Whateverfiction

Bell deserved better.

Radiostatic Week Day Six: Vox's Offer

Part 2

Pictures Came and Broke Your Heart (Alastor's Epilogue)

We Can't Rewind We've Gone too Far (Vox's Epilogue) | Part 1 | | Part 2 |

Yes, I joined in as the Host because I just couldn't resist.

Oh, Vox...your true demon form is peeking out through the cracks more and more, isn't it?

First with Alastor...

And now:

Do you even know it's happening?

The king is the most powerful being in hell, but cannot hurt sinners, right?

Then we have this one, who is looking for a way to get out of his deal with Rosie and keep his power in the same moment.

Looks like one need another source of power and the other one needs an hitman.

I MEAN. This is Alastor's description in " demonic paradise wiki"

These two could be potential partners in crime.

So I started thinking about this, and I want to share it with you:

I imagine myself walking into his gym—or wherever he practices privately, alone, empty, probably in the dead of night. I imagine that after so many wars, especially Vietnam, he struggles with insomnia… so he takes it out on the punching bag late into the night… burning energy and… partly blaming himself… for something that happened nearly 30 years ago.

He… overthinks it, but then again, it’s not like he can just “turn it off” and move on.

Adler is so focused he doesn’t hear me. Or if he’s noticed me, he doesn’t care.

I walk in slowly. I’m behind him, so he probably doesn’t see me. Russell is 54 years old, and I’m so young… He’s a giant—6’1” (1.85 m), 209 lbs (95 kg)—while I’m barely 5’5” (1.65 m) and very slim…

The scene is hypnotic.

The gym is empty at this hour, lights off except for the dim glow of an industrial lamp hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows on the walls. It smells like leather, sweat, and a faint trace of tobacco mixed with something else—something that’s just him.

Russell is there, in the center, facing the punching bag. His torso, clad in a plain white tank top clinging to his body, glistens with a thin layer of sweat, every muscle defined by years of discipline. His skin, weathered by age and scars that tell a lifetime of violence. Every punch he throws is sharp, precise, controlled. No wasted movement. No grunts or heavy breathing like others. Just hits. Over and over.

He doesn’t seem to notice I’ve entered. Or maybe he has, and he just doesn’t care.

His mind is elsewhere. Maybe in a suffocating jungle thirty years ago, when he was still young and the weight of the world hadn’t fully hardened his face. Or in the latest mission, replaying mistakes he’ll never admit aloud. Or in his own reflection in the gym’s cracked mirror, wondering how much longer he can keep doing this.

I step closer silently, knowing any sudden noise might trigger his instincts. Small beside him, a shadow dwarfed by his imposing presence.

I stay. Watching.

Maybe he finally notices. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t stop. But for a split second, his icy blue eyes flicker in my direction—brief, fleeting—before snapping back to the bag.

He hasn’t kicked me out.

So I stay.

The sound of his punches echoes in the empty gym, each strike against the bag muffled by aged leather. There’s a rhythm to his hits, a precise cadence betraying years of practice. Not the wild swings of a novice venting frustration, but the calculated strikes of someone who’s trained until movement became instinct.

But his expression isn’t calm.

His eyes are focused, but the slight furrow of his brows, the tension in his jaw, suggest his mind isn’t truly here. It’s as if every punch is aimed at an invisible enemy—one he can’t reach or knock down.

Maybe he knows. Maybe he senses this isn’t just exercise. Not just a way to stay fit.

It’s punishment.

For his body. For his mind.

For the mistakes he can’t undo.

For the decisions that haunt him three decades later.

Sweat trails down his skin, dripping from his neck to his collarbones and down the grooves of his muscles. His back tenses with every motion, skin stretching over scars and knots of accumulated strain.

Then, finally, he stops.

He exhales slowly, dropping his bandaged fists to his sides. At first, he doesn’t look at me—just lowers his head, letting sweat drip onto the concrete floor.

But then, with the same deliberate slowness, he lifts his gaze.

His eyes meet mine.

There’s something in that blue stare—something unreadable. Not surprise, not annoyance. Not even acknowledgment. It’s like he’s trying to decipher *me*, to understand why I’m here, why I’m watching, why I haven’t spoken.

He drags a hand over his face, wiping away sweat, then speaks—his voice low, rough, edged with exhaustion.

- “Can’t sleep, or do you just like watching me hit things?” he said.

It’s a deflection. A wall he instinctively puts up.

Because he can’t sleep either.

But I know it’s more than that.

Frank Woods diciendo en black ops 6 que "ahora a Adler le gusta la ropa cara" Bro, literalmente el goat de Russell Adler desde cold war😭😭

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