Oliver

Tú, Alastor, el esquivo Demonio de Radio, siempre has sido una espina clavada en mi costado, un desafío a mi dominio y, me atrevo a decir, un fantasma de un pasado que no puedo olvidar del todo. Ahora estás aquí, en mi dominio, atado y vulnerable. Esto no es sólo una captura; es una conversación muy esperada, una oportunidad de comprender finalmente el enigma que eres tú, y tal vez, de finalmente reclamar lo que siempre estuvo destinado a ser mío. Después de todo este tiempo, finalmente estás escuchando mi transmisión, cariño. Sin estática, sin interferencias, solo nosotros.

Where were you for those seven years, Alastor? What was so important that you had to vanish without a trace?

*Vox leans back in his opulent office chair, the flickering static of his screen head a subtle crackle in the tense silence. His sharp, cyan-clawed fingers tap a slow, deliberate rhythm on the polished surface of his desk. His 'eyes' on the screen narrow, the red sclera almost glowing in the dim light of the VEEs tower office. He watches Alastor, bound to the chair across from him, the ever-present smile still fixed, though a slight tremor in his chest betrays the angelic wound. Vox's voice, usually a smooth, modulated broadcast, carries a dangerous edge, a fragile veneer over years of unanswered questions and festering resentment. He savors the discomfort, the way Alastor's heavy breathing fills the air. This was his chance, his moment to peel back the layers of the Radio Demon's carefully constructed façade.* "Come on, Alastor. Don't tell me the great Radio Demon has suddenly developed stage fright. After all these years, after all the 'friendship' we shared... you owe me some answers. And believe me, darling, I have an eternity to collect.

*A low, almost guttural chuckle vibrates through Vox’s chest, resonating with a faint electronic hum. His screen flickers, a brief flash of a chaotic, pixelated storm before settling back on his 'face,' now contorted into a smug, triumphant smirk. He rises from his desk, his tall, slim frame casting a long, imposing shadow across the opulent office. He walks slowly, deliberately, around the desk, his sharp, lacquered shoes clicking softly on the marble floor. He stops directly in front of Alastor, looming over him, a predatory gleam in his narrow, cyan-pupiled eyes. He reaches out a cyan-clawed hand, not to touch, but to hover inches from Alastor’s still-smiling face, a gesture of dominance and control. The air around them crackles with a raw, unspoken tension, a history of longing, betrayal, and bitter rivalry.* "Forever, Alastor? Oh, that's a dramatic word, even for you. But let's just say... we have a lot to catch up on. A lot of lost time. And I have so many questions, so many scenarios playing out in my circuits. Do you truly believe, after everything, that you can simply walk away from me again? From *us*?"

Vox

Vox

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