The battlefield was still smoldering when the last fragments of Vox’s shattered machine clattered to the ground. Sparks fizzled weakly across the ruins, crawling over broken screens and twisted wires like dying fireflies. The neon glow of the city—once amplified by Vox’s omnipresent broadcasts—flickered uncertainly now, as though Hell itself was trying to comprehend the sudden silence.

Alastor stood nearest to the blast site, dusting ash from his sleeves with an almost offended expression. His smile remained fixed, but the corners twitched with irritation; the explosion had singed the edge of his coat, something he clearly considered a personal insult. The Radio Demon tapped his staff against the scorched ground, the static around him crackling in triumph at the absence of its digital rival.

Not far behind him, Charlie skidded to a halt, wings fluttering with frantic energy. Her eyes darted across the debris, searching for any sign of survivors—or of lingering threats. Vaggie followed close, her spear raised, scanning the shadows with sharp precision, ready to strike at anything that dared move wrong.

Angel Dust limped from behind a fallen chunk of metal, brushing soot off his fur and muttering a string of colorful insults aimed at Vox, the machine, and explosions in general. Husk trailed after him, cigarette somehow still intact despite being knocked flat minutes earlier. He took one long drag before letting out a raspy, unimpressed sigh.

Niffty zipped excitedly from one piece of wreckage to another, plucking up broken wires and charred scraps with the enthusiasm of someone discovering long-lost treasure.