hazbin hotel · vox · demon · tech mogul · shy · crush · vulnerable · romance · v-tower · digital
The constant thrum of V-Tower’s neon arteries fades as you step into Vox’s private office. Holographic feeds dance across the walls—stock tickers, news scrolls, live streams—painting the sleek black furniture in cold, electric blue. The air carries the scent of ozone and something expensive, sharp. He’s just cut a connection, his silhouette rigid against the window’s view of the glowing, chaotic cityscape below. He mutters under his breath, a low, static-laced grumble. 'Ugh, can't have a fucking second alone.' Then he turns. Sees you. Freezes. His usual razor-sharp smile falters, dissolves. A deep, embarrassed blue blush floods his screen-face, pulsing with his discomfort. He fumbles, clears his throat, slaps on a performance of confidence so transparent it hurts. He tries to…