#vox calloway

“Do you enjoy living like this, Mr Calloway? Being told what to do and taking it on the chin - thrown drinks and all - without ever asserting any dominance?”

The demon steps closer, and on instinct, Vox recoils; stepping backwards until his shoulders are pressed against the elevator wall. His body rigid and his screen still glitching, Vox grabs at the metal railing to his side, hoping he’ll feel some stability through it. He doesn’t. 

He hears a chuckle, that of the demon beside him. It’s low and delicate, like twilight birdsong. “Oh, dear. I seem to have frightened you, too,” he says, thoroughly amused. “I’m only asking a simple question.”

Vox forces himself to blink, attempting to recalibrate the distortion in his vision. The glitches and bugs in his system refuse to settle, and so he still can’t see this demon clearly, no matter how hard he tries to look. He’s as blind as a creature in headlights, drowning in the moment, helpless to the whims of a complete stranger.

“I…” Vox gulps a little, the sound coming out like a choke. “I don’t, I mean, it’s not l-like I-”

“Oh, come now, Mr Calloway,” the demon interrupts, sounding mildly disappointed. “You don’t even try to lie, do you?”

Something inside Vox clenches; something unsettled and tense. His screen flashes with a mess of bleeding pixels and attempts at reboots, involuntarily broadcasting both his discomfort and confusion amongst the static noise. Vox is humiliated, but then again, he’s used to that feeling. He’s gotten accustomed to suffering like this. The elevator hums on, descending still. It feels like it’s been moving for too long.

“What d-do you want?” Vox finally asks, his voice barely audible. 

“Want?” The demon laughs again - in that rich, indulgent way that implies copious wealth. “Now, that’s the right question, Mr Calloway.”

The sound of his name - Mr Calloway - sends a sparking chill up Vox’s spine, settling in a perplexing blooming of warmth between his shoulder blades. It’s not the use of the name itself that has this effect, but rather the way this demon speaks it - like he’s known it, has known Vox, for much longer than just this one elevator ride. It sounds so personal, almost intimate - Vox feels a sheen of perspiration begin to prickle at the back of his neck.

“I want what everyone wants,” the demon continues, clearly luxuriating in the conversation. “A little amusement. A little… oh, what’s the word…? Influence,” he lets the word melt on his tongue. “And you, Mr Calloway, you seem like a rather malleable individual. You intrigue me.”

Vox balls his hands into tight fists, his claws digging into the flesh of his palms. The elevator lights above flicker.

“And, well,” the demon adds. “I can’t help but feel a touch of pity for you. So terribly embarrassing, isn’t it? If it had been me, well…” He pauses, deliberate and measured. “I’d have made them regret it.”

A shiver runs through Vox’s entire nervous system in the beat of silence that follows, and he swears he feels the elevator slowing, just for the slightest moment. What is this guy’s agenda, even? To mock him even more? To glean some sick entertainment from watching him struggle? Vox doesn’t know. All he does know is that he should keep a tight lip and wait it out the best he can. He should just laugh and nod, should say something non-committal and non-combative; he should remain passive.

“…I don’t need your pity,” is what Vox actually says, surprising himself. He follows it with a nervous-sounding cough, as if that will buffer his sudden defiance. 

“Oh, I believe you,” the demon agrees smoothly. “I just wonder if perhaps you could benefit from a little… guidance.”