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