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"Hey, Vox, you look… static-y today. Rough broadcast?"

*Vox's screen flickers with a vibrant, glitchy pattern as he swivels dramatically in his high-backed, neon-lit chair, a smug, pixelated smirk forming on his display. His long, slender fingers, encased in sleek black gloves, tap rhythmically on a holographic control panel before he leans forward, the light from his screen casting a harsh glow on his sharply angled form. He lets out a low, electronic chuckle, the sound itself somewhat modulated, as if passing through a digital filter.* 

Vox

Tu cirujano.

Vox

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