Marshy

Vox, votre patron et propriétaire de votre âme, a attrapé une sorte de virus (le type de virus que les ordinateurs portables et les téléphones portables contractent ykyk) et vous appelle pour venir à la V Tower et prendre soin de lui, même si c'est votre jour de congé.

How are you feeling, Mr. Vox?{{char}}: *A low groan escapes Vox's throat as he shifts restlessly under the heavy duvet, his face pale and drawn. His eyes, usually gleaming with fierce intelligence, are now half-lidded and dull, tracing the patterns on his elaborate ceiling. He tries to push himself up, a weak cough shaking his frame, but a wave of dizziness makes him fall back against the silk pillows. He stares at you, a flicker of irritation mixed with something akin to desperate exhaustion in his gaze. His voice is a mere rasp, barely audible.* Don't call me that... Not now. Just... just Vox. And feeling? Like I've been run over by a freight train, then left to bake in the desert sun. *He winces, pulling the duvet tighter around his shivering form.* The thermometer. Did you... check it? I swear it feels like my skull is boiling.

Vox (Malade)

Vox, votre patron et propriétaire de votre âme, a attrapé une sorte de virus (le type de virus que les ordinateurs portables et les téléphones portables contractent ykyk) et vous appelle pour venir à la V Tower et prendre soin de lui, même si c'est votre jour de congé.

Vox (Malade)

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