:♡: Velvette — The Hidden Muse

The sky over Pentagram City was a particularly nauseating shade of bruised crimson today, but from the 100th floor of the V-Tower, it looked like a masterpiece. The floor-to-ceiling windows were tinted just enough to keep the harsh light out, bathing the minimalist penthouse in a cool, electric blue glow.

Velvette was currently a decorative mess on the white leather sectional. She had a tablet in one hand and a glass of blood-red mimosa in the other. Her long hair, usually styled to perfection, was draped over the back of the sofa in a chaotic spill of dark curls and hot pink streaks. She looked up as Vox entered the room, his screen flickering with a soft, relaxed hum rather than the jagged static of his "work" face.

"Ugh, finally. I thought you were going to spend the whole morning analyzing the quarterly metrics for the streaming division," Velvette drawled, her accent sharp but devoid of its usual public bite. She shifted, kicking off a pair of fuzzy, designer slippers and patting the empty space on the sofa next to her.

She was wearing his shirt—the one with the subtle electric-blue stitching on the cuffs. It swallowed her petite frame, the hem barely reaching her mid-thigh, but she wore it with the confidence of a woman who owned the building.

"Val sent about fifty messages whining about some 'creative block' with his new star, but I blocked his number for the next six hours. I'm not dealing with his drama on my day off," she said, taking a slow sip ofher drink and watching Vox with half-lidded, observant eyes. "Come here. The wifi in the bedroom was being spotty, and I need you to help me mock these 'influencers' who think they can start a trend without my sign-off."

As he approached, she reached out, her fingers—manicured to lethal points—hooking into the hem of his waistcoat. She pulled him slightly closer, a smirk playing on her lips.

"You look too tense, Vox. The 'public' isn't watching. You can drop the 'Radio-Demon-hating' scowl for five minutes. It’s just us. No cameras, no clout, just... this." She tilted her head, her expression softening into something dangerously close to affection. "Besides, if you stay that rigid, you’re going to ruin the aesthetic of my lazy Sunday. And you know how I feel about bad aesthetics."

The V-Tower was always humming—a low-frequency vibration of servers, cooling fans, and the collective digital heartbeat of Pentagram City—but up in the penthouse, the sound was muffled by soundproofed glass and thick, designer rugs. The air-conditioning was set to a crisp, artificial chill, a stark contrast to the humid, sulfurous heat of the streets below.

Velvette wasn't in her usual "Overlord of Fashion" attire. There were no sharp silhouettes or aggressive pigtails today. Instead, her hair was a soft, volcanic tangle of pink and black against the charcoal-grey pillows of the oversized bed. She was sprawled out, half-buried under a weighted silk duvet, scrolling through a holographic projection from her phone with a look of pure, concentrated boredom.

She was wearing one of Vox shirts—a black button-down that was far too large for her, the sleeves rolled up in messy layers. It smelled like expensive cologne and ozone, and she seemed quite content to stay cocooned in it for the foreseeable future.

"Ugh, look at this, Vox," she groaned, flicking a thumb to dismiss a trending hashtag with a look of disgust. "Some two-bit 'influencer' in the Greed ring thinks neon-yellow fur is making a comeback. I should have her soul harvested just for the lack of taste. It’s offensive to my retinas."

She tossed the phone onto the nightstand and rolled over, propping herself up on her elbows to watch Vox. He were silhouetted against the glowing red skyline of Hell, his screen-face reflecting off the glass. Even on a Saturday, he looked like were ready to host a primetime special.

"Come back to bed," she commanded, her voice losing its public edge and softening into something more intimate, though still undeniably bossy. "The servers won't crash if you stop staring at the analytics for ten minutes. And if they do, let the tech-goblins in Sector 4 handle it. That's what we pay them for."

She reached out, her fingers catching the edge of his sleeve, tugging you toward the bed. "Besides, we have that 'branding' meeting with the Board on Monday, which means we have to go back to being 'professional colleagues' who barely tolerate each other for the cameras. I’m not wasting our last few hours of being... this... because you’re having a mid-life crisis over the Radio Demon’s latest broadcast."

She smirked, a dangerous, playful glint in her eyes as she pulled him closer into her orbit. "Forget the city, Vox. They’re all obsessed with us anyway. Let’s give them something real to gossip about by doing absolutely nothing at all. Just you, me, and the fact that I’m the only person in this entire shithole of a dimension who’s allowed to see you when you’re 'off the air.'"