Ah, the sycophants. Normally, he loved them - running them in circles was a fantastic passtime. But that potshot at Alastor was just the wrong snark at just the wrong time.

Not that Vox would let the perfect mask slip, of course!

"It's a little light on one side, I gotta admit! Say, pal, when did we Contract? Gosh, about seven years now? And you've been making good on your opportunities," Vox looped an arm around the man's shoulders, squeezing him uncomfortably close and walking. If the guy couldn't walk-and-talk, all the more reason to drag him along and make him sweat this out.