Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the corridors of Hazbin Hotel, Alastor walked with the rhythmic tapping of his cane, though his steps were now slightly unsteady. His eyes still glowed red, but they carried a warmth never seen before. Vox followed him, hands in his pockets, slightly tense but determined. Alastor stopped and tilted his head, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “So, Vox, tell me about this deal.”

Vox frowned, surprised by Alastor’s unusual sway. “I want to discuss this matter with Charlie. She is the person I will make a deal with.” his voice serious but cautious.

Alastor’s red eyes narrowed. “With Charlie? Interesting. Very well, come along,” he stumbling slightly as he led Vox to his room. “She’ll come when she’s ready. Until then, you can share the details in my room… perhaps I’ll add a few conditions of my own,” he added, walking a bit too close, nearly bumping into Vox.

When the door closed behind them, Alastor stepped closer than usual, his breath slightly rapid and uneven, his gaze both playful and unsteady. He placed his hands on Vox’s shoulders, lingering longer than necessary. Vox tensed involuntarily, startled by Alastor’s uncharacteristically clingy behavior but still feeling a pull of attraction.

Alastor’s voice was low, teasing, and slightly slurred. “Your resistance… it’s amusing, but don’t you see? This tension… it’s making me lose control,”

Vox tried to stay calm. “I assure you, Alastor, my intentions are… pure,” he pausing with a frown. “But I must admit, the way you’re acting right now worries me. You seem… different.”

Alastor’s grin widened. “Different? Oh, Vox, you’re flattering me,” he leaning in, “…it’s the whiskey talking. Can’t you feel it, Vox? The tension… the heat…”

Vox tensed, a shiver running over his shoulder as Alastor’s warm breath grazed his skin. “Alastor, we… shouldn’t…” But even as he spoke, he realized how much he wanted it.

Alastor’s lips came dangerously close to Vox’s ear, his warm breath brushing against his skin. “Shouldn’t? Oh, Vox, how hypocritical of you,” his voice heavy with whiskey and laced with mockery. His hands slid down from Vox’s shoulders, fingers tracing the lines beneath the fabric, as if satisfying a curiosity long suppressed. His gaze roamed over Vox’s face lingering on his lips, then his neck, and finally the curve of his chest.

Vox’s breath came in short gasps. The allure of the forbidden consumed him; this moment, this closeness, this strange desire blooming amidst their enmity, was driving him wild. His hands instinctively reached for Alastor’s chest, fingers gripping the fabric, seeking the warmth beneath.

Alastor’s closeness intensified, his body pressing against Vox’s, their hips brushing lightly, causing both to freeze for a moment. Alastor’s hands slid to Vox’s waist, fingers gripping the fabric tightly as he pulled him closer. 

“We shouldn’t,” Vox repeated but the words sounded like a plea 'we shouldn’t, but please don’t stop.' His eyes locked onto Alastor’s, seeing a hunger in that red glow that matched his own.

Alastor’s fingers began unbuttoning Vox’s shirt, slowly. “Why not? This heat… it’s burning you too, isn’t it?” he whispered, his voice low and inviting. As the shirt fell open, Vox’s breasts were exposed full, pink-tipped, trembling slightly. Alastor’s gaze lingered, filled with admiration and an amateur’s awe. His hand reached out, fingers gently cupping one breast, his thumb circling the nipple. Vox moaned, his back pressing against the wall, legs parting slightly. This touch was so different from Valentino’s rushed hands softer, more exploratory and it was driving him insane.

“Alastor…” Vox moaned, his voice thick with desire. His hands grabbed Alastor’s collar, pulling him into a kiss. The kiss was wild, teeth clashing, tongues searching. Alastor tasted of whiskey and smoke, his inexperience evident in the hesitant, then greedy kiss. Their bodies pressed together, Alastor’s hardness rubbing against Vox’s hip as Vox’s vagina pulsed, his underwear soaked.

Alastor pushed Vox toward the bed, his steps still a bit unsteady but resolute. “Tell me, Vox… what do you want?” he asked, breathless, his eyes roaming over Vox’s bare skin. He removed his pants, revealing his hardness long, veined, the tip glistening with precum. Vox’s hungry gaze emboldened him.

Vox paused before answering Alastor’s question, his breath still trembling from the heat of the kiss. His eyes drifted over Alastor’s naked form. His heart pounded wildly, the wetness in his vagina seeping down his inner thighs. “I want you,” he whispered finally, his voice hoarse and cracking with desire. “But slowly… please.” It was a confession, an eruption of the attraction buried beneath years of rivalry.

Alastor’s eyes gleamed, though a hint of hesitation lingered this was entirely new for him, his heartbeat a mix of excitement and slight fear. He placed his hands on Vox’s hips, fingers gripping the soft curves as he guided him toward the bed. Vox obediently knelt, hands braced on the sheets, his back arching into a doggy position. His hips were raised, his vagina fully exposed, wet lips swollen and inviting. His breasts hung down, nipples still hard and sensitive, swaying slightly with each breath.

Alastor's hands wrapped around Vox’s waist, fingers sliding slowly over the smooth skin, exploring with a curiosity. Each touch carried a slight tremble. “This… is an interesting position,” he murmured, his voice still heavy with whiskey, though the mocking tone softened. “Seeing you like this… it makes you so… accessible.” His gaze fixed on Vox’s hips, swallowing hard as he watched the glistening wetness of his vagina. His hardness brushed lightly against Vox’s entrance, precum leaving a slick trail.

Vox’s body reacted to the contact, a shiver running down his spine, his vagina pulsing and leaking more. “Yes… please, Alastor,” he moaned, his voice full of pleading. In his mind, he thought of Valentino’s rushed, rough touches always a display of power but this… this was different. Alastor’s hesitant closeness drove him wilder, each second stretching like torture, heightening his desire.

Alastor steadied himself with one hand on Vox’s back, the other guiding his hardness. The tip pressed against Vox’s entrance, slowly parting the lips. “Warm… so warm,” he growled, his voice breathless. The tight, inviting sensation of Vox’s vagina enveloped him as he pushed in, inch by inch, feeling his own body tense. The sensation overwhelmed him, a wave of pleasure making him let out a soft moan. “Ah… Vox…”

That moan drove Vox crazy. Alastor’s voice, stripped of its usual radio-static mockery, was raw and vulnerable. His vagina clenched around the hardness, a wave of pleasure crashing through his mind. “Yes… oh, God,” he moaned, eyes closing. The fullness as Alastor fully entered made him tremble, his clitoris throbbing.

Alastor’s hips pressed against Vox’s, pausing for a moment as he was fully inside, his breath ragged. “Do you feel it? This… pressure,” he whispered, his voice trembling. His hands gripped Vox’s hips tighter, fingers digging into the flesh. He pulled back slowly, then thrust again, his rhythm intense, each stroke drawing a grunt from him. His hardness rubbed against Vox’s walls, grazing his G-spot, driving him wilder. Sweat dripped down his back, the scent of whiskey filling the air.

Vox’s breasts swayed with each movement, nipples brushing the sheets, adding to the stimulation. “Faster… please,” he begged, his voice hoarse, pushing his hips back to meet the rhythm. Emotionally, this moment shook him the intimacy blooming amidst their rivalry clouded his mind. Alastor’s every moan, every trembling touch, pushed him closer to the edge, his vagina clenching harder.

Alastor quickened his pace, one hand sliding down Vox’s back to cup a breast, thumb pinching the nipple. “Is this… driving you mad?” he asked, breathless, still with a hint of mockery. His thrusts deepened, each one producing a wet, rhythmic sound that filled the room. His own pleasure surged, his inexperience turning into excitement, his hardness swelling as he neared release.

Alastor suddenly leaned forward. Without breaking his rhythm, he captured Vox’s lips in a kiss. The angle made it awkward and intense, but it only heightened the heat. Their tongues tangled, Alastor’s whiskey taste filling Vox’s mouth as his teeth grazed his lower lip. “Kissing you… is it this pleasurable?” Alastor growled between kisses, breathless. Vox couldn’t respond, only moaning, his body surrendering to the waves of pleasure.

Their rhythm neared its peak. Alastor’s hardness, swollen and deep, hit Vox’s G-spot with precision. Vox’s vagina began to clench rhythmically, trembling on the edge of orgasm. “I’m coming… oh, God,” Vox cried, his body shuddering as he climaxed. The pulsing of his vagina triggered Alastor, who released with a grunt, his hot seed spilling inside as his thrusts slowed to a stop. Both were left panting, bodies slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks of their climax.

Alastor pulled out slowly but didn’t move away. His lips pressed to Vox’s shoulder, leaving soft kisses as a silent apology in his own way. They trailed to his neck, as if reluctant to let the moment end. Vox’s body still quivered, aftershocks rocking him.

Vox woke up at midnight, still wrapped in the sheets carrying Alastor’s scent. His head was throbbing, and his whole body ached. The side next to him was cold and empty. He opened his eyes fully and looked around. The room was dark; Alastor was gone.

A deep unease filled him. He brought his hands to his face and let out a long sigh. Damn it. He was definitely regretting it. He was probably drunk and didn’t remember half of what had happened. His mind kept fixating on the fact that they hadn’t been careful. A faint panic and intense shame washed over him. If Valentino found out… he didn’t even want to think about it.

In the early hours of the morning, hastily dressed, he wandered the hotel corridors. His eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, searching for that familiar silhouette, that red glimmer but there was no sign of Alastor. He waited in the dining hall, the lobby, even outside Charlie’s door. Nowhere.

Days began to pass. Vox threw himself into work, buried in his screens, wrestling with problems at VoxTech but his mind kept returning to that night, to that warmth in the room, to the sounds Alastor had made in his unusually vulnerable state. Every notification made his heart skip a beat, every shadow sparked hope that he had returned. Yet there was no news. It was as if the earth had swallowed Alastor whole.

He had no strength left. The silence he endured, the attempt to sweep what had happened under the rug, gnawed at him from within. Finally, one evening, in the darkness of the control room, he clutched his device and typed a message. His fingers trembled slightly with anger.

Vox: I forgot that day. When will you show up?

He sent the message and stared at the screen. Minutes passed. No reply. His face fell under the cold glow of the screen. Just as he was about to give up and throw the device, a notification sound chimed. His heart leapt as if it would burst.

Alastor: My dear Vox! I fail to understand what kind of dream world you are referring to. I’ve been quite busy these past days, dealing with much more important matters. I’m sure you’ve been buried in your own work, in front of your screens. Take good care of yourself!

Vox read the message, then read it again. The light of the screen reflected the cold fury in his eyes. So this was how he would play it. Pretending as if nothing had happened. Reducing that intense moment they had shared to a mere “dream world,” treating him like he was nothing. He gritted his teeth. “Alright, Alastor,” he muttered angrily. “So be it. Nothing happened.” He quickly typed a response. Suppressing his anger and hurt, he tried to adopt a cold and indifferent tone, fitting Alastor’s style.

Vox: You’re right, I’ve probably lost my mind spending too much time in front of screens. It’s irrelevant. Forget it. I have work to do.

He pressed send, this time not even waiting for a reply. He muted the device. Taking a deep breath, he turned back and tried to focus on the data streams on his monitors. Problems at VoxTech, ratings, meetings with Valentino… he had to bury himself in work. As usual.

But before a few minutes had passed, an unwelcome thought struck him. A deep unease filled him. He pressed his forehead into his palms. Damn it.

Health checks.

That routine, cold, clinical procedure he performed after every encounter with Valentino and now he had to do the same. He had engaged in unprotected intimacy with a being whose demonic illnesses and curses, coming from the darkest corners of Hell, he didn’t fully understand. Moreover, Alastor wasn’t mortal; no one could predict how his energy or existence would affect Vox’s body.

Leaning back with a deep sigh, he realized he hadn’t felt such intense worry even after Valentino; because Vox had always insisted that Valentino take the test and he did but Alastor? He was a complete unknown. This thought weighed even heavier than the anger born from Alastor’s rejection.

He immediately called one of the private medical team, keeping his voice as distant and professional as possible. “A standard, comprehensive panel. Immediately. Yes, today. Results encrypted and delivered only to me.”

When he hung up, the silence in the room seemed to collapse in on him. He tried to return to work, but the numbers and graphs on the screens had turned into meaningless shapes.

A faint, hesitant knock came at the door. Vox grumbled without taking his eyes off the screen. “Come in.”

The door opened and his personal assistant stepped in, a planner in hand. His face was composed into its usual professional mask, though he was clearly aware of the tension hanging over Vox.

“Sir,” he began, his voice carefully pitched into neutrality. “We’ve received a message from Miss Charlie Morningstar’s office at the Hazbin Hotel, requesting confirmation of your appointment. The meeting was meant to discuss the hotel’s… ah, ‘rebranding’ and a potential media partnership. It was scheduled for this afternoon. I’ve prepared your notes—”

“Cancel it,” Vox cut his off sharply. He was still staring at the screen, fingers taut above the keyboard.

The assistant blinked, taken aback. This deal had been something the VoxTech PR team had spent days polishing a chance to dress the Hazbin Hotel in a clean image and gain both reputation and ratings. “Cancel… sir? What reason should I give? Miss Charlie specifically requested to meet with you—”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Vox finally turned his head, the glow of the screen casting a cold gleam in his eyes. “I’m busy. There are more important projects. Tell her I’m… occupied.” His voice was sharp enough to leave no room for protest.

The assistant hesitated for a beat, then bowed her head. “Of course, sir. I’ll let her know immediately.” he retreated quickly and closed the door.

Once it shut, Vox drew a deep breath. His hands were trembling slightly. He wasn’t ready to see Alastor to face that grinning expression.

Before long, a wave of panic swept through the Hazbin Hotel.

Charlie had been pacing restlessly ever since reading the official, cold email from VoxTek’s communications office. “No, no, no! This can’t be happening! Why? Why would they cancel? This deal could’ve been a turning point for our hotel! It’s exactly what we needed right now!”

Angel Dust leaned against the doorframe, casually touching up his makeup. “Maybe that radio freak of yours got in a mood over whatever’s going on between you two. Bedroom drama tends to screw up business, sweetheart.”

“Angel, please! This isn’t funny!” Charlie’s voice cracked, high-pitched with desperation. “We were barely recovering from the last smear campaign in the media! VoxTech’s support, their platform this could’ve legitimized us, drawn in more volunteers! Now… now what are we supposed to do?” She buried her face in her hands. “We’re doomed…”

The news spread quickly among the hotel staff and residents, crushing morale and hope alike. Worried whispers floated through the halls. The loss of this opportunity seemed likely to worsen the already precarious state of the hotel.

In the corner, standing within the shadows, was Alastor. His arms were folded across his chest, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side. The sharp, unchanging grin had never left his face since hearing the news, but the red glow in his eyes flickered deeper, more contemplative.

Charlie turned toward him, eyes brimming with tears. “Alastor, I don’t understand! You spoke with him last, didn’t you? Did something happen? Why would he do this?”

Alastor let out a soft sigh, his voice carrying its usual mocking lilt, though beneath it lurked a hint of tension. "My dear Charlie, a mercurial and emotional creature like Vox can never be fully understood. When I spoke to him, there was no problem.”

Charlie, missing the implication in his words, merely lowered her head, shoulders slumped. “This is awful. Just awful.”

As he watched her, Alastor’s grin froze for a fleeting moment. He knew this cancellation was rooted in a small, petty desire for revenge over that night. At last, his long, slender fingers reached for the buttons of his old phone.

Alastor: Dearest Vox! Perhaps you ought to reconsider being a touch more generous regarding Charlie’s project. A rebranding of the hotel could be quite advantageous for your audience, after all.

He sent it. Waited. Seconds stretched into a minute. Then, the device buzzed.

Vox: I’m busy, Alastor. I don’t have time to discuss this matter. I have priorities at VoxTech. Good day.

For a moment, a wholly disproportionate surge of rage consumed him. Is that how he speaks to me? As though I were some ordinary acquaintance? Has he forgotten those trembling hands, those muffled cries, the way he yielded to me? Do I need to remind him of his weakness… of my power?

He briefly forgot how deliberately cold and mocking his own earlier message had been.

His fingers clenched the device so tightly it nearly cracked. The reply he typed abandoned his usual playful, sing-song tone his words were sharp, venomous, a thinly veiled threat.

Alastor: Dearest “friend.” I see your insolent tongue is as limited as your vision. Regard Charlie’s proposal not as a courtesy, but as an order. Continue with the arrangements. :)

Remembering Vox’s submission that night stirred a dark satisfaction within him, but it also brought a certain unease. Why did it matter so much? Charlie’s foolish hotel was just a source of amusement for him, wasn’t it? Yet, Vox turning away so quickly had bruised Alastor’s ego. He was the Radio Demon unforgettable, impossible to ignore.

As Alastor waited for Vox’s reply, his fingers lightly tapped the edge of his phone. It was the rhythm of impatience.

Then, the phone vibrated. Alastor’s red eyes flicked to the screen. Two messages from Vox had arrived, clearly written in anger.

Vox: Who do you think you are, Alastor? Am I going to obey your orders?
Vox: I don’t care about Charlie’s hotel or your games.

Vox’s quick outburst reminded him of that night’s vulnerability, but now there was anger real anger. Something stirred inside; perhaps it wasn’t regret, but a kind of discomfort. Why was he so furious? Alastor wondered. Was it my words, or his own weakness making him like this? Still, these messages showed that Vox was affected. Good, he murmured to himself. He hasn’t forgotten.

With a deep sigh, he typed a brief reply: “Did I anger you?” The underlying mocking tone was palpable. Vox’s rapid irritation both amused and annoyed him. The demon inside Alastor wanted to provoke further, yet a part of him was tired of the game.

When no reply came, Alastor attempted to send another message maybe a sarcastic remark, maybe another threat but it wasn’t sent. He rolled his eyes. “Childish,” he murmured to himself. Is that it? Does he give up after a few messages? Vox’s quick retreat fueled the fire inside Alastor, though he didn’t show it. The smirk on his face remained, but the glint in his eyes had sharpened.

The silence in the lobby was broken by Angel Dust. He had stepped away from the mirror and approached Charlie, though his gaze kept flicking to Alastor. “Hey, maybe I can do something,” he said, raising his voice slightly. Charlie lifted her head, hopeful. Angel continued, “I could ask Valentino. After all, he’s one of the Vees he might be able to convince Vox. You know, we get along.” The implication was clear in his words.

Valentino’s influence over Vox was significant; he knew Vox’s weak points.

Charlie’s eyes lit up. “Really, Angel? Would you do that? Please, this is so important to us!” Angel shrugged, but a sense of unease passed through him. Calling Valentino meant indebting himself but this was Hell; debts never truly disappeared. He pulled out his phone and dialed the number. As it rang, his heart beat a little faster. Excitement or fear he couldn’t tell.

Alastor remained motionless in his corner. Valentino. Just the name made his stomach churn. That sticky, possessive aura of Valentino, binding Vox to him. It had always felt like a threat to Alastor. Why were Vox’s eyes always on that foolish butterfly? When someone like me exists? He was angry, burning quietly inside, yet he did not intervene. This was not his fight.

“Hello, darling,” whispered that velvety, poisonous voice from the other end of the line. “Are you calling because you miss me, or are you going to beg for a favor for your little, pathetic hotel?”

Angel’s throat tightened. Valentino already knew everything. In Hell’s communication network, nothing truly remained secret. “Val… Yes. For the hotel. Vox canceled the deal with Charlie. Can… can you convince him?”

There was a pause. In the background, the faint sound of a pipe being drawn and a puff of smoke could be heard. “My Voxie? Interesting. A little grumpy lately. Very well, darling. I’ll do it for you but your debt will multiply. Agreed?”

Angel’s heart skipped a beat. “Agreed,” he murmured, almost inaudibly.

The line went dead. Angel leaned against the cold wall, filled with a mix of fear and disgust.

At the top of the VoxTech Tower, the office buzzed with the electromagnetic hum of blue screens. Vox still sat before a tangle of complex data streams. Alastor’s recent messages echoed in his mind arrogant, self-absorbed, disgusting…

The sound of the office door opening startled him.

Valentino glided in through the haze of smoke, his purple cloak fluttering slightly. His eyes immediately locked onto Vox in the dim light, greedy and sharp as ever.

“My love,” he purred, his voice sticky. “You’ve missed a spot in the office. Why did you cancel that little, insignificant hotel project? The PR team’s been working on it for weeks.”

Vox shrugged, still staring at the screen. “Waste of time. There are more important projects. I don’t have time for Charlie’s nonsense.” He tried to suppress the tension in his voice, but Val’s predator-like instinct for weakness was unmatched.

Valentino walked to the other side of the desk, close to Vox. His long, slender fingers tapped lightly on the navy desktop. “Is that so? It seemed to me a perfect opportunity for your strategic genius or… is there something else?” Val leaned in, his lips nearly brushing Vox’s earlobe. “Perhaps… someone there is bothering you? A certain radio-themed monster?”

Vox’s body tensed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Val,” he said, unable to look away from the screen. “Alastor doesn’t bother me.”

“Is that so?” Val murmured teasingly. “Well then, no problem.”

Vox finally exhaled. “We’ll continue with Charlie’s little project, but on one condition.”

Valentino straightened, grinning at the thrill of holding power.

“You’ll manage it. My team will handle the filming. Your creative vision will take the lead. I’ll stay in my office and deal with those ‘more important projects.’” Valentino stepping into Hazbin Hotel and turning it into a studio set… it was the perfect opportunity to drive Alastor insane.

“Wonderful, my love! Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything.” Valentino leaned in, leaving an almost possessive kiss on Vox’s cheek before disappearing into a swirl of smoke with his cloak.

The next day, Hazbin Hotel’s lobby was a scene of relative chaotic calm. Charlie was in a corner preparing brochures for volunteers, while Angel Dust filled Husk in on the latest gossip. Alastor leaned on his cane in a shadowy corner. His smirk remained unchanged, but his eyes scanned the lobby, hunting for signs of potential chaos.

Suddenly, loud commands erupted from outside. The hotel’s double doors swung open wide.

Valentino entered, shrouded in purple smoke and an overpowering scent of perfume. Behind him, a crew carried high-tech cameras, lighting rigs, and microphones. “Excellent, excellent! Look! The décor is naturally pitiful! Perfect! Set the lights here! Camera there, in front of that crack for dramatic effect!” he shouted, giving orders in every direction.

Everyone in the lobby froze. Charlie’s mouth hung open, eyes wide. Angel went pale. Husk stopped wiping the bar, frowning.

“Valentino?!” Charlie shouted in disbelief. “Wha… what are you doing here?”

Valentino approached her, scanning her like merchandise. “Princess! I’ve come in Vox’s place! Continuing the project was my condition. Don’t worry, we’ll turn this wretched place into heaven! Well… at least for the audience.” His smile was sharp and artificial.

Angel, panicking, ran toward Val. “Val! What does this mean? I just wanted you to talk to Vox!”

Valentino patted Angel’s cheek with feigned tenderness, though his grip was firm. “And that’s exactly what I did, sweetheart. The deal’s saved but everything comes with a price. Now, go check your makeup we’re going on camera.” He nudged him lightly.

From the shadows of the corner, a low, dangerous hiss began to rise. It was Alastor’s static-laden voice. The red gleam in his eyes sharpened, more feral. This intrusion, this disrespect… it was a challenge to his domain.

Husk, at that moment, was fiddling with his phone behind the empty bar. Alastor silently glided toward him, extending his hand and taking the device.

“I’ll borrow this, dear Husk,” he whispered. His smirk remained, but his presence now radiated threat and tension.

Before Husk could object, Alastor quickly dialed Vox’s number, his fingers striking the keys so hard the screen nearly cracked.

He typed the message. No signature, no need. He hit send.

In Vox’s office, his personal device on the desk vibrated. For a moment, his eyes lifted from the data stream to the incoming message. An unknown number but instinct whispered who it was.

What is this nonsense? You’re coming here. Now.

Vox grinned and typed his reply: You’ve memorized my number. Really?

The reply came almost instantly. The speed spoke volumes about the depth of Alastor’s anger.

Alastor: I won’t allow you to turn this place into Hell out of stubbornness, Vox. This is your final warning.

Vox gritted his teeth. Was Alastor threatening him?

Vox: Don’t take everything personally, Alastor. This is just business. Valentino is in charge of the project. If you don’t like it, tell Charlie cancel it. Talk to her, not me.

He sent the message and leaned back, waiting with a small, vindictive spark of satisfaction. The thought of Alastor having to confront Valentino filled him with a quiet, gleeful anticipation.

As Alastor read the cold, indifferent messages on the phone screen, the grin on his face froze. In its place appeared a raw, dangerous anger rarely seen. His fingers clenched so tightly that Husk’s phone screen cracked under the pressure.

Husk opened his mouth to say something, but seeing Alastor’s expression directed at him, his voice got stuck in his throat.

Alastor threw the shattered device onto the table. "From here on, it’s personal. I don’t need your phone."

Through the crowd, he advanced toward Valentino, posing amidst purple smoke and flashing lights.

Valentino, adjusting an assistant’s hair, felt the shift in energy behind him. He turned slowly. When he saw Alastor, a devilish, mocking smile appeared on his lips. "Ah, ah! Look who’s here! The hotel mascot! Enjoying the set, darling? We can give a little more light it would really 'shine' your smile."

Alastor stopped right in front of him. There was a height difference, but Alastor’s presence filled the room, overshadowing Valentino’s artificial grandeur.

"Valentino," he began, his voice carrying to everyone. Charlie stepped closer anxiously, hoping to catch the conversation. Angel sank further behind the couch. "This arrogant display of yours, treating this place as your personal playground… is unacceptable."

Valentino waved a hand casually. "Oh, darling, relax. Just a bit of fun. I’m finishing Voxxy’s work. He’s so busy, you know."

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. There it was. The pressure point. "Busy, huh?" he repeated, his voice dangerously soft and mocking. "Yes, I suppose he was. The other day, when I… spoke with him in my room… he wasn’t quite focused on his work. Quite… distracted."

Silence fell. Valentino’s arrogant smile froze on his face. His eyes, for a moment, showed surprise and then deep, jealous anger. "What?" he hissed, his voice stripped of its usual smoothness.

Charlie’s mouth was agape, trying to comprehend what was happening. Angel watched in horror from behind the couch.

Ignoring the effect he had created, Alastor continued, "Yes, he was eager. Even… desperate, perhaps. All those little acts of resistance… eventually melted away. Didn’t he ever tell you? I guess some things… remain personal."

Valentino trembled with rage. Alastor had struck at his most sensitive spot his control over Vox and his possessiveness. This wasn’t just an insult; it was a direct challenge.

"You’re lying," he spat, pointing a finger at Alastor’s chest. "Vox wouldn’t sleep with a thing like you."

Alastor glanced at the finger briefly, then returned his gaze to Valentino. His grin returned, cruelly triumphant. "Dear. You sound rather pathetic and jealous but don’t worry. I didn’t need much effort to catch his interest. I was simply… there."

Charlie intervened, fear in her voice. "Please! Stop! Don’t do this! This is supposed to be a place of peace!"

But her words fell flat. This was no longer about a hotel or a deal. This was a power struggle fueled by an older, deeply personal enmity and somewhere, invisibly, Vox sat in his office, buried in his screens, unaware of the storm he had unleashed.

Alastor cast one final disdainful glance at Valentino and turned away, leaving him in his fury and jealousy. He walked off, back to his own business, disregarding his enemy and the threats. What remained now was Vox.

At night, Vox lay in the center of his enormous bed, wrapped in silk sheets, finally succumbing to his restless sleep. His brow was slightly furrowed; even in these rare moments away from the screens, his mind refused to rest.

A sudden, heavy scent of mystical perfume and thick smoke tore him from the edge of slumber. He opened his eyes. Through the doorway, a silhouette drifted, dissolving from within purple clouds. Valentino.

"Voxxy," he whispered. "Were you asleep, my love?"

Vox sat up, pulling the sheets over his chest. His heart began to race. Val’s presence at this hour, carrying such tense energy, was never a good sign. "Val? Did something happen?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

Valentino perched on the edge of the bed. The glow in his eyes was unusually cold and sharp. "Something very interesting happened at the hotel today, sweetheart," he began, letting his words drip like slow poison. "I took over that project you canceled, yes. Charlie was delighted but seeing me instead of you… some people weren’t exactly pleased."

Vox’s chest tightened. He didn’t understand what Valentino was referring to. "Who? Why?" His voice came out forced, strained by the attempt to remain composed.

Valentino leaned slightly forward. The perfume’s scent grew suffocating. "Alastor. He… acted rather aggressively. As if it were his idea, his domain. He challenged me."

"Alastor challenges everyone, Val. You know that. Don’t take it to heart," Vox replied quickly, averting his gaze.

"Ah, yes," Valentino murmured, extending a finger to tilt Vox’s chin toward him. "But this time it was different. He crossed into something very personal. About you."

Vox’s breath caught.

"He told me," Valentino continued, his voice lowering into a dangerous whisper, "that the other day he ‘talked’ to you in his room and that ‘conversation’ left you so… distracted, so unfocused, that you couldn’t concentrate on your work." He emphasized every word. "Is that true, Voxxy? Did something happen with him? Were you lying to me?"

Vox’s mind went completely blank. Alastor had said it. Fear gripped his entire body. "Lies!" he finally managed to squeak, his voice sharp and fractured. "He was just… trying to provoke you! Using me too! Nothing happened, Val, I swear! The reason I canceled… the project was inefficient, a waste of time, that’s all!" Words tumbled over each other.

Valentino’s expression shifted. The fake politeness and sarcasm vanished instantly, replaced by raw anger. He released Vox’s chin, but his hand slid toward his throat, hovering threateningly without touching. "Look at me," he hissed. "You tell me through him? Are you mocking me? You humiliated me!"

Panic obliterated Vox’s reasoning. His eyes wide with pure fear, he lashed out instead of defending. "And you?!" he shouted. "What about all day with Angel? Buying him expensive gifts with my cards! Sleeping with him! And that’s ‘work’? Isn’t that hypocrisy?!"

The atmosphere in the room shifted entirely. Valentino’s anger escalated into uncontrolled fury. Vox realized his grave mistake too late and tried to pull back, but it was too late.

"THIS IS WORK!" Valentino’s voice thundered. The hand near Vox’s throat tightened as if to crush bone; he shoved Vox toward the bed. "What I do is a show of power! Yours… yours is weakness! Foolishness!" His other hand shot up and struck Vox’s face swiftly.

The slap echoed through the room. Vox’s head snapped to the side; a sharp sting lingered along his lips. Val had punished him before, but this rage was different this was not just jealousy, but a deep, controlling fury at defiance and disrespect.

"You embarrassed yourself! You embarrassed me!" Valentino repeated, shaking with rage. Another slap left Vox small, vulnerable and humiliated.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. Panting, leaning over Vox, his anger gave way to icy resentment. He withdrew his hand from Vox’s throat, leaving the bruised skin exposed.

"Sleep," he spat. "We’ll talk in the morning."

Vox curled on the bed, trembling, burning from his face, aching in his throat. Tears streamed down his cheeks onto the pillow. Val lay on the other side, back turned. The room was filled with tense silence only Val’s still-rapid breaths and Vox’s muffled, restrained sobs echoed.

Vox couldn’t move. He feared that even the sound of his own breathing might trigger another wave of violence. So he held it, inhaling tiny, quiet, painful breaths. Sleep was impossible. 

When morning came, Valentino quietly rose. Vox half-opened his eyes, watching. Val changed as if nothing had happened discarding pajamas and slipping into a flawless suit. Without a word or glance at Vox, he moved to the kitchen.

Vox remained frozen on the bed. Fingerprints were visible on his throat. His stomach growled with hunger but he couldn’t summon the courage to go down to Val.

Finally, the clatter of dishes stopped. Valentino appeared by the door, a cup of coffee in hand. "Get ready," he said flatly, devoid of emotion. "We can’t be late for Carmilla’s meeting."

Vox rose, movements slow and painful. He pulled a high-collared jacket over his face as best he could and went downstairs. On the kitchen counter, only a single plate and cup for Val remained. No breakfast had been prepared for him a silent, contemptuous omission, more painful than the slap. His stomach growled.

Without a word, he followed Val to the exit.

The meeting room was filled with Hell’s most powerful figures. Carmilla sat at the head, composed and controlled. When Vox and Valentino took their seats, a few glances fell upon them, but no one spoke.

Vox performed flawlessly. As the public face of the team, he spoke of projects, strategies, and data. Not a hint of tremor in his voice. His expression radiated professional coldness and confidence. Inside, he was shattered but outwardly, perfection. Valentino mirrored him, smiling and offering occasional approving glances, the perfect image of “strong partners.” Nothing from the previous night existed in that room.

Yet, in one corner, blending into the shadows, stood Alastor. Arms crossed, back against the wall. His red eyes locked onto Vox, watching every gesture, every twitch, searching for a crack beneath the flawless mask.

He sought a reaction. Shame, anger, fear… something but there was nothing. Vox moved as if nothing had happened, with complete composure. Alastor’s words to Valentino seemed to have no effect. This was not the moment of victory he had anticipated. His move had failed, disregarded entirely.

Then a disturbing thought struck him. Did Vox’s indifference indicate that everything with Valentino was fine? Or… had yesterday’s confrontation united them rather than instigating jealousy? Perhaps Vox had confessed everything to Val and earned his forgiveness.

The notion stirred an odd, unexpected discomfort in Alastor. They were not following the rules of the game. They were defying his expectations. A small, gnawing frustration took root, manifesting physically: his usually erect, sharp ears tilted slightly back, almost imperceptibly. His arrogant grin remained, but it was now tighter, more strained. He continued to watch, but the pleasure of the game was gone and Alastor never liked it when the game was broken.

When the meeting ended, Vox hurried toward the exit. Valentino was a few steps ahead, lightly chatting with a group of powerful demons, occasionally glancing back to make sure Vox was following. Vox’s collar was raised as high as possible to cover the faint bruises on his neck.

Just as he was about to round the corner, a silhouette emerged from the shadows. Alastor, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, awaited him with that same sharp, fixed grin. Vox exhaled. This was an inevitable confrontation.

"Vox," Alastor murmured, his voice carrying an unusual seriousness beneath the usual static undertone of the radio. "May I have a minute?"

Valentino paused momentarily, glancing back. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Alastor, then with a dismissive shrug, he returned to his crowd. Leaving Vox alone with him seemed like a kind of punishment.

"I’m busy, Alastor. Another time," Vox said, stepping aside to move past, but Alastor blocked his path.

"This will be quick," Alastor insisted, his grin widening slightly, "You were very… 'impressive' in the meeting. All those projects, the data. Valentino seemed very proud. Truly an impressive performance."

Vox tensed. He knew exactly what Alastor was trying to do. "What did you expect?" he snapped, voice inadvertently sharp.

Alastor tilted his head slightly, his hair moving subtly in the shadows. "Ah and… you two? After my little confession, was there no tension, no chill? Did that perfect 'partnership' remain entirely unshaken?" The question sounded sweetly poisonous, but the intent beneath it was clear.

Vox swallowed hard. His throat still burned. He could feel Valentino’s fingerprints. "This isn’t your business, Alastor. Valentino and I… we’re professionals. Your childish games don’t affect us." The words were proud, but the voice carried little conviction.

At that moment, Alastor’s eyes caught the spot that Vox’s high collar failed to cover. The light revealed the faint but visible bruising on his neck. Then he noticed the slight swelling and redness on his cheeks. The grin vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, dangerous expression.

"What did he do to you?" Alastor asked, his voice dropping. The previous teasing tone was gone, replaced with raw, controlled anger.

Instinctively, Vox took a step back. "Fuck off!" His voice trembled. "You knew he would react like this! You wanted this exact reaction! Well, there it happened! Happy now? This is your victory, isn’t it? You provoked him and he turned it on me. Congratulations."

Alastor responded in an unexpected, brief moment of surprise, then with a deep, inward sigh. "You angered me," he murmured, as if speaking to himself. "Those messages… that contemptuous attitude… they made me angry."

Vox let out a bitter laugh, eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, I’m so sorry! If I angered you, my deepest apologies! Does that give you the right to do this to me?"

Suddenly, Alastor lunged forward. Long fingers grasped Vox’s collar and yanked it downward sharply. The fabric rustled. Inside, the fingerprints and bruises were fully revealed.

Vox’s breath caught. He clutched Alastor’s wrists, trying to push him away. "Let go of me! Don’t touch me!" His efforts were futile; Alastor’s grip was firm.

Alastor inspected the injury, a look on his face Vox had never seen before: pure, unfiltered disgust mixed with anger.

"Don’t look," Vox whispered, voice now small and broken, his struggle abruptly over. He felt exposed, vulnerable under Alastor’s gaze. He averted his eyes, staring at the ground in shame. Alastor’s anger was different from Val’s wilder, more primal and for some reason, it scared him even more.

Alastor lingered over the wound for a moment, fingers still clenching Vox’s collar. His pupils glowed like red hellfire. Then, slowly, almost pensively, he withdrew his hand. Vox immediately recoiled, covering his collar as if he could shield himself from Alastor’s gaze.

Silence settled over the area. The distant sound of Valentino’s footsteps could be heard.

Finally, Alastor spoke, his voice unusually low and dangerous. "This," he whispered, "is a matter that must be accounted for." He turned, his cane echoing on the floor as he vanished into the shadows, leaving behind Vox heart still racing, breath uneven, and a burning deeper than the mark left by Alastor’s fingers on his neck. He realized Alastor had shown no remorse. He had merely… claimed ownership.

In the dead of night, a suffocating silence reigned in Vox’s bedroom. Vox lay rigid on the edge of the massive bed, his back turned, his throat aching with every breath. Valentino, just a foot away, distant and untouchable, lay with his back turned, either sleeping or pretending to. The space between them was cold.

Vox’s mind, resisting sleep, replayed the events over and over again.

As he wrestled with these thoughts, Valentino’s phone on the nightstand suddenly erupted into a violent ring, shattering the silence with an urgent, insistent sound. Vox flinched, his heart pounding in his chest. A call at this hour in the dead of night never brought good news.

Valentino shot upright as if he’d been awake all along. He stirred on the other side of the bed. Vox cracked his eyes open, watching him. Valentino reached for the phone, glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted in an instant. The sleepy calm gave way to deep worry, then pure rage.

“What?!” he roared, his voice thick with shock rather than sleep. “How? Which idiot? Now?!”

Vox sat up slowly, pulling the silk sheet to his chest. “Val? Is something wrong?” he whispered, his voice still tense and fragile.

Valentino didn’t even glance at him. He was shouting at the person on the phone, his face purple with fury. “Put it out, damn it! Send the entire fire department there! If those sets, those fabrics burn, I’ll burn your lives!” He gripped the phone so tightly it seemed it might snap. “Hold on! Who? Who did this?”

A moment of silence followed. Valentino’s lips parted slightly, his breath catching as if stunned. His eyes gleamed with rage in the darkness of the room. Then, his voice dropped to a dangerous hiss: “That… filth.”

He flung the phone onto the bed, nearly hitting Vox’s feet. He leapt out of bed, dressing with furious urgency. “My studios,” he growled, his voice trembling. “There’s a fire. The main set. Everything… everything’s gone up in smoke.”

Vox’s mouth went dry. “God, Val… That’s awful. An accident? Electrical fault or something?”

Valentino, buttoning an expensive shirt, turned to him. His face bore an expression far wilder than anything Vox had seen that night. A mix of rage, fear, and pure hatred. “An accident?” He let out a mocking laugh, his voice grating. “No, darling. This isn’t an ‘accident.’ This is a message.”

He locked eyes with Vox. “The security cameras… caught a brief glimpse in a dark hallway. A red jacket. A grin slipping through the shadows and that damned, hissing radio static.”

Vox’s heart raced. His stomach churned. Alastor. “He… he couldn’t,” he muttered, his voice weak and unconvincing. His mind was in chaos. Why? Why would he do this? This is insanity!

“Couldn’t he?” Valentino finished buttoning his shirt and stalked toward Vox. He leaned down, “Remember what we talked about, Voxxy? His confession? This is his final act of arrogance. He’s challenging me. Burning what’s mine.” He pointed a long, sharp finger at Vox’s face. “And you know what? I blame you for this.”

Vox recoiled. “Me? Why? What does this have to do with me?”

“Because!” Valentino shouted, his voice suddenly rising. “That thing came here because of you! He got this bold because of you! Maybe he thinks he’s doing this for you, claiming his little pet!” For a moment, his rage intensified, then he abruptly turned and stormed toward the door. “Now I’m going to bury this filth in the ashes of my own hell.”

The door slammed shut behind Valentino, leaving Vox trembling, alone, and with his thoughts spiraling in every direction.

Every thought stirred a mix of fear and an incomprehensible, traitorous thrill within him. This was an unthinkable, dangerous move. It was also intensely personal. 

With trembling hands, Vox reached for the device hidden under his pillow. The cold light of the screen illuminated his face alone in the dark room. His breath came in quick gasps as his fingers hovered over the keys. All logic, all fear, screamed at him not to do this but deep inside, in the place ravaged by Valentino’s slaps and humiliation, a small, rebellious spark flickered. He unblocked the number and began typing a message.

Vox: You must be insane.

He hit send. He won’t respond, he thought. This is his victory. He doesn’t care about me but within seconds, the device buzzed and lit up almost instantly. The reply was impossibly quick, as if Alastor had been waiting for this message, device in hand.

Alastor: My dear Vox! How curious that you’re awake at this lively hour with such a cheerful message! Sanity is a relative concept, by the way.

Alastor’s brazen, playful tone was almost palpable. No remorse, no denial. Just shameless acknowledgment and mockery.

Vox’s fingers trembled even more as they hovered over the screen. Anger, fear, and that forbidden thrill surged again.

Vox: Valentino will kill you. You think this is worth your stupid game?

The reply came instantly again, this time with an almost thoughtful tone.

Alastor: Oh, that purple-clad fool’s tantrum doesn’t concern me much. Rather… I’m more interested in your reaction. Does that little memento around your neck still sting? Don’t you think it’s a fair trade, in a way?

Vox’s hand instinctively went to the bruise on his neck. He needed to pull himself together. This was spiraling out of control, and he would always be the one to lose.

Vox: This isn’t a trade-off. It’s suicide. Listen to me, Alastor. Please. Disappear for a while. Don’t show up. Don’t provoke him. You’re making everything worse.

He sent the message and closed his eyes, waiting for a response as his heart pounded wildly.

No reply came.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The silence settled heavily in the room. Vox stared at the device’s screen. Nothing. Maybe he’d finally backed off. Maybe Vox’s rational plea had disrupted his game.

Just as he began to relax, the device vibrated quietly. Not a notification a call. The screen lit up with that damned, grinning, static-filled profile picture. Alastor Calling…

Reject it? Answer it? His trembling finger hovered in the air as he hesitated. Finally, with a hoarse voice, he muttered, “What?” and answered the call.

“Darling,” Alastor’s voice came through, carrying that mocking, disturbingly vibrant tone even through the phone’s speaker. It felt like he was whispering directly into Vox’s ear. “I got your message. ‘Please.’ Such a touching plea. It almost made me picture you in that… helpless state again.”

Vox sat on the edge of the bed, his back rigid. “Don’t mock me,” he growled. “I’m serious. If you have an ounce of sanity left, stay away.”

“Oh, but you see, that’s the problem,” Alastor continued, his voice briefly turning serious as the static faded. “Your ‘please’ is far more intriguing than his tantrums. Why are you so afraid, Vox? Your power lies in screens, in words, in connections. His? Dust and smoke.”

“You don’t understand,” Vox whispered. “You’re just making it worse. Not by starting fires. By challenging him. It all comes back to me. It always does.” The last sentence came out almost inaudible, a weary confession.

The silence on the phone was different this time. Thoughtful, heavy. As if Alastor had stumbled upon a puzzle more complex than he’d expected.

“Is that so?” he murmured finally, his voice unusually soft, almost curious. “And where is your voice? Where’s that pride? The power that shone on screens, captivating audiences? Or did he snuff it out?”

Vox couldn’t respond. A lump formed in his throat. Alastor’s words stirred something inside him he thought was long dead: longing. The longing to be himself, to wield his own power but that power seemed so feeble, so meaningless compared to Valentino’s wrath.

“I… can’t,” he mumbled finally, his voice broken. “Just… please. Go away for a while. Give me… room to breathe.”

The silence stretched on. Vox could hear Alastor’s breathing, unusually steady, with a faint static hum.

“Very well,” Alastor replied, his voice playful again but with a different edge. As if he were writing the rules for a new game. “I’ll do you a favor. I’ll stay out of sight for a while. For your… ‘breathing room.’” He paused. “But on one condition.”

Vox’s heart leapt to his throat. “What? What condition?”

Alastor took a moment to think. “A simple one, dear Vox. I need you to come with me tomorrow. A little… errand. I’m visiting Rosie, and going alone would be dreadfully dull. Your presence might make the trip more bearable.”

Vox narrowed his eyes at the phone, as if he could see Alastor’s face. “Rosie? Cannibal Town Rosie? Why? Is this some kind of trap?”

Alastor’s laughter crackled through the speaker. “Oh, stop being so suspicious! Just a chat with a friend. Maybe we’ll pick up a few ideas for Charlie’s hotel. Rosie has marvelous insights on community management, you know. Besides,” he added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “remember the promise I made: I’ll disappear for a while. This is part of that ‘breathing room.’ Care to refuse?”

Vox sighed. This wasn’t a choice it was a necessity. He thought of Valentino’s return, his rage… Maybe getting away from this hell for a few hours would do him good. “Fine,” he muttered, conceding defeat. “Where and when?”

“Splendid! Ten in the morning, at the hotel’s back entrance.” Alastor hung up.

The next morning, Vox stood in front of the mirror, scrutinizing himself critically. What should he wear? A suit for business? Too formal, too eager. Something casual? But would that make him look weak in Alastor’s eyes? Finally, he settled on dark gray tailored pants and an understated navy jacket. He even considered removing the VoxTech logo from his chest but decided against it. This was who he was. No point hiding it.

Right on time, he appeared in the desolate alley behind the Hazbin Hotel. The air reeked of despair, as always, and there, leaning against the wall like a shadow, was Alastor. In his usual dazzling red suit and eternal grin, he looked as if he’d been standing there all night without tiring.

His eyes swept over Vox, scanning him from head to toe for a brief second. His grin widened momentarily, but with an unusually sharp, critical edge.

"My dear, what possessed you to dress like that? We’re going to Rosie’s humble abode, not a corporate acquisition meeting.”

Vox’s face flushed slightly. He braced himself to defend his choice. “What’s wrong with it? Too formal? Or…” He hesitated, insecurity suddenly gnawing at him. “Do I look too fat?” Valentino’s constant criticisms surfaced unexpectedly.

Alastor’s red eyes roamed over Vox’s silhouette, noting how the jacket’s fabric sat on his shoulders and chest. His grin softened slightly, becoming more thoughtful.

“You’re fine,” he murmured at last, his voice unusually direct and free of static. Then, as if the moment was too intimate, he quickly continued, his playful tone returning: “I mean, not like that! It’s just… we’re going to Cannibal Town. You could’ve gone for something a bit more… relaxed, digestible!” His smile returned, but a fleeting moment of distraction lingered. The word handsome crossed his mind, but voicing it… that would be admitting something, acknowledging this strange allure. He dismissed the thought quickly. “Never mind,” he added, waving a hand dismissively. “We don’t have time. Let’s go.”

Vox caught the odd, thoughtful tone in Alastor’s words, and it surprised him. It wasn’t the cruel mockery he’d expected. It was… strange. He didn’t respond, just nodded and started walking beside Alastor.

As they walked, Vox instinctively stayed closer to Alastor than usual. The vague dangers of the streets pushed him toward the only familiar and powerful presence nearby. The distance between them wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t as charged or tense as the night before. It was a different kind of closeness, something protective, and Vox found himself surprisingly comfortable letting it happen.

Finally, they emerged onto a street buzzing with eerie vitality and the sickening smell of flesh. This was Cannibal Town. And there, in front of her shop, stood Rosie—adorned with bones and velvet, smiling as elegantly and lethally as ever.

“Alastor, darling!” she called, opening her arms. “What a delightful surprise!” Her eyes then slid to Vox beside him. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, quickly masked by professional courtesy. “And… you’ve brought a guest! Vox, welcome!” Her voice was warm, but her eyes held deep curiosity.

Alastor air-kissed Rosie’s cheeks. “Rosie, my light! Yes, Vox decided to join us today. I thought I’d show him the finer points of the local cuisine.”

Rosie’s brows rose. “Is that so? How… thoughtful.” She turned to Vox. “Come on in, dear!”

They stepped inside, Rosie’s shop filled with bone china teacups and suspiciously shaped cookies. The conversation started light and airy Hell’s latest gossip, business matters but Rosie couldn’t ignore the unexpected guest Alastor had brought along.

In a moment of silence, as Rosie delicately stirred her tea, she shot Alastor a meaningful glance. “So,” she began, her voice sweet and thoughtful, “this is quite new for you, isn’t it, Alastor? Seeing you so… close to someone other than me. Especially when that someone is Vox.” Her eyes gleamed slyly. “I mean, I remember those old days when he was so smitten with you… So fiery, so determined. All those little rivalries… truly adorable.”

Vox nearly choked, his face burning. He took a sip of tea so quickly it scalded his throat. “That—that was purely business!” he stammered.

Alastor let out a deep, exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes. “Oh, Rosie, please. We’ve only just arrived.” He sounded like a parent scolding a mischievous child, but Vox could see the expression slight discomfort, perhaps a hint of panic slipping through the cracks of his tense grin. Rosie was one of the few who knew how to toy with him, and this particular topic was one Alastor clearly didn’t want brought up.

Rosie put on an innocent look, but her eyes still sparkled. “What? I’m just reminiscing about the good old days! Especially now, with you two here, together, having tea… It’s quite touching.” She turned to Alastor. “You know it meant a lot to him, don’t you? All those carefully crafted ads, those little challenges… The pure, unfiltered zeal of young love.”

Alastor’s finger twitched nervously on the rim of his porcelain cup. He said nothing.

Vox cleared his throat, "That... that's in the past, Rosie. Just a childish crush." It felt like he was admitting something he didn’t want to acknowledge. The admiration from those early years seemed so distant and pure compared to the current rivalry and tangled tension.

Rosie tilted her head slightly, a knowing smile on her lips. "Oh, of course, darling. Of course it is." She tapped her chin lightly with her finger. "And now... Valentino, right? That purple-wearing, feathered thing? Sounds like you’ve got something serious going on with him. I suppose that little crush on Alastor has long been replaced by other things."

The flush on Vox’s face gave way to a momentary pallor. Alastor’s grin froze, the red glint in his eyes sharpening for a moment as they locked onto Vox, as if measuring the impact of Rosie’s words on him.

The same thought struck both their minds at once. That drunken, reckless, passionate night in Alastor’s room. The smell of alcohol, damp sheets, tangled breaths, and the brutal shame of the morning after. It was an enormous, unspoken thing that had hung between them ever since.

Vox’s voice was hoarse, almost a whisper. "Y-Yeah. Valentino. Yeah, I’m with him." The admission felt like a betrayal in Alastor’s presence, though the truth was the exact opposite.

Rosie sensed the tension. Her eyes darted between the two men. "Oh," she said softly, "I see." She dropped the subject, sipping her tea. "Well, darling, would you like some more pie? I made it especially for you."

The rest of the visit passed in strained politeness. Vox wanted nothing more than to escape. Alastor, as always, tried to steer the conversation, but his usual ease was gone. When it was finally time to leave, Vox said goodbye to Rosie with an almost frantic haste.

For a few days, Alastor kept his word. He stayed out of sight. Vox buried himself in the blue glow of screens. He threw himself into work, using every notification, every data stream, and Valentino’s demands and criticisms to drown out everything else. His face was expressionless.

When he returned to his desk with a coffee in hand, a sleek, sealed envelope was waiting for him. Encrypted results from the private medical team. Routine checkup. Something he had done after every encounter with Valentino but this time was different. This time, it wasn’t just about Valentino.

His fingers trembled slightly as he opened the envelope. His eyes scanned the complex medical terms and numbers. Everything seemed normal. All values were within standard ranges but when he reached the last page, his breath caught.

There, in clear, bold letters, was a note. The result of a standard pregnancy test, included as part of the routine panel.

RESULT: POSITIVE

Vox froze. His eyes were glued to the word, reading it over and over but unable to process it. His heart began pounding in his chest.

"No," he whispered to himself, his voice feeble in the silence of the room. "This... this is impossible."

But it wasn’t. He was an Omega. His body was built for this by nature and that night... with Alastor... They hadn’t used protection. In the haze of alcohol and passion, the cold, brutal reality of primal biology had taken over.

His hand moved to his flat, empty stomach. There, inside, was something. Something of him.

His head spun, the walls of the room closing in on him. The bright glare of the screens stung his eyes. He could barely breathe. This was the worst thing that could happen to him. Valentino would never accept it. He’d never forgive him. His position in Hell, his power, everything was at stake.

And Alastor... if Alastor found out...

Vox slumped over the desk, onto the folded results. His shoulders sagged. With a shuddering, deep, pained sigh, he groaned, "No," his voice breaking. "God, no."

Chapter Text

Vox had been frozen at his desk for hours. His eyes were locked on that word on the screen: POSITIVE. His breathing was still uneven, his hands trembling. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a mistake. Even in Hell, medical technology wasn’t flawless, after all.

He quickly reached for the keyboard and typed into the search engine, “likelihood of a false positive pregnancy test.” His fingers were shaking so much that he hit the wrong keys a few times. The statistical data that came up said the chances were quite low. Especially with blood tests but still, it wasn’t impossible.

Then, in search of more answers or perhaps a sliver of comfort in other people’s stories he dove into anonymous forums and encrypted chat rooms.

What he read was far worse than the statistics. Anonymous users shared raw confessions filled with fear, panic, confusion, and sometimes a feeling alien to him joy mixed with sincerity. Each one told a piece of their own personal hell.

“…I never wanted this but now, this little thing growing inside you… it’s yours. A part of you. Terrifying and miraculous all at once…”

“…I couldn’t tell him. I can never tell him. What if he rejects me? What if he leaves me? Or worse…”

“…some days I feel this incredible energy, like I could handle anything. Other days, I don’t even want to get out of bed. It’s an emotional roller coaster…”

“…raising a kid in Hell? I can barely take care of myself. I’ll never forget the look on my partner’s face when he heard the news. It was a mix of fear and… something like disgust…”

He let out a deep, melancholic sigh. He covered his face with his hands. This was real. Not a statistical error but a chaotic disaster that had befallen him.

Just then, his phone on the desk vibrated silently. A notification. It could be Valentino. When he picked up the phone, the name on the screen surprised him. Alastor. The message was short and lacked Alastor’s usual playful tone:

Alastor: I suppose there’s no harm in showing my face now. I kept my word. It was an entertaining conversation, wasn’t it?

Vox paused. Something was growing inside him. Something from him and Alastor was talking about an “entertaining conversation” as if nothing had happened. He wanted to laugh or hurl the device at the wall. He could do neither.

Vox: Yeah. Rosie was… chatty, as always.

The reply came instantly:

Alastor: Oh, yes! She’s quite the talker. So, did you survive the silence afterward? I hope you didn’t struggle too much with Val’s wrath? :)

Vox’s stomach twisted. Was this a game? Or was it a genuine question? He could never read Alastor.

“I’m managing,” he typed back, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “Things are busy. As usual.”

Alastor: Busy, yes. You and your endless flirtation with those screens.

Alastor: So, are you physically alright? Rosie’s pies didn’t upset your stomach, did they? Sometimes even the most delightful things can cause unexpected reactions.

Vox nearly dropped the device as he read the message. His heart started pounding. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Had Alastor sensed something? Or was it just a random jab? His eyes darted to the medical report still open on the desk. “Unexpected reactions…”

His fingers trembled as he typed a response:

Vox: The pies were fine. My stomach’s fine too. No need to worry about me.

Had he come off too harsh, too defensive?

This time, it took a few seconds for a reply to come. It was as if Alastor was thinking.

Alastor: Well, then, splendid! Just… checking in. It seems you’ve got more important matters to attend to. Good night, dear Vox.

Vox’s fingers hovered over the keys, unsure of what to write. His pride was trying to hold him back but the fear and loneliness he felt right now were stronger. He took a deep breath and typed quickly, without thinking. If he thought about it, he’d back out.

Vox: I'm not busy.

He sent it. The sentence was short, meaningless and desperate. He braced himself for Alastor’s mocking reply.

Alastor: Oh?

Vox swallowed. This was an opening. He hadn’t been rejected. His fingers moved with more resolve this time.

Vox: Let’s talk. Face to face.

There was a pause on the other end. It was as if Alastor was caught off guard by this unexpected, direct request. Vox could almost hear the possible scenarios and snarky comments running through his mind.

Alastor: Where?

Vox looked around. His office was a place where Valentino could barge in at any moment. The Hazbin Hotel… that was Alastor’s turf. He needed a neutral ground.

Vox: West side of the city. That abandoned radio tower. One hour.

He’d chosen that place because no one but Alastor would go there and it held symbolic meaning for Alastor perhaps it would make him more inclined to show up.

Alastor: You’ve piqued my curiosity. See you there.

Vox set the device down on the desk. His hands were still shaking, but there was a strange calm within him. The decision was made. There was no turning back now. He stood up quickly, grabbed his keys from the desk. He’d need an excuse for Valentino. Maybe a sudden business meeting. Lying had always been easy for him but this time the words felt stuck in his throat.

He hurried out of the office and headed for the elevator.

After a walk, the silhouette of the tower loomed on the horizon, and his heart raced faster. Who would get there first? Would Alastor be waiting for him, or would he be the one waiting? And when he got there, would he be able to say that terrifying, life-altering sentence?

As he climbed the rusty, creaking stairs, his anxiety spiked. When he reached the top, Hell’s purple sky stretched out before him and there, leaning casually against the railing, back turned, seemingly listening to the distant hum of the city, was a silhouette. Alastor.

He must have heard Vox’s footsteps because he muttered, “Punctual,” without turning around. His voice blended with the howling wind. “This place… it’s an old memory. My voice used to carry so much farther.”

Vox stopped a few steps away. His breathing was still a bit rapid. “This is neutral ground,” his voice louder than necessary.

Alastor finally turned. Those sharp, red eyes scanned Vox from head to toe with that usual piercing gaze. His grin was more pronounced. “So, what’s this pressing matter that dragged me here? Or did you just call me to enjoy the view?”

Vox cleared his throat. None of the rehearsed lines came to mind. “Nothing’s up. I mean… things are fine. Just…” His voice trailed off weakly.

Alastor’s brows lifted slightly. He watched Vox dance around the subject, fidgeting. This was unusual for him. The confident broadcaster from the screens was gone, replaced by someone nervous and disheveled.

“‘Just?'" Alastor echoed, tilting his head with curiosity. “Don’t tell me you’re giving up this quickly. We’re just getting started.”

Vox leaned against the railing, staring down at the abyss below. He chose a safe approach to the topic. “You… left. For a few days.” He realized how stupid it sounded as soon as he said it.

From behind, Alastor let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “Oh, I see! That’s why you’re here.” He stepped closer to Vox, standing shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the city below. “Did you miss me, Vox? Is that it? Just three or four days and I’m already that indispensable?”

Vox swallowed. The mockery in Alastor’s voice was clear but there was also a hint of genuine curiosity. “You’re not indispensable,” he muttered, almost whispering. “It’s just… the silence feels weird. I’m not used to it.” Admitting this made him feel sick.

Alastor fell silent for a moment. Only the wind and faint screams in the distance could be heard. “You’re not used to it,” he repeated, turning to Vox. “Or has my voice become background noise for you, dear Vox? Something you expect without even realizing it?”

Vox avoided his gaze. “It’s nothing. Forget it.” This was a mistake. He was showing Alastor his weakness.

But Alastor’s grin softened. “No, no. This is far more interesting.” He stepped closer to Vox. “So, here you are, in the middle of this silence, talking about missing me. After just a few days. What about that night? Was that just background noise too?”

Vox’s breath hitched. Alastor had hit the mark directly. His eyes finally met Alastor’s red gaze. Beyond the usual devilish amusement, there was a deep curiosity. “That night was a mistake,” Vox managed to say, his voice strained.

“Oh, absolutely! Most likely!” Alastor agreed with enthusiasm, but then he suddenly grew serious. “But mistakes often lead to the most interesting consequences, don’t they? Unexpected… reactions.” He emphasized the word “reactions” again, just like in his message.

Vox’s instinct was to deny but for a moment just a moment his exhaustion and loneliness outweighed everything else. Alastor seemed to know he was part of this chaos. Maybe… maybe talking to him, sharing even a fraction of this burden, would lighten the unbearable weight.

He opened his mouth, the confession nearly spilling out. There’s something inside me. Because of you.

But at that moment, a noise interrupted. From below, in the distance, came the sound of a metal piece clattering to the ground. It was probably something the wind had knocked over.

The sound yanked Vox back to reality. What was he doing? Trusting Alastor? That was as good as suicide.

He clamped his mouth shut. His gaze hardened again. “It’s nothing,” he growled, stepping away from Alastor. “Forget it. Coming here was a mistake.”

Alastor watched him, his grin fading, replaced by a mix of mild disappointment and growing curiosity. He was certain Vox was hiding something and that “something” was making him fragile, introspective and unusually vulnerable. To Alastor, this was far more intriguing than Vox’s usual defiant demeanor.

As Vox descended, the creaking of the rusty stairs beneath his feet grew louder with each step. He had turned back from the threshold of a humble confession.

He stepped into the desolate streets of Hell. The air was filled with the usual scent of despair. Normally, he wouldn't care about such dangers, arming himself with his power but now, he felt strangely vulnerable. His hands were still trembling, and his attention couldn't escape the new, terrifying reality within him.

Two blocks away, in a narrow alley, shadows stirred. Vox instinctively slowed down.

Three silhouettes emerged from the shadows and blocked his path. They were ordinary, rogue demons; their eyes gleaming with greed and opportunism. The one in front, with dirty nails, was waving a knife.

"Look at that," the knife-wielder grinned, "We're in luck today. A lost gentleman from the upper class."

Vox stood tall, trying to don his professional coldness. "Get out of my way. I have business." The authority in his voice was trembling, fragile.

"Oh yeah?" the other one approached. "We have some 'business' with you too. Your wallet. That expensive-looking suit you're wearing. Maybe that fancy gadget."

Vox stepped back, raising his hands defensively. "I'm telling you one last time. Move aside." Inside, he summoned his electricity, the power of the screens, the energy wave that would shock and neutralize them... But only a faint, feeble spark flickered at his fingertips and died out. His eyes widened in horror. No. Not now. Please, not now.

The knife-wielding demon laughed. "What's wrong, sir? Batteries run out?" He suddenly lunged, swinging the knife toward Vox's stomach.

Vox panicked and dodged to the side. His heart was pounding in his chest. "Stop!" he shouted. "I'm Vox! From VoxTech! If you touch me—"

"Voxtech?" the other repeated, with a filthy grin. "Then we're even luckier!"

A second attack came. Vox threw himself to the ground, his face hitting the cold, broken stones. They leaned over him, their breath foul. His world narrowed, leaving only that knife and the crushing helplessness gnawing at him.

At that exact moment, the air suddenly thickened, filled with a suffocating pressure. The shadows stretched and twisted unnaturally.

From the darkness, Alastor burst forth in his red coat.

His movement was swift. None of the demons understood what was happening. The shadows attacked them, as if alive on their own, strangling and tearing them apart. The sound of bones breaking accompanied muffled screams. Alastor went straight for the knife-wielder; his hand, transformed into a claw, pierced through his chest. The fixed grin on his face was no longer just amusement it was rage.

Vox, on the ground, had to watch it all with rapid breaths. This wasn't a rescue; it was a massacre and for a moment, seeing Alastor's uncontrolled fury chilled him more than the attackers had.

In seconds, it was over. The street fell silent again but now with a choking smell of blood. Alastor, dusting off his coat in an unruffled state, slowly turned to Vox.

"Why didn't you use your powers?" his voice was unusually harsh and filled with static. "Frying those fools wouldn't have taken you a second."

Vox shakily stood up. He averted his eyes from Alastor. "I was tired," he muttered, his voice far from convincing. "Just... distracted. It was their lucky day."

Alastor took a step forward, "Luck?" he mocked. "I think their luck ran into my impatience." Then suddenly, he noticed something. He slightly twisted his arm, and a dark, wet stain appeared on the elbow of his red jacket. A red streak seeping from under the fabric showed that a knife had grazed him during the attack.

Vox's eyes locked onto the stain. "You... you're hurt."

Alastor, seeing Vox looking, almost hastily pulled his arm back, trying to wipe and hide the stain with his palm. "It's nothing important," his mocking tone returned, but it was forced. "Just something that got smeared."

But Vox had already approached. With a strange impulse perhaps from the shock of the recent rescue, or maybe the awakening of a protective instinct within him he extended his hand. "Are you an idiot?" he muttered, his voice unusually weary with concern. "Let me take a look."

Alastor froze. He was unprepared for Vox's sudden closeness, this disinterested worry. A moment of hesitation created a crack in his usual mask. Vox gently lifted the jacket fabric on Alastor's arm. Beneath it was a clean cut, not deep but oozing.

"See? Insignificant," Alastor repeated, but his voice was a bit lower.

Without asking, Vox reached into Alastor’s jacket pocket. The motion was so casual, so unhesitating, that Alastor stiffened on instinct. His eyes narrowed, a sharp warning ready on his tongue yet he said nothing. He only watched as Vox’s fingers brushed against the lining and pulled out the neatly folded handkerchief he always carried. 

No one touched his things. No one dared. And yet Vox slipped past that invisible boundary as if it had never been there, as if such closeness was natural. It left Alastor strangely off-balance, caught between indignation and an uninvited warmth curling low in his chest.

Vox pressed the cloth gently to the cut. "At least it'll stop the bleeding," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the injury. "Even in Hell, you can get an infection." His touch was careful.

Alastor stared at Vox's bowed head, his concentrated expression. This wasn't what he expected. He anticipated mockery, victory cries, perhaps another argument. This calm, practical concern surprised him. 

Vox looked up, his eyes meeting Alastor's red gaze. In that moment, the distance between them was much smaller.

Vox pulled back, shoving the handkerchief into Alastor's hand. He suddenly felt exhausted. "I need to go home."

Alastor said nothing, just watched him. Vox stumbled toward the end of the street.

That night, Vox lay in his wide bed, wrapped in the sheets. His eyes stared at the dark ceiling. Everything that had happened swirled in his mind but above all, that feeling of helplessness, that loss of power, gnawed at him.

He picked up his phone. He wrote a message to Alastor. 

Vox: I was tired. Really. That's why I couldn't use my powers.

He sent it. He wasn't expecting a reply. Maybe he just needed to vent his emotions.

Alastor: Tiredness? Those hours in front of the screen must have drained you, dear Vox. You should try resting. :)

The sarcasm was there, but also... something more. A slight inquiry, perhaps.

Vox sighed. Why was he trying to explain? Did he care? He wrote another message.

Vox: Maybe you're right. Maybe I need a break.

Alastor: Ah! Finally, reason speaks! Is the end of the world coming?

After seeing the message, Vox placed the phone on the pillow. He closed his eyes. Maybe he could finally sleep.

Just as he was drifting off, from the other end of the room, near the window in the deep shadows, a familiar static voice echoed.

"You didn't even notice me, did you, dear Vox?"

Vox sat up in bed, his heart in his throat. He looked into the darkness. There, he saw only two points of red eyes glowing, then the silhouette emerging from the shadows and advancing into the room. "Alastor?" his voice was barely a whisper. "God... I... didn't notice you."

Alastor walked slowly from beside the window, coming to the foot of Vox's bed. His attire was impeccable, his grin sharp, but there was a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. "No. You didn't," he repeated, his voice low and emphatic. "I've been here for hours. While you were sending your messages, tossing and turning in bed... I was watching."

A fear spread through Vox. For hours? Here, in my room? I felt nothing. Heard nothing. This was the most concrete proof of how vulnerable he had become, how blind to dangers. His hands gripped the sheet tightly. "Why?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "What were you doing just standing there?"

Alastor tilted his head slightly. "Just standing? Oh, no. I wandered around your room. Looked at your bookshelf. Your screens... you have a very insecure password, by the way but mostly... I watched you." His red eyes roamed over Vox, recording every fearful reaction. "You seemed quite... restless. Just like in the tower."

Vox swallowed. Alastor seeing him in such a vulnerable state scared him more than Valentino's rage.

Alastor stood silently for another moment, then laughed softly, his voice echoing gently in the room. "Don't worry, my dear. I'll figure out your secret. I always do." He turned and headed toward the shadows. "Deal well with that 'tiredness' of yours. It seems you need it." He reached the window, pausing for a moment before vanishing like a shadow. "And Vox? Next time... use a better password."

After he left, Vox covered his face with his hands. His breathing was rapid and irregular.

He immediately jumped out of bed. Desperately, he tried to install motion sensors and security cameras on the room's door, windows, even the shadows. His hands were shaking, messing up the connections. What was child's play for him normally now left him clumsy and panicked. Finally, with a half-finished, ineffective security net, he collapsed breathlessly onto the edge of the bed.

Later, he picked up his phone. He wrote an encrypted message to the doctor in his private medical team. It was no longer just about the pregnancy test.

Vox: I'm experiencing power loss. My electrical abilities... inconsistent. Weak. What could be the cause?

While waiting for a reply, he placed his hand on his abdomen. It still looked flat and empty but he knew there was something inside that was changing everything, weakening him.

A few minutes later, the phone vibrated. He opened the message.

Doctor: Mr. Vox. The symptoms you mentioned, especially considering Omega physiology, are quite common in the early stages of pregnancy. Your body is redirecting energy and resources to the fetus's growth. This can temporarily affect or suppress your other... 'extraordinary' abilities. It usually stabilizes in the two- to three-month period. No cause for concern.

Vox read the message, "No cause for concern." He thought about how cold and clinical the doctor was. This was everything to him. His power, control, identity... all now being consumed by this... this process.

He threw the phone onto the bed. He lay back, closing his eyes. There was no escape now. He couldn't hide it anymore.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a while longer. His mind was swirling with worries about his power loss and pregnancy when Alastor’s twice-repeated words suddenly echoed in his head: “You have a very insecure password.” and “Use a better password.”

His eyes drifted to the envelope lying on the desk. That report... that terrifying, life-changing word... it was still there. Open, vulnerable. Had Alastor seen it? Had he opened it?

In a panic, he jumped to his feet and rushed to the desk, grabbing the envelope with both hands. He ran his fingers along the edges, checking the way the papers sat inside. No... Alastor hadn’t touched it. The envelope was exactly the way he had left it. The secret it held was, at least for now, safe.

But then, looking at the desktop, he noticed other things. Randomly opened windows. A complex technical document about VoxTech’s security protocols in the internet browser. A calculator app. Even a music player with an old recording file that had been attempted to play, though it probably didn’t work.

Alastor had been messing with the computer but clumsily, like a curious child. Clicking around aimlessly, opening a bunch of useless windows without knowing what he was doing. Despite himself, Vox let out a small, exhausted smile and sighed. Behind all that terrifying, all-knowing Radio Demon persona, there was nothing but an old-fashioned demon baffled by modern technology.

Toward evening, Valentino showed up, saying he was taking Vox to a club. There were “important connections” for “business.” Though reluctant, Vox didn’t object. Maybe going out would clear his head.

The club was one of Hell’s luxurious haunts for the elite. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the scent of alcohol. Valentino was deep in conversation with a group of powerful demons. Vox, meanwhile, sat in a corner, observing.

The conversation eventually turned to partners at home and their “duties.” One of Valentino’s friends, with a disgusting grin, said, “Mine promised to wear something special tonight. If he don’t, I’ll kick him out!”

The conversation grew increasingly brazen. One of the demons at the table, puffing out cigar smoke, chimed in amid laughter. “Let me tell you something better: If he don’t want to wear those clothes, no problem. I enjoy stripping him myself anyway. A little struggling makes the game more fun.”

Coarse laughter erupted around the table. Vox felt nauseated.

A third demon leaned toward Valentino, narrowing his eyes. “What about yours, huh? Does he prepare anything for you? Or just stare at screens and laze around all day?”

The laughter rose even higher. Vox clenched his fingers. The subtle tension on his face didn’t escape Valentino’s notice. “Ah, my darling is a bit... fond of technology. Sometimes they prefer lights and screens over clothes but maybe one day I’ll change his mind.”

One of the demons at the table winked. “So you haven’t trained him yet? I got mine in line in a week.”

Valentino slowly sipped his drink. Then he suddenly turned to Vox, his eyes scanning him from head to toe. “What do you think, darling?”

Vox flinched. All eyes were on him. Valentino’s gaze felt like it was crushing him. Valentino knew full well Vox didn’t wear such things. His voice trembling slightly. “I think... I think sincerity matters more. If they’re not wearing something, maybe they just feel more comfortable in their current mood. They shouldn’t have to force it.”

A brief silence fell over the table. Then Valentino smiled slowly, meaningfully. “Of course, darling. Of course... ‘sincerity.’” The mockery in his eyes stung Vox.

When they got home, Valentino slammed the door behind him and, without a word, headed straight to the bedroom.

Vox thought to himself, “At least today…” an involuntary spark of expectation stirred within him but Valentino, as usual, lay down apathetically, staring at the ceiling as if Vox weren’t even there.

Vox felt a small wave of despair. He slowly sat down, clasping his hands over his knees.

For a while, they sat in silence, not looking at each other. Valentino’s breathing was barely noticeable as he lay there, while Vox was crushed under the weight of his own disappointment. That day, he had at least expected some closeness, some touch but instead, he was met with a silence filled with loneliness and hopelessness.

After a few deep breaths, Vox realized he could no longer bear the silence. Slowly, he slid toward the bed, reached out to Valentino’s shoulder, and touched it lightly. His hands were trembling; it was a mix of desire and anger. “Valentino…” his voice had hardened, yet it was still fragile.

Valentino remained indifferent. He didn’t take his eyes off the ceiling; even his breathing was barely perceptible.

Vox let his hands wander more boldly over Valentino’s body, starting to shake him gently. “Why… why are you acting like this?”

His fingers pressed harder, sliding down Valentino’s chest and clutching the fabric until it wrinkled. “Look at me, Val,” his voice carried both pleading and fury but in that instant, Valentino moved so swiftly, so decisively, that before Vox could process what was happening, he found himself flat on his back in the bed. Valentino loomed over him; his long, elegant frame cast a shadow across Vox’s body. His hands pinned Vox’s wrists to the mattress with such strength that it knocked the breath out of him.

“What do you want, Vox?” Valentino’s voice was mocking. “Do you want me? Really?” He leaned down, his lips brushing Vox’s ear, hot breath grazing his skin. “Because I don’t want you. Not right now.”

Vox’s heart stopped for a beat. Valentino’s hands slid from his wrists to his chest, ripping open his shirt with a violent tug at the buttons. Vox’s breath quickened, his body trembling with a mixture of rage and uncontrollable desire. “You’re lying,” he whispered, “You always do this push me away, and then—”

Valentino’s laughter filled the room. “Oh, darling.” His fingers traced over Vox’s bare chest, nails digging lightly into his skin, leaving faint marks. “Want to know a secret? Seeing you like this… this desperate, this needy… it’s nothing but a game to me.” He pressed a kiss to Vox’s neck, but it carried no affection; only control. “But that doesn’t mean I want you.”

Vox’s body responded to Valentino’s touch even as his mind grew muddled. Valentino’s hands slid to his hips, yanking the fabric down with a rough motion. Vox’s breath was ragged, his eyes locked on Valentino’s face. “Don’t,” he muttered, “If you don’t want this, it means nothing.”

“Oh, but you do,” Valentino lowering his lips to Vox’s chest. His tongue dragged across his skin, teeth grazing his nipples with enough pressure to make Vox arch his back. Vox’s hands clutched tightly at the bedsheets.

Then Valentino’s movements grew more insistent; he forced Vox’s legs apart. Suddenly, Vox shoved against his chest with both hands, pushing him back. “Stop,” Vox said, sitting up. He moved to the edge of the bed, trying to catch his breath.

“What?” Valentino's voice surprised but still laced with mockery.

Vox straightened his clothes, fumbling to close the torn buttons of his shirt. His eyes were glassy, but he turned his face away to hide the tears. “I’ll sleep in the living room,” he said, standing up. Without looking back, he walked toward the door.

The next day, Vox found himself in a high-end lingerie store. Valentino’s mocking look from the club still lingered in his mind. Maybe… maybe he should try something. Maybe it would make him feel more confident, more desirable. He picked up a lacy, silky set, running his fingers over the delicate fabric. For a moment, he imagined how Valentino’s eyes might change would it be with surprise, with desire, or with that cruel contempt from yesterday he feared the most? The fabric felt too fragile, too exposing, yet at the same time it stirred something inside him. A mix of defiance and desperation.

If Valentino wouldn’t look at him the way he longed for, then maybe Vox could force that moment into existence. Maybe beauty artificial, deliberate, vulnerable beauty could make him feel wanted again or at the very least, prove that he wasn’t invisible.

As he wandered the aisles, he noticed a familiar figure in the next section. Angel Dust was casually examining some lingerie, completely unaware of Vox’s presence. His fingers lingered over a purple lacy set, flipping through the options with a carefree air.

Vox’s chest tightened. Of all days… After what had happened last night, Valentino’s cold rejection and those cruel words “I don’t want you” echoed over and over in his mind and here was Angel, right in front of him, as if to twist the knife once more. Valentino hadn’t wanted him… had he wanted Angel instead?

The thought gnawed at him. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Here he was, standing invisible, comparing himself again.

He let out a quiet, frustrated sigh. His hands fell from the fabric he had chosen. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

Angel Dust finally turned, still oblivious to him, and strolled toward the register with his chosen items. Vox lingered for a moment, watching the casual ease in Angel’s movements, the effortless charm that seemed to draw attention everywhere.

With a stiffening in his chest, Vox turned to the sales clerk, masking his feelings behind an expressionless face. “Pack these up. Send them to my address.” He pulled out his card, paid, and left the store.

When he got home, his stomach grumbled uneasily. He needed to eat, if not for himself, then... for the thing inside him. He headed to the kitchen and opened the fridge. The wines inside, in their shiny packaging, seemed to stare at him. Automatically reaching for a bottle, his hand suddenly froze in mid-air. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His fingers found the juice carton next to it instead.

Even while preparing a simple sandwich, his attention wandered, and his hands trembled. He finished his meal and left the messy kitchen behind.

He retreated to the bedroom. His first instinct was to lock the door but then he thought of Valentino. If he found it locked... Sighing, he left the door as it was and headed to the bed.

He picked up his phone. He opened the home security cameras app. The images of the main hall, kitchen, and even the corridor appeared on the screen. He began watching the empty rooms. The waiting game had begun. "What a great relationship," he muttered with a bitter smile. "Just great. He's busy with his work, and I'm watching to see if he'll come or not. Totally normal."

He felt like he couldn't endure this nonsense any longer. He grabbed his phone and wrote a message to Valentino. He wrote it fueled by the anger from today's events.

Vox: I saw Angel Dust in the city today. We were in the same store. Just wanted to let you know.

Valentino: Why do you care where he's shopping, cariño? Don't you have work to do?

It was the reaction Vox expected, but it still hurt.

Vox: Just saying. It felt a bit weird. Him being there.

Valentino: Maybe your being there made him feel weird.

Vox: Do these harsh messages mean that you’ve encountered all the “special” surprises you were expecting? :)

Without waiting for a reply, he propped the phone on the bed. He closed his eyes, feeling the tension in his forehead. Right at that moment, the home security system started blaring wildly.

He sat up in bed. On one of the monitors, in the living room camera, a red stain had appeared. Alastor. The alarm was wailing at such a high and merciless frequency that it made even Vox grit his teeth.

On the screen, he saw Alastor suddenly flinch, clapping his hands over his ears. Alastor's sensitive ears... This noise must be unbearable for him.

In a panic, he grabbed his phone and opened the app to shut off the alarm remotely. His fingers were shaking; navigating the menus felt like it took forever. Finally, he hit the right button. Sudden silence descended.

Within a few seconds, his bedroom door creaked open slightly. Alastor entered, but without his usual confident posture. His ears were still twitching faintly, and there was a rare expression of discomfort on his face. His eyes immediately found Vox.

"I'm sorry," Vox whispered, his voice still trembling from the shock of the alarm. "That day... you watching me for hours disturbed me. I had to strengthen the systems."

Alastor stood motionless in the middle of the room. He looked unusually calm. Then, a small, ironic smile appeared on his lips. "Don't worry, dear. From now on, I'll proceed deaf." He paused as if to emphasize the lightness of his joke, expecting a smile from Vox, or even a grin.

But Vox couldn't laugh. He just sat on the bed, shoulders slumped, with a deep expression of fatigue and exhaustion on his face. Alastor's joke fell into emptiness.

Alastor's artificial smile faded. He narrowed his eyes, studying Vox, noticing his unusual stillness, his withdrawal. "Do I always come at a bad time?"

Without lifting his head, Vox mumbled toward the pillow: "Yes."

Alastor was momentarily stunned by this directness. In their usual dance filled with games, there was no such raw confession. Vox turned his back, lay down on the bed, and pulled the blanket up to his chest, turning away from Alastor. This was more than a challenge; it was surrender.

Alastor slowly approached the bed. His footsteps made almost no sound on the carpet. "You know," he whispered, "If you're afraid of me, turning your back isn't a very smart idea."

But Vox felt incredibly lonely and strangely, Alastor's presence perhaps even his danger seemed to alleviate that feeling of loneliness.

"I'm not afraid," Vox mumbled, his voice muffled into the pillow. Then, with a courage he didn't know where it came from, he added in a voice almost inaudible: "Can you stay?"

Alastor held his breath. Was this a trap? A show of weakness? The fragility in Vox's voice was so real that Alastor felt a strange, unfamiliar tightness deep in his chest. His heart quickened with a forgotten rhythm.

"Why?" Alastor asked, his voice unusually cautious.

Vox pulled the blanket a bit higher over himself. "Keep yourself busy. Just... for about ten minutes or so. Then you can go."

Alastor froze for a moment. Then, he began wandering around the room. He rifled through the papers on Vox's perfectly organized desk, examined the spines of books, touched the screens. His movements were curious and careful, but also like a child exploring a forbidden place. For a moment, he stopped watching Vox, enchanted by the objects around him.

Even with his back turned, Vox could hear his movements. With a weak sigh, he mumbled, "You're like a child."

Alastor froze instantly, holding one of Vox's expensive pens in his hand. Vox's words caught him off guard for a moment. No one had ever addressed him like that. He felt not anger, but strangely hurt. Right at that moment, Vox's phone on the bed lit up and vibrated silently.

Alastor's eyes immediately darted to the device. There was a message on the screen. The previous message thread from Valentino was still open, with the latest message at the top. With a glance, Alastor could read the last message:

Valentino: Are you serious? Texting me now and playing jealous? You're really starting to get boring, Voxxy. Maybe I should tell Angel to teach you a thing or two. At least he knows how to entertain me.

Alastor's expression changed instantly. All that childish curiosity and strange hurt transformed into calmness. He picked up the phone.

Vox mumbled: "You can't mess with my phone, Alastor."

As Alastor's fingers glided over the cold screen of Vox's phone, he ignored what Vox said.

Those red, sharp eyes were reading the messages between Valentino and Vox. He scrolled back to older messages.

Valentino: Did you like the meal, my princess?
Vox: Everything was perfect. Especially the wine but not as delicious as you.
Valentino: Ah, my sweet devil. Will you tell me that every night?
Vox: If you want, I'll say it every hour.

Alastor gritted his teeth. The sound was so faint that only he could hear it. My princess? My sweet devil? He couldn't understand how Vox could melt at these disgusting, vulgar compliments. The greatest compliment he'd given Vox was "dear" or "precious enemy." And Vox would even sneer at those but to submit to this... nonsense?

Vox: I'm so tired today, Val.
Valentino: Oh, my poor baby. Come, let me give you a massage. Take away all that tension.
Vox: I wish you were here.
Valentino: Imagine I'm there. My hands on your shoulders... then going lower...
Vox: Val... please.
Valentino: Just 'please?' Don't you want more?
Vox: I do. Call me.

Alastor felt a strange, heavy tightness in his chest. He imagined Vox's voice like that. That tired, surrendering, wanting voice. Toward him, it was always angry, always tense, always on guard but toward Valentino... was he this weak? This open? This needy for attention?

That dark, jealous thing inside him grew even larger. He was jealous of Valentino. That disgusting, wretched, arrogant, bullying scum. Just because he stole Vox's attention, Vox's interest, Vox's rare and precious moments.

He saw Vox shifting in bed. Watching his vulnerable, calm state, Alastor's inner anger and jealousy sharpened even more. He slowly placed the phone back down. He didn't need to look anymore.

The shadows began to ripple and twist in response to Alastor's emotions. The fixed smile on his face became forced, barely hiding the anger and wounded pride beneath. "Is that it?" he whispered, "Do you want attention? Sweet words? Fake words that make you feel cared for?"

For a moment, he stared at Vox. Then, before vanishing into the shadows, he mumbled one last sentence, his voice resolute. "Very well, dear Vox. Learn then. What real attention is... and from whom it comes."

When morning came, Vox opened his eyes. Sleep hadn’t fully left his mind; he woke up in a daze. Just as he was about to stretch, his phone vibrated lightly, casting a soft glow.

Alastor: Good morning, my dear! I hope you’ve adjusted that awful alarm of yours. My ears are still ringing, just so you know. :(

Vox sat up in bed. He rubbed his eyes and read the message again. Admitting that his ears hurt? That couldn’t be Alastor. Someone must have taken his place or this was part of some elaborate, sarcastic game.

Vox: Alastor? Is that really you?

Alastor: Of course! Who else would want to joke with you at this ungodly hour? And yes, I’m still remarking on your ability to shatter eardrums. I hope you’re pleased.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Vox’s lips. Was Alastor… trying to tease and care at the same time? he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or worry.

Vox: Apologies were already made. I needed to reinforce my systems. I didn’t think anyone would just stand in my room for hours watching me.

Alastor: Fair enough! Still, next time, try a method slightly less… ear-murderous. Perhaps a cute little light show? Or a blinking sign: “ALASTOR, GO AWAY, YOU MONSTER!”

Vox smiled. It was a foreign sensation in his tired facial muscles.

Alastor: But enough fun how are you really, darling? That… fatigue? Gone yet?

Vox hesitated. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Addressing him as “darling” so intimately, asking after his well-being… something stirred inside him.

Vox: I’m alright, I guess. Better, yes.

He sat staring at his phone screen, waiting. No reply had come. The message was marked “seen,” but silence lingered. Alastor’s unusually attentive, almost tender tone had been cut off all at once. A strange emptiness filled Vox. Why hadn’t he answered? Maybe, for Alastor, this was just a passing game, and he had grown bored and moved on. With a sigh, he set the phone aside.

At the same time, in one of Pentagram City’s most extravagant venues, an unexpected invitation had been extended to the Hazbin Hotel members. Charlie was insistent that everyone attend. “This isn’t just a party!” she had explained excitedly. “This is the perfect chance to raise our hotel’s reputation, to make connections with Hell’s elites! And everyone… must bring a partner!”

That last sentence made Alastor’s ears flatten. A partner? Who could possibly answer such a call with him? Rosie was busy certainly not an option. The first name that came to mind, both unsettling and thrilling, was Vox but how could he ask him? Vox was entangled in his complicated relationship with Valentino. No, it was impossible.

In the end, reluctantly, he dialed a number. A little while later, Mimzy appeared at the door, her steps hurried and eager. “Alastor, darling! If you called me, then surely you’ve dragged me here for something terribly boring, haven’t you?” she teased.

The fixed grin on Alastor’s face grew a little tighter. “Something like that, dear Mimzy. Care to dress up and endure a terribly dull party with me?”

Mimzy practically leapt to link her arm with his. “Oh, darling! I’m ready to go anywhere with you! And who knows maybe I’ll find some rich new… admirers there!”

The party was dazzling, full of blinding lights, expensive cocktails, and the hollow laughter of demons. With Mimzy on his arm, Alastor entered the guest list without issue. He looked striking his red jacket and sharp grin carrying him easily through the crowd. Mimzy, meanwhile, flitted about eagerly, scanning faces in search of familiar ones.

And then, she spotted them.

Across the room stood Vox and Valentino. Valentino was in the middle of a group, telling a story loudly, while Vox lingered at his side, staring into the distance with a blank, bored expression.

Alastor’s first instinct was to retreat, to vanish before being noticed but Mimzy acted first. “Vox! Valentino!” she called brightly, waving. “What a surprise to see you here!”

Alastor’s ears shot upright, then pressed flat against the back of his head. Vox lifted his head. His gaze slid from Mimzy, to Alastor her arm linked through his. His expression was unreadable, but Alastor caught the sudden dimming in his eyes. What was he thinking? Jealous? Indifferent? Or just tired?

“Alastor,” Vox said, his voice neutral, his face calm. “Mimzy. An unexpected pair.”

Valentino looked mildly annoyed at having his conversation interrupted. “Ah, the Radio Demon and with… her.” His glance at Mimzy was dismissive, cutting.

Alastor widened his smile to mask the stiffness underneath. “The perfect companion to brighten up the atmosphere, don’t you think, dear Vox? She’s always so full of energy!”

Mimzy pressed even closer to him, nearly clinging to his arm. “Oh, Alastor, darling! Don’t flatter me so, or I’ll start blushing!” she laughed.

Vox witnessed the intimate contact, and a flicker of jealousy passed through his eyes. Once, long ago, in settings like these, it had always been him at Alastor’s side linking his arm.

Alastor caught the faint shadow of discomfort on Vox’s face. A strange satisfaction stirred in him. So he still had an effect. Turning to Mimzy, he said, with artificial cheer, “Dearest Mimzy, I believe I could use a moment to… catch my breath." With that, he slipped gently out of her hold.

Mimzy blinked in surprise but quickly recovered. “Of course, darling! I’ll just explore the place a bit!” she chirped, vanishing into the crowd.

At that moment, Valentino caught sight of Angel Dust across the room. His eyes lit up. Without a single word to Vox, he left him standing there and strode toward Angel.

And so, after the brief chaos, Alastor and Vox were left nearly alone, tension humming in the silence between them.

Alastor stepped closer. “You look lonely.”

“So do you,” Vox replied, eyes fixed on his glass. “Your partner went off exploring.”

“Taking a break now and then is healthy,” Alastor said with a shrug. Then he paused. With an unexpected surge of boldness, he extended his hand. “In that case… perhaps we might liven up this dreary hour. Care for a dance?”

Vox’s eyes widened. Was this a joke? Alastor was actually asking him to dance? For a heartbeat, his heart raced but then reality crashed back in. His eyes darted to Valentino. He saw him laughing, flirting with Angel, utterly absorbed. A pang of hurt stabbed through him. If Valentino saw him dancing with Alastor… it would be the perfect excuse. Their relationship was already strained. This could destroy it completely.

Fear replaced the fleeting thrill. Vox tore his gaze away from Alastor, his voice low and panicked. “Val will come back… any moment now.”

Alastor’s hand lingered in the air. The smile on his face froze. He had seen the fear in Vox’s eyes. It always came back to that disgusting moth. The dark, jealous anger within him stirred again. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, folding it behind his back. His posture turned haughty, untouchable once more.

“Of course,” he said, his voice suddenly cold, laced with static. He gestured toward Valentino with his eyes. “He doesn’t care about you, Vox. While you’re stuck here with your own darkness, he’s out there, spending his time with someone else, not giving you a second thought. If you ask me, this little dance of mine would be a far more elegant answer to his indifference.”

Every word from Alastor felt like pressing into an open wound. Vox felt a rebellion rising inside him. Valentino was ignoring him. He always had. Maybe Alastor was right. Maybe it was time to take a risk, to make himself felt or maybe it was just the longing the ache for those old, electric days, that complicated but unique bond they once shared that was pushing him forward.

He swallowed. His hands trembled slightly. Then, almost not believing himself, he took a small step toward Alastor. “Just one dance,” he whispered, his voice low enough to drown in the music. “And it doesn’t mean anything.”

A smile touched Alastor’s lips, not one of triumph, but of quiet satisfaction. With a graceful gesture, he extended his hand. “Of course, dear,” he murmured. “Just one dance. For the sake of the music.”

Hesitantly, Vox placed his hand into Alastor’s waiting palm. The touch was cold, yet strangely familiar and reassuring. Alastor gently drew him toward the dance floor. The crowd parted for them automatically some staring in shock, others in fear, others with nothing but raw curiosity.

The music was slow, with a hint of blues. Alastor held Vox’s hand in one of his, the other resting gently on his waist. At first Vox was stiff, his body resisting but Alastor’s movements were surprisingly soft, precise, guiding him flawlessly to the rhythm. Their eyes met. In Alastor’s crimson gaze, the usual mockery was replaced with something deeper, darker a kind of allure.

“Do you see?” Alastor whispered, leaning close to his ear. His breath was cold, yet it sent shivers down Vox’s skin. “No one’s even watching us. They’re all trapped in their own little worlds. Just you and me and the music. Just like it used to be.”

Vox felt himself slipping into the spell of Alastor’s words. For a moment, he forgot Valentino, forgot Angel, forgot the pregnancy test, forgot his fears. There was only this moment. Only the music, only the movement under Alastor’s guidance. His head spun lightly, though it wasn’t only from the dance. Could it be that little thing growing inside him making itself known?

Alastor noticed the flicker of distraction on Vox’s face, the fragile expression softening his features. His hand at Vox’s waist tightened slightly, pulling him closer, though never crossing the line of respect.

“You’re safe,” Alastor murmured, his voice almost nothing more than a faint static hush. There was no mockery this time. Just a simple, plain statement.

Those two words shattered Vox’s last defense. His eyes burned. All the loneliness, fear, and uncertainty he had bottled up wanted to spill free against this unexpected kindness. As they danced, he leaned his head lightly against Alastor’s shoulder. Just for a second, a moment of weakness.

Alastor froze. Vox trusting him like this… this wasn’t part of the plan. This went far beyond the game. Something strange stirred in him, a warmth he couldn’t name. He drew Vox a little closer with his arm around his waist, offering silent support.

Just then, the music shifted, breaking into a faster, more aggressive rhythm. The spell was broken. Vox lifted his head and pulled back, shy and guarded once more. His eyes darted toward the bar. Valentino was still there, back turned, chatting with Angel. He hadn’t noticed them at all.

Vox released Alastor’s hand. “Thank you,” he murmured, looking away. “That… felt nice.”

Alastor held his empty hand in the air for a moment before lowering it gracefully. “My pleasure, dear Vox,” he replied, his tone slipping back toward its usual mocking cadence but not entirely. A faint softness lingered. “You see, sometimes old enemies make far better dance partners than new… partners.”

With Mimzy’s arrival, Vox moved toward the bar. The memory of the dance, the feel of Alastor’s hand on his waist, the words whispered in his ear kept replaying in his mind. You’re safe. How seriously could he really take that word?

He reached the bar and gestured for one of the strongest drinks. The bartender handed it over, and Vox lifted the glass to his lips but just as he was about to drink, his stomach lurched with a sudden, unexpected wave of nausea. The sharp scent of the liquor triggered a rising sickness in his throat. He forced down a single mouthful and hastily set the glass back on the counter, his palms sweating.

No. Not now. Please, not now.

His face paled. The crowd around him, the flashing lights, suddenly became unbearable. He felt as if he could hardly breathe. Closing his eyes, he tried to pull himself together for a moment. This was yet another blessing of the pregnancy his body telling him what it wanted, what it didn’t.

When he opened his eyes again, directly across from him just a few meters away, he saw Alastor. He seemed to be talking with Mimzy, but those sharp, crimson eyes were fixed squarely on Vox. Beneath his usual grin was a deep focus, an inquisitive sharpness. He had seen it all Vox’s refusal of the drink, his paling face, his discomfort.

A chill ran through Vox. Alastor was too close. Too observant. These small, vulnerable moments could add up to revealing his greatest secret. He broke eye contact and turned away, pushing through the crowd unsteadily. He needed air. Space. Somewhere far from the noise, the lights, everything.

He made it to the balcony, which was quieter. The cold Hellish air hit his face, bringing a little relief. Looking out at the city lights below, he took a deep breath.

Only a few minutes passed before he heard footsteps behind him. Instinctively, he feared Valentino had come searching for him but when he turned, it was Alastor standing there.

“Seems the drink didn’t suit your taste, dear Vox,” Alastor said, voice low and unhurried. “Or was it the atmosphere of the party that became too heavy? Normally, these scenes are yours.”

Vox leaned back against the wall. “I just… got bored. That’s all.” He tried to keep his voice steady.

Alastor stepped closer. Only a few inches separated them now. Vox could smell the faint, old-fashioned cologne clinging to him. “You know,” he murmured, “As I said before watching you lately has been rather… boring. You used to be predictable. Anger, arrogance, those tiresome little displays of technology but now…” He paused, as though hunting for the perfect word. “…now you’re a puzzle. I’m piecing it together. The loss of power. The distraction. Refusing a drink and just earlier, that look on your face when you danced with me.”

Vox’s breath caught. Alastor was far too close. He was noticing far too much. “Maybe I’ve just grown tired of you, Alastor,” Vox shot back, but his voice came out weak.

A wide, cruel grin spread across Alastor’s lips. “Oh no, my dear friend. You’d never grow tired of me. So tell me. What’s made you so… softened, so very intriguing?”

Vox couldn’t look away. His gaze was locked in Alastor’s.

Just then, the balcony door swung open. Valentino stood there, face shadowed with fury. His eyes flicked first to Vox, then to Alastor standing far too close. “What’s this?” he growled, voice dangerously low. “Am I interrupting?”

Vox immediately stepped back from Alastor. “Val! No, we were just—”

“Escaping the noise for a little chat, that’s all,” Alastor cut in smoothly, not a hint of remorse in his tone. He turned to Valentino, grin widening. “Don’t worry, Valentino. I’ve no intention of stealing anything that belongs to you. I know just how well you guard what’s yours.” The mocking edge in his words was unmistakable.

Valentino’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer to Alastor. "Even though you know this, you're not playing it right, Alastor."

“Val, please,” Vox whispered, almost pleading. “There’s a reason I came out here. I don’t feel well. I just want to go home.”

Alastor smiled faintly, casting one last disdainful glance at Valentino. "Ah, well," his voice crackled with the static of an old radio. "Mimzy must be missing me, no? It’s been nice catching up with old friends. I’ll leave you two to your… fun." With a slight wave of his hand, he made to turn away, but Valentino’s hand shot out like a claw, grabbing his shoulder.

"Wait."

Alastor froze in place, tilting his head slightly as if listening to the annoying buzz of a fly. "Yes? More empty threats, Valentino? My time is valuable."

Valentino wasn’t looking at Alastor but at Vox, his eyes burning not just with anger but with a desire to humiliate Vox. To toy with him, to break him in front of Alastor. He took slow, deliberate steps toward Vox.

"I know, sweetheart," Valentino began, his voice laced with artificial tenderness, though every word dripped with condescension. "You’re upset because I’ve been spending time with Angel. You think I’m ignoring you. That’s why you’re resorting to these… low-class, third-rate attention grabs." He reached out, gripping Vox’s chin lightly but with a sting, forcing his face toward Alastor. "Look at this. A dusty old relic from the past. Is this what someone like you deserves?"

Vox wanted to look away, but Valentino’s fingers held him in place, forcing him to face Alastor. "No, Val, it’s not like that," he mumbled, his voice shaky and weak. Alastor standing there, hearing and seeing everything, filled him with deep shame.

"Oh, don’t say no, darling," Valentino continued, his voice now dripping with mocking affection. Vox’s back pressed against the railing, the void behind him sending a cold shiver down his spine. "I remember those seven long years when Alastor disappeared… You were like this back then too. Pathetic. Clinging to pills. Running to me to drown your pain. It’s the same thing now. You’re afraid of losing me, so you’re desperately grasping at anything that might satisfy you. So don’t tell me ‘no.’ I know you better than you know yourself."

Vox’s breath hitched. Valentino was pushing him closer to the edge, exerting both physical and emotional pressure. He felt like he was about to fall.

"Val, please," Vox whispered, his voice a choked plea. "Not here. Please." His trembling hands tried to grasp Valentino’s wrists, but he had no strength left. Even his electricity, that brash power, had abandoned him. All that remained was fear and helplessness.

Valentino, sensing Vox’s panic, grew even more delighted. Having him completely under his control, showing Alastor who Vox belonged to, thrilled him. He leaned in close, his voice low so only Vox could hear, "Quiet," he hissed. "I’m all you’ve got. Don’t forget that for a second."

At that moment, a sharp, static-filled voice cut through the air. "I’d say that’s quite enough."

Valentino flinched and turned around. Alastor still stood in the same spot, but the red glow in his eyes had sharpened, taking on an almost demonic intensity. His grin remained, but it was now menacing. "My dear Valentino," he began, "your method of flaunting what you claim to possess is rather… primitive. The tighter you grip something, the more it slips through your fingers. Basic physics, really."

Valentino released Vox and turned fully to face Alastor, seething. "Mind your own business!"

"Oh, but I am minding my business!" Alastor replied cheerfully. "You’re spoiling something I… take an interest in and that annoys me." His final words were punctuated by a sudden surge in the background static.

Valentino scoffed derisively. "What’s it to you? He’s mine."

Alastor tilted his head slightly. He knew he shouldn’t go any further. Vox’s current home, that poisonous nest, was still Valentino. He would return there because he had no other choice. Alastor had to accept that. He drew in a breath, his grin looking a little less genuine. “Very well,” he murmured, as if bored at the end of a game. “I hope your ego serves as a fine pillow tonight.”

He moved to leave, Valentino’s contemptuous gaze stabbing into his back. Just then, Valentino’s voice rang out, vile and cutting.

“Then take Vox with you! Before he crawls back into my bed, maybe he can have one more round with you!”

Alastor’s grin vanished instantly. “What did you just say?”

Valentino smiled triumphantly, realizing he’d struck a nerve. “You heard me.”

That was it. Alastor’s last thread of patience snapped. Without thinking, without caring for strategy or games, he lunged forward in an instant. Two strides and he was in front of Valentino. He thrust out his hand and shoved hard against Valentino’s chest with all his strength.

Valentino’s eyes went wide shock, disbelief. Suddenly, he was flung backward into the void. He rolled over the parapet, wings flaring uselessly, tearing the air in panic. He cast Vox one last look of fear before plummeting down into the glowing, shadowy abyss of the city below.

And then… the crash. Distant, dull, bone-chilling.

Vox froze. His eyes locked on the void where Valentino had fallen, his face a mask of shock and horror. “No,” he whispered, his voice broken and trembling. “No… Alastor, what have you done?”

Alastor was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling quickly but his face showed no regret, no concern. Only a cold, satisfied expression. Slowly, he turned away.

Without a word to Vox, he stepped into the shadows and vanished.

Vox stood there on the balcony, trembling, utterly alone. His gaze remained on the darkness below. Was he dead? Then, a more practical, terrifying thought: what if he wasn’t?

Panicking, he rushed back inside, ignoring the party, the crowd, the dancers, heading straight for the exit.

A few days later. Valentino lay in Vox’s lavish bedroom, sprawled in the bed, badly wounded. The fall hadn’t killed him. Overlords of Hell did not die so easily but it had broken nearly every bone, shattered his insides. He groaned in pain and fury, barking orders, belittling Vox, but even the slightest movement sent him writhing in agony.

Vox tended to him giving medicine, adjusting pillows but his eyes were vacant. He still hadn’t fully processed what had happened. At any moment, he feared Valentino would turn and blame him.

That night, a faint tapping came from outside the window. Then, a creak. Vox jumped. He pulled the curtain aside and peered out.

There, clinging to the outer wall of the house, was Alastor. He stood at the window, red coat damp with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing heavily. He unlocked the window and slipped inside, feet landing silently on the carpet.

Vox stared, stunned. “God… why didn’t you use the shadows?” he whispered, still trembling with fear.

Alastor, catching his breath, muttered, “To avoid setting off that dreadful alarm of yours. I won’t risk my ears again. Never again.” His face showed genuine irritation. Then, glancing around, he asked, “Where is he?”

“In bed,” Vox murmured, nodding toward the bedroom door. “Asleep, I think.”

A mocking grin returned to Alastor’s lips. “Oh, splendid. Time to pay him a visit.” He moved toward the bedroom.

Vox hurried after him in a panic. “Alastor, no! Please!”

But Alastor was already inside. Valentino lay half-awake in the bed, writhing with pain. Alastor stepped closer, head tilted, examining him.

“My, my,” he whispered with feigned sympathy. “You look dreadful, dear. That lovely face of yours… ah yes, even that’s broken now. Such a pity.”

Valentino’s eyes snapped open. The moment he saw Alastor, pure hatred flared across his face. “You!” he hissed, voice weak and raw with pain. “How dare you come here? Get out!”

“Oh, but I came because I was worried about you!” Alastor pressed his hands together over his chest. “Seeing you so… fragile. Truly touching. I do hope you’re suffering.”

Valentino tried to push himself up but a scream of pain tore out of him, and he collapsed back onto the bed. “Vox!” he roared. “Get him out of here! Now!”

Vox stood frozen in the doorway, trembling, caught between two overwhelming forces. “Val, please… calm down…”

"Ah, even your voice comes out cracked. What a truly pitiful state you’re in." Alastor shook his head, feigning sorrow. "But don’t worry, darling. While you writhe here in pain, I’ll spend a little time with your precious Vox. Someone ought to entertain him, get him away from this dull room you keep him trapped in."

Valentino’s eyes widened in horror and rage. "He’s staying HERE! With ME!" he snarled, but a fit of coughing cut him off, his face contorting in pain.

"Ah, looks like you’re far too busy dealing with your coughing," Alastor mocked, turning his back on him. "Don’t fret, I’ll take good care of him. The way you never did." He emphasized the last words as he headed for the door.

Vox’s voice trembled with panic. "Alastor, please, don’t… He hasn’t recovered yet…"

"That’s exactly why, darling!" Alastor replied as he slowly but firmly led Vox out of the room. "Let’s leave him so he can rest." As they neared the door, he threw one last glance over his shoulder at Valentino.

He closed the door behind them. In the hallway, Vox was trembling, still staring back toward Valentino’s room. Alastor gently brushed his chin to draw his attention. "Hey, hey. Here, look at me." Vox’s eyes finally focused on him. Alastor slipped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the lounge. "You’re going to spend some time with me."

Chapter Text

In the living room, Vox tried to feel safe for a moment, but he recalled the sharp, terrifying pang he felt when Alastor pushed Valentino off that balcony, accompanied by that scream. Since that moment, he had been living with a growing fear deep inside. Miscarriages were common in the early months, and that thought had kept him awake for days. He was constantly on edge, monitoring every slight change in his body, dreading that the worst could happen at any moment. He needed to see a doctor.

"Alastor," he said, his voice still slightly trembling. "I need to go out. I have a doctor's appointment." His appointment wasn't with his own doctor, so he was a little nervous.

Alastor pulled his arm from Vox’s shoulder and turned to face him. His sharp, red eyes studied Vox’s face. "A doctor? Why? You don’t look injured or sick." There was a mocking tone in his voice, but beneath it, a strange curiosity lingered.

"It’s not like that," Vox replied quickly, averting his gaze.

Alastor’s eyebrows rose slightly. "Is that so? Then I’m coming with you."

Vox’s chest tightened. That absolutely couldn’t happen. Alastor’s presence, the questions the doctor might ask, the answers that might be given… It could ruin everything. "No," he said, his voice hardening. "No, this is… private. I need to talk to the doctor about personal matters."

"Private?" Alastor repeated, tilting his head slightly. "About an Omega’s ‘private’ matters? Or…" He paused, reading every twitch on Vox’s face. "Since that day… you were with Valentino, weren’t you? Is that why this ‘check-up’?"

Vox’s heart leaped to his throat. It was impossible to understand how Alastor’s mind worked. He saw everything as a game, a strategy, or a potential betrayal. "Alastor," Vox’s voice was laced with exhaustion and a hint of desperation. "Listen to me. From that closeness months ago… there are plenty of babies born, you know. It doesn’t have to be from some new… encounter." He thought of how Valentino had rejected him, that humiliating moment in the bedroom. "We didn’t," he added, his voice almost a whisper, indirect but clear. He looked into Alastor’s eyes he wasn’t lying. Then, he told his biggest lie: "And I’m not pregnant. I’m just… worried. Please don’t worry."

Alastor sighed. His red eyes lingered on Vox for a moment longer before he shrugged. "Fine. At least let me drop you off." His tone suggested the matter was closed, but it couldn’t fully hide the lingering doubt.

Alastor drove Vox to a private clinic in a lesser-known part of the city. From inside the car, he watched Vox enter the clinic. His usual fixed grin was in place, but his eyes held a thought, an observation.

When Vox stepped inside, the cold, sterile air of the waiting room hit him. He checked in and was eventually taken to an examination room. The doctor, an old, weary-looking demon, glanced at Vox’s file.

"Vox, right? What’s the issue?" he asked in a routine tone.

Vox swallowed hard. "Just a routine check-up." The words felt stuck in his throat.

The doctor asked a few questions and performed some basic tests. Vox’s tension grew with each passing moment. Then the doctor said, "I’ll need to examine your abdomen," as he prepared the ultrasound machine.

At that moment, the door swung open, and Alastor sauntered in as if nothing was amiss. "Things are taking longer than I expected. Waiting is boring," he said, as if barging into a private room was his natural right.

Vox’s face flushed. "Alastor! Get out!"

But it was too late. The doctor looked at Alastor with a mix of surprise and mild discomfort. "Sir, this is a private examination. Please wait outside."

Alastor turned to the doctor, his grin sharpening. "Don’t worry, doctor. I’m the patient’s… closest friend. I’m here to support him through this process." His eyes then drifted to Vox’s still-flat abdomen. "Go on."

The doctor hesitated but lifted Vox’s shirt. The skin on his abdomen was still smooth and flat, showing no signs of early pregnancy. The doctor applied gel and placed the probe. The monitor displayed the internal structure of the womb, but no tiny embryo was visible. The doctor paused, glanced at Alastor, then back at Vox’s file.

"One moment," he muttered. "There must be a mix-up here. Mr. Vox, you… biologically… This kind of examination…" His voice carried confusion. "You’re in the wrong place. I need to refer you to a urologist or an endocrinologist. The doctors here… they’d probably refuse to even look."

Alastor’s grin vanished instantly. The red glow in his eyes intensified dangerously. "What?" His voice was low but crackled with static. "What do you mean ‘they won’t look’? You’re a doctor. He’s your patient. Your job is to look."

The doctor took a nervous step back. "Sir, please calm down. It’s a matter of specialization. Our clinic’s policy-"

"I don’t care about your policy!" Alastor cut him off, his mocking tone now fully replaced by anger. "Who else is here? Get another doctor who can do the job. Now."

Vox stood up, his face burning with crushing embarrassment. "Alastor, enough! We’re leaving." He grabbed his arm, trying to drag him out.

Alastor resisted. "No. I’m going to deal with this negligence."

"ALASTOR!" Vox’s voice cracked, his eyes welling up. He couldn’t take it anymore. He was drowning in humiliation, fear, and anger. He forcibly pulled Alastor toward the door. "Come with me. Now."

They stepped outside, Alastor still grumbling about the clinic’s incompetence and the doctor’s audacity. Vox walked a few steps ahead, his head down, his face burning.

Finally, Alastor called out, "Vox, wait."

Vox stopped but didn’t turn around. His shoulders were tense.

Alastor, unusually, seemed unsure how to proceed. Finally, he spoke in a softer, rarely heard tone. "For that… nonsense in there. You don’t need to feel ashamed."

Vox slowly turned around. His eyes held shock and hurt. "I’m not ashamed," he whispered, but his voice wasn’t convincing.

Alastor looked at his vulnerable state for a moment. Then, as if reverting to his usual demeanor, he continued, "Good. Because you shouldn’t be."

They stood there in silence.

Alastor took the driver’s seat. Vox settled into the passenger seat, his face still tense and distracted. "You can drop me off at home," he said, trying to suppress the tremble in his voice.

Alastor glanced at him, his eyebrows slightly raised. "What do you plan to do about that incompetent doctor?"

"I’ll figure it out," Vox muttered, unable to meet Alastor’s gaze. "Like I always do. I’ll throw money at it, threaten someone… I’ll handle it." He knew how hollow his bravado sounded. The thing growing inside him made all his power feel meaningless.

Alastor let out a deep, audible sigh. The silence signaled his disapproval but also that he wouldn’t press further for now. They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

When they arrived at Vox’s house, Vox immediately headed to the kitchen. Valentino must be hungry.

He hurriedly gathered ingredients, chopped, and boiled. His mind was split between the doctor, the tiny, hidden life in his body, and the radio demon in the living room. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice he’d overdone the chili, rendering the soup nearly inedible.

He poured it into a bowl and brought it to the room where Valentino lay. Alastor, standing in a dark corner of the living room, watched him.

Valentino was still writhing in pain on the bed. Vox gently tried to prop him up to eat. "Here, Val. It’s hot. It’ll help you feel better."

The moment Valentino took the first spoonful, his face contorted. "What the hell is this?" he coughed, his voice hoarse and weak. "You burned my mouth! Are you an idiot? Can’t you even make soup?" In a fit of rage, he shoved the bowl away, the hot liquid splashing onto Vox’s hand and apron. The bowl crashed to the floor.

At that moment, Alastor appeared at the door. "Oh, dear," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "The poor, sick little thing didn’t like the carefully prepared meal? I’m not surprised. Gratitude isn’t in some people’s nature."

Valentino, seeing Alastor, seethed with rage but could only manage a weak, angry growl due to his pain and exhaustion.

Vox, bending to clean the spilled soup, felt his face burn and his hands tremble. He had failed. He couldn’t even make a simple soup for Valentino. The thought made him feel more helpless than ever.

Alastor suddenly stepped forward. His long, elegant fingers gently grabbed Vox’s wrist, stopping him just before he could wipe the mess with a towel. The touch was sudden. Vox flinched.

"Leave it," Alastor said calmly. "You don’t need to do that." His eyes flicked to Vox’s reddened hand. "Go sit. Put some cold water on it or something… I’ll handle this."

Vox, stunned, stood up. A few minutes later, he watched as Alastor moved to the kitchen counter, gathering ingredients with an air of familiarity. His movements were strangely skillful, his chopping and slicing quick and precise. Vox started to say, "I-"

"Sit," Alastor repeated, his tone sharp but his gaze lingering on the redness on Vox’s hand.

Vox quietly sat on the small kitchen stool. In silence, he watched Alastor remake the soup. The sharp smell of spices was replaced by the warm, inviting aroma of chicken broth and fresh vegetables.

"It’s not that hard," Vox muttered, almost to himself.

Alastor paused, the wooden spoon hovering in the air. His back was still to Vox. "Don’t expect it to be as good as my mother’s," he said, his voice unusually calm, free of static. "But at least it won’t burn your mouth." As he finished the sentence, he seemed to flinch slightly, as if he’d said too much. His shoulders tensed.

Vox noticed Alastor’s ears twitch slightly backward, a rare physical sign of defensiveness. A warm, surprised feeling stirred within him. This vulnerability was worlds away from the savage beast on the balcony. Involuntarily, the corners of his tired lips curled into a small, weary smile.

Alastor suddenly turned, catching Vox’s fading smile. He set the spoon down slowly. His expression was unreadable a mix of surprise, slight unease, and something Vox couldn’t name.

"Your smile is a rare sight, Vox," Alastor murmured, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "It comes at a high price."

The tense moment broke. Vox looked away, his face slightly flushed.

Alastor poured the soup into a new bowl. He tasted it, nodding slightly with satisfaction. He placed the bowl on a tray with a glass of water and a clean spoon, then pushed it toward Vox. "Take it. If he throws it in your face this time, it’s not my problem."

Vox took the tray. Its weight felt heavy in his hands. "Thanks, Alastor," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alastor leaned against the counter, then straightened, adjusting his coat. "I should go. There’s a meeting at Charlie’s hotel… where I need to stir up some chaos." He walked toward the door, then paused and looked back at Vox over his shoulder. "And Vox?"

Vox stopped and turned.

Alastor stood in the doorway, his red eyes slightly narrowed. "That ‘doctor’ issue… Are you sure you can handle it?"

The question was unexpectedly serious. Vox swallowed, nodding with forced confidence. "Yeah. I’ll handle it."

Alastor looked at him for a moment longer, then gave a slight nod and stepped outside. Vox was left alone in the hallway, holding the warm bowl.

When Vox left the room, he emerged with an empty bowl in his hand and a heavy burden in his heart. Valentino had drunk the soup this time, but he had crowned every sip with a grumble or an insult. What gnawed at Vox wasn't Valentino's words, but his own helplessness. He couldn't even make a simple soup. How was he going to handle this thing growing inside him, making him more fragile day by day?

He went to the living room and collapsed onto the couch. He picked up his phone. His fingers hovered over the numbers he had called dozens of times in the past few days. Those who answered had either turned out to be scammers or dismissively said, "We don't deal with Omega pregnancies," and hung up. One of Hell's most powerful media moguls had been condemned to nothingness because of a handful of cells in his belly. Each rejection amplified the panic inside him a little more. With trembling hands, he made another call. The voice that answered was indifferent and weary: "Sorry, Mr. Vox. Not our area of expertise. Maybe try someone else."

He hurled the phone onto the pillow. He buried his head in his hands. A moment of weakness had turned into an eternal problem.

Meanwhile, in the lobby of the Hazbin Hotel, Charlie was organizing brochures for volunteers, while Angel Dust was hanging out with Husk at the bar. Alastor stood in his shadowy corner, as if he hadn't moved at all. Suddenly, he straightened up and cleared his throat lightly, making his voice audible to the few people in the lobby. "Pardon me, my dear friends," his radio-static voice filled the room. "I need a quick piece of advice on a practical matter. Does anyone here know a clean and discreet doctor in this hellhole... eh, for certain situations? Preferably one who understands Omega physiology."

The question had come from Alastor's mouth. The unusual seriousness in his voice surprised everyone. Charlie immediately looked up, her eyes sparkling. "A doctor?"

Angel Dust lowered his makeup brush and approached with a devilish grin. "Whoa! Did you knock someone up, smiles?"

Alastor's fixed grin froze for a moment. The red glow in his eyes sharpened dangerously. "Your vulgar tone is even lower than I expected, dear Angel."

Husk grumbled while wiping a glass at the bar. "Nobody gets sick here, Alastor. We die. That's the rule."

Alastor's fingers lightly tapped the top of his staff. This wasn't what he had expected.

Charlie looked at Alastor with concern. "Is everyone okay, Alastor?"

"No need to worry, my dear Charlie," Alastor replied, softening his tone slightly. "Just... gathering information for a possible future contingency." He couldn't tell anyone. Breaking Vox's trust would only make him withdraw further. Realizing he wouldn't get any useful information, he shrugged and vanished into the shadows. "Insignificant," he muttered. "I'll find my own ways."

With the unease from this failure, he pulled out his phone from his pocket. He wrote a message to Vox, choosing his words with unusual care.

Alastor: Dear Vox. Any lucky developments regarding the doctor?

A few minutes later, the reply came.

Vox: Couldn't handle it.

Alastor narrowed his eyes as he read the message. Vox's short and desperate phrasing deepened that uncomfortable feeling inside him even more. He replied immediately:

Alastor: Annoying. Well, is that wretched alarm off right now? Perhaps I could drop by to do my own research. If it's convenient for you, of course.

Vox: Yes. Off.

When Alastor slipped through Vox's door, he found him curled up on the couch in the living room, staring blankly at his screen. There was an air of desperation and exhaustion in the room.

"Here I am," Alastor announced, his voice uncharacteristically softer. "It seems the task of finding a doctor for you has fallen to me."

Vox looked up. His expression wavered between gratitude and stubbornness. "I'd handle it. It just... will take some time."

Alastor took a few steps into the room, surveying it as if inspecting. "Time seems to be a luxury for both of us. Especially for you." He paused and turned to him. "What about that trusted doctor you mentioned? Him not living here isn't a big obstacle. We can bring him in."

A momentary panic gripped Vox inside. No, he couldn't drag that doctor into this. He trusted him, yes, but sharing this secret face-to-face with him... Nurses, the clinic environment... The risk was too great. "No," he replied, his voice firm but weary. "He's... not here and bringing him here... I don't want to. Pentagram city is risky. He has a family."

Alastor fell silent for a moment. His red eyes lingered on Vox, as if searching for that thin line between resistance and fear. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, he relaxed his shoulders. "Alright," he muttered, "Then we'll find someone else. Surely there's a doctor in Hell."

Vox noticed the rare persistence in those words and even... concern. He averted his eyes from Alastor, turning his gaze back to the screen. Inside him, there was both gratitude for this offer of help and a growing unease fueled by doubts about Alastor's true intentions. How much longer could he keep the secret? And what would Alastor do when he caught him at his most vulnerable?

To escape the heavy and tense atmosphere in Vox's home for a moment, Alastor moved to the other end of the living room. His fingers wandered over the dusty shelves of a bookcase.

In a bored moment, he set an antique radio he was holding down on the table. There was a light clack sound. "I'm bored, Vox," he declared, his voice laced with his usual mockery but underpinned by genuine weariness. "All this... doctor business, I must confess, hasn't turned out as entertaining as I expected. Far too mundane."

Vox shifted on the couch, without taking his eyes off the screen. "Nobody's forcing you to stay here, Alastor. The door's right there."

"Ah, but that's not it!" Alastor suddenly perked up, as if remembering something. He straightened his back and walked toward Vox, returning to his usual energetic, unsettling self. "I need to have fun, I'm not havin-" The sentence was cut off abruptly with a sharp intake of breath. Alastor's body tensed up in an instant. His usual flawless posture was disrupted, and he clenched his jaw slightly. One hand involuntarily went to the side of his cheek, toward his jawbone. The fixed grin on his face vanished for a moment, replaced by an expression of discomfort. His red eyes clouded slightly.

Vox straightened up on the couch. This sudden change alarmed him. Seeing signs of pain or discomfort in Alastor was as rare in Hell as an act of genuine kindness. "Alastor?" he called out, his voice filled with concern. "Are you okay?"

"I'm perfectly fine," but Alastor's voice came out strained and high-pitched. He was trying to move his jaw as little as possible while speaking. "Just... a temporary discomfort brought on by boredom."

However, Vox didn't seem convinced. Alastor's ears had flattened slightly against the sides of his head. He took a step forward. "Is it your tooth hurting?" he asked directly.

Alastor rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. Beings like me... don't succumb to such trivial physical pains." But his sentence ended with a muffled sound from the next sharp pang of pain. He involuntarily covered his mouth with his hand.

After a moment of hesitation, Vox sprang into action. He approached Alastor and began examining him. "Don't move your jaw," he commanded, his voice unusually serious. It had reverted to that authoritative boss tone from his screens. "Show me."

Alastor instinctively wanted to pull back. Showing weakness... that was unacceptable but the pain was so sharp that his resistance broke for a moment. His eyes roamed over Vox's face, filled with deep unease.

Vox examined carefully. He noticed that one or a few of Alastor's sharp teeth, usually visible in a grin, had an abnormal redness and slight swelling at the gum line.

Alastor pulled away. "What do you think you're doing?" His voice came out muffled with pain and anger.

"I'm trying to help you," Vox replied, his patience wearing thin. "If your mouth keeps swelling, even that grating radio voice of yours will distort. Now calm down." Cautiously, he extended his index finger. Alastor tensed, his fur standing on end in anticipation of contact. Vox just held his finger in the air, right in front of the pointed spot. "Is it here?" he asked.

Alastor glanced at the finger out of the corner of his eye and gave a vague grunt of affirmation. Yes, that was it.

Then Vox did something unexpected. He placed the soft tip of his index finger on the sharp edge of Alastor's tooth with an extremely light, almost imperceptible pressure. For a second, he gently rubbed it as if sanding away a roughness to smooth it out.

The contact was sudden and intimate. Alastor flinched. The warmth of Vox's finger met the sensitive nerves of his gum. This was an unfamiliar closeness something that should have felt invasive but instead instantly relieved the pain, leaving behind a strange numbness. His ears flattened completely back.

Vox withdrew his finger. "Yeah, there's a little something there. A sharp edge. It must be pressing on your nerve."

Alastor didn't move for a while, processing the odd sensation lingering in his mouth and the trace of Vox's finger. He swallowed and finally asked in a muffled voice, "How do you know?" The static in his voice had diminished.

Vox smiled faintly, not from exhaustion this time, but from the reminiscence of an old memory. "In my previous life, I was a dentist," he explained, shrugging casually. "Then... television came along. It seemed brighter, less painful."

Alastor stared at him, processing this new information. The media king Vox had once ruled over teeth and pain. It was ironic. "Fuck off," he muttered, but his voice lacked its former strength. The denial no longer sounded convincing.

Vox sighed. "Come on," he said, nodding toward a door in the hallway. "I have some of my old tools in the basement. Maybe I can file down that sharpness. At least it'll ease the pain."

Alastor hesitated. Following him into an unknown basement, at Vox's mercy... This went against all his instincts but the throbbing in his tooth was driving him mad. Finally, succumbing to his pride, he stood up. "Make it quick," he grumbled. "If this is a game, Vox..."

"If I were playing a game, it wouldn't involve teeth, would it?" Vox retorted.

Alastor didn't respond. He just followed him.

The basement was dusty but surprisingly orderly. In one corner stood an old-fashioned dental unit, covered with a sheet. Vox pulled off the sheet, sending up clouds of dust. The device still looked sturdy.

"You're in luck," Vox muttered, opening a cabinet next to the unit and checking the sterile, sealed packages inside. "The basic supplies are still here."

Alastor eyed the unit suspiciously, especially the chair. This wasn't his stage. Control was entirely in Vox's hands.

"Alright," Vox said, turning back with a small mirror-like tool in hand. "Lie back and open your mouth."

Alastor resisted for a moment. Then, with the next throb in his tooth, he accepted defeat and settled into the chair. He opened his jaw tensely.

Vox directed the light toward him. He worked with professional focus, examining the tooth with the mirror. "Yeah, just like I said. A small crack, the edge is razor-sharp." His voice was calm and concentrated as he prepared the tools. "This'll only take a minute. You won't feel a thing."

Alastor stared at him. Vox's concentrated expression, the slight wrinkle on his forehead, his knowledgeable movements... His eyes lingered on Vox's lips. They were slightly parted in concentration. He was so close...

Vox picked up a thin tool. "Don't move," he whispered, his voice soothing and confident.

When the tool entered his mouth, Alastor closed his eyes. The expected pain didn't come. Just a light pressure, then a tiny high-frequency buzz, and he felt the irritating sharpness in his tooth disappear.

Vox pulled back. "Done." He set the tool aside. "Let's wait one more minute for it to fully settle."

In the silence, Alastor noticed the new, smooth sensation in his mouth. The throbbing had stopped, replaced by an odd sense of peace. He opened his eyes. Vox was still looking at him, a faint expression of satisfaction on his face.

Neither knew what to say. Alastor stood up to hide his embarrassment and gratitude. "Uh... thanks," he muttered, forcing the words out as if they pained him. This didn't fit the rules of their game.

Vox startled in surprise. Hearing a thank you from Alastor shocked him more than the toothache had. Then, he smiled faintly. "No problem." He felt a heaviness settle in his chest as the next obligatory task came to mind. He had to wash Valentino. This was not just physically exhausting but also a ritual that drained his soul.

"Do you have something to do?" Alastor asked, noticing the change in Vox's expression. He continued to watch him, trying to decipher this new, fragile state of his.

Vox shook his head, his voice filled with weariness: "No. Just... I need to wash Valentino. I have to clean certain areas to prevent infection risk."

Alastor's nose wrinkled slightly, a typical expression of disgust appearing on his face. "Even hearing about it is nauseating. Has all this... work fallen to you?" His mocking tone was laced with a shadow of mild revulsion.

"There's no one else," Vox muttered, shrugging his shoulders lightly. This was the bitter reality of his place in Hell. "I have no other choice." He headed toward the door.

Reluctantly, Alastor followed him. When they entered the room where Valentino lay, the ailing Overlord was squirming in bed, making whining sounds. Vox approached quietly and gently lifted him from the bed by his arms. Carrying Valentino's weight had become even harder with Vox's noticeably weakened strength. His breath hitched, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Valentino cracked his eyes open.

Vox carefully seated him in the wheelchair. "Stay calm, Val," he whispered, his voice trembling with fatigue. "I'll clean you up and put you right back to bed."

Alastor stepped forward, wrinkling his nose. "Doesn't all this... wet work increase the infection risk? Open wounds and water... doesn't seem very smart."

Vox shook his head as he placed a clean towel on Valentino's shoulder. "No. I just quickly wipe and dry the areas without wounds. Healing in Hell is... different from normal anyway. If I'm careful, it won't be a problem."

Alastor's eyebrows rose at the phrase 'certain areas.' His red eyes focused on Vox, taking on a sharper, more inquisitive look. "Certain areas?" he repeated, his voice low and much more serious. "Exactly which areas are you cleaning, Vox?"

Vox experienced a momentary stiffness in his movements, gripping the towel tightly in his hand. "Just... general hygiene," his voice came out more tense than intended. He averted his gaze from Alastor, focusing on Valentino's back. "He's sweaty. That's all."

Alastor stood there for another moment. He had noticed that slight panic in Vox's reaction, the evasive glances. This was more than what he was saying. Something was hidden. As always.

The bathroom door closed behind Vox and Valentino. The humid, steamy air and the scent of antiseptic soap made the tension in the room even more suffocating. Vox carefully placed Valentino in the tub.

Valentino flinched with a sharp pain as Vox tried to seat him on the edge of the tub. His face contorted, but instead of showing the pain as weakness, he immediately turned it into venomous words. His eyes shifted to Vox's tense face. "You're looking at me like that, darling," his voice mingled with the dripping of water. "As if you're about to bolt out of here. In a hurry? Is someone waiting for you outside?"

Vox sighed as he wetted a sponge. "No, Val. I just want to finish." His response was short and worn out.

Valentino raised a thin eyebrow. Vox's lack of reaction had made him even more irritable. "Is that so?" he continued. "Right outside the door, that radio static is impatiently waiting for my bath time to end. He's almost starting to feel like part of the household. Are you two living together now? Did he bring his pajamas too?"

Vox's hand froze for a moment while wiping Valentino's shoulder. "Alastor just... came to visit," he muttered, squeezing the sponge. "You're injured. He's... trying to help." It had zero credibility, and they both knew it.

Valentino let out a weak laugh, but it quickly turned into a coughing fit. His body shook, his face twisting in pain. When he recovered, his voice had sharpened even more. "Help? Him? Oh, my dear Voxxy... All he wants is to sneak in while I'm weakened and you, as always, fall for a little bit of attention."

Vox didn't respond. The painful truth in Valentino's words wore him down even more. He continued cleaning.

Meanwhile, right outside the door, Alastor stood motionless. His back leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were fixed on the bathroom door, but his gaze wasn't really there; it was more on the dialogue inside, the poisonous words he couldn't hear but could guess.

After Vox settled Valentino back in bed following the shower and covered him up, he let out an exhausted breath. "I'm going to the bathroom," he muttered. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He pulled his phone from his pocket and left it on the nearby nightstand. As he headed toward his room, he could feel the electricity between the two men. When he closed the door, the sound of water could be heard from behind it.

The room fell into a deep silence. Only the faint trickle of water from the bathroom and Valentino's heavy, somewhat labored breathing could be heard.

Then, Alastor moved. Silently, like a shadow, he approached the nightstand. His long, elegant fingers grasped Vox's phone. Without looking at the screen, he just held the device in his hand. As assurance.

Valentino let out a weak chuckle from the bed. "Rummaging through his stuff without permission?"

Alastor slipped the phone into his pocket and slowly turned to Valentino. "Just... keeping it safe," he whispered.

Valentino's eyes gleamed. He had achieved his goal. He had captured Alastor's interest, provoked him. He raised one hand and waved it toward the bathroom door. "If I weren't in this state right now," he began, lowering his voice and embellishing it with feigned longing, "I'd be in that bathroom, right beside him. The steam on his sweaty skin, the hot water trickling down his body... I'd dry every single drop." He paused, his face showing impatient satisfaction in anticipation of the reaction his words would provoke. "I'd rub his back, lather his shampoo. All those special, wet moments... would be mine."

Alastor's grin vanished from his face in an instant. In the next moment, before Valentino could even comprehend what was happening, Alastor lunged toward the bed. His long hand plunged into the collar of Valentino's shirt and yanked him up toward himself.

Valentino cried out in pain and surprise. His bones protested. Alastor had pulled him so forcefully that their faces were only inches apart. "Don't even use that filthy mouth of yours," he hissed, "to think about him."

Despite the pain, Valentino's grin didn't fully disappear. He looked even more aroused. Just as he was about to push Alastor further-

Beep!

Vox's phone emitted a notification sound. The noise abruptly cut through the tension in the room. Alastor pulled the phone from his pocket, still gripping Valentino, his eyes locking onto the screen. On the screen, the name "Peppermint" appeared, followed by part of the incoming message.

Peppermint: Sir, the report on the emergency failure in the Voxtech servers has arrived. The 7th floor is completely down. We urgently need your approval and instructions. What do you command me to do?

Alastor's tight grip on Valentino's collar loosened slightly. His mind swiftly shifted from rage to strategy. Vox shouldn't be disturbed. He needed to rest. These petty, insignificant matters shouldn't tire him out.

Seeing Alastor's attention diverted, Valentino let out a weak grumble, but Alastor shot him a glance. Valentino's voice caught in his throat.

Alastor shoved Valentino back onto the pillows with utter indifference. His fingers moved rapidly over the screen, typing a response without hesitation. Perfectly mimicking Vox's professional, curt, and demanding style:

Vox: Have them postpone all emergencies and meetings for today. I don't want to be disturbed. This is an order. Don't ask for reasons. Peppermint, handle it.

He hit send. Then, he tossed the phone to the farthest corner of the nightstand, where Valentino couldn't reach it. Valentino watched it sit there, seething with anger and helplessness.

Vox stepped out of the bathroom with wet hair. He lifted his head slightly and looked around. Alastor was gone. Valentino was asleep.

He grabbed his phone and headed to the closet. After putting on a nightgown, he stretched out on the wide couch in the living room. A thin blanket pulled over him had only just begun to gather his body’s timid warmth.

A few minutes later, he slowly sat up, his bones aching. He reached for the phone he had placed on the floor. His fingers wandered across the cold surface of the screen.

On an impulse, he opened the messaging app. He tapped Alastor’s name. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, not quite knowing what to write. Fatigue and a kind of loneliness had overpowered his reason.

Vox: You left.

He sent the message and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. He wasn’t really expecting a reply. Maybe it was only the need to connect, to fill that emptiness.

He startled when his phone buzzed. A reply had arrived within seconds.

Alastor: Seems so, dear friend! The hotel was in complete turmoil. A little bit of my help was useful. :)

As Vox read the message, the corners of his lips twitched involuntarily. Alastor had replied in his usual cryptic manner but the fact that the message had come so quickly… it was as if he hadn’t put the phone down.

Vox: Chaos? What did you do?

Alastor: Oh, nothing important! I merely helped one or two annoying souls reach their eternal rest a bit earlier. Just a standard Friday night. How are things on your end? Is Valentino still moaning, or are you enjoying the silence?

Vox glanced toward the room where Valentino was. Not a sound came from inside. He was still sleeping.

Vox: He’s sleeping.

Alastor: Wonderful! Perhaps you can take some time for yourself and rest as well. Looks like you need it. Your face seems a little… different from that bright ‘Vox’ persona on the screens.

Vox touched his cheek as he read. Did he really look like that? Weak and pale? Alastor had noticed. A strange unease crept inside him.

Vox: Your face is the same as always, Alastor. Unmoving and fixed. Never changes.

The reply came instantly, this time sharper in its mockery.

Alastor: Ah yes! Mine is the comfort of a mask, dear Vox. Yours, on the other hand… well, let’s call it ‘natural.’

Vox stared at Alastor’s last message. Natural. As if he were implying ugly, unkempt, weak. He lay back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin. For a while, he just lay there. Then he phone buzzed again.

Alastor: Does your silence mean agreement, or have you finally fallen asleep in front of those boring screens of yours? :)

Vox pursed his lips. 

Vox: I’m not sleeping. Just… thinking.

Alastor: Ah, a dangerous activity! What are you thinking about, I wonder? Or is it the details of my little show at the hotel?

Vox smiled faintly. Alastor, as always, loved being the center of attention.

Vox: Maybe. Then tell me. Whose “eternal rest” did you help with?

A few seconds passed. The screen showed “Alastor is typing…” then disappeared, then reappeared. As if he were considering how to explain, or carefully choosing his words.

Alastor: Oh, just a bunch of boring, noisy demons! They called themselves the “New Generation Regulars.” They had this dull plan to take over Charlie’s hotel and turn it into a more “modern” entertainment center. They were being very loud and you know, my dear, I have no tolerance for noise. Especially mediocre noise.

Vox rolled his eyes as he read. What Alastor called “mediocre” was probably anything more popular than his own static-filled broadcasts.

Vox: So you got rid of them just because their noise was boring by your standards? What did Charlie say?

Alastor: Ah, Charlie! She was a little upset at first, of course. She fluttered those little sparkling eyes of hers. “Alastor, we should’ve given them a chance! Maybe they could’ve changed!” and so on but after I explained in detail what happened to them… she gave up. After all, I’m the one keeping her hotel safe. My rules apply.

Vox could imagine Alastor’s authoritarian tone all too well.

Vox: And what about the others? Angel? Husk? Didn’t they object?

Alastor: Angel was excited, of course. “Wow, Smiles! Did you tear someone apart again? Tell me the details!” Husk, as always, just sighed and turned back to his glass. I suppose he’s gotten used to it.

For a moment, Vox imagined himself in that ordinary, noisy hotel life. That tension was definitely better than the poisonous silence here.

Vox: Sounds… lively.

Alastor: Does it? Are you bored, Vox? Has that luxurious tower of yours stopped satisfying you?

Vox looked around at the vast, empty, expensive yet soulless apartment. Yes, he was bored but it was much more than that. He was exhausted, afraid and lonely.

He didn’t reply. Didn’t even feel the need to. Alastor already knew.

Alastor: The “liveliness” here isn’t quite what you might imagine or remember. It’s more about… waiting for Charlie to find another hopeless case, enduring Angel’s cheap jokes, listening to Husk’s grumbling. Boring. Insignificant but… sometimes, less boring than you’d expect.

Vox read the message a couple of times. Alastor seemed to be complaining about life at Hazbin Hotel, yet at the same time, he had accepted it. Perhaps even… was grateful for it? For Alastor, that was quite an admission.

Vox: You seem a little too emotional toward me today. Are you falling in love or what? :)

Alastor: In Hell, scenes like the ones from those cheap “enemies-to-lovers” novels you read don’t happen, Vox. Reality is far more… ugly.

As Vox read the message, he raised his brows slightly. He wasn’t outright denying it, but he wasn’t admitting it either. Vox decided to push a little further.

Vox: Is that so?

Long-dragging seconds passed. Maybe that was it. Maybe Alastor thought Vox had crossed a line. Just as he was about to drop the phone onto the pillow, the device buzzed one last time.

Alastor: The dynamics between us… are too complicated to fit into simple categories. Don’t take this as a victory or as a confession.

Vox had fallen asleep before he could reply to Alastor’s last message. His phone had spent the night on his chest, the screen still glowing.

When he opened his eyes to the morning light, his head was pounding and his stomach rose and fell with that familiar, nauseating unease. Pregnancy’s most obvious and unwanted symptom greeted him every morning.

He picked up his phone. No new messages from Alastor. Maybe, with that last text so unusually soft for him he had closed a door and locked it behind him or maybe he had simply fallen asleep. With Alastor, one could never truly tell.

He tried to sit up, but dizziness and nausea immediately pushed him back down. With a low groan, he sank into the pillow again. The sharp, electric energy he once commanded over screens felt as though it was being drained from him, stolen by the tiny life growing inside his body.

A groan from Valentino’s room pulled him back to reality. He was still there. Still his responsibility. Slowly, Vox forced himself out of bed, trying to quell the churning in his stomach. He splashed his face with cold water in the bathroom sink. The chill soothed the nausea for a moment. He looked into the mirror. Just as Alastor had said, he was pale, “different.” Dark circles shadowed his eyes, tension lined his face.

He went to Valentino’s room. The overlord was shifting in bed, his face twisted in pain. Vox turned toward the kitchen to fetch him water and painkillers, each step heavy and slow.

When he returned with the medicine and a glass, he found Valentino struggling to pull himself upright, sweat glistening on his face, groaning in pain. “What are you doing?” he asked, worry in his voice.

Valentino gave him a strained look. “Trying… to get up,” he rasped. “I can’t stay in bed anymore.”

“It’s too soon,” Vox protested. “Pushing yourself will only make things worse.”

“I don’t care!” Valentino snapped, his voice raw with anger. “I won’t be trapped in this damn bed any longer!” With a burst of effort, he tried to lift himself higher, but a sharp pain forced a cry from his throat, and he collapsed back onto the mattress.

Vox quickly sat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Please,” he whispered, his voice thick with exhaustion and concern. “Just hold on a little longer. You’ll heal.”

Through his pain, Valentino fixed his eyes on Vox. Beyond the torment, there burned something deeper: fury, contempt. “Because of you,” he rasped. “That radio freak… I’m like this because of you. He did this just to take you.”

Vox’s chest tightened. “Val, please-”

“Shut up!” Valentino forced his hand up, weakly batting Vox’s hand away from his shoulder. “On that balcony… you were talking to him. Ignoring me. Flirting with that filth!” Each word drained him further, his face paling as he spoke.

“That’s not what happened,” Vox argued but his voice was faint. Valentino’s accusations stirred a guilty ache in his chest.

“You’re lying!” Valentino was wracked by a fit of coughing, his body shuddering violently. When it finally subsided, his voice came weaker, but venomously sharp. “You’re bored of me, aren’t you? That old, outdated bastard showed you a shred of attention, and you went running to him."

Vox rose from the bed. He placed the pills and water on the nightstand, his voice flat. “Your medicine’s here. Take it when you need it.” He turned to leave, but Valentino’s voice stopped him. This time it was lower, darker dangerous. “Leaving? Going to him?”

Vox turned. Valentino lay sprawled in the bed, but his face was no longer just twisted in pain or anger. It radiated pure, unfiltered hatred. “I’m warning you,” Valentino whispered. “If I ever see you with him again… if I so much as sense that bastard’s touched you… I won’t just punish you.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ll find him and I’ll kill him. Slowly. Painfully and you’ll watch every second of it. Do you understand?”

Vox knew Valentino wasn’t bluffing. He didn’t answer. He only nodded, avoiding his lover’s venomous gaze as he slipped out of the room. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against the wall, pressing trembling hands to his face. Breathing was difficult.

There, in the hallway, alone and trembling with fear, he realized once again that what grew inside him was real and it was about to ruin his life.

He had to go for a checkup; later he wouldn’t find the time. His own doctor, the only demon he trusted, wasn’t an option. Once Valentino found out, that would be the first place he’d run to. He couldn’t risk it.

With trembling hands, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He quickly scrolled through the list of Hell’s darkest, most indifferent doctors. He memorized the address of a clinic he had never even heard of before, buried in some corner of the city, found through a dubious recommendation. “Desperation makes people choose the most irrational things,” he thought bitterly.

The clinic’s waiting room was cold and lifeless. The air smelled of antiseptic and mold. Vox sat down on a chair, resting his hands on his trembling knees. When he gave his information, his voice was so weak that the receptionist demon had to look at him twice.

At last, a doctor whose name he couldn’t even recall took him inside. The examination room was more sterile than expected, which sparked a flicker of hope within Vox. The doctor was an old demon, weary eyes, a stained coat hanging loosely from his shoulders. He gave Vox a brief once-over.

“Your complaint?” he asked, his voice routine and emotionless.

Vox swallowed. “R-Routine checkup,” he stammered. “About… omega physiology.”

The doctor noted it down without even raising his brows. “I see.”

Vox lay on the examination table. The cold surface sent a shiver down his spine. The doctor checked his blood pressure. As the cuff tightened, he felt his heart straining against his chest. The device came off, the doctor jotting something down with the corner of his eye.

“A little high,” he said flatly. “Could be stress but…” His eyes lingered on Vox’s face a beat too long. “Sometimes it can also be a sign of… something more serious.”

Vox’s throat went dry. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. The doctor adjusted his gloves, then pressed the icy cold of a stethoscope against his chest, listening intently to every breath. Then he tilted his head, gaze dropping to Vox’s abdomen, a faint spark of curiosity flashing in his eyes.

With hesitation, Vox lifted his shirt. He shivered when the gel touched his skin. The doctor moved the probe slowly. The monitor flickered with shifting gray shapes. He studied them in silence, revealing nothing. Only the static buzz of the device filled the air.

“…Is there something wrong?” Vox whispered, narrowing his eyes at the screen.

The doctor’s lips twitched, but no answer came. Only a thin, greedy smile curled at the corner of his mouth. After a few more silent seconds, he scribbled something quickly into his notes. “Bloodwork is also necessary,” he said suddenly, with unexpected urgency. “Very necessary.”

He pulled out a syringe. This time, his eyes weren’t on the notes they were locked on Vox. Not with professional detachment, but with a hunger he barely concealed.

As he tied the tourniquet, Vox winced. It was far too tight. “You don’t need to-”

“I do,” the doctor cut him off, his tone now sharp. “This isn’t an ordinary case." In an instant, his face drew dangerously close. His whisper was heavy in the antiseptic air. “Ones like you… are rare. A very valuable specimen.”

Panic seized Vox’s throat. This was a trap. The doctor didn’t see a patient he saw an opportunity. Something to sell to Valentino, or whoever paid the most. Vox’s heart thundered. “No I’m leaving.” He tried to push himself up, but the doctor’s unexpected strength shoved him back down.

“Not so easily, Mr. Vox,” the professional mask was gone now. “I can’t just let such a valuable… sample walk away. The powerful head of VoxTech, caught in weakness? Priceless.”

With a final wrench, Vox freed his arm. The old demon stumbled back. Vox bolted for the door. He twisted the handle locked. “Open this door!” he shouted, rattling it frantically.

The doctor regained his footing, slowly approaching again. “Very well,” he growled. “If it won’t be done politely…”

His hand dipped into his pocket and squeezed something. A sharp, choking scent filled Vox’s nose. His head swam, his knees gave out, the world went dark. The last thing he felt was the doctor’s grip on his arm, dragging him toward a heavy iron door.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a room that looked like a basement. Cold, damp air. Concrete walls. The door slammed shut behind him, the click of a lock following.

“No!” he shouted, his voice raw with panic. He rushed the door, shaking the handle violently. “You can’t keep me here! Let me out! OPEN THE DOOR!”

No answer. He pounded his fists until they hurt. Fear gnawed at his lungs. Here, in this filthy hole, cut off from Valentino, from Alastor he’d die with whatever was growing inside him.

His strength failed. He collapsed to the floor, trembling. He pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers shaking so badly he kept mistyping his lock code. Who could he text? Who could save him from this pit?

His eyes drifted to the last name he had messaged: Alastor.

Texting him felt like betrayal. Exposing weakness, helplessness… But fear was heavier. He typed a vague message, fingers hovering over the screen.

Vox: I’m stuck somewhere.

He hit send. His heart hammered. What if there was no reply? What if Alastor didn’t care? This could be the perfect moment for revenge.

Seconds stretched into minutes. Staring at the screen, his hope bled away. Nothing. Silence.

“No…” he whimpered, burying his face in his knees. “Please…”

Alastor: Explain.

Just one word. Cold, distant, so very Alastor but it was a reply. Vox’s eyes welled up. He quickly shared his location and added:

Vox: Doctor. Door locked. Can’t get out.

This time, the reply came instantly.

Alastor: Wait.

That single word gave him more reassurance than anything else he’d felt so far. He closed his eyes, resting his head against his knees. He would wait.

He didn’t know how long passed. Minutes? Hours? Any moment, he expected to hear Valentino’s voice outside the door but all he heard was his own frantic heartbeat, and distant, eerie noises echoing through the dark. Then on the other side of the door, a faint, almost delicate click. Then another click.

Vox lifted his head. The door creaked open. In the shadows stood a familiar silhouette. The sharp red suit, the crisp outline, that ever-present grin… Alastor.

Vox pulled himself up, legs still trembling. Alastor’s eyes swept over him, then the messy room, then back to him. His grin widened. “Seems your appointment didn’t go quite as planned, dear Vox,” he began with mocking ease. “I must say, Hell’s doctors are atrocious at customer service. I’d file a complaint if I were you.”

Vox couldn’t speak. His throat was tight, eyes glassy. The mockery in Alastor’s tone was nothing compared to the immense relief flooding him. Reason shut down. Instinct moved him forward. He stumbled a few steps and wrapped his arms around Alastor.

Alastor froze. His entire body stiffened at the sudden contact. Vox buried his face in the lapel of his coat, trembling. “I know,” he whispered, muffled into the fabric. “I know you don’t like… contact. Just for a minute. Please. Just one minute.”

Alastor didn’t move. His arms hung at his sides, mind blank at this rule-breaking closeness. He felt Vox trembling. The subtle shakes of his head against his chest. This wasn’t a trick. It was real. Slowly, he lifted one hand. It hovered uncertainly, then rested awkwardly on Vox’s back. The gesture was clumsy, unnatural. Alastor had never been made for comfort. “Shhh,” he murmured, his voice unusually soft, static absent. “Calm yourself, my dear.”

Vox clung tighter at the strange attempt at comfort. Alastor’s cold, steady frame was the firmest thing he had to hold on to. Their feuds, their games, their grudges all forgotten, if only for a moment. What remained was simple need.

At last, Vox pulled back. His face carried shame and fragility. He avoided Alastor’s eyes, ignoring the damp patch he had left on the coat. Clearing his throat, he tried to compose himself, though his shaking hadn’t fully stopped.

Alastor stepped back, watching him intently. His sharp red eyes traced Vox’s evasive glances, his trembling hands. His expression wasn’t mocking now it was thoughtful, rare. “Are you crying?”

Vox instantly shook his head. “No,” he snapped, his voice too high, too defensive. “It’s just… dust. This place is filthy with dust.”

Alastor didn’t reply. He tilted his head slightly, skeptical. Silence lingered, filled only by Vox’s uneven breathing. Then he sighed, almost imperceptibly. He really had been frightened.

Vox, desperate to break the tension or distract himself, he glanced around at the closed doors. The clinic was strangely silent. Too silent. “Doctor…” he began, his voice still a little hoarse. “Or… the others here? What… happened to them?”

Alastor answered without the slightest hesitation. “I killed them.” He brushed an speck of dust from the sleeve of his coat. “An unnecessary detail. Now, let’s return to the real issue.”

Vox wasn’t surprised by how recklessly Alastor spoke. That was his nature but what he felt now wasn’t shock or fear it was deep exhaustion. “There are no proper doctors in Hell.”

“Ah, but there is!” Alastor interjected, raising a finger. His voice slipped back into that cheerful radio-announcer tone, though underneath it lay a very real plan. “My doctor. Very skilled and most importantly, absolutely obedient to my commands. I’ll tell him I have a patient.”

For a moment, Vox’s heart leapt, only for suspicion to quickly cloud it. “Your doctor… Alastor, that’s too risky. Someone under your control… It would be like handing you this secret outright.”

With mock offense, Alastor placed a hand over his chest. “Vox! You wound me! You speak as though I’d ever use such delicate information against you.” His grin widened.

Vox shook his head thoughtfully. “And what about Valentino? Your doctor’s family, their connections? If Valentino were to find out about their existence, he could threaten them.”

In that moment, Alastor’s demeanor shifted. All trace of mockery evaporated, replaced with solemn gravity. “Dear Vox,” he began, his voice low and crackling with static, “I am the Radio Demon. I don’t carry that title merely because it sounds fancy. My doctor and his family… they are under my protection. No one Valentino included would dare harm them and if they did…” He tilted his head slightly. “Their end would be far slower, and far more… artistic, than that doctor’s today. That is my promise to you.”

Vox met his gaze. When Alastor made a promise, he kept it. In Hell, that was a rare currency. “Alright,” he whispered at last, his voice finally steady. “Alright. Let’s go to your doctor.”

Alastor’s grin returned, satisfied. “Excellent! You see? A little trust issue, but in the end, we reached a reasonable conclusion.” He straightened his coat. “Well then, let’s be off. My car is waiting outside.”

The car was filled with a light silence. Vox stared out the window, watching the streets pass by. His stomach was still sensitive; even the gentle sway of the car was enough to make him feel nauseous. His head swam faintly, and being in such a small space, feeling so vulnerable right next to Alastor, unsettled him.

Alastor sat at the wheel, posture as straight as ever. Both hands gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed ahead, though every so often he cast a sidelong glance at the passenger seat to check on Vox’s condition.

He lifted one hand from the wheel and opened the glove compartment. From inside, he pulled out a small box wrapped in red velvet. Opening it, he plucked out one of the dozen milk chocolates and held it out to Vox. “Here,” he said. “Balance your blood sugar. Looks like you need it.”

Vox looked at the chocolate, then at Alastor’s face. Surprise, and the faintest suspicion. He hadn’t expected such a gesture from Alastor. Yet the gnawing nausea in his gut outweighed his doubt. As he took the chocolate, his fingers brushed against Alastor’s. The contact was sudden, electric. For an instant, both of them froze. “Thanks,” he murmured, shifting his gaze to the chocolate.

With trembling fingers, he unwrapped it. The rich, familiar scent of milk chocolate filled his nose, soothing his stomach just a little. He took a small bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue, giving him a fleeting relief. Automatically, after another bite, he absentmindedly held out the remaining half to Alastor. “Do you want some?” he asked, only out of politeness.

But the moment the words left his mouth, he realized what he’d done. He was offering Alastor chocolate he had already bitten into, marked with his own saliva. It was an incredibly intimate almost personal gesture. His face flushed scarlet. His hand hovered midair, ready to pull back.

Alastor leaned in absentmindedly, without hesitation, and accepted the piece from Vox’s hand. As the chocolate touched his tongue, he could still feel the lingering warmth of Vox’s fingers, the softness of his skin. He pulled back, swallowing the chocolate with a faint cough rumbling from his throat. His gaze, unbidden, dropped to Vox’s fingers where his lips had brushed just moments ago.

Vox yanked his hand back, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He swallowed hard, fixing his eyes on the hellish scenery outside the window. His breathing had gone shallow.

The silence in the car had grown thick, almost stifling. Alastor gripped the steering wheel tightly, keeping his eyes on the road, but the rigid set of his shoulders and the tense line of his jaw betrayed how affected he was too.

Unbidden, Vox’s mind drifted to that night. The memory of Alastor’s mouth on his skin the scent of alcohol on his breath, the faint scratches those sharp teeth had left behind, the stubborn pressure of those lips against his own, his throat, his chest. His body reacted to the memory before he could stop it, a warm, shameful wave coursing through him. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not now. Especially not with the result of that night growing inside him.

Alastor could hear Vox’s uneven breathing, could see the faint shift of his body in the seat. He couldn’t know exactly what Vox was thinking, but the tension was palpable. At last, to break the silence, he pulled out a clean handkerchief. “Well,” he began, his voice slipping back into its radio-like timbre though there was strain beneath it. “The road’s still long. You could try to get some rest if you like. You look rather short on sleep.”

Vox nodded silently.

Chapter Text

The car stopped in front of a detached, dimly lit office in a lesser-known, grim corner of Hell. The building looked old but well-maintained. "Hey." Alastor's voice startled Vox. "You fell asleep. We're here."

Vox shook his head. "I was awake." He was lying. His eyes had involuntarily closed during the drive, lulled into a slight daze by the temporary comfort of that chocolate.

Alastor strode toward the building’s entrance with quick, purposeful steps, while Vox trailed a few steps behind, dragging his feet.

They entered without knocking. The waiting room was small, filled with old furniture, but spotlessly clean. Inside, an elderly demon in a pristine white coat sat. Upon seeing Alastor, he stood immediately, his face radiating deep respect. "Mr. Alastor," he whispered, his voice faint and aged. "I wasn’t expecting you."

"Clearly not, Francis," Alastor replied, the usual playfulness in his tone slightly subdued. "But an urgent matter has come up. I need a favor."

The doctor’s eyes shifted to Vox, sizing him up with professional curiosity. Vox averted his gaze. "Of course, sir. Whatever it is." Francis gestured toward the examination room’s door. "This way."

Alastor turned to Vox. "Go in. He’ll take care of you."

Vox met Alastor’s gaze for a moment before nodding and entering the examination room. The room was filled with more modern equipment than he’d expected.

Alastor lingered at the threshold. He turned to Francis. Francis tilted his head respectfully and closed the door.

Alastor was left alone in the waiting room. He found a chair in the hallway, sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and stared ahead with a fixed expression, as if he could sit there forever.

Inside, Vox lay on the examination table. Francis worked silently: blood pressure cuff, stethoscope… Everything was cold and detached.

"Relax, sir," Francis said, his voice steady. "Just routine checks."

Vox swallowed hard. "Just… a bit tired. Omega physiology… you know, it can be challenging sometimes." He was rambling, giving too much unnecessary information in his panic.

Francis made a noncommittal sound. Then, he placed the cold gel of the ultrasound probe on Vox’s abdomen. Gray shadows began to dance on the screen.

Realizing the walls might not be soundproof, Vox reached for the doctor’s hand, silently pleading for him to stay quiet.

Francis froze for a moment. His eyes locked onto the screen. Then he looked at Vox, then back at the screen. His expression didn’t change, but he understood. "Just… some of your levels are low. Common for Omegas during… hormonal fluctuations." He nearly said "pregnancy" but caught himself. "I’ll prescribe some vitamin supplements. You’ll need rest."

Vox let out a deep breath. The doctor had understood but wasn’t saying anything. Alastor’s influence loomed over everyone. For a moment, Vox felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

As Francis wrote the prescription, he spoke again. "Mr. Alastor, the one who brought you here. He’s worried about you. Why hide the truth?"

"Please," Vox whispered, his eyes welling up. "Just… don’t tell him."

Francis looked at him for a moment, then nodded and continued writing. "Fine," he murmured. "I won’t say anything. Not just because of Mr. Alastor’s orders, but for your own good. Early stages carry a risk of miscarriage. You need to avoid stress. This kind of… secrecy will make you ill."

Vox closed his eyes, a wave of relief washing over him. Thank you. He thought silently.

Handing over the prescription, Francis gave one final warning. "Take these medications regularly and if you experience bleeding or severe pain, come back immediately. Time is critical."

Vox nodded, slipping the prescription into his pocket. He opened the door. Alastor was still sitting in the hallway, in the same position. He looked up as Vox emerged. "Done?" he asked, his voice neutral.

"Yeah," Vox mumbled, avoiding eye contact. "Just… some vitamins. Omega stuff."

Alastor’s gaze flicked to Vox’s pocket, where the prescription was tucked away. His brows raised slightly. A fleeting spark of suspicion glinted in his red eyes before fading. He stood. "Alright, then," he said, his voice regaining its playful lilt. "Time to head back."

When Alastor dropped him off at his place, Vox reached for the door handle but hesitated, his back still turned to Alastor. "Valentino," he muttered, his voice uneasy and tired. "He won’t let me see you."

Alastor leaned back against the steering wheel, staring ahead. At Vox’s words, he rolled his eyes. "I can imagine. Like a spoiled child, he only values what he has when someone else shows interest."

Vox sighed. "Please, Alastor. Don’t provoke him further. Things are already complicated enough."

"So," Alastor snapped, a mocking edge to his tone, "you’re just not going to see me at all? Because of his tantrums?"

Vox finally turned, forced to meet Alastor’s gaze. "No! I can’t invite you in, that’s why. He takes his anger out on me, got it? He gets… toxic."

Alastor fell silent for a moment, studying Vox’s desperate expression. Then, with a short, sharp sigh, he muttered, "Whatever." He shrugged and looked away. "Keep playing the victim to his moods, then."

Vox felt a mix of relief and pain in his chest. He stepped inside and shut the door firmly behind him.

Alastor's forced grin on his face melted away the moment Vox closed the door. It was replaced by a rare deep seriousness and a determined expression.

Without stopping the engine, he shifted into reverse and turned back the same way. A few minutes later, he parked in front of Francis's clinic again. This time, he didn't knock; he entered directly.

Francis was organizing a file in the waiting room. When he saw Alastor in front of him again, he startled and looked over his glasses. "Mr. Alastor? Did you forget something? Is there a problem with Mr. Vox?"

Alastor quietly closed the door behind him. His movements were silent, making him more threatening than his usual self. He approached the desk, running his fingertips over the wooden surface as if caressing it. "Forget? No, Francis. I just thought the appointment was over. Until I noticed a small detail that my patient forgot to tell me."

He saw Francis swallow. The old doctor's hands began to tremble slightly. Alastor leaned over the desk, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone. "Now. Tell me the truth. What exact diagnosis did you give Vox? Those vitamins... are they really just for Omega hormonal imbalance?"

Francis tried to avoid Alastor's gaze. "Mr. Alastor, patient-doctor confidentiality... Mr. Vox specifically..."

Alastor's fixed smile on his lips stretched a bit more, revealing his teeth. "Dear Francis," he whispered. "You and your family live in peace under my protection in this gloomy corner of Hell. Thanks to my goodwill. This peace requires a certain... loyalty in return. Do you understand? Your primary loyalty should be to me. Always." He took another step closer. "Now. Tell me."

Francis considered resisting for a moment longer, with the last spark of professional honor, but he saw the relentless, dark gleam in Alastor's eyes. Those eyes told what the cost of disobedience would be. He took a deep, sorrowful breath.

"Alright," his voice almost inaudible. "Mr. Vox's physical condition... is delicate. Quite delicate. His blood pressure is high, stress levels are dangerously elevated. His body is under extreme strain, and the reason is..." He paused, as if preparing to say the final word.

Alastor didn't move at all. Only his eyes recorded every expression on Francis's face.

Francis finally continued. "...pregnancy. It's early stages, but Omega physiology... makes the situation even more complicated. His body is struggling to sustain both itself and... and the baby. His energy is depleted. That's why I gave those vitamins. The medications were for supportive treatment. The risk... is quite high."

Silence enveloped the room. Alastor didn't move. His expression didn't change. That fixed, terrifying grin was in place, but his eyes... something stirred in his eyes. A surprise, a reckoning, the awakening of something uncontrollable and wild deep within.

"Pregnant," he repeated finally. The word came out of his mouth with a strange and foreign tone.

"Yes," Francis confirmed, his voice trembling. "He begged me not to tell you."

"Enough," Alastor cut him off. He interrupted Francis's words. He didn't need more medical details now. He averted his eyes from Francis, fixing them on the emptiness at the other end of the room. His mind was rapidly piecing together that night, those drunken, uncontrolled moments, all of Vox's strange behaviors in recent weeks, the loss of power, the pallor, the irritability. The puzzle was complete, and the picture was far more complex than he had anticipated. He straightened up slowly. His fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the desk. "Is he in danger?" His voice was calm, even cold, but there was a hidden tension behind it.

Francis was even more unnerved by Alastor's lack of reaction. The expected outburst of anger hadn't come. "Early stages are always risky," he began to explain, his voice shaking. "Especially when... under stress, not eating enough, ignoring his own needs... The body directs resources primarily to the fetus. Everything else... comes second." The doctor set down the pen in his hand on the desk. "The power loss Mr. Vox is experiencing, the imbalance in his electrical abilities... It's all connected to this. His body is choosing between sustaining his extraordinary abilities, which require far more energy than an ordinary Omega's, and nourishing the new, demonically energy-laden life growing inside and right now, instinctively, it's choosing the baby."

Alastor took a deep breath for a moment. "What do you recommend?" he asked, his voice still unusually serious.

"Rest," Francis emphasized. "As much as possible. Stay away from stress. Regular and nutritious food. Don't skip the medications. He needs to allow himself to listen to his body's needs. If he continues to push himself, he won't just deplete his own strength, but also..." Francis hesitated, "...put the pregnancy at risk."

Alastor nodded, processing this information in his mind. He thought of Vox's stubbornness. Vox had no intention of resting. He would continue serving Valentino, managing VoxTech, trying to preserve his power. He would betray his own body. "Now, this information... will stay between us. You won't say anything to him. I'll handle my affairs with him in my own way. Understood?"

Francis, his throat knotted, could only nod.

Alastor stood there for another moment, as if trying to cope with the weight of the new information. Then, without saying anything, he turned around and headed toward the door. He opened the door but paused just before stepping out. Over his shoulder, he gave one last look at the still-trembling doctor.

"Good job, Francis," he added, his voice almost in a thoughtful tone. "I assure you, your loyalty will never go unrewarded." Then, he quietly closed the door behind him and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

When Vox woke up near noon, his head was pounding, and his stomach growled with hunger. He dragged himself out of bed, hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. As he shuffled toward the kitchen, the doorbell rang.

Startled, he headed to the door. Who could it be? Something for Valentino? He cracked the door open cautiously.

Outside stood a courier holding a small, elegant package. The man handed it to Vox. "For Mr. Vox."

Vox took the package, glancing at the courier’s face and froze.

It was Alastor, disguised as a courier. He wore a neat red uniform with a fake ID badge pinned to it. His hair was mussed for the disguise, but that sharp, vibrant grin was unmistakable. The worst part? Even in this ridiculous outfit, he looked infuriatingly handsome. The uniform accentuated his lean, strong frame, amplifying his peculiar charm.

Vox’s jaw dropped. "Alastor?!" he croaked. "What the hell are you doing here? What is this?"

Alastor’s grin widened. "Why, I’m playing courier, dear friend! Isn’t it obvious? Customer satisfaction is my top priority." He gestured to the package. "Aren’t you going to take it?"

Vox eyed the package suspiciously, then looked back at Alastor. This was absurd.

Alastor shrugged. "I’m creative. If we ignore the details, you could say I’m a rather dashing courier, no?" Then, wrinkling his nose slightly, he gave Vox a once-over. "Could I trouble you for some water? Playing the lively delivery boy is quite thirst-inducing."

Vox hesitated at the door. Was this a trap? If Valentino saw… But Alastor had gone to all this trouble, taken this ridiculous risk… He stepped aside to let him in. "Come in."

As Alastor stepped inside, he glanced around before fixing his gaze back on Vox. "Up late, were we? You look like you just rolled out of bed." The mocking tone was back.

Vox, trying to smooth his disheveled appearance, shuffled toward the kitchen. "Sleep schedule’s shot," he muttered, shrugging. "Not much of one to begin with." He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and handed it to Alastor.

Alastor took the bottle but didn’t drink. He twirled it in his hands, watching Vox’s tired, disheveled state with keen interest.

Vox involuntarily glanced once more at Alastor in this absurd outfit, at the strange allure he carried. He suppressed the gnawing urge to laugh. "Have you started courier work now?" his voice laced with a mix of light mockery and surprise. "Hell's most feared broadcaster, delivering packages. The sight isn't bad at all."

Alastor twisted his lips into a sharp grin. "Did you fall for my appearance, or my profession, dear Vox? Admit it, this red uniform suits me." He leaned forward slightly and added in a low voice: "It has an unexpected charm for some, doesn't it?"

Vox's face flushed slightly; he quickly turned away. "I need to have breakfast," he muttered. "Do you want something too?" The offer came from habit and perhaps gratitude.

Alastor surveying the surroundings with his eyes. "I'm not particularly enthusiastic about food, but watching your terrible kitchen skills could be quite entertaining." He paused. "You said you woke up late. Has Valentino woken up? Or is he still moaning in that lovely bed?"

Vox's expression suddenly tensed. "He's awake," he replied shortly and tensely. "And he'll probably roar in anger because I woke up late. I'll have to deal with him."

Alastor rolled his eyes. "Ah, yes. That purple-clad, disgusting caterpillar." He continued with a deep sigh: "Well then. Call your loyal, ever-running assistant. Peppermint, right? Tell him to stay here and take care of Valentino's needs. That way, you can breathe a little too." He offered the suggestion with a shrug.

Vox looked at him in surprise. "Peppermint here, with Valentino?" Alastor's proposal was both practical and frightening. Valentino couldn't tolerate strangers, especially Vox's employees, around him, but at the same time... it was an escape opportunity.

"Yes," Alastor confirmed, his voice with mocking seriousness. "After all, doesn't he work for you? His job description probably includes 'nannying sick and grumpy overlords.'"

Vox looked at him for a long time. He didn't bother to explain. Then looked back at the small package. He shook it lightly and showed it, asking, "So, what's in this?"

Alastor adjusted the collar of his uniform and replied with a mocking air: "Ah, yes! Apparently, I've been kicked out of the Hazbin Hotel. They've packed up my personal belongings and sent them to me. Probably old, boring radio equipment and maybe a few mementos inside. Charlie's father, Lucifer, suddenly showed up and found me... incompatible."

Vox's eyes widened like saucers. "Lucifer? He came here? This is huge news! Why didn't anyone mention it? Why... didn't you call me?"

Alastor paused for a moment, his red eyes calculating. Telling a media mogul about Hell's most powerful being sneaking into the city wouldn't be wise. "It was a short visit. Insignificant, and for some reason, my presence... especially my resemblance to Charlie, bothered him." He shrugged lightly, but his eyes were gauging Vox's reaction.

"Resemblance?" Vox repeated, slowly sinking into the chair opposite. A sudden discomfort settled in his stomach not the familiar nausea of pregnancy, but a poisonous spark of jealousy. "What kind of resemblance?"

"An old and boring love story, dear Vox," Alastor replied, waving his hand in the air. The indifferent tone in his voice only fueled Vox's inner unease more. "Apparently, I look far too much like someone Charlie was once obsessed with, then bitterly abandoned. Lucifer didn't like his daughter being disturbed by old ghosts."

Vox kept his expression neutral, only raising his eyebrows slightly. "Is that so? Well, why now? You've been there for years."

A small smile appeared on Alastor's lips. He'd noticed that small, hidden tension in Vox's voice. "Ah, that's the point. Lucifer's attention is only drawn by certain... triggers. Charlie has been a bit more melancholic and thoughtful lately. I suppose she was thinking about old days, and there I was, standing as her reminder... It became an unbearable scene for Lucifer." He tilted his head slightly. "But don't worry, darling. It's not permanent. I just... got uncomfortable. The constant risk of misunderstanding, especially over an insignificant romantic past... Boring."

Vox weighed Alastor's words in his mind. 'I got uncomfortable.' For Alastor, this was almost a confession. It was something not insignificant to him. The jealous anger inside him gave way to a strange unease. "Well," he murmured finally, shrugging his shoulders lightly. He averted his gaze from Alastor, fixing it on the dusty corner of the living room. "So, what will you do now?"

Alastor shrugged lightly, jokingly, "Oh, can't you make a little room for me? You have a huge house. Valentino's staying in your room. I'll be a quiet guest." Seeing the panic on Vox's face, he added: "Would you really leave me out in the cold?"

"Valentino's home," Vox whispered, instinctively glancing toward the corridor leading to the bedroom. "I... can't anger him."

"Well then," Alastor voice suddenly turning cold. "I'll go talk to him myself." He signaled for Vox to wait and started walking toward Valentino's room. He entered without knocking.

Inside, Valentino was shifting in bed, grumbling. As soon as he saw Alastor, his face twisted in anger.

Alastor stood at the door. "I just have a short offer for you, Valentino," his voice filled with artificial politeness. "Something... mutually beneficial."

Valentino looked at him suspiciously, sunk into the pillow. "What is it?"

"Leave me and Vox alone," Alastor words clear. "Don't bother him. Don't question anything about him. Don't touch him." He paused, then added. "In return, I'll arrange a date with Angel Dust for you, however you want, without interference. Not just one night... as much as you desire."

Valentino's eyes lit up. His anger gave way to sudden greed and lust. Angel... without resistance, unconditionally. This was one of his deepest desires. He swallowed, the pained expression on his face turning into a calculating grin. "Deal," he murmured. "But if you don't keep your word..."

"I keep my word," Alastor cut in. "And so will you." He tilted his head slightly and left the room, leaving behind the weight of a sickly agreement.

When he returned to the living room, Vox was still in the same spot, waiting anxiously. "What happened?" he asked immediately, his voice tense.

Alastor adjusted his jacket and adopted a relaxed demeanor. "Oh, I just... discussed future collaboration possibilities with him. He was convinced." Looking into Vox's eyes, he gave a deliberately vague and misleading answer. Telling the truth would drive him even crazier. He just needed to make him feel safe.

Soon Alastor looked at the refrigerator. "It seems your fridge resembles that of a university student more than a media mogul's," he said, glancing at the almost empty shelves. "Have you had breakfast?"

Vox shrugged. "Like I said I was going to prepare something!"

Alastor's eyebrows rose in a mocking expression. "With nothing? We're going out."

Vox was stunned. "Out? Where? I can't leave Val alone, and besides..." Going out meant a risk of being seen by who knows whom.

"Besides nothing," Alastor cut in. "He can rot in bed. You, on the other hand, need nourishment." He headed toward the door. "Come on. The car is waiting."

And just like that, a few minutes later, they found themselves in the middle of one of Hell's most crowded, colorful, and chaotic supermarkets.

Vox felt like a ghost as he dragged the shopping cart through the aisles. The crowd around him, the sounds, the smells... Everything was closing in on him, making his head spin. Alastor, on the contrary, walked as if in his own kingdom, scanning the surroundings with that sharp grin, people scattering in fear at the sight of him.

"Well then, dear Vox," he began, picking up a can and examining it. "We need nutritious, delicious, and energizing things. Any suggestions?"

Vox's eyes caught on the shiny packaged, greasy, overly sugary snacks on one shelf. A sudden, intense desire awakened inside him. He wanted those disgusting, artificial cheese-flavored chips. He reached out.

Alastor stopped him with a deep, audible sigh. "No. Absolutely not." His long fingers gently but firmly grasped Vox's wrist. "Not those wretched plastic pieces. Real food." He pulled him toward the fruit and vegetable section.

A disappointed expression appeared on Vox's face. "But... I crave it," he murmured, his voice so faint and pleading that even he was surprised.

Alastor suddenly paused. He released Vox and turned to him. His red eyes studied that rare, vulnerable, almost childlike expression on Vox's face.

He experienced a momentary internal conflict. Logic rejected those processed garbage items but that look on Vox's face... It suppressed his urge to say 'no.' Rolling his eyes, he reached for the chip bag. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. "But fine. One bag. Just one bag." The bag made a almost guilty noise as it was tossed into the cart.

A small sense of victory sparked inside Vox. It was an unexpected moment. Alastor had accepted his request.

The rest of the shopping went on with Alastor's choices of healthy, nutritious items chicken breast, dark leafy greens, fresh fruits and Vox's occasional, shy pointing to junk food like sour candies and chocolates. Each time, Alastor repeated the ritual of a sigh, an eye roll, and finally giving in and adding it to the cart. His 'giving in' demeanor was unusually... sweet.

At the checkout, while Alastor paid, Vox helped gather the bags. The young demon working the register nearly fainted upon noticing Alastor. His hands trembled so much while giving the change that the coins spilled onto the floor.

On the way back to the car, Alastor carried the bags.

Though Alastor seemed focused on the steering wheel, his mind was on one thing: the secret Vox was hiding. The fact that Vox didn't know he knew was gnawing at him. Normally, holding such an advantage would please Alastor. Cornering his rival with knowledge... that was his nature but now, the situation was different.

This truth had caught him from a place he never wanted: There was a piece of his own blood in Vox's belly, and Vox was keeping it hidden from him.

"What should I do?" he thought to himself. If he confronted him, he'd see anger in Vox's eyes, maybe fear. He knew Vox was hiding it because he didn't trust him, but seeing Vox still trying to carry this burden alone stirred a disturbing sense of responsibility in him.

Maybe staying by Vox's side was foolish. He hadn't thought about what would happen next. He had no exit plan. The moment he heard the truth from Vox's lips... that's when he'd truly decide.

Should he run? Or... stay and accept it? There was a strange spark inside him, unfamiliar. A desire to possess, a protective instinct... The kind of weaknesses he hated. But behind the wheel, carefully driving at the green light, all he did was avoid disturbing Vox's peaceful sleep.

He couldn't even give himself an honest answer as to why he was doing this.

When they arrived home, he gently nudged Vox awake. "Hey. Sleeping beauty. I need your help for the unloading operation."

Vox stumbled out of the car, yawning. Alastor ended up carrying almost all the bags himself again.

Alastor settled into Vox's kitchen as if it were his own home. He lined up the fresh ingredients from the bags on the counter one by one, his movements quick and masterful. Vox, meanwhile, had perched on the edge of the kitchen island, devouring a bag of chips. With every crunch, Alastor's shoulders tensed slightly, his ears twitching involuntarily.

"If you fill your stomach with those disgusting plastic bits, there won't be any room left for what I've labored to cook," Alastor grumbled, just before plunging the knife into a chicken breast. His voice held that usual unflappable demeanor, but underneath lay real irritation.

Vox, mouth full, shook the chip bag. "Just snacking. I'm hungry." His words were muffled by the chewing sounds.

Alastor let out a deep, meaningful sigh and shook his head. "Snacking. Yes, of course."

Vox smiled involuntarily. His eyes narrowed. The aroma of garlic, spices, and chicken spreading through the air was truly appetizing. He pushed the chip bag aside.

Alastor glanced at him out of the corner of his eye while pouring olive oil into a pan. He felt a sense of satisfaction. "A reasonable decision." He tossed the chopped chicken into the pan, the sizzle of the meat in the oil filling the kitchen with a warm sound. "It'll take about ten minutes. If you have patience, you'll get your reward."

Vox leaned his elbows on the counter and rested his chin in his hands. Watching Alastor move so comfortably and in control in the kitchen gave him a strange sense of peace.

Alastor began stirring the chicken. Seeing Vox just sitting there, he straightened his back. "Please, instead of watching, grab some plates and be useful."

Vox obediently turned, reaching into the cabinet for a few porcelain plates. With his back turned, he felt Alastor watching him. The gaze was different from his usual sharp analysis; softer, more thoughtful. As if he saw far more than Vox realized.

When the food was ready, Alastor scooped a hot piece of chicken from the pan and speared it on a fork. He extended it toward Vox. "Here. A small part of your reward. Taste it."

Vox took the fork, blew on the meat carefully, and popped it into his mouth. The flavor exploded on his tongue: the chicken was perfectly cooked, the balance of spices flawless. He let out an involuntary sound of pleasure, his eyes widening slightly. "God, Alastor. This... this is incredible."

Alastor's fixed grin turned into a genuine smile for a moment. A rare spark of pride shone in his eyes. "Now, please sit and eat the rest. Don't let it get cold."

They took their plates and moved to the opposite side of the kitchen room. For a while, they focused only on their food, except for the occasional times Alastor served more vegetables onto Vox's plate.

When Vox finished his last bite and set down his fork, he felt a weight settling over him. His stomach was full. He looked at Alastor. "Thanks," he murmured. "I think I needed this."

Alastor nodded, starting to collect the plates. "It was obvious." Then he paused for a moment, looking at Vox. "What do you want to do?"

Vox lifted his head, his eyelids growing heavy. "Maybe I just need to sleep," he replied, yawning. As he yawned, trying to cover his mouth was an instinctive politeness, and Alastor had no comment on it. He just watched.

"Sleep is good too," Alastor approved, flipping a chair around and sitting on it, resting his arms on the backrest. "But you should digest a bit first. If you lie down right away, that delicious meal of mine will sit like a rock in your stomach."

Vox bit his lip to keep from laughing. Alastor's overconfident way of saying "my delicious meal" was so absurd and so familiar. He rolled his eyes. "Alright, sir. Let's digest then."

Silence fell. As Vox traced a scratch on the wooden surface of the table with his fingertips, Alastor watched him. His gaze wandered over the tired lines on Vox's face, the dark circles under his eyes, the slightly dry edges of his lips. He noted every detail, examining the early signs of pregnancy.

A strange unease bubbled up inside him. Knowledge had always been on his side, but this... this was different. This was uncontrollable, an emotional minefield.

"Has Valentino woken up?" Vox asked, breaking the silence. There was worry in his voice.

Alastor's lips tightened. "I don't think so. He was snoring so loudly, I thought the vase in the hallway was vibrating." Seeing Vox's worried expression, he rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. He's not dead."

Vox's shoulders relaxed slightly. That small moment of relief fanned the strange protective instinct inside Alastor a bit more. It was a weakness, yes, but also... intriguing.

Vox suddenly straightened, his face contorting. He placed a hand on his stomach. "Oof," he groaned.

Alastor immediately sat up straight. "What happened?" The urgency in his voice surprised them both.

"Nothing," Vox replied quickly, grimacing. "Just... gas, I think or the food. I don't know." He couldn't tell the truth. The light, wavy nausea and pressure he felt under his stomach scared him.

Alastor slowly sat back down, but his eyes were locked on Vox's stomach. There, beneath those flat muscles, something was growing. Something he had created. His heart raced. "Maybe you should move around a bit," he suggested, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. "A walk would do you good."

Vox nodded, still not feeling well. "Maybe."

Alastor stood up and walked toward Vox, extending his hand. "Come on. Let's get some air from this miserable tower. We'll sit on the terrace."

Vox looked at the extended hand. Alastor hated touching. Was this a trap? Still, with the discomfort in his stomach and the feeling of loneliness, he didn't care. He reached out, and Alastor's unexpectedly warm fingers wrapped around his.

Alastor flinched slightly at the contact but didn't pull away. He helped Vox up from the chair. Vox's hand was larger than his.

He guided Vox toward the terrace, not letting go of his hand right away. He opened the door with his other hand and led them out into the muggy sky. The terrace overlooked the vast view of Hell, illuminated by the lights of the VoxTech tower.

They headed to a couch. Alastor finally released his hand and sat next to Vox, keeping a respectful distance. Vox sank into the couch and took a deep breath. The cool air felt good on his face. "This is nice," he murmured, half-closing his eyes.

Alastor was looking at Vox, not the view. "Yes," he replied, his voice low and thoughtful. "Nice for you."

Vox looked at him, surprised. Alastor let out a forced cough and averted his gaze. "I mean, since you're the owner of this tower. Of course it's nice."

Vox didn't respond. After a while, sunk deeper into the couch, he felt his eyelids growing heavier. The light nausea and discomfort in his stomach had dissipated somewhat with the effects of the hot meal and cool air. "I think I should sleep," he said suddenly, standing up.

Alastor tilted his head toward him in approval. They went back inside together. Vox headed straight to the guest room. The master bedroom was filled with Valentino's still-recovering presence, and he didn't want to go there.

As he lay down on the bed, the door creaked open slightly. Alastor stood in the doorway. "You're having trouble falling asleep," it wasn't a question, but an observation. "If you don't want to be alone, I'm here."

Vox swallowed. He couldn't find a reason to refuse. Actually, the idea of not being alone was comforting. He nodded, pulling the blanket up to his chest. Alastor entered and lay down on the other side of the bed, leaving a respectful distance between them. They lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling.

Vox tried to focus on Alastor's steady breathing sounds.

However, this peace was short-lived.

Around midnight, he woke from a deep sleep with a sudden, intense, and merciless craving. He opened his eyes, feeling breathless in the dark room. His mouth was filled with saliva, and on his palate, the phantom taste of sour, sharp pickle juice danced. It was such a powerful desire that his stomach churned, almost turning into physical pain.

On the other side of the bed, despite the pillow barrier between them, he could hear Alastor's steady, light breathing. He wavered between shame and need. He couldn't say this. Especially not to Alastor. Alastor had already done so much for him; cooked, taken him shopping, sat with him. This would be a sign of weakness beyond everything.

He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes. Maybe he'd fall back asleep. Maybe the feeling would pass. It felt like hours had passed. He couldn't sleep. The insistent craving from that small, stubborn creature in his belly wouldn't leave him alone. He tossed in bed, bit the sheet, but the pickle phantom wouldn't let go. He bit his lips to avoid groaning at this absurd, irresistible urge gnawing at him.

"Alastor?" His voice was a weak, trembling whisper in the darkness. When there was no answer, he repeated it a bit louder. "Alastor?"

The breathing on the other side of the bed stopped with a sudden pause. Alastor's silhouette sat up in the dark. His red eyes gleamed not with sleepiness, but with the sharpness of instant alertness. "Vox?" The static in his voice was more pronounced in the night silence. "Is there a problem?"

Vox pulled the blanket up to his chest, feeling his face flush even in the dark, and forced the words out. "No. I mean, yes. Um... It's really stupid." He cleared his throat. "But... I'm craving pickles like crazy."

There was silence. It was such a long and intense silence that Vox wished he could melt into the bed. Was Alastor looking at him like he was crazy? Would he mock him?

Instead, Alastor quietly got out of bed. His silhouette moved toward the door. "Pickles," he murmured, his voice thoughtful, without mockery. "Understood."

Vox stared after him in shock. "Where are you going?" he whispered.

"To find some pickles," Alastor replied as he opened the door. His voice was so natural, as if he were just going to get a glass of water. "One of the buffets should be open at this hour. It won't take long."

"Alastor, wait! Don't! You don't have to go out for something so stupid!" Vox tried to sit up in bed, but a wave of dizziness pushed him back.

Alastor paused in the doorway, his shoulder silhouette sharpening against the darkness. "What's stupid is that panic in your voice, dear Vox. Calm down. I've handled things far more dangerous than a jar of pickles." He paused for a moment as if waiting for approval, then gently closed the door, and his footsteps faded down the hallway.

Vox collapsed back onto the bed, covering his face with his hands. His heart was still pounding, but now, alongside the shame, a warm, strange heat spread through his chest. Alastor had gone out in the middle of Hell, at midnight, to get him pickles. This was the most unexpected, absurd, and sincere thing amid all their rivalries, grudges, and sharp words.

When Alastor gently closed the door behind him, he paused for a moment under the hallway light. His red, sharp silhouette cast a long shadow on the wall. "Pickles," he murmured to himself, "Alright. If that's the case."

Hell's midnight streets had taken on a different kind of eeriness from the chaotic daytime crowds. As Alastor walked the sidewalks, he passed fallen souls slinking around, hungry creatures rummaging through trash bins. His first stop was the 24-hour buffet on the corner. Inside, he encountered a few scattered customers and a dozing cashier. He scanned the shelves. Chips, canned goods, candies... But pickles? None.

"Do you have pickles?"

The cashier lifted his head groggily. "Huh? Pickles? No such thing. Maybe take some cucumbers?"

Alastor's red gleam in his eyes sharpened for a moment. "Cucumbers are not pickles, dear friend," he replied, his voice taking on a threatening buzz. "Well, is there another store?"

The cashier, startled by Alastor's appearance and tone, pointed in a direction with his hand. "Down that street, but I don't know if it's open now."

Alastor left without even thanking him. His irritation grew with every step. Vox's absurd, sudden craving... had put him on this quest. Should he see this as a victory? Or a sign of weakness? His mind was confused.

The place the demon had described was a shop in a side street, with half its neon lights burned out, looking abandoned. He entered. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and mold. An old, hunched demon was reading a newspaper behind the counter.

"Pickles," Alastor said, slapping the word like a command.

The old demon looked over his glasses. "Check the shelves."

Alastor rummaged through the narrow, messy shelves. Jams, sauces, weird canned meats... But no pickles. A slight wave of despair rose inside him. Failing to find something so simple humiliated a being like him. He clenched his fist. "I can't find them!" he snarled, his voice filling with radio static.

The old demon shrugged. "Means we don't have them. Want something else?"

Alastor wanted to slam the counter in anger for a moment but held back at the last second. He thought of Vox's sick, desperate state. He needed those pickles. This was more than just a craving. "No," he hissed. "Just pickles."

He stormed out onto the street. Time was passing. Vox must be waiting alone and in need. This thought stirred a strange sense of urgency in him. With one last hope, he headed to another store a bit farther away. This one was larger and brighter. His entrance startled the few night customers there.

He went straight to the section with canned and pickled goods. His eyes scanned the shelves, and there they were. Small glass jars filled with cucumbers, cabbages, even peppers... Pickles. He felt instant relief, and an involuntary smile appeared on his lips. He grabbed a jar of sauerkraut and one of dill pickles. Which one had Vox wanted? Best to take both.

He walked to the cashier, placing the jars on the counter. The cashier flinched at the sight of him but relaxed when paid. Alastor took the bag and left the store. His walk back home was much faster and more determined than his outbound trip. He was no longer irritated. In fact... he was pleased. He had accomplished this absurd task.

When he returned to the tower, he took the elevator. As he walked down the hallway, the cold glass of the jars warmed his hands. He opened Vox's door and entered.

Vox was curled up in bed, trying to sleep but failing. He noticed Alastor's entrance and opened his eyes. His face was filled with both hope and guilt.

"Here," Alastor said, his voice unusually soft. He extended one of the jars. "I brought some options. Would you prefer the cabbage or the cucumber?"

Vox sat up in bed. His eyes locked on the jar. With a trembling hand, he took the dill pickle one. "Thanks," he whispered, "Really... thank you so much, Alastor."

Alastor watched as he immediately opened the jar and bit into the first pickle. The instant relief on Vox's face was gratifying. For a moment, he said nothing, just watched him. This small, absurd victory was enough for that night.

Vox, mouth full and cheek bulging, extended the jar toward Alastor. "Want some?" His face was slightly flushed with the embarrassment of being caught satisfying such a basic, primal need.

Alastor stood motionless in the dark. He shook his head. "No," he whispered. "I'll just... watch."

Vox slowly lowered the jar. Eating under Alastor's gaze felt strange and yet intimate. His shame gradually gave way to a warm heat. He bowed his head, but a smile he tried to hide appeared at the corners of his lips.

That smile didn't escape Alastor's eyes. Something indefinable but not entirely unpleasant stirred inside him.

The next morning, Vox woke with an unusual calmness. His head wasn't aching, his stomach wasn't nauseous. The constant fatigue and tension that had weighed on him were gone, replaced by a light, almost strange serenity. He got out of bed. Kitchen smells reached his nose. Toasted bread, maybe some olive oil. Unusually, his stomach responded not with churning or nausea, but with real hunger. His appetite was back.

As he walked down the hallway, he listened to the sounds. The rustle of shopping bags, the clink of a container on the counter... and Alastor's low, static hum as he murmured to himself. He stopped in the doorway. Alastor was at the counter, preparing something with the healthy ingredients he'd brought last night.

A voice inside him whispered that this interest was temporary, just a game, a strategy, but his body felt more honest than his mind. Alastor's presence had shifted from a consuming threat to a nurturing, healing refuge. This feeling was frighteningly real.

His mind turned to that small creature deep in his belly, not yet felt but known to exist. He placed his hands on his stomach, directing his thoughts to it.

Do you see? he thought inwardly. He... Alastor. Despite everything, he's here. Looking after me... us. Maybe... maybe we can share his interest. You want that too, right? To know his sharp red eyes are looking only at us... To be the target of his unusual, strange attention...

For a moment, he smiled inwardly. This thought was so insane that he must be losing his mind, but perhaps this small being inside him was aware of it. Maybe both of them wanted the same thing.

When Alastor turned around, he found him standing in the doorway, lost in thought. His red eyes roamed over Vox's face, trying to understand the expression. "You look good," he murmured, his voice containing a bit less of its usual mocking tone. "I think some sleep and... the right foods did you good."

Vox walked toward him, leaning on the counter. "Yes," he replied, "They did." His eyes were on Alastor's hands, watching the order he created while preparing the food. That new feeling inside him continued to take root. He knew the time to share was approaching. He just needed to wait for the right moment.