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Summary
Vox loves the way one lets oneself be devoured.
Alastor smiles, and that smile is a razor-sharp enigma: invitation or sentence. Vox gives himself over to it nonetheless, ready to offer his flesh, his voice, his fantasies, for a mere crumb of attention. To be chosen—even to be destroyed—would be enough.But the dream shatters at dawn. Alastor has been gone for seven years, and all that remains for Vox is the crushing weight of absence, the burn of desire, and Hell’s red horizon—silent, relentless, unanswered.
