Alastor and Vox

...Vox had lost. His reputation was gone, everything he did was irrelevant now. Val had taken over his company, and everyone else had simply disowned him. What did he feel? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was as if a black hole had settled inside him, greedily devouring every emotion. Vox didn't leave his room. Simply put, he rotted in it. He was visited three times a day: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And even then, it was Ethan who brought them to him, not his... friends.

He had no appetite. Not a bit. He looked at the food. The food looked back at him. He picked up a fork. He shovelled the food down his throat. He repeated this procedure once every four days, so as not to die of hunger, which he didn't feel. All his senses seemed so distant. He didn't watch TV, no. He stared at the wall. Or dreamed. His bed became his almost permanent residence. He got out of it only to eat. Leaving and returning took him a huge effort. Every time someone tried to talk to him - be it the workers or his "friends", it all ended with Vox saying nothing. He felt their sidelong glances, which were sometimes not there. Velvet and Val were seriously worried about him, and so... They decided there was no better way out. They handed him over to Charlie, and she transferred him to Alastor, who wasn't really interested in it. Vox, even after moving to the hotel, didn't leave his new room. The people around him were changing, but his position wasn't clear. He sat on the bed, hugging his knees and staring at the floor. He couldn't come to terms with the fact that he'd lost everyone's respect. Nor could he accept the fact that he could kill his enemy, the object of his obsession and the only reason he lived. No matter how badly Vox had screwed up, nearly killing half of Pentagram City with a bomb, he was still an important asset in Hell, and... Charlie was seriously worried about him, and so one day she came to Alastor.