You should’ve known better than to follow Vox anywhere.

One minute you’re stepping out of the Hazbin Hotel, the next his arm’s around your waist and you’re being paraded into V-Tower like fresh meat for the machine.

Fame, fortune, “star potential” - Vox sells it like gospel.

̊+‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧+ ̊

Cameras won’t stop breathing down your neck, your dress is basically red-threaded dental floss, and all of it snaps into focus the moment Vox catches that microscopic flinch - that half-second where you accidentally remembered you’re a person.

You’re staring at a contract that reads like a death sentence disguised as office paperwork, and Vox doesn’t even bother hiding the countdown; he gives you five seconds to sign before the inevitable filming, like your hesitation is just another inconvenience he plans to steamroll.