The fame of The Vees didn't return like an explosion, but like a steady tide.
There were no celebrations, no fireworks.
Just numbers that, little by little, stopped bleeding.
The studio screens buzzed with nervous electricity. The graphs were no longer plummeting; they stabilized, trembled… and finally began to rise. Amid the white noise of comments, the mockery dissolved, drowned out by new messages — lukewarm at first, then increasingly confident.
The air smelled of overheated cables and ambition.
Finally, Vox's screens glowed again with rising figures. It wasn't euphoria. It was relief. And relief, in Hell, always demanded something in return.
Valentino was the first to relax. He sank into his seat, crossing his legs with a crooked smile. He'd moved pieces in the shadows: late-night calls, favors paid with old promises, debts others thought buried.
And almost without looking, he found something better than a simple image recovery.
Ishnofel was unstable.
Not weak.
Not exposed.
But wounded.
Carmilla Carmine's rejection had left an invisible crack, like a fissure in a statue everyone swore was indestructible.
"Look at him…" said Velvette, leaning back in her seat, one leg dangling carelessly. "The untouchable monster turned out to have feelings."
The blue light of the screens painted her face like an elegant, cruel mask.
Vox didn't take his eyes off the graphs. The sound of updating data marked the room's rhythm.
"And just when our audience started trusting us again," he said, adjusting the volume. "The timing is perfect."
Before Valentino could respond, a figure leaned toward Frank, Velvette's assistant. The whisper was brief, tense, charged with urgency.
Frank didn't react immediately. His eyes drifted into emptiness for a second, as if organizing memories he'd rather not touch.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't a joyful smile.
It was a smile of confirmation.
"Interesting…" he murmured. "Very interesting."
He turned toward The Vees, earning their attention without asking. The atmosphere seemed to contract.
"There's something you should know. Ishnofel wasn't always called that."
The electrical hum of the studio seemed to go silent for a moment.
"Before he fell," he continued, "he was human. His name was Sumaq."
Valentino stopped smiling. The expression froze halfway.
Vox turned off a screen; the dry click echoed like a gunshot.
"Go on," he ordered, without raising his voice.
"He was a priest in Chiclayo. He fell in love with a woman named Eliana… and that's why they expelled him. They married. They had a son."
He made a minimal pause. Just long enough for the name to carry weight.
"In 2007, they both died. He never recovered. He died in 2025. And after that… Lucifer finished breaking him."
Velvette tilted her head, watching him as if he were a museum piece.
"And how do you know all this?"
Frank held her gaze.
"Because I was a priest too. I was there. I watched him fade… day after day."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It was dense. Calculating. Productive.
"Oh," Velvette finally said. "I know exactly what we're going to do."
Valentino exhaled, as if he'd already reached the same conclusion.
"No…" he murmured. Then he smiled. "Yes. Definitely yes."
"A live interview," she added. "No filters. No cuts. Let all of Hell see who he really is."
Vox didn't respond.
He was already sending the invitation.
---
Charlie Morningstar read the message twice.
The glow of the device contrasted with the unease climbing up her chest.
It wasn't fear.
It was a warning.
"I don't like this…"
"I accept," said Ishnofel, without emotion.
Charlie looked up, surprised.
"But you're coming with me," he added.
Vaggie frowned. The atmosphere felt too still.
"You sure you're okay with this?"
Ishnofel didn't answer.
He was already putting on his coat, and the sound of the fabric was more threatening than any scream.
---
The Vee Tower was ready for the show.
The studio gleamed with impeccable lights, too white, too clean for a place built on lies. Cameras floated like hungry eyes. Rehearsed smiles covered fangs.
"It's an honor to have you here," said Vox. "Many consider you a living legend."
"Legends exaggerate," Ishnofel replied. "I just survive."
The first questions were soft, cushioned, designed to lower his guard. Every word was measured. Every pause, calculated.
When Vox tilted his head slightly, Charlie felt the shift, like sudden pressure in her ears.
"Tell me something," he said, in a casual tone. "Does it bother you that we use your real name?"
The air became heavy.
Dense.
Unbearable.
"What…?" Charlie whispered.
"I mean," Vox continued, "Sumaq."
The name didn't echo.
It embedded itself.
Ishnofel didn't react.
"What would Eliana think if she saw you now?" Vox pressed. "And your son?"
The lights seemed to flicker.
"Dear viewers," he announced, "the eighth deadly sin was once a mere human…"
The laughter began timidly.
Then it grew.
Multiplied.
Charlie felt her stomach turn.
Vaggie clenched her teeth until it hurt.
Then Ishnofel laughed.
It wasn't immediate.
It wasn't loud.
It was deep. Ancient.
"You actually thought," he said, lifting his gaze, "that would bring me down."
He rose slowly, and the studio seemed to shrink around him.
"Sumaq died long ago. He died crying. He died begging."
He raised his voice, firm.
"I killed him. I survived."
His eyes burned.
"And now… you will commit the mistake of your existence."
The sword appeared.
The first body fell before anyone could scream.
Chains whistled through the air: throats pierced, cameras shattered, laughter drowned in blood. The screens broadcast static and red — Hell watching itself die.
"Charlie, let's go!" Vaggie shouted.
Ishnofel stood alone among the remains.
Before disappearing, he leaned toward Vox, paralyzed, the floor covered in cables and corpses.
"If you ever speak that name again… I won't kill you quickly."
Then, silence.
And Vox understood — too late — that he hadn't interviewed a broken man.
He had provoked what remained when there was nothing left to lose.