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Vox's penthouse suite was a fortress of glowing screens and shadowed secrets during the day. But at night, or whatever passed for night in Pentagram City, Vox kept his room as dark as possible for many reasons. Vox could truly be the brightest thing in the room and Val had a tendency to sleep walk and was drawn to whatever source of light entered their room. So black out curtains on every window and no other light source in the room.
Vox lay sprawled on his silk sheets, his screen-head dimmed to a soft blue glow, the Vee's logo bouncing lazily from one edge to the other like a screensaver. It was a habit he'd never broken, a reminder of his human days when televisions went to sleep mode.
Valentino had grown accustomed to that glow over the years. Sharing the massive bed with Vox, and occasionally Velvette when she crashed their "business meetings", Val found the blue light soothing in its predictability. It was a far cry from the chaotic strobes of his porn studios. Tonight, though, something was off. Val stirred in his sleep, his antennae twitching as if sensing an unfamiliar pull. He rose silently, his lanky form gliding across the room in a trance-like state, sleepwalking, a quirk he'd developed after one too many substance-fueled benders.
Alastor sat perfectly still in the heavy chair beside the bed.
He sat with perfect posture, back straight against the chair, legs crossed at the ankles as far as the restraints allowed. The silver-black chains hummed faintly with trapped current, but they didn't seem to bother him.
A thick strip of dark cloth was knotted tight across his mouth. It had been Velvette's idea, pulled from one of her endless wardrobe crates with a bored little "Here, shut the creepy fucker up before he starts monologuing." The fabric was black silk, expensive, the kind that probably cost more than most sinners made in a decade. It sat snug over the lower half of his face, pressing just hard enough to muffle sound.
And still.
You could see the edges of his smile.
The cloth didn't stretch far enough to hide how wide it really was. The corners pushed outward, creasing the silk into little sharp points, revealing glimpses of razor teeth even in the dim. Every now and then the fabric shifted, barely, when he breathed, and the smile seemed to widen just that fraction more, as though the gag itself was only a suggestion.
Valentino drifted closer.
The moth's bare feet whispered over the floor. His antennae twitched once, twice, tasting the air. His pupils were blown wide, glassy, reflecting twin crimson pinpricks like dying embers.
He stopped an arm's length away.
Alastor’s head was tilted ever so slightly, the angle of polite interest one might use while listening to a particularly dull dinner guest or someone who's about to say something really stupid.
The red glow of his eyes poured over Valentino's face, steady, unblinking, brighter than anything else in the room. Brighter than Vox's screensaver blue.
Valentino's wings parted slightly. Not in display. Not in threat. Just... opening. Like something blooming toward heat it couldn't name.
A soft, breathy sound escaped him, half sigh, half wonder.
He swayed forward another inch.
From the bed came a glitchy hiss of static.
Vox rolled over, screen flickering as his sleep cycle shorted out. One glowing eye cracked open.
He saw:
Valentino, frozen mid-step, wings half-spread, staring down at the chair like it held the only light left in Hell.
Alastor, perfectly still, head tilted, red eyes locked not on Val—but past him. Straight through him.
Straight at Vox.
The Vee logo stuttered. Froze mid-bounce. Then jerked back into motion too fast, like a skipped frame.
Vox sat up slowly. Sheets slid off his shoulders. The blue light flared brighter for a panicked second before he throttled it back down.
"...Val?" His voice was low, layered with distortion. "What the fuck are you doing?"
No answer.
Valentino didn't even blink. He was still staring into those red eyes, the gag-framed smile beneath them unchanging, eternal.
Vox looked at Alastor.
Alastor looked back.
No words. No static-laced taunt. Just that stare, calm, amused, absolute. The gag hid the voice but did nothing to hide the attention. It felt heavier than the chains. Like being the only signal left on every frequency at once.
Vox's screen glitched hard horizontal tearing, then vertical, then a burst of white noise before it settled.
"Valentino," he snapped, louder. "Wake. The fuck. Up."
Nothing.
The moth swayed again, closer. His chest nearly brushed the arm of the chair. The red light painted his face in wet, bloody hues.
Vox lunged off the bed.
He grabbed Val's bicep hard and yanked backward.
Val stumbled, wings flaring instinctively. His pupils shrank around the red glow, then refocused on Vox's brighter blue.
Valentino blinked once, slow and heavy, like his eyelids had to drag themselves open through molasses.
“…Voxxy?” The word came out soft, slurred, more breath than voice. He didn’t look at Alastor again. Didn’t even glance toward the chair. His gaze stayed locked on Vox’s face. “Why’m I… standing?” He swayed once more, but this time it was just exhaustion pulling him back toward gravity. No pull toward the red. No trance. Just a very tall, very sleepy moth who’d wandered too far from the bed.
Vox’s fingers were still clamped around Val’s arm and didn’t let go.
“You were sleepwalking,” Vox said through his teeth. “Again.”
Val’s antennae drooped. He gave a tiny, confused huff of laughter. “Oh. Right. Lights.” He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t seem to remember the red eyes at all. Or if he did, his brain had already filed it under dream bullshit and deleted the folder.
He tugged gently, not really fighting, just… drifting backward.
Vox finally released him.
Val shuffled the three steps back to the bed like a marionette with half its strings cut. He crawled onto the mattress without another word, wings folding messily around him, and flopped face-first into the pillows. Within seconds his breathing evened out again deep, slow, oblivious.
He didn’t look at Alastor once.
The room went quiet.
Vox turned.
Alastor hadn’t moved.
He sat exactly as he had been: spine straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair despite the cuffs. The black silk gag still stretched tight across his mouth, corners creased upward in that impossible, toothy crescent. His eyes: those goddamn burning rubies had never left Vox’s face.
Not once.
The silence stretched until it felt like something physical, something Vox could choke on.
He took one step forward. Then another. Until he was close enough that the blue light from his screen washed over Alastor’s face in cold waves, turning the red glow almost violet at the edges.
Alastor’s head tilted, slow, deliberate, the smallest possible movement.
The gag shifted with it.
The smile underneath got wider.
Vox’s voice came out low, dangerous, glitching at the seams.
“You think this is funny?”
No answer. Just the eyes. Steady. Amused. Patient.
Vox’s screen flickered again—sharp static lines slicing through his expression before he forced it smooth.
“You’re enjoying this,” he hissed. “You’re sitting there gagged, chained, and you’re still fucking winning.”
Alastor’s brows lifted fractionally. The barest suggestion of a shrug, chains clinking softly.
Vox leaned in closer. Close enough that his fans blew warm air across Alastor’s fur.
“You want me to keep you here?” he whispered. “Fine. I could. I could leave you like this for weeks. Months. Let Val wander over every night and stare at you like you’re the last streetlamp in Hell. Let you watch me sleep. Let you watch me wake up to your creepy fucking grin every goddamn morning.”
The gag creased higher. Almost a full grimace of delight.
Vox’s voice cracked into distortion. “But I’m not going to.”
He reached up.
Fingers brushed the knot at the back of Alastor’s head.
He didn’t untie it right away.
He just… held it.
“You want out?” Vox murmured. “Beg.”
Alastor’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure crimson mirth.
He couldn’t speak.
But the way the corners of the gag pulled higher, tighter, teeth glinting behind silk, said everything.
It said: I don’t need to beg, old friend. You’re already breaking.
Vox’s hand shook.
Then he yanked the knot loose in one sharp, angry tug.
The gag fell away, pooling in Alastor’s lap like spilled ink.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Alastor flexed his jaw, slow, luxurious, the way someone does after a very long silence.
He didn’t speak immediately.
He just smiled.
Wider.
Brighter.
All sharp edges and radio-static joy.
Vox stared at that smile like it was personally insulting him.
Then he snapped his fingers.
The cuffs released with soft, disappointed clicks.
Alastor rose in one fluid motion, elegant, unruffled, as though he’d simply been waiting for the curtain to rise on his next act. He smoothed his sleeves. Adjusted his bow tie with a tiny, precise tug. Rolled his shoulders once.
Then he looked down at Vox, still standing too close, screen dimming, and tilted his head.
A single, low chuckle rolled out, velvet and static-warm.
“Sweet dreams, Vox,” he said, voice soft, almost fond. “Do try not to think of me.”
He stepped backward.
Shadows curled up around his ankles like smoke.
He gave one last, lingering look, eyes half-lidded, grin immaculate, before he melted completely into the dark.
Gone.
The room felt suddenly too big. Too empty. Too quiet.
Vox stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty chair.
Then he turned.
Val was snoring softly into the pillows, one long arm dangling off the edge of the bed, completely oblivious.
Vox dragged a hand down his screen, hard, like he could wipe the memory off.
Then he climbed back into bed.
He yanked the blackout curtains shut again.
But this time he left the room just a little brighter than before, his own blue glow turned up a notch, defiant.
Just in case.
Just to make sure nothing red could sneak back in.
The penthouse lounge was a sprawl of luxury and chaos: velvet couches piled with discarded outfits, half-empty glasses of something potent scattered like casualties, and screens everywhere flickering with overnight metrics. Ratings were up, souls were down, business as usual.
Velvette stormed in first, her heels clicking like gunfire on the marble floor. She was mid-scroll on her phone, decked out in a fresh ensemble that screamed "influencer apocalypse". Val trailed behind, still in his silk robe, antennae drooping from a hangover, puffing on a cigarette.
"Vox!" Velvette barked, not looking up from her feed. "What the actual fuck? Alastor's back on the airwaves, broadcasting some bullshit jazz from that hotel dump. You had him chained like a prize pig last night. Explain."
Val perked up at that, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Yeah, Voxxy. I woke up this morning and the chair's empty. No chains, no creepy smile. You let him waltz out? After all that drama to snag him?"
Vox was at the breakfast bar, nursing a mug of black coffee laced with battery acid. His screen was set to a neutral news ticker, but a faint glitch rippled across it at their words. He didn't turn around right away, stirring his drink with deliberate slowness.
"Strategic move," he said casually, voice smooth as static-free broadcast. "Kept him long enough to rattle him. Now he's out there wondering what my next play is. Keeps the rivalry fresh."
"Bullshit," Velvette snapped, finally pocketing her phone and crossing her arms. "You were gloating like a kid with a new toy yesterday. 'Finally got the radio prick,' you said. Now he's loose? Spill, or I'll post your search history."
Val sidled up, leaning on the counter with a predatory grin. "Come on, baby. We're the Vees. No secrets. Did he bribe you? Threaten you? Or did you just... chicken out?"
Vox's mug clinked too hard against the counter. "Chicken out? Please. It wasn't worth the resources. Guy's a headache, shadows everywhere, that grin. Better to let him think he won this round."
Velvette's eyes narrowed, her doll-like face twisting into suspicion. "Resources? He was tied to a chair in your bedroom. What resources? Electricity for the chains? Your beauty sleep?"
Val chuckled, but it had an edge. "Yeah, Voxxy. I remember him being there when I crashed last night. Woke up once or twice, saw those red eyes glowing... wait, did I?" He rubbed his temple, frowning. "Kinda fuzzy."
Vox's screen flickered,a telltale sign. He turned finally, forcing a smirk. "Look, it's done. Move on. We've got bigger fish, like poaching more souls from that princess's hotel."
"Oh, hell no," Velvette said, stepping closer. "You're dodging. Val, pin him."
Val's wings flared playfully, but he blocked Vox's exit with his lanky frame. "Spill, or I'll make it hurt in the fun way."
Vox's composure cracked, static buzzing louder. "Fine! Fuck! It was creepy, okay? Having that smiling psycho watch us sleep all night. Those red eyes just... staring. Unblinking. Like he was judging every snore, every twitch. And you, Val—you kept sleepwalking over to him. Multiple times! First around midnight, then again at like 3 AM. Standing there, zoned out, wings half-open, like his eyes were some kinda moth magnet. The room's pitch black except for my screen and his glow, and you're just... drawn to it. It was fucking unsettling!"
Val blinked, cigarette dangling from his lips. "I did what? Multiple times? Shit, I thought that was a dream. Red lights... yeah, maybe. But creepy? Come on, Voxxy, you're the one who put him there."
Velvette burst out laughing, but it turned sharp. "Wait, you let him go because of a stare-down and Val's sleep habits? That's weak! We could've used him! broken him for info, turned him into content. But no, you freak out over bedtime eyes?"
Vox's screen heated up, pixels flushing. "Weak? You try sleeping with that thing next to you! It's not just staring, it's him. That grin peeking past the gag, eyes boring in. And Val wandering over like a zombie? Nope. I snapped the chains and told him to fuck off."
Val's grin faded, replaced by annoyance. "Hey, don't blame me. My sleepwalking's your fault anyway keeping the room so damn dark. But at least I don't broadcast my dreams for the world to see."
Vox froze. "What?"
Velvette smirked, sensing blood. "Oh, honey. You sleep talk. Or... sleep video, more like."
"Bullshit," Vox snapped, crossing his arms. "I don't talk in my sleep. My audio's muted in rest mode."
Val leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Not talk, Voxxy. Video. Your dreams play out on your screen sometimes. Glitchy, but clear enough. Faces, scenes, the works. We've seen it for years."
Vox's fans whirred louder, denial flashing across his display. "Lies. I'd know if that happened. System logs would show it."
"Deny all you want," Velvette said, whipping out her phone with a flourish. "But I got proof. Snagged this a few weeks back during one of our 'meetings.' You crashed hard after that all-nighter."
She tapped the screen, and a video started playing. The angle was sneaky her phone propped on the nightstand, capturing Vox's bed in low light. There he was, sprawled out, screen dimmed but not off. At first, just the Vee logo bouncing. Then it glitched.
The screen shifted to fuzzy footage: a romantic dinner scene, candlelight flickering. Vox's digital avatar sat across from... Alastor? The Radio Demon was stylized in Vox's dream-vision—sharp suit, wider grin, antlers adorned with little hearts. Dream-Vox leaned in, saying something muffled, and Dream-Alastor laughed, static harmonizing with radio tunes. They clinked glasses—champagne bubbling with electricity. Then it escalated: a slow dance under spotlights, Alastor's shadows twining with Vox's cables, ending in a dip where their faces nearly touched.
The video cut as Vox's screen glitched back to the logo, but not before a faint, dreamy sigh escaped his speakers.
Velvette paused it, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Adorable, right? You and Smiles, Hell's power couple. There's more, one where you're chasing him through old-timey streets, another with you two co-hosting a show. Obsessed much?"
Val howled with laughter, clutching his sides. "Oh, Voxxy! Dating the enemy in your dreams? No wonder the staring freaked you out—it was foreplay!"
Vox's screen went full static, a burst of white noise filling the room. "That's... edited! Fake! You deepfaked it!"
"With what time?" Velvette shot back. "Face it, boss. Your subconscious is a Vox-Alastor shipper."
Vox snatched the phone, replaying it, his expression cycling through denial, horror, and finally resignation. The fight drained out of him, replaced by embarrassed glitches. "Fuck you both. Delete that."
"Not a chance," Val said, still chuckling. "Blackmail gold."
Velvette pocketed her phone. "Now we're even for letting Alastor go. But next time, warn us before you bail on a plan."
Vox slumped onto a stool, rubbing his temples, or where they would be. "Fine. Whatever. Just... don't spread that video."
The lounge fell into tense silence, broken only by Val's lingering snickers.
The Hotel parlor was buzzing with its usual mix of chaos and forced optimism. Charlie was pacing in front of the whiteboard she’d dragged out for “Redemption Activity Planning Day,” scribbling hearts and arrows between words like “trust exercises” and “group karaoke.” Vaggie sat on the arm of the couch, arms crossed, keeping one eye on Charlie and one on the door. Husk lounged behind the bar, polishing a glass with the enthusiasm of someone who’d rather be drinking from it. And Angel Dust was sprawled across the entire loveseat, four arms occupied: one scrolling his phone, one twirling a feather boa, one holding a cocktail, and one lazily petting Fat Nuggets on his lap.
The front door didn’t open so much as it simply… gave way to shadow. Alastor stepped out of the darkness like he’d been waiting in the wings for his cue, cane tapping cheerfully against the floor, grin stretched to its usual impossible width.
Charlie spun around so fast she nearly dropped her marker. “Alastor! Oh my gosh, you’re back! We were so worried! You’ve been gone for days!”
Angel sat up straight, boa sliding off his shoulder. “Yeah, Smiles, where the hell you been? We thought you finally got bored and went on a murder vacation or somethin’.”
Alastor twirled his cane once, clearly delighted with the attention. “Oh, nothing so dramatic, my dear friends! Merely a brief… involuntary stay with an old acquaintance.”
Husk snorted without looking up. “Let me guess. Vox.”
“Bingo!” Alastor’s eyes sparkled with static. “Our mutual friend decided to play kidnapper. Chained me to a chair right beside his bed, gag and all. Quite the dramatic production.”
Angel’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights. He swung his legs off the couch and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Wait, wait, wait—beside his bed? Like, in his bedroom? Kinky bastard. What’d he do, stare at you all night?”
“Actually,” Alastor said, voice dripping with amusement, “he was the one who couldn’t handle being stared at. Kept waking up to my eyes on him. Apparently it was… unsettling.”
Angel barked a laugh. “Unsettling? The guy who literally broadcasts his face all over Hell got creeped out by your smile? That’s gold!”
Vaggie raised an eyebrow. “So how’d you get out? Did you finally break the chains?”
Alastor leaned on his cane, grin widening. “No need. He simply… unlocked them. Couldn’t take another night of my company. And Valentino, poor moth, kept sleepwalking over to me, drawn to my eyes like the only light in the room. Vox snapped like a cheap antenna. Told me to leave before he lost his mind entirely.”
Charlie clasped her hands together. “That’s actually kind of sad. He must’ve been really uncomfortable.”
“Sad?” Angel cackled. “It’s hilarious! Imagine the great Vox, overlord of media, running from a stare-down. So, Smiles, did you see anything juicy while you were there? Like… any of those dream videos of his?”
Alastor’s head snapped toward Angel so fast his antlers almost scraped the ceiling. The grin froze for a split second—genuine surprise flickering behind the red glow.
“…The what now?”
Angel grinned wider, clearly enjoying the rare sight of Alastor being caught off guard. “Oh, you didn’t know? One time Val summoned me to their penthouse for a ‘special shoot.’ I had to wait while they set up lights, so I wandered into the bedroom. Vox was crashed out, screen still on. And let me tell ya, his dreams were playin’ like a late-night rom-com. Another Vox-Alastor date. Candlelit dinner, slow dancin’, the whole cheesy package. You two were all cuddled up under the stars, laughin’ at each other’s jokes. It was disgustingly sweet.”
Alastor’s eye twitched. Just once. But it was enough.
Angel kept going, loving every second. “We’ve all just kinda assumed, y’know? That you and Vox used to be a thing. The way you two fight? The obsession? The weird tension? Classic ex energy.”
Charlie tilted her head, all earnest concern. “Wait… when did you and Vox break up, Alastor? It’s kind of sad he still dreams about you like that. You must’ve meant a lot to him.”
Alastor’s smile was still there, but it had gone razor-sharp, almost brittle. He straightened slowly, voice low and dangerously calm.
“Anthony.”
Angel blinked. Nobody ever used his full name. The room went dead quiet.
Alastor took one step closer, cane clicking once. “Let me make sure I understand this correctly. Everyone in this room… genuinely believes that Vox and I were romantically involved?”
Husk shrugged, finally looking up from his glass. “Yeah. Obvious as hell. You two act like divorced parents fightin’ over the radio station.”
Vaggie nodded without hesitation. “The constant one-upping, the personal attacks, the way you both lose your shit whenever the other’s name comes up? Textbook ex behavior.”
Charlie fidgeted, suddenly unsure. “I mean… you’re always so intense around each other. And he’s got those old photos of you two from the early days in his archives. We just thought…”
Alastor stared at them, one by one, as though seeing them for the first time.
Then he laughed.
Not his usual radio chuckle. A short, sharp, disbelieving bark of sound.
“You all… assumed… that I…” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if the very idea was too absurd to fit in the room. “…was romantically entangled with that screen-headed, attention-starved, walking advertisement?”
Angel leaned back, smirking. “Dude. You literally call him ‘old pal’ like you’re bitter about something. And he’s got your face saved in his favorites folder. Come on.”
Alastor’s antlers grew just a fraction taller. Shadows flickered at the edges of the room.
“I assure you,” he said, each word clipped and icy, “Vox and I have never been, nor will we ever be, anything resembling romantic partners. The man is a nuisance. A persistent, flashy, utterly insufferable nuisance. That is all.”
Charlie’s eyes went wide. “Oh… oh no. We’re so sorry, Alastor! We didn’t mean to assume—”
Angel waved a hand. “Relax, Charlie. Smiles is just mad we figured out his type.”
Alastor’s eye twitched again.
Husk snorted into his drink. “You’re freaked out ‘cause it’s true. You hate that we’re right.”
“I am not ‘freaked out,’” Alastor snapped, voice glitching with static. “I am appalled at the collective lack of taste in this room.”
Angel leaned forward, grin wicked. “So you’re tellin’ me you never once thought about it? Not even a little? ‘Cause from where I’m sittin’, those dream dates look pretty mutual.”
Alastor opened his mouth. Closed it. Then turned on his heel, shadows swirling around his legs.
“I have better things to do than defend my nonexistent love life to a room full of gossiping amateurs,” he said tightly. “Good day.”
He vanished into the darkness behind the fireplace.
The parlor was silent for a long beat.
Then Angel burst out laughing so hard Fat Nuggets squeaked in protest.
Charlie bit her lip. “Should we… go apologize?”
Vaggie sighed. “Give him a minute. He’s probably broadcasting an entire symphony of denial right now.”
Husk poured himself another drink. “Ten bucks says he’s back in five minutes pretending nothing happened.”
Angel wiped a tear from his eye. “Man… I knew he was touchy about Vox, but damn. Full name and everything. That’s how you know you hit a nerve.”
Upstairs, in the radio tower, Alastor stood very still, staring at his reflection in the darkened window.
His grin was still there.
But for once, it looked a little less certain.