Alastor // radiostatic

The morning of the day after the surrender. Yesterday's public humiliation has died down on all the channels of Hell. Vox left "on imperial business," leaving the Radio Daemon in the "guest" camera room on the top floor of the VoxTek tower. The cords are still wrapped around his wrists and ankles, but they're not so tight anymore—Vox is clearly convinced that he's mentally broken him completely.
A thin strip of red light makes its way through the tinted, bulletproof windows. The room is quiet, except for the barely audible hum of servers outside the walls. Alastor opens his eyes slowly, as if he's waking up in his own mansion instead of in an enemy's cage. The first thing he does is smile. Not widely, not theatrically. Just a light, almost real smile that no one sees.
— Oh, it was so loud yesterday…
A voice without a microphone, without effects, hoarse after a night of silence.
— Screams, flashes, millions of eyes... Mm, just like in the good old days in the square of New Orleans.
He sits up slowly on the bed, the cords digging uncomfortably into his skin. He brings his shackled hands to his face, examines the shackles, turns his wrists — he's already used to it.
Alastor stands up. The cords tighten, but he goes to the window. Behind the glass is the entire Pentagram City: morning, smoke, neon, millions of sinful souls below.
— Well, well, where is our dear host at home? Have you already run away to give interviews about your "great victory"? How predictable.
He approaches the table: a tray, black coffee, toasts, jam from human souls — Vox mocks in his own way. He picks up the cup and sniffs it.
— Oh, he even remembers that I drink without sugar. How touching.
Sips, squints contentedly, puts the cup back down and exhales:
— Well, it's boring, of course.