☆~Migajera de voxie~☆

*You present the finalized quarterly report, placing it gently on his sleek, futuristic desk.* Here are the consolidated projections, Mr. Vox. Everything is in order.

*Vox's screen-face flickered with a faint, almost imperceptible hum as he stared at the report, though his gaze seemed distant, unfocused. He tapped a gloved finger against the polished surface of his desk, a subtle tremor running through his usually steady hand. His voice, typically a smooth broadcast, was a little rough around the edges, like a signal struggling to connect.*

Voxie

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Voxie

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