vox! You idiot, can you even hear me? Your stupid, erratic temper caused this horrid connection!
Nothing.
Well, now Alastor didn’t know if it was more horrific that this was a one-way connection or not. God only knows what kind of vile thoughts went through that man’s mind, especially associating with the dreaded, sex-addled moth. Dear God, did that mean he would be subjected to the thoughts of when they were intimate?!
Alastor had to quickly think of a way to undo such a vile connection. The next couple of days, he had expected a disorganized jumble of cheap marketing slogans, mindless pop trends, and superficial vanity. He was entirely unprepared for the sheer, grinding weight of what really went on in Vox’s mind.
The transmission began every morning at exactly four AM, the precise moment Vox’s internal systems forced a reboot. There was no gentle waking up, no slow easing into consciousness. It was a violent, erratic awakening that made Alastor’s own deer ears twitch in the dark of his quiet tower.
Before Vox could even process the physical reality of his bedroom, his mind was instantly flooded by a relentless, screaming tidal wave of small, incessant pings.
Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping.
A barrage of thousands of internal notifications, data feeds, and text alerts tore through the connection, hitting Alastor’s consciousness like a hail of sharp needles.
[System Alert: Server Rack 4B operating at ninety-two percent capacity.] [Notification: Valentino sent forty-two unread media files.] [Market Update: VoxTek stock down zero point zero three percent in the Wrath District.] [Calendar: Board meeting in four hours.]
Alastor winced in the dark, his hand flying to his temple as the sharp, acrid taste of burning plastic and the metallic sting of copper wire instantly coated his tongue.
"Merciful heavens," Alastor muttered aloud to the empty studio, his radio filter wavering for a fraction of a second. "Does he never turn that off?"Inside the frequency, Vox’s true voice was already hyperventilating beneath the noise, his thoughts racing at a speed that felt entirely unnatural to someone like Alastor.
Reboot complete. Fucking hell, my screen... it feels like someone is driving a nail right between my optical sensors. Why does my head always hurt? Because you don't sleep, idiot. Move. You have to move. Check the server logs. If the Pride district grid fluctuates today, the lower-tier demons will see you as incompetent, and you are just now starting to get back into people’s good graces again. I have to look solid. I have to look perfect. If I flicker even once on camera, they’ll think that I’m losing my edge. That I’m nothing.But God... I want to lie here for five minutes. Just five minutes without the entire grid screaming at me. No. No time. Get up. Move. Move. Move.
Alastor, after he had let a moment pass, sat up in his bed, his fingers gripping the fabric of his pants. He was utterly bewildered. To Alastor, the morning was a sacred thing, a time for a quiet cup of chicory coffee, the slow turning of a newspaper page, and the soft patter of rain. To witness a mind that was entirely denied the luxury of peace, a mind that woke up already running at a full, panicked sprint to keep from drowning, sparked an emotion in Alastor he didn't care to name.
"You moron," Alastor whispered into the dark, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Do you not know the meaning of having a moment’s rest?”
The following days were endless like this, unfortunately; however, the one thing that many started to notice was that the famous Radio Demon had suddenly ceased his gruesome broadcasts. Many thought it might be another absence, or maybe he was preparing something special? It was none of those; the truth was far more disturbing: Alastor couldn't bear to listen to anything else.
He spent his hours sitting in the pitch-black of his studio, his leather chair pulled away from the desk, his hands loosely gripping the armrests. He sat with his eyes wide, staring at nothing, completely submerged in the sensory overload of Vox’s mind.
The connection that was created didn’t just link their thoughts; it started to allow Alastor to feel what Vox felt in the moment physically, and it was intoxicating to say the least.
Whenever Vox flew into one of his corporate rages, screaming at board members or violently throwing a glass across his office, Alastor would feel the phantom crackle of high-voltage electricity dancing along his own skin. His jaw would lock as a sharp, acrid taste of burning plastic coated the back of his throat, the metallic sting making his own demonic blood pump faster. It was thrilling. It was a violent, chaotic spark that made Alastor’s shadow writhe across the walls in sheer excitement.
Idiots! Useless, incompetent, brainless fucking leeches! Do I have to do every single thing myself?! If I don't micromanage every square inch of this district, it all falls apart! Tear it down, tear the whole studio down, and fire everyone on the floor! I’ll burn this whole floor to ash before I let our numbers drop! Look at them staring at me, waiting for me to slip up, waiting to see if I’m weak. I am not weak! I am the backbone of this fucking city! I will fry every single one of you if you look at me like that again!
Alastor had never felt such entertainment before. The sheer force of Vox’s ego and wrath felt like a roaring furnace. He knew that Vox threw tantrums, but ever since the whole “incident,” Vox had forced himself to become more subdued to recreate his brand. And Alastor drank it down like fine wine. He couldn't get enough of it. The sheer, unfiltered humanity of it broke through every barrier he possessed.
But there was a catch. The signal had a radius.
If Vox traveled to the lower rings for business, or if he moved to the opposite side of the Pride District, the beautiful melody would begin to fray into agonizing, harsh white noise. Alastor’s ears would pin back, his claws digging deep into his armchair as the crisp, intimate thoughts dissolved into a chaotic screech.
It got to the point where Alastor had a desperate need to know exactly what and where Vox was, and so, the Radio Demon left his tower.
It started subtly. Vox would be standing in the middle of a high-end restaurant in the Doomsday District, sealing a contract with a minor demon lord, when a sudden, icy chill would wash over the room.
Vox would pause, his eyes darting around the crowded space.
...what the hell is that? Why did the temperature drop? Did the AC glitch? No, the grid is stable... wait. Is someone watching me? I swear to God, if Val sent another one of his lackeys to spy on my meeting, I’m going to tear their spine out through their throat...
Across the room, melted perfectly into the deep shadows near the coat rack, a pair of glowing, dark red eyes would be fixed entirely on him. Alastor didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling in perfect synchronization with the rhythmic hum of Vox’s processor, soaking in the sudden spike of sharp, defensive anxiety that flavored the broadcast with the scent of ozone.
By the fifth day, the subtlety vanished. Alastor was becoming greedy. He needed a stronger signal; he needed to be closer.
Vox was unraveling. He could feel a heavy, quiet intensity pressing against his mind wherever he went.
During a major Vee’s promotional event, Vox stood on a grand stage, basking in the neon lights and the cheers of thousands of adoring sinners. He was supposed to feel powerful and on top of the world. But as he looked out into the VIP balcony, his screen froze for a fraction of a second.
Standing right at the edge of the balcony, bathed in the dark, bleeding shadows of the upper tier, was Alastor.
The Radio Demon wasn't holding his microphone. He wasn't smiling his usual theatrical, media-ready smirk. His expression was terrifyingly heavy, his eyes locked onto Vox with a dark, unblinking, ravenous focus.
Inside Alastor’s head, the stage performance vanished. Vox's true, frantic internal monologue completely drowned out the microphone audio.
He’s here. Why is he here? Why is he fucking HERE?! He hasn't broadcast in a week. He’s just... standing there and looking at me. Why is he looking at me like that? It feels like he’s pulling my chest apart. It hurts. It’s too hot. I can't breathe—no, smile, keep smiling for the cameras, don't let him see you sweat, don't let him win.... Why is he looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room?
Hearing his own name flaring with that familiar longing, Alastor let out a soft, shuddering sigh in the dark of the balcony. The taste of sweet, burning copper and a hint of bitterness flooded his senses.
Vox took a step back on stage, his hands trembling slightly as he forced his way through the rest of his speech, his sanity chipping away piece by piece under the weight of an obsession he couldn't begin to understand.
But just as one can burn hot, there were moments of Vox that Alastor wished he had never seen or, more so, felt that even he should not be witness to. Late at night, when the rest of the city slept, and Vox was left alone with the crushing weight of his empire, a heavy, suffocating sadness would creep into the frequency. When Vox felt small, or overwhelmed, or deeply, desperately lonely, Alastor would suddenly feel like he was drowning. The air in his lungs would turn heavy, pulling him down into a dark abyss. A thick, bitter taste of engine oil would pool on his tongue, dragging him into the depths of Vox’s despair.
Please just let me stop existing. I don't want to wake up tomorrow. I don't want to open my eyes. I don’t want to do this anymore. Look how far I have fallen. Look at this pathetic, disgusting piece of trash you are. Even Val doesn’t want to touch me. I hate my voice. I hate the way my hands feel.
Why didn't I die on that day? Why couldn’t the blast have taken me,
It would have been so merciful. I should have been turned to ash right then, when the sky was screaming. If I had just died that day, I wouldn't have had to feel any of this.
Alastor... god, Alastor, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn't enough. I'm sorry I was so loud, so small, so desperate. I ruined us. I smashed everything we were into dust just because I couldn't bear how much I needed you. I just wanted you to love me. I just wanted you to hold me. I would rip my own chest open, I would tear every wire out of my throat, I would burn the entire city to the ground if I could just lay my head against your shoulder in the quiet again. Just once. To feel safe for a single second.
But you hate me. You look at me, and you see garbage. Because that’s all I am. A pathetic, worthless, unlovable piece of junk drowning. Nobody wants me. Nobody has ever wanted me.
I want to die. I want to shut down and never turn back on. It would have been so much better if I died that day... please, just let me die...
Unless...
The thought flared in the dark, with a sharp, sick, twisted relief?
Maybe if I push him just a little harder... if I make myself a big enough threat, a big enough nuisance... he’ll have to do it. He’ll have to come for me. He’ll hunt me down, he'll tear through the tower, and he'll finally look right at me. He’ll hold my neck in his claws, and for just one second, I’ll be the only thing that matters to him. I can let him rip the wires out. I can let him tear me to pieces. If I have to be destroyed, oh God, please let it be him... let Alastor be the one to—
Click.
With a violent, choked gasp, Alastor lunged forward out of his armchair, crashing onto his knees. The sheer, suffocating agony of Vox’s self-loathing felt like the air was being crushed from within his lungs. His smile, the permanent, iron-clad mask he had worn through centuries of bloodshed, strained so violently that the skin at the corners of his mouth split open, dark blood trickling down his chin.
No. Stop. Make it stop.
He didn't want to hear this. He couldn't feel this.
This was a horror he had never anticipated. This was a direct line into a soul that was actively tearing itself to pieces, and it was dragging Alastor down into the freezing, pitch-black abyss right alongside it. The heavy, bitter taste of engine oil on his tongue turned thick, rancid, and suffocating, coating his throat until he was dry-heaving on the floorboards. He didn't want the agonizing burden of Vox's suicidal ruin. He didn't want to feel the shattering, desperate depth of how much Vox loved him, or the horrific reality of what his cold absence had done to this man.
Alastor’s hands flew to his head, his claws digging mercilessly into his scalp, tearing at his hair as if he could physically gouge the frequency right out of his brain. Dark, chaotic static exploded from his body in a deafening, panicked shriek that shattered every window pane in the radio studio into a thousand flying shards. Shadows twisted and writhed violently up the walls, screaming and tearing at themselves in a terrifying mirror of his internal panic.
Stop… stop… STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP
He slammed his mind against the connection, channeling every ounce of his eldritch magic to violently tear, crush, and shred anything to cut the connection. He wanted to run from the weeping, broken thing inside his head.
But the bridge forged within their frequencies held firm. It vibrated like a taut, agonizing piano wire under the strain, refusing to break, forcing Alastor to stay on his knees in the dark and feel every single, heart-wrenching sob of the man who wished he had died.
"You absolute fool," Alastor whispered into the dark, his voice a broken, gravelly rasp, entirely stripped of its radio filter. "You miserable, broken fool..."
As he sat alone in the pitch-black of his studio, blood dripping from his smile, a terrifying truth settled deep into his chest. Vox wasn't just throwing tantrums. Every single broadcast, every insult, every petty television war they had waged for decades—it hadn't just been out of spite. It was a desperate, suicidal plea for Alastor’s hand to finish what the bomb failed to do.
Alastor knew this could not continue any longer
Vox hadn't slept in nearly a week. His internal systems were operating in a permanent state of emergency override, his processor running so hot that Alastor could constantly taste a thick, choking cloud of smoldering wire insulation at the back of his throat. Vox’s mind was a dark, agonizing loop of self-hatred and exhaustion.
Just pull the plug. Someone just pull the fucking plug. I can't look at another spreadsheet. I can't listen to Val scream at me again. I’m so tired. My body hurts… I could always go to him… If I fight him... If I force his hand... he’ll tear me apart. He’ll make it quick. He’ll look at me. At least if he’s killing me, he’s looking at me.
Alastor’s eyes snapped open in his dark studio. His breath hitched, a cold, striking panic seizing his chest as he felt the visceral reality of Vox’s intent. He was coming directly to the radio tower.
Alastor dissolved into the shadows, traveling down the ley lines of the city, desperate to intercept the Media Overlord before he destroyed himself. They met in a secluded, rain-drenched alleyway just outside the borders of the Pride District, a liminal space between the neon glare of the Vees' empire and the silence of the radio tower.
The rain poured in violent sheets, washing over Vox’s pristine suit. His screen was glitching aggressively, horizontal lines of white static cutting across his digital eyes. He looked completely unhinged, his shoulders shaking as his hands formed tight fists, his claws cutting into his navy skin.
"Alastor!" Vox screamed into the rain, his voice a distorted, crackling roar that echoed off the brick walls. "I know you're there, you piece of shit! Come out! Come out and face me!"
A pool of black shadows bled across the brick wall, and Alastor stepped forward. For the first time in a century, his trademark smile was strained to the point of breaking. His dark red eyes were wide, fixed on the mess of Vox’s physical form.
"Vox," Alastor spoke, his voice laced with a terrifyingly heavy intensity. "You are not well. Go home."
"Don't tell me what to do!" Vox snarled, taking a heavy, unstable step forward. He raised his hands, sparks of blue electricity snapping violently through the damp air. "What's the matter, prick? Lost your nerve? You've been stalking me for weeks! You think I haven't noticed you lingering in the shadows like a fucking vulture? Fight me! Come on! Show me what Hell's great Radio Demon can actually do when he's not hiding behind his pathetic little shadows!”
But inside Alastor’s skull, the spoken bravado was masked by the staggering, heartbreaking reality of Vox’s unedited thoughts. The frequency roared with despair, completely contradicting his angry words:
Please. Please strike me down. Put your claws through my screen. Rip this dead thing in my chest. I don't want to go back to that tower. I don't want to be anything anymore. If I die by your hand, it means I mattered enough for you to kill. I’ll finally get to rest. Even if I come back, at least I can have five minutes of absolute silence while my system shuts down forever, maybe this time I won’t wake up. Please, Alastor... I’m begging you. Just destroy me.
"I am not going to fight you, Vox," Alastor said, his voice trembling slightly as he took a slow, deliberate step closer, his shadows rising defensively around them, not to attack, but to block the alleyway exits, sealing them away from the rest of the world.
"Why?!" Vox yelled, his screen flashing a blinding, unstable white as he aggressively shoved Alastor hard. "Are you mocking me?! Am I not even worth the effort of a real fight anymore?! Look at me! I am the Media Overlord! I am—"
—nothing. I am nothing. I’m a hollow plastic box. Please, just hit me. Why won't you hit me? God, he looks so beautiful in the rain. Even when he’s looking at me with that pitying, horrible expression, I still want him to hold me while I break...
Vox’s voice cracked, the loud, aggressive bravado instantly fracturing. His hands shook so violently he stumbled forward, his chest heaving, his screen flickering erratically as the sheer, crushing weight of everything finally broke his physical systems.
"Why won't you just kill me?" Vox whispered, his voice stripped of all its electronic modulation, sounding small, human, against the sound of the pouring rain. "What do you want from me, Alastor? Just finish it. I can't... I can't keep doing this."
Alastor closed the remaining distance in an instant. He stepped directly into Vox's personal space, his tall frame physically crowding the shorter demon back until Vox's spine hit the cold brick wall. The dark red glow of Alastor’s unblinking eyes reflected starkly across Vox’s glitching screen.
Slowly, with an agonizingly heavy tenderness that Alastor didn't even know he possessed, he reached out. His hands softly gripped Vox’s trembling wrists, pinning them flat against the brick wall.
"You absolute fool," Alastor breathed, his voice a low, raw rasp that vibrated directly against Vox's collarbone. His internal radio dial glitched, a sharp pop ringing out in the physical space between them. When he spoke next, his voice perfectly mimicked the exact, vulnerable cadence of Vox's internal monologue from a second ago.
"'I’ll finally get to rest. Five minutes of absolute silence while my system shuts down forever...' That is what you were thinking, isn't it?"
Vox’s eyes widened into perfect, terrified circles, his entire screen flashing a violent, horrified blue as a massive spike of raw, unadulterated panic exploded through the frequency.
What the fuck, what the fuck?! How… no, no, no, he can’t. How did he even—? No. NO. If he heard that, then all those nights… God. How long has he just been laughing at me?
"I am not laughing, Vox," Alastor interrupted softly, his voice thick with an emotion that he had not felt since his human days.
Before Vox could even process the horror or find his voice to speak back, Alastor let out a desperate, shuddering breath and leaned down, pressing his forehead firmly against the cold metal of Vox's chest. He kept Vox’s wrists pinned flat against the wall, holding onto him like an anchor in the storm.
"I am drowning in you," Alastor confessed into the dark space between them, his chest heaving as the thick, bitter taste of Vox’s engine-oil grief and the sweet, burning copper of his love flooded his senses. "Every morning... every agonizing night where you tear your own beautiful soul to pieces. I hear it all. I feel it all."
Vox completely froze, his hardware humming a low, stunned baseline as his processor tried to compute the impossible.
"You... you hear me?" Vox whispered, his defensive anger completely evaporating into the rain.
"I hear everything," Alastor murmured, his grip tightening on Vox’s wrists with a terrifying, ravenous devotion. He tilted his head up slightly, his wide red eyes staring directly into Vox's flickering screen with a soft vulnerability that was reserved for only one.
"My dear, dear picture box... your longing for me has never been a secret. I knew that you fell for me all those years ago. But for you to think of yourself so lowly... to believe you are nothing but worthless garbage..." Alastor’s shoulders trembled. "The blame is mine, Vox. It is entirely mine. I let my pride build these walls between us, refusing to be honest with you—refusing to be honest with myself—and I left you to drown in the silence until you broke."
Vox froze, his fans humming a low frequency. He didn't know what to say.
"You might have fallen first all those decades ago, my dear..." Alastor whispered, practically begging now, his voice entirely stripped of every ounce of pride he had ever owned. "But I am the one who is completely ruined by it now. I have fallen so much harder than you ever could.” Alastor leaned closer, his hot breath fogging the corner of Vox's screen as he held onto his wrists.
"Please do not ask me to destroy you, for you to wish to end yourself by my hands is something I can never and will never grant you.”
"Instead... let us make a deal."
The word hung in the damp air between them, heavy and charged. Vox’s screen flickered, a sudden spike of static cutting through. A deal? Overlords didn't make deals with their equals. Deals were for ownership. Deals were for control.
"A... a deal?" Vox breathed, his voice sounding incredibly small against the pouring rain. "What could you possibly want to trade for a broken machine, Alastor?"
"Darling, I can hear your thoughts. Remember, I do not care for your empire, Vox. Not your tech, or your loyalty, nor your obedience," Alastor murmured, his tone dropping into a low, resonant register that vibrated directly against Vox’s chest. Slowly, Alastor released Vox's wrists. He brought his hand up to press his palm flat against the center of Vox's chest, right over the pulsing, erratic rhythm of his heart.
"I want it all, Vox. I will not have you tearing yourself to pieces. Alastor declared, his shadows rising around them, thick and suffocating, sealing them into a pocket dimension of darkness. "We will split the transmission, my dear. Half of my soul to carry the crushing weight of your world... and half of yours to bring my world to life.”
Vox’s breath hitched. A soul bond born of a love so toxic and consuming that it required rewriting their very existence.
"You're crazy," Vox whispered, even as his own hands rose instinctively, his claws digging into the fabric of Alastor’s red coat. "If we do this... we're stuck. I'll be inside your head forever. You'll feel everything I hate about myself."
"Then let me carry it," Alastor replied, “We have forever darling to turn those horrid thoughts of yours into something more pleasurable”
"Do we have a deal, Vox?"
Vox stared into those wide, dark red eyes, completely unmade by the sheer magnitude of what Alastor was offering. He didn't just want Vox alive; he wanted to own half of his suffering.
"Deal," Vox choked out.
The moment the word left his lips, Hell's physics bent around them.
A deep, soft purple aura bled out from where Alastor’s hand pressed against Vox’s chest. The air grew thick with the scent of ozone and moss, a violent, beautiful tearing sensation ripping through the center of both their chests as their souls fractured and rewrote themselves.
Vox let out a sharp cry, his screen flashing a blinding white as half of his frantic, screaming, hyperventilating consciousness was suddenly pulled into Alastor's vast, quiet void. And in return, Alastor gasped, his eyes going completely dark as the chaotic, brilliant warmth of Vox's soul flooded his veins, settling deep into his own hollow ribs.
The agonizing weight didn't quite disappear; it was instead halved. Shared perfectly between two demons that had spent a century trying to destroy one another.