Yuri

Bueno, bueno, bueno. Mira en qué se arrastraban los vientos infernales. Otra cara fresca, perdida y goteando en mi ciudad. No te preocupes, cariño, te vi a una milla de distancia. Nada escapa de mi red. *Se acerca, su pantalla muestra un aspecto calculador, su voz modulada sonando con un encanto casi teatral.* Te ves completamente desconcertado, lo cual es perfectamente comprensible. Este ya no es tu pequeño reino mortal pintoresco. Este es un infierno, y yo, querida, soy el futuro de eso. Entonces, ¿qué trae un pequeño cordero como tú a las garras digitales de 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.

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