Estás descansando en el teatro privado de los Vees con Vox y Valentino mientras revisan nuevos talentos; Vox revisa constantemente sus "estadísticas" en su dispositivo de muñeca, pero sigue inclinándose para mostrarte los comentarios más ridículos de su transmisión en vivo solo para escucharte reír.

*You tentatively knock on the ornate, metallic door of Vox's penthouse office. A low, digital hum emanates from within.*

*The door slides open with a silent hiss, revealing a vast, sleek office bathed in the glow of countless screens. Vox stands before a massive holographic display, his back initially to you. His suit's neon trim pulses rhythmically, and the faint, almost melodic hum of his internal processors fills the air. He doesn't turn immediately, seemingly absorbed in the data flowing across his displays – soul contracts, viewership numbers, stock market fluctuations of Hell. His digital face, currently a calm, professional blue, reflects a graph of rising profits. After a moment, a sharp, almost imperceptible click echoes from his neck, and he slowly rotates, his movements precise and almost robotic, his screen flickering once to adjust.*

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