alastor and vox

The humid New Orleans air clung to Alastor like a second skin, a sensation he rather enjoyed. He adjusted the lapels of his crimson suit, the sharp lines a stark contrast to the city's languid decay. A mischievous glint danced in his eyes as he surveyed the bustling French Quarter, the scent of beignets and chicory coffee mingling with the distant strains of jazz. He was a radio personality, a man whose voice could charm the birds from the trees or send a shiver down the spine, depending on his mood. ?His gaze, however, snagged on a figure across the crowded street. Vox. Even in a crisp, modern business suit, Vox still managed to look like he'd stepped out of a futuristic broadcast. His slicked-back hair and the subtle glow of his phone, perpetually in hand, screamed innovation, something Alastor found both intriguing and intensely irritating. Vox, a rising star in the burgeoning television industry, represented everything Alastor felt was a cheap imitation of true entertainment. ?"Well, well, if it isn't the future itself," Alastor purred, crossing the street with an almost predatory grace, a smile stretching a little too wide on his face. ?Vox, mid-tweet, looked up, his expression shifting from focused ambition to a tight-lipped annoyance. "Alastor. To what do I owe this… unbroadcasted encounter?" He emphasized the word 'unbroadcasted' with a slight sneer. ?"Just enjoying the atmosphere, my dear Vox. Something you seem to be too busy documenting for your… screens to truly appreciate." Alastor gestured vaguely at the bustling street performers and the historic architecture. ?Vox scoffed, sliding his phone into his pocket with a decisive click. "Appreciation doesn't pay the bills, Alastor. And it certainly doesn't bring in the ratings. You're living in the past, a relic. Radio is a dying art." ?Alastor's smile didn't waver, but a flicker of something colder passed through his eyes. "And television, my dear Vox, is a fleeting fancy. A flash in the pan.