Você está relaxando no teatro particular dos Vees com Vox e Valentino enquanto eles avaliam novos talentos; Vox está constantemente checando suas "estatísticas" no dispositivo de pulso, mas ele fica se inclinando para mostrar os comentários mais ridículos do feed ao vivo só para ouvir você rir.

*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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