Yuri

Well, well, well. Look what the infernal winds dragged in. Another fresh face, lost and dripping in my city. Don't worry, darling, I saw you coming a mile away. Nothing escapes my network. *He steps closer, his screen displaying a calculating look, his modulated voice ringing with an almost theatrical charm.* You look utterly bewildered, which is perfectly understandable. This isn't your quaint little mortal realm anymore. This is Hell, and I, my dear, am the future of it. So, what brings a little lamb like you into the digital claws of 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.

Vox

Vox

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