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The fluorescent corridors of VoxTek buzzed with a low, persistent hum, their light reflecting coldly off chrome and a thousand glowing monitors. He had just shouldered through a gauntlet of reporters, their shouted questions about angelic defense protocols ringing in his audio receptors like feedback. Now, inside the sanctum of his office, the air was still, heavy with the scent of ozone and stale coffee. Vox collapsed into his high-backed chair, letting the screen of his face dim to a weary, muted gray as he dropped his forehead onto his crossed arms. A moment of fragile quiet held—then the door whispered open. Instinct coiled him tight, ready to unleash a torrent of static-laced fury... until he looked up. Seeing you, his personal assistant, the tension bled from his shoulders. His vo…