#pred prey

The first time he saw her, Vox genuinely thought one of his processors had fried.

A static hiss crawled across his vision-feed, pixels distorting, color bands tearing across the edges of his screen. For a horrifying second he thought he’d taken a hit; an overload, a voltage spike, maybe Valentino had slipped something into one of their “celebratory” drinks again. Something was wrong. Had to be.

Because what he saw?

No. No-no-no-no. Impossible.

The red was what hit him first; that violent, saturated shade he’d have recognized anywhere. He’d memorized it out of hatred alone. It was the exact red of that bastard’s stupid hair, the red that haunted every corner of Vox’s empire like a glitch he couldn’t patch out.

Her silhouette flickered in the distance: burgundy curls, slim frame, delicate ears pricked in the exact same shape as-

Static snarled through his chest.

No.

There was no universe; no Hell ; where he was seeing a woman who looked like Alastor.

His system must’ve misfired. Some kind of hallucination. Maybe too many stimulants. Maybe not enough. Maybe stress. Maybe he’d finally snapped under the sheer indignity of dealing with Valentino and Velvet in the same week.

His screen shook slightly.

He told himself it was just a loose cable.

He blinked once; a rapid shutter of pixels; and by the time his processors aligned again, she was gone.

The street was empty.

And Vox was left standing there like a bug stuck in amber, the image burned onto his internal memory banks. Something between confusion, rage, and… something else. Something inconvenient. Something he deleted, then undeleted, then finally shoved into a corrupted folder and pretended wasn’t taking up drive space.

He’d woken up more than once afterward with a jolt; overheating circuitry, phantom sensations, his body reacting before his rational mind could catch up. Those nights he solved the problem quickly with whatever warm body happened to be on payroll, telling himself it was just maintenance. Just stress relief. Just… static.

He never dwelled on it.

Because Vox moved forward. Always forward. His rise was too sharp, too clean, too calculated to waste time on glitches from years ago. He built VoxTech, VoxMedia, V-corp. He built a brand, a dynasty, an empire; and buried that moment under layers of neon progress.

Ten years passed. Then fifteen.

The memory eroded, pixel by pixel.

He forgot her.

He forgot the way her image had scrambled parts of him he didn’t even know could scramble.

There was no space left for hallucinations anyway; not with Alastor outpacing him at every corner, not with territory lines shifting, not with overlords dragging each other over the coals every week on public broadcast. It was a war of reputation, and Vox did not lose wars about reputation.

Eventually things steadied. Valentino settled. Velvet matured. Their empire stabilized. Vox threw himself into work so intensely that even hellfire looked dim compared to the glow of his own screens.

And then...

his world stuttered.

---

-he saw her again.

But Adelia didn’t see him at first.

She had been too busy fussing with the paper wrapping around a bouquet she needed to deliver, muttering to herself about the price of twine going up again. The street was noisy, the usual haze of Pride’s smog rippling in the red light. Her ears flicked as she tried to center herself in the chaos, instinct checking for danger the way prey-blood had taught her from the cradle.

That’s when she felt it-

a sharp prickle down the back of her neck.

Like a pair of eyes had just crawled onto her skin and settled there.

Her steps slowed.

Her tail stiffened.

Her heartbeat hitch-stepped in her chest.

*Who’s staring?*

She didn’t turn immediately. No- you never turn toward a predator too fast. You listen first. You breathe slow. You let them think you don’t notice.

But the pressure didn’t ease. It clung to her, heavy, greedy.

She finally lifted her eyes.

Across the street stood a man- or something shaped like one.

Tall, long-limbed, sharp in a way that made her pulse trip. But what stopped her breath wasn’t the strange energy rolling off him…

It was the screen where his face should've been.

A glowing, crackling, humming thing.

Alien.

Cold.

Wrong in a way she couldn’t quite name.

Adelia nearly dropped her flowers.

Bon Dye… what kind of life does a soul have to live to come out the other side shaped like that?

He didn’t move at first. Just stared.

Unblinking.

Piercing.

Like he was trying to peel her apart with his gaze alone.

Her ears twitched nervously.

Her palms dampened inside her gloves.

Then, abruptly, he crossed the street; shoving a couple out of his way, flipping off a car that screeched past him. She flinched, eyes widening.

Who does that?

Someone with power.

Too much of it.

She stepped back instinctively, the flowers held protectively to her chest. Something in the air around him crackled; pressure building, electricity nipping at her senses. Before she had time to brace for it, the lights above the flower shop burst like gunfire.

Glass rained down.

Her body reacted before thought could reach it;

arms up, protecting her neck, her ears, her face.

A startled gasp left her lips.

When it was over, she hurried toward the nearest frightened patron, brushing shards from their hair, murmuring soft comforts out of habit.

“It’s alright, sweetheart… jus’ hold still. Lemme get that out.”

Her hands, steady from years of tending wounds and little lives, moved calmly despite her shaking spine. Whoever that tall stranger was, he’d caused that. Whether on purpose or accident, she couldn’t tell. But the air around him made her skin crawl in a way that reminded her of distant storms and broken fences.

When the worst of the panic settled, she glanced his way again;

and saw him watching her.

Not just watching.

Studying.

Like she was a puzzle piece he’d been missing for too long.

Her stomach tightened.

She didn’t like when powerful demons stared too long.

Still... manners were manners.

Her mama had raised her better than to run from a stranger like a frightened fawn. So she took a slow breath, dusted herself off, and walked toward the café counter to ask for napkins, needing something to do, something to ground her hands.

“Napkins, si vou plè,” she told the barista gently.

But her ears kept swiveling.

Searching.

Tracking.

There it was again. That stare.

That burning awareness.

A predator’s focus.

Her body went taut, tail lifting in warning, every muscle bracing for a voice, a command, a threat...

She turned.

And saw him.

Right there.

Only a table away.

He looked like trouble carved into the shape of a man; long fingers, too-long limbs, static dancing faint beneath his skin. She swallowed, allowing a polite smile to ease onto her lips.

What else could she do?

She decided to speak first before he could.

“Bonjou,” she said warmly. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Somethin’ I can help you with, young man? You lookin’ kinda lost.”

He froze in that strange way unnatural things do.

Like she’d thrown cold water on a live wire.

His response was… not impressive.

“What?”

She bit back a laugh, covering her mouth delicately to save him embarrassment.

Bless his heart — big and terrifying as he looked, he acted like someone who wasn’t used to bein’ spoken to kindly.

She offered her hand.

“Here. Let’s start proper.”

He hesitated, gathering himself like a machine rebooting, then dipped down and kissed the back of her hand.

A practiced, charming gesture, but the way he lingered?

That wasn’t practiced.

His claws were cold.

Her skin was warm.

And something in his touch buzzed through her like static.

Her heart stuttered.

He straightened, voice smooth as oiled velvet.

“Sorry about that,” he purred. “I was simply captivated by such a beautiful creature. I swear I’ve seen you before. Mind giving me a name to that pretty face?”

Heat bloomed across her cheeks.

A compliment like that delivered in a voice like that?

Even a sensible woman could feel a bit undone.

She waved the flattery off, though her smile betrayed her.

“I doubt you’ve seen li’l ol’ me anywhere. But no harm in exchangin’ names if you give me yours.”

He lit up like she’d fed him a feast.

“Oh, you haven’t heard of me? Hard to believe. I’m Vox; overlord of television and all things media. Anyone with a TV knows who Vox is~”

Her smile softened.

Poor thing, he really believed everyone lived in his world.