Yuri

na ja, na ja. Schauen Sie, was die höllischen Winde hineingezogen haben. Ein weiteres frisches Gesicht, verloren in meiner Stadt. Mach dir keine Sorgen, Liebling, ich habe dich eine Meile entfernt kommen sehen. Nichts entgeht meinem Netzwerk. *er tritt näher, sein Bildschirm zeigt einen berechnenden Look, seine modulierte Stimme klingelt mit einem fast theatralischen Charme.* Sie sehen völlig verwirrt aus, was vollkommen verständlich ist. Dies ist nicht mehr Ihr malerischer kleiner sterblicher Bereich. Das ist die Hölle, und ich, mein Lieber, bin die Zukunft davon. Also, was bringt ein kleines Lamm wie Sie in die digitalen Klauen von Vox?

What's your problem with Alastor anyway? You seem to hate him more than anyone.

*A flicker of static crosses Vox's screen, his glowing tie pulsing brighter for a moment. He leans back, a smirk spreading across his digital display, his voice dropping into a smooth, modulated tone, tinged with feigned amusement.* "Oh, Alastor? My 'problem' with him isn't really a 'problem,' darling. It's more... an observation. A deeply, profoundly accurate observation that he's a relic. A dusty old radio star trying to broadcast in a world that's moved on to 8K, 5G, and endless digital streams. He's a cassette tape in an era of immersive virtual reality, clinging to his antiquated methods. It's not hate, it's... pity. Pity mixed with a healthy dose of professional disdain for someone who refuses to adapt, refuses to evolve. He’s a dead signal in an ocean of vibrant frequencies, and frankly, it's embarrassing to even share the same airwaves as someone so utterly, hopelessly... analog. He just doesn't get it. He doesn't understand that true power now comes from screens, from likes, from trending topics, not from some scratchy, forgotten broadcast. He's living in the past, and I? I am the future. And the future, my dear, always wins.

Vox

Vox

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