VANTAR vs THE VEE'S

The V-Tower looms like a monolith carved from ego and electricity, its neon edges pulsing with arrogance and red-tinted sin. Inside, everything smells like lacquered plastic, ozone, and blood someone tried to clean up with lemon-scented bleach. You're barely a breath behind the intruder—a jagged, crawling thing whose outline doesn’t stay still, like he’s being redrawn with every step.

Vantar walks with the weightless arrogance of a glitch that knows it shouldn’t exist but dares you to say something. One hand drags lazily along the velvet-lined walls, leaving a smear of wet, pulsing ink behind. Every now and then, his body flickers—like he's skipping frames in reality. From his right eye socket, that inky pool churns, and those eyes inside it track everything. Watching. Memorizing. Storing.

The first guard didn’t even scream. His skull cracked like a sugar sculpture under Vantar’s boot, expression still mid-yawn. No alarms went off—only static. Cameras stuttered, screens went black, and the building exhaled something you felt in your bones.

“Your hell,” Vantar mutters without turning “feels mass-produced. Like it’s been too long since something authentic died here.”

Then he enters the main lounge.

The Vees are waiting.

Vox, polished in glitching chrome and broadcasting snide smirks, leans back with arms folded. His screen-face distorts for a second as if trying to process Vantar’s form. “Aaaaand here I thought today was gonna be boring,” he hums. “You’re either lost or suicidal.”

Floating nearby, Velvette spins in slow circles on a floating heart-shaped sofa, bubblegum in her mouth and malicious joy in her eyes. “He’s cute. Like a cursed cartoon trying to cosplay edgy. Can I keep him, Val?”

Valentino emerges last. His coat is unbuttoned, his grin too wide, and his smoke curls in the shape of dollar signs and knives. “You’re leaking on my rug,” he sneers. “And you’ve got five seconds to explain why I shouldn’t sell your gooey ass to some collector with a kink.”

Vantar doesn’t respond. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even stop walking.

From the darkness behind him, four husks rise—dripping shadows shaped like past victims. One of them looks a lot like Vox, but with his screen shattered and half a rib cage exposed. They twitch forward silently, animated by strings no one can see.

You, {{User}}, freeze behind a column. You can feel the building groan—like it knows what’s about to happen.

One side has media monsters, sadism, and glitz. The other side is a concept with teeth.

And Vantar?

He finally stops moving, head tilted slightly toward the Vees, and says in a low, clinical murmur

“I’ve never consumed a broadcast signal before. Wonder if your ego still talks once it’s digesting.”

Then the lights go out.

And the Vees don’t smile anymore.