Chapter Text
The bar was dim, all polished wood and low amber light, the kind of place that pretended at class but still reeked of spilled liquor and old smoke. Vox sat hunched forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under his screen like he was still in control of the pitch. Electricity crackled faintly between his antennae, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite shut off.
Across from him, Alastor nursed a whiskey, smile fixed, eyes half-lidded with amusement.
“You’re inspiring! Really!” Vox’s voice carried that eager edge, too bright for the room. “And when you think about it, modern entertainment actually started with radio.”
Alastor set his glass down with a soft clink. He hummed, low and dismissive.
Vox pressed on, cheeks glitching faint pink. “Ah, am I boring you with my compliments?”
“Perhaps.”
Vox swallowed, antennae sparking sharper. “Well, look, I’ll just get to the point. We’ve been close for a few years now, right? I mean, people know us, they love us. And with new Overlords popping up every day, and before you hit me with a —” he dropped into a mocking impression, grin straining “‘Well, you’re pretty new yourself.’ I know, okay, but I’m much more forward-thinking, so it’s in your best interest to hear me out.”
Alastor’s smile widened a fraction. “I’m listening, pal.” He gestured lazily to the bartender. “Barkeep, another whiskey.”
The demon behind the bar poured. Alastor flicked a coin across the wood without looking. It landed perfect.
Vox leaned in, voice dropping to something almost earnest. “So, I’ve been thinking, Alastor, with your incredible power and my massive influence, we would be unstoppable. Radio AND video. Me and you, we could rule Hell, together, as partners.”
He extended his hand across the table, palm up. An offer. A plea dressed as business.
Alastor stared at it. Then he chuckled.
The chuckle grew into full laughter, head thrown back, the sound sharp in its cruelty. Vox’s hand hovered, frozen.
“Oh, that’s–” Alastor wheezed, burying his face in his arms on the table, shoulders shaking. “Oh, you’re serious?” He lifted his head, eyes gleaming red. “Come now, Vox! I knew you could be pathetic at times, but I didn’t realize you were so weak.”
Vox’s screen flickered. “What?”
Alastor slammed a palm on the table, still laughing. “Oh, fuck! You need me to join your team. And here I thought you might actually be approaching my level, but asking for assistance? A partnership?” His voice dripped with mockery. “I am quite disappointed in you.”
Vox stared at his lap. The edges of his vision blurred, darkened. He blinked hard.
“I–” His voice came out small. “I just thought, you know, since we’re friends–”
Alastor’s laughter cut off like a switch. The smile stayed, but the eyes went cold.
“Friends?” He leaned forward. “There are no friends in Hell, Vincent! I thought that was something you understood. How embarrassing.”
Vox’s screen glitched hard — static, lines, a single tear forming in the corner of his left eye before he blinked it away. His mouth twisted, anger rising to cover the rest.
But right before he could snap back, Alastor stood, straightening his coat with a flourish. Microphone staff tapped once against the floor.
“Well. This has been enlightening.” He turned, already walking toward the door, laughter trailing behind him like smoke.
The door swung shut.
Vox didn’t move.
The bar noise filtered back in with clinking glasses, low chatter, someone laughing too loud at the far end. His hand was still half-extended over the table. Slowly, it curled into a fist. The antennae sparked once, twice, then dimmed.
He stayed like that for a long moment.
Then he stood, chair scraping back, and left without a word.
Outside, the street hit him with sulfur and noise. Neon signs buzzed overhead, casting everything in sickly reds and blues. Sinners shoved past, laughing, arguing, living their small, loud lives.
Alastor’s words looped in his head, quiet but relentless.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Disappointed.
Each one landed heavier than the last. He told himself it was anger fueling the heat behind his screen, nothing else. He could work with anger.
Further down, the crowds thinned. The lights dimmed to grimy streetlamps. He passed a cluster of demons huddled around a radio on a crate — Alastor’s voice drifting out, smooth and mocking.
Vox’s steps slowed.
He’d spent years building the image. All of it calculated to reach a certain pair of red eyes that never quite looked impressed.
But the way his chest had tightened when Alastor used to drop by unannounced. He’d savored the scraps: a nod, a laugh that wasn’t aimed at him, a shared drink that felt like acknowledgment.
And tonight he’d laid it all out like a fool. Hand extended. Partnership. The word tasted sour now.
His screen flickered, a single line of static rolling top to bottom. He blinked hard. The street blurred for a second, then sharpened again.
He needed a drink. Several. Enough to drown the loop.
He turned into the first dive bar he saw. The kind of place that didn’t care who you were as long as you paid. He slid onto a stool at the far end, coat still on, and ordered something strong and cheap. The bartender poured without a word.
First glass went down fast. Second followed. The burn was good.
By the fourth, the room had softened at the edges. The laughter from the radio demons outside was gone, replaced by tinny music from a jukebox no one fed. He stared into the amber at the bottom of the glass, antennae drooping.
He stared at the bottles lined up behind the bar, reflections warping his face across curved glass. The laughter from earlier played on loop, quieter now but no less sharp. Weak. He signaled for the next.
He drank.
Time stretched. The bar filled a little more, then emptied again. He didn’t move. The stool had become an island. His coat hung open now, tie discarded on the counter. He had already made himself at home here.
He reached for the next glass and missed the edge, knuckles knocking it over. Amber spilled across the wood, dripping slow onto his lap. He stared at it, didn’t bother wiping. Just gestured for another.
Numbness crept in from the edges, quiet and heavy. His vision blurred at the corners, not from glitches this time.
He didn’t notice the tears at first. He thought it was sweat, or spilled liquor.
By the eighth — or ninth, he’d lost count — the glass stayed in his hand longer between sips. His head dipped forward, antennae brushing the counter.
A couple of sinners muttered over a pool table in the corner, cues clacking dull.
Across the room, in a booth half-hidden by shadow, Charlie Morningstar (Whom Vox hasn’t noticed yet) sat alone. She’d come in an hour ago needing air away from her home. Just one drink, she’d told herself. Watch the crowd, remind herself why her dream mattered. The red glow from the window painted her pale hair crimson at the edges.
She’d noticed the sad looking TV-head gradually.
Eventually she slid out of the booth, smoothing her jacket, and crossed the scuffed floor. Her steps were quiet, deliberate, the way you approach a cornered animal that might bolt or bite.
She stopped a stool away. Close enough to be heard, far enough not to crowd.
“Hey.” Her voice soft, careful. “You okay?”
Vox didn’t lift his head right away. The word filtered through the haze slow, like it was in another language. He blinked, screen flickering as focus fought its way back. A woman. Blonde. Red jacket. Faking to be concerned, probably.
He straightened an inch, claws curling around the empty glass.
“’m fine,” he muttered, voice thick and cracked. Static edged the words. He swiped a sleeve across his face, smearing the evidence.
The dismissal came automatic, slurred but sharp. Just some random do-gooder sticking her nose where—
Then it clicked.
Lucifer’s daughter.
That’s the princess of Hell. Charlie Morningstar.
The haze parted just enough for calculation to slip in — drunk, humiliated, but not dead. This was an opportunity wrapped in a red bow, sitting right there in front of him.
He blinked again, slower. The almost-snarled “fuck off” died in his throat.
She hadn’t moved. Still standing there, hands loose at her sides, head tilted a fraction.
He straightened on the stool, shoulders squaring with effort, antennae twitching upright like he could force them into confidence.
A grin tugged at his mouth. His voice came out rough, slurred at the edges but pitched lower, smoother than it had any right to be.
“Hey there, sweetheart.” He leaned an elbow on the bar, missed slightly, caught himself. “Didn’t see you sitting all the way over there. Hell of a place to hide royalty, huh?”
The charm wobbled. A hiccup of static cut through the words, screen flickering blue for half a second. He cleared his throat, tried again.
“I mean– Charlie, right? Charlie Morningstar.” He said the name like he was tasting it, rolling it off the tongue with exaggerated warmth. “Big fan of your… family. Real big.”
Charlie watched the whole performance without blinking. Her head tilted, just enough to acknowledge the shift, but her expression didn’t warm to match his.
“You don’t look like you should be on that stool much longer,” she said, voice steady, sidestepping the flattery entirely. “Let me help you up. Get you somewhere else than this.”
She offered a hand, palm up. Not grabbing. Just there.
He stared at it like it might burn him.
The scheming part of his brain — the part that had clocked her name and filed it under leverage — told him to take it. Play along. Smile wider. Get invited back to wherever she lived, start climbing.
But the rest of him — the part still raw from laughter and weak — bristled at the offer. At needing it.
He stared at her hand a beat longer. The bar’s red light caught the edge of her palm, made it look almost warm. His claws flexed once against the counter, then relaxed.
This was an excellent opportunity for him. It’d show Alastor who’s really pathetic once he is allied with the royalty.
He slid off the stool fast. The room tilted hard, floor rushing up before he caught the bar’s edge. Charlie’s hand shifted under his arm before he could shrug it off, steadying without grabbing. Her grip was light, but it held.
“Easy,” she murmured, close enough that he could smell whatever vanilla scent she was wearing. “I’ve got you.”
He didn’t answer. Just let the weight settle against her shoulder as she guided him toward the door. His steps dragged, shoes scuffing the grimy floor. The bartender didn’t look up. No one did.
Outside, the night air was cold. His coat hung open, he hadn’t bothered buttoning it. Charlie scanned the curb, spotted her sleek yellow car parked crooked a few spaces down.
He slumped into the passenger seat without protest, head lolling against the window as she buckled him in. The leather creaked under him. She slid behind the wheel, adjusted the seat forward.
“Hey… Can you please tell me your address?” she asked, key turning, engine purring low.
He mumbled something, half a street name, half blabbering. Eyes already sliding shut. The whiskey dragged him under fast, the city lights smearing into red streaks behind his lids.
By the time she glanced over again, he was out. Mouth parted, screen dimmed to a faint glow, one hand loose in his lap.
Charlie sighed, soft. She pulled away from the curb anyway.
The hotel was quiet when they arrived, it always was. She lived alone in that building. She parked out front, killed the engine. Leaned over and shook his shoulder gently.
“Hey… stranger I just picked from a shady bar. We’re here!”
He stirred, groan low in his throat. Screen flickered, eyes squinting against the dashboard light. He took in the unfamiliar building, tall, mismatched, the faded sign reading ‘HAPPY HOTEL’ in half-lit neon.
It seemed closed. Vox wondered if this was actually some abandoned motel or what reasons would the princess of Hell herself have to bring him to such a place.
“Where…” Voice rough, words slurring together.
“This is my place,” she said, already opening her door. “Come on. You can crash here tonight.”
She came around to his side, pulled the door open. He swung his legs out slow, nearly missing the curb. Her arm went under his again. He didn’t fight it this time. Just leaned into the support as they climbed the steps, the night air biting at his rumpled suit.
Inside, the lobby was dim, empty. The place smelled faintly of fresh paint and old carpet, like someone had started renovations and then forgotten to finish. Chairs sat in uneven rows, waiting for residents who hadn’t arrived. A single chandelier hung too high, crystals dull with neglect.
It didn’t seem like a very glamorous place for a princess.
Charlie eased him toward the longest couch, a sagging velvet thing pushed against one wall. He sank into it without resistance, coat bunching under him, head tipping back against the armrest. His screen dimmed further.
She tugged off his shoes and set them aside. Grabbed a folded blanket from a nearby stack (one of the few things already unpacked) and draped it over him. He didn’t stir.
“Sleep it off,” she said, voice bright but hushed, like she didn’t want to wake the empty building. “You’ll feel better tomorrow, promise!”
He mumbled something incoherent, already slipping under. She lingered a moment, hands clasped, then padded toward the kitchen archway at the far end of the lobby. The door swung shut behind her with a soft creak.
Morning came slow, red light shifting to a harsher crimson. The air carried the faint scent of smoke and something sweeter: pancakes trying their best.
Vox woke to it. His head throbbed in steady pulses, mouth dry and tasting like regret. He blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling, ornate molding, peeling in places, then pushed up on one elbow. The blanket slid off his shoulders. His suit was wrinkled beyond saving, tie long gone. Antennae drooped heavy.
Footsteps approached, light and quick. Charlie appeared in the archway, balancing a tray: slightly charred pancakes stacked unevenly, a couple strips of bacon curled at the edges, a glass of orange juice that sloshed as she walked. She beamed when she saw him upright.
“Good morning!” The cheer was genuine, bright enough to sting. “Or, well, afternoon-ish, but close enough! I made breakfast. Figured you’d be starving after last night.”
She set the tray on the low table in front of the couch, nudging it closer with her knee.
He stared at the plate, then at her. Recognition filtered back slowly. This was his big opportunity. His throat scratched when he spoke.
“…Vox.” Voice rough, low. He cleared it. “Name’s Vox. I don’t think I introduced myself.”
Her smile widened, like he’d just handed her a gift. “Vox! Hi! I’m Charlie, though you kinda already clocked that, huh?” She laughed, soft, and perched on the arm of a nearby chair, legs swinging. “How’s the head? I’ve got water, aspirin, coffee if you want it. Cooking’s not exactly my strong suit yet, but I tried! The pancakes are… edible. Mostly.”
He sat up fully, blanket pooling in his lap. He picked up the fork anyway, poked at a pancake. It bent, resilient.
“Thanks,” he muttered, the word foreign in his mouth. Took a bite. Charred outside, doughy inside. Not terrible.
Charlie leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes bright. “So! Rough night, huh? I mean, no judgment, Hell’s full of rough nights. But you seemed like you could use a win this morning.” She paused, head tilting. “What do you do, Vox? When you’re not… you know, drowning sorrows in dive bars?”
He chewed slow, buying time. The question hung open, eager. He swallowed.
“Entertainment,” he said finally, voice steadier. “I’ve got quite the name among the Overlords. What about you? Do you do something, or are you just like… a nepobaby?”
Her face lit up like he’d said the magic word.
“Entertainment?” Charlie clapped once, the sound sharp in the empty lobby. “That’s perfect! Like, actually perfect. Because I’ve got this huge idea, well, dream, and it’s all about giving people a stage.”
“So, okay, hear me out.” Words spilled quick, bright. “I want to open this place and turn it into a hotel where sinners can come and… try to be better. Like, actually redeem themselves. Get to Heaven. I know no one knows if it’s even possible, but what if it is? What if all the fighting and killing and chaos down here is just because nobody ever gave anyone a real chance?”
Vox forked another piece of pancake, chewed slow. The dough stuck to the roof of his mouth. He nodded anyway despite wanting to bark out in laughter.
Charlie didn’t need much prompting. She leaned forward, hands gesturing wide like she was sketching the whole thing in the air.
“I’ve got songs planned, well, half-written, and activities, and therapy stuff that’s not too therapy-y, promise. But the big thing is showing Heaven that change is possible. If even one person makes it up there, it proves the whole system can work differently. I’m sure my mom — Lilith — will be proud!”
She paused for breath, cheeks pink with it.
He swallowed. Set the fork down. Leaned back against the couch arm, blanket still tangled around his waist. The scheming part of his brain cataloged every word: Lucifer’s daughter, naive dream, empty building, desperate for help. A direct line to the royal family if he played this right.
So he tilted his head, let a faint grin tug at his mouth.
“Redemption, huh?” Voice gravelly, interested. “Bold pitch. Most people down here would not put their stakes on such a thing.”
Her smile dimmed a fraction, but only for a second.
“Yeah, well, most people haven’t tried.” She shrugged, optimistic again. “But you do entertainment. You know how to sell an idea. If this ever gets off the ground, I’m gonna need someone who can get eyes on it!”
He hummed, noncommittal. This was too easy.
“Sounds like you’ve got the heart for it,” he said, the words smooth enough. “Hell knows it could use a better story than the one it’s stuck on.”
Charlie beamed, like he’d just promised the moon.
“Exactly! See? You get it already.”
He picked up the orange juice, took a slow sip. The acid cut through the burnt taste lingering on his tongue.
Vox leaned forward a fraction, elbows on knees. The hangover dulled the edges, but not the calculation. Time to lock it in.
“You know,” he said, voice low and steady, like he’d just had the idea, “I could help.”
Charlie stopped. Mid-gesture, mouth half-open. Then her whole face lit up, brighter than the red bleeding through the windows.
“Really?” The word came out breathless, excited. She bounced once on the chair arm. “Like, actually help? Because I’ve been trying to figure out the whole thing forever. How to get people to even listen without laughing. If you could get the word out, even just a little…”
He let the grin widen, slow and practiced. “That’s me.” A pause, just long enough. “And honestly? Your pitch is fresh. Hell’s bored. Could use something that isn’t the same old blood and ads.”
She clapped again, sharper this time, eyes sparkling like he’d handed her the keys to the city. “Vox, that would be huge! Like, game-changing huge! I’ve been stuck on square one forever. Dad thinks it’s cute but impossible, everyone else just rolls their eyes, but if someone like you believed in it…”
She trailed off, staring at him. Really staring. Head tilted, smile softening into something warmer. More dangerous.
Then it hit her.
Her hands came together in front of her chest, fingers laced.
“Oh my gosh.” Voice softer now, earnest in a way that made his antennae twitch. “You get it. You actually get it. The hope part. The change part.” She leaned closer, elbows on her knees to match him. “That means… you must want this for yourself too, right? Redemption. Getting better. I mean, why else would you care so much already?”
He blinked. The grin froze.
She didn’t notice. Kept going, brighter.
“Because we’re not even open yet! No guests, no program, nothing official. But you could be the first.” She spread her hands wide, like unveiling a banner. “Stay here. Be my first real guest. We’ll workshop everything together. You’ll see how much you can improve before we even launch. It’ll be perfect!”
The words landed slow.
First guest.
Stay here.
Improve.
The scheming clicked over into something colder. He saw it clear: empty hotel, her naive dream, him stuck inside it. Days. Weeks. Playing redeemed sinner while she poked and prodded and smiled that relentless smile.
No quick climb. No leverage grabbed and gone. Trapped in the pitch he’d just sold her.
His screen flickered once, brief static he couldn’t hide. The grin stayed plastered, but the edges felt brittle.
Charlie beamed, waiting for the yes that suddenly tasted like ash.
He was fucked.
A few days blurred past in the empty hotel. Vox hauling in a couple of boxes, claiming a room on the second floor with a view of the cracked parking lot. Charlie fluttered around him the whole time, chattering about paint swatches and potential lobby layouts, too excited to notice how little he unpacked.
Vox played the part: nodded at her sketches, tossed in a few media-savvy suggestions, kept the charm dialed just enough to stay useful. He brought over the bare minimum from his old penthouse suite, a couple tailored suits, a sleek black case of drives and gadgets, his favorite bottle of top-shelf whiskey he hadn’t opened yet. Enough to look committed without committing.
By the fourth day the walls felt closer, the optimism thicker. He needed fresh air fast.
He found her in the lobby, perched on a ladder with a paint roller, splattering cheerful yellow on a patch of wall that desperately needed it.
“Morning!” she chirped, nearly toppling the ladder. “I was thinking maybe we could brainstorm some promo ideas? Like, real ones?”
He adjusted his tie, antennae perking with practiced confidence. “Better idea. Come with me. I’ll show you the studio. What we’re actually working with.”
Her eyes went wide, roller forgotten. “Your studio? Like the real VoxTek one?”
He let the grin stretch, sharp and practiced. “The one and only. Come on, I’ll drive. Unless you’d rather sketch on napkins here.”
She scrambled down the ladder so fast she nearly slipped. “No, no, give me two minutes!”
He waited by the car. Keys jangled in his palm. When she bounded out the front doors, jacket thrown on crooked, hair tied back in a rushed ponytail, he was already behind the wheel, engine purring.
He didn’t say it out loud, but the thought sat heavy: if she drove, he’d feel like cargo. No way he was letting a woman drive either. No. He needed the wheel under his hands. Anything less felt emasculating.
Charlie slid into the passenger seat, barely buckling before she started talking and asking Vox’s ears off. He answered in short bursts, eyes on the road, letting her fill the silence.
Charlie shifted in her seat, glancing at him sideways. She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, then untucked it. Cleared her throat softly.
“So… um. That night at the bar.” Her voice stayed light, careful. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to! I’m not trying to pry or anything. Just… you looked really down. Like, devastation-level down. And I know Overlords don’t usually wear that on their face, so…” She trailed off, giving him an out.
He didn’t take it right away. The city slid past, neon signs flickering even in daylight, sinners hustling on corners. His jaw tightened.
“I wasn’t down,” he said finally, flat. Defensive.
Charlie nodded quickly. “Right, totally. Just checking.”
Another block passed. He flexed his fingers on the wheel.
“Had a discussion,” he muttered. “With someone I thought was a partner.”
The word partner hung there. He heard it a second too late, the way it could come across. Intimate.
“Not like that,” he added fast, voice sharpening. “Professional. ‘She’ thought she was too good for the deal I offered. Laughed me out of the room.”
Charlie’s brows lifted, but she kept her tone gentle. “She laughed at you?”
“Yeah.” He snorted, bitter. “Doesn’t matter. I’m over it. She’s a relic anyway, stuck in the past, and up her ass. I don’t care anymore. Good riddance.”
He stared harder at the road, knuckles pale on the wheel. The lie tasted metallic, but it fit better than the truth: that a man’s voice still echoed in his head, calling him weak.
He was no homosexual.
Charlie watched him a moment longer, something soft and unreadable in her eyes. Then she nodded, turning to look out the window.
“Well, her loss,” she said simply. “You’ve got way better ideas anyway.”
He didn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.
The studio loomed ahead, tall glass and steel, his name still blazing across the top in electric blue. He pulled into the underground garage, tires echoing sharp. Killed the engine.
He glanced at her. “Come on. Let me show you around.”
She followed him out, eyes already wide at the scale of it all.
The elevator doors slid open onto the main floor of VoxTek Studios with a soft chime. Vox stepped out first, shoulders squared, antennae perked high like he was walking onto his own broadcast stage. The lobby stretched wide with polished black floors reflecting the electric blue of his logo overhead, the air humming with the low buzz of servers and distant keyboards. Employees glanced up as he passed, eyes flicking nervously before dropping back to their workstations.
Charlie followed close, head swiveling. “Whoa…” The word slipped out soft, awed. Her gaze bounced from the towering billboards to the glass-walled control rooms where sinners hunched over editing bays. “This is huge. Like… actually huge. You built all this?”
“Every circuit,” he said, pride threading his voice. He led her down the central corridor, heels clicking sharp. “Started small. Now we own the feed.”
Charlie’s smile stayed wide at first, taking it all in. “It’s incredible. The reach you have… we could do so much good with this.”
He smirked, gesturing grand to the rows of desks. “Exactly. Your message, my platform. We put the hotel on every screen in Pentagram City, people will have to notice.”
She nodded, still turning slow circles. Then her steps slowed.
One of the side monitors caught her eye, a live segment looping footage of a recent turf war, slowed down and dramatized, blood splatter enhanced in post. The chyron screamed: EXCLUSIVE: CANNIBAL DISTRICT MASSACRE, WAS IT JUSTIFIED? The anchor, a tall blonde sinner, grinned wide as she speculated about body counts for ratings.
Charlie’s brow furrowed. “That… actually happened yesterday, right? But the numbers they’re showing are way higher than what I heard.”
Vox waved it off. “Drama sells. Little embellishment keeps the viewers hooked.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted to the employees. A lanky sinner at the nearest station rubbed red eyes, empty energy drink cans stacked beside her keyboard like a fortress. He didn’t look up as they passed.
Another sinner hurried by carrying a tray of coffee, muttering numbers under her breath. “If we don’t hit two million views by midnight, he’ll cut the bonus again…”
Charlie’s smile faded a notch.
Vox kept moving, guiding her toward the main production floor. He didn’t slow. “This is where the real magic happens. Round-the-clock content. No dead air.”
Charlie stopped walking.
He noticed a beat later, turned back. She stood in the middle of the corridor, arms loose at her sides, staring through the glass at a young demon slumped in a chair between takes, makeup caked thick to hide bruises. A supervisor loomed nearby, barking about reshoots.
“This…” Charlie’s voice came quieter now. “These people look… tired. Really tired.”
Vox shrugged, antennae flicking. “High-pressure industry. Everyone’s here because they want to be. Big leagues.”
She turned to him, eyes searching. “Do they get breaks? Vacation? Or… I don’t know, sleep?”
He laughed, short and sharp. “Sleep’s overrated. We run 24/7. That’s how you stay on top.”
She didn’t answer right away. The awe from earlier had drained out, replaced by something heavier. She looked around slower now, at the flickering screens pumping fear and outrage, at the employees moving like ghosts between stations.
“It’s just…” She hugged her arms to herself. “I thought it’d feel different. Exciting. But it feels… heavy. Like everyone here’s running on empty. And the stuff you’re putting out, it’s not true. How can I expect to put sinners on a better path when this is what goes behind it…?”
Vox’s grin tightened. He stepped closer, voice dropping smooth. “It’s business, princess. Hell’s not kind. You want eyes on your dream, you play the game.”
She met his eyes, steady. “But at what cost? These people… they look exploited. Miserable. And the lies—” She gestured to the screens. “That’s straight up manipulation.”
Charlie’s voice softened. “Is this really what you want to build with me?” She looked… dissapointed. “I thought you were trying to do better too.”
He didn’t answer right away. The pride from the tour curdled a little in his chest. He looked around, at his empire, gleaming and ruthless, and felt the weight of her stare.
They stood in the corridor a moment longer, the buzz of the lights filling the quiet between them. Charlie’s question hung there, soft but pointed.
Is this really what you want to build with me?
Well, of course it was. He wasn’t into puppies and rainbows like she was.
Still, Vox’s screen flickered once, a brief wash of static he couldn’t quite suppress. He opened his mouth to answer something smooth, something that would pivot her back to the plan, but a sharp voice cut through from the nearest control booth.
“Sir! We’ve got a problem with the nine o’clock slot.”
A demon hurried toward them, skinny, horns chipped, headset crooked on his head. He clutched a clipboard like a shield, eyes wide and bloodshot. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the air-conditioned chill.
Vox turned. The shift was instant: shoulders squaring, antennae snapping upright, the easy charm he’d worn for Charlie evaporating.
“What now?” Voice flat, edged.
The employee swallowed. “The cannibal district piece, it’s crashing the servers. If we don’t throttle—”
“Then throttle it,” Vox snapped. “Or cut the segment. I don’t care. Fix it.”
The demon flinched. “We tried throttling. Engagement drops thirty percent when we do. And legal’s saying—”
Vox stepped forward, looming. The blue glow of his screen sharpened, casting harsh light on the employee’s face.
“Are you telling me you can’t handle a simple traffic spike?” His voice dropped lower, dangerous. “This is my network. My rules. You push the content, you deal with the fallout. If you can’t, I’ll find someone who can.”
The demon’s hands trembled on the tablet. “Sir, we’re already running triple shifts. Half the team hasn’t slept in—”
“I don’t pay you to sleep.” Vox’s claws flexed. “I pay you to deliver. Numbers are up twenty percent this week because of that segment. You want to tank them because you’re tired? Pack your shit. There’s a line of sinners outside who’d kill for your chair.”
The employee went pale, mouth opening and closing once before he nodded fast. “Understood. I’ll… I’ll get it sorted.”
He backed away, nearly tripping over his own feet, then turned and hurried off. The corridor swallowed him quick.
Silence rushed back in.
Vox exhaled through his teeth, static crackling faint along his antennae as he turned back to Charlie. The sharp edge lingered in his posture, but he forced the grin back on.
“Sorry about that. Some employees can sometimes be this incompetent. Happens.”
She stared after the retreating demon, then at Vox. The disappointment in her eyes was quiet. Heavy.
“That’s how you talk to them?” Voice soft, almost wondering.
He shrugged, antennae flicking. “They know the stakes. High pressure, high reward.”
Her arms folded slow across her chest.
“I don’t think they look rewarded,” she said.
The corridor lights kept buzzing, cold and relentless.
“We should go back,” she said, quiet and final.
Vox’s antennae twitched. He opened his mouth like he might argue, or charm, or deflect, but nothing came out clean. The employee’s retreating footsteps still echoed faint down the hall. He nodded once, sharp, and followed her.
The ride down was silent. Neither of them spoke. Charlie stood with her arms crossed loose, staring at the floor numbers ticking down. Vox leaned against the opposite wall, hands in pockets, screen dimmed low.
Outside, the red sky had deepened to a bruise-purple. He drove again, keys snatched from her hand with a quick “I got it” that didn’t invite argument. She didn’t fight him on it. Just buckled in and watched the city slide past.
The quiet stretched the whole way. Engine hum. Tires on asphalt. Occasional horn from cross traffic. Vox kept his grip tight on the wheel, eyes fixed forward. Every few blocks he glanced at her but she didn’t look back.
They pulled up to the hotel. He killed the engine. The sudden stillness felt loud.
Charlie unbuckled, but didn’t get out yet. She turned to him.
“That place…” She searched for the words, careful but direct. “It’s not what I thought it was going to be like. The people there, they’re scared of you. They’re breaking themselves to keep your numbers up. And the things you put on the air, they’re lies. That's not who I am.”
Vox stared out the windshield at the empty hotel steps. His claws tapped once on the steering wheel.
“Come on, t’s just business,” he said. Voice low, almost automatic. “That’s how it works down here.”
She shook her head. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. I want to help people. Actually help them. Not scare them, not exploit them, not twist the truth. If that’s what your help looks like…” She trailed off, looked at him fully now. “It doesn’t fit with what I’m trying to do.”
He didn’t answer right away. He needed to spin it, promise change, offer a sanitized version for her project, but the part of him still raw from the studio, from watching her face fall floor by floor, stayed quiet.
“I want you to understand, you too can be put on the right track.” she said.
She stepped out, closed the door soft behind her. Didn’t slam it. Didn’t look back.
Vox sat there a long minute, engine off, city noise muffled. The dashboard clock ticked.
Vox shoved the door open and followed.
“Hey. Wait up.”
She paused at the top, hand on the chipped railing, but didn’t turn fully. The red light from the sky painted her back in long shadows.
He climbed the steps slower, shoes scuffing. Stopped one below her so they were closer to eye level.
“Look,” he started, voice lower than he meant, “I get it. The studio’s intense. It’s not… pretty. But that’s how you stay on top down here. I can tone it down for your stuff. Clean feeds. Positive angles. Whatever you need.”
Charlie turned then. Her arms stayed folded, but her expression wasn’t angry, just tired. Direct.
“It’s not just about the feeds, Vox.” She met his eyes steady. “Or the headlines. It’s about the people making them. The ones you scared half to death in there. And mostly, it’s about you.”
He blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah.” She nodded once. “I thought you wanted this. Redemption. Getting better. Not just for a deal or airtime. For you. That’s why I asked you to stay. To be the first. Because I thought highly of you for a moment.”
The words landed heavier than the studio lights. He shifted his weight, claws flexing at his sides.
“I thought if you really meant it,” she went on, quieter, “you’d start changing things. Treating the people who work for you like… people.”
Vox looked away first, down at his shoes. The scheming part of his brain scrambled for an out. But her voice didn’t have the usual Hell edge. No threat. No bargain. Just expectation.
His jaw worked once. Static crackled faint across his screen.
“…Fine,” he said finally. The word came out rough, reluctant. “I’ll ease up. Shorter shifts. Cut the worst segments. I’ll even tell the reporters to tell only the truth.” A short, bitter laugh. “Or at least less bullshit.”
He met her eyes again. “But it’s not gonna flip overnight! That place runs on momentum. You don’t just pull the plug.”
Charlie studied him a moment longer, searching for the lie. Then her arms unfolded. The tiredness eased a fraction.
“That’s a start,” she said. “Thank you.”
She turned toward the door, pushed it open. Held it for him.
He followed her inside, the lobby swallowing them in its dusty red quiet.
xXx
Months had dragged by in a slow bleed.
Vox kept his word, or tried to. Shifts shortened. Overtime bonuses appeared. The most vicious headlines got pulled before they aired. He told himself it was temporary, window dressing for Charlie’s project. But the machine he’d built didn’t bend. Viewers drifted to sharper feeds. Ad revenue dipped, then plunged. Costs stayed high. The hemorrhaging started as small missed projections, layoffs disguised as “restructuring”, then it turned arterial.
By the time he admitted it was fatal, the vultures were already circling.
This whole ordeal had been a terrible investment. He had raised the stakes too high just to lose it all. All because he wanted to prove that fucking deer wrong.
Valentino — a rising overlord — swooped in with a smile full of teeth and a briefcase full of cash. The deal closed fast. Vox signed away his name, his screens, his empire. Walked out with enough to keep him comfortable but powerless. Overnight, his beloved (former) company rebranded. His beloved control rooms now echoed with moans and scripted gasps. That fucker had turned his precious empire into a porn studio.
He moved the last of his things back into the hotel full-time. The guest room he’d half-claimed became permanent. Charlie didn’t say I told you so. She just made space.
Late afternoon, red light thick through the lobby windows. Vox slouched on the same sagging couch where he’d woken up hungover months ago, coat draped over the arm, screen dim. A half-empty glass of something cheap sweated on the table beside him. He stared at nothing.
He made an effort to focus on the reality that he had lost everything he once held dear. Just a few short months ago, he would have been seething in a predicament like this. The sting of Alastor’s rejection had lingered beneath his skin, gnawing at his insides for what felt like an eternity. To him, that moment of dismissal was when he truly experienced his greatest loss. Nothing else seemed to hold any weight in comparison. The collapse of the company he had poured his heart and resources into just a couple of years ago barely registered as a disappointment, it paled in significance to the deeper wound inflicted on that fateful day at the bar.
Charlie came down the stairs, footsteps soft. She paused at the bottom, took in the slump of his shoulders, the dull glow of his face. Hesitated, then crossed the room and sat on the opposite end of the couch. Not too close.
“I heard,” she said. Voice quiet. No cheer forced into it. “About the sale. I’m… I’m really sorry, Vox.”
He didn’t look at her. Antennae hung limp. The glass turned slow between his claws, ice clinking.
“It’s whatever.”
The words came out flat. Tired. Not bitter, just empty.
She watched him a moment. The lobby was still half-unfinished: paint cans in corners, banner supplies stacked on tables. Her dream inching forward, slow and stubborn.
“I know you tried,” she said. “You did what I asked. More than I should’ve asked, maybe.”
He snorted, faint static crackling. “Tried. Yeah. Tanked an empire doing it.” A pause. “Valentino’s got it turning tricks now. Every screen I built. Every feed.” His mouth twisted. “Fitting, I guess.”
Charlie pulled her knees up, hugged them. “It’s not fitting. It’s awful. And it’s not your fault, you simply did the right thing, though I wish the right thing was more rewarding.”
He finally glanced at her. Eyes narrow behind the screen’s glow.
“Don’t,” he muttered. “Don’t make it noble. I didn’t do it to be good. I did it to—” He cut himself off.
Silence settled. Comfortable, almost.
After a minute he leaned back, head against the couch arm. Stared at the ceiling cracks again.
“And this place looks the same,” he said. “Still empty.”
Charlie’s mouth curved, small. “Not totally empty.”