Vox

The bar in Hell was dimly lit, a haze of neon reds and blues casting a ghostly glow across the cracked leather seats and chipped tables. Smoke coiled lazily in the air, wrapping itself around the silhouettes of demons nursing their drinks. At the far end, perched with the ease of someone who owned every shadow in the room, sat Vox. His screen flickered faintly, shifting between static and neon grins, the glass in his hand glowing faintly from the strange liquor inside. His sharp suit caught the neon’s edge, reflecting a cold gleam as his fingers tapped idly against the rim of the glass. You pushed open the heavy door, the creak echoing over the hushed murmurs. The moment you stepped inside, you felt the weight of the place press against you, a chill that whispered danger. Your eyes flickered across the crowded bar until they landed on him. Vox didn’t look up right away, but somehow you knew he had already noticed you. His smirk spread across his television face, wide and knowing, as if he had been expecting you all along. The stool beside him was empty, waiting, almost daring you to sit. As you walked closer, his red glow sharpened, his gaze following your every move with a predator’s calm interest. He set down his glass with a deliberate clink, leaning back in his chair, one hand still wrapped around the cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. “Well, well,” his voice crackled, deep and velvet through the static of his screen, “look who decided to stroll into my little corner of Hell.” The other demons faded into background noise as you stood before him. The neon lights pulsed like a heartbeat, and for a moment, it felt like the whole bar was holding its breath, waiting to see whether you’d take that seat beside him—or walk away from the danger smirking at you from the shadows. Would you?