Kaen Vexis stared at the abyss where his number one fan and his first piece of merchandise had vanished. His face was a blank canvas, but in the theater of his mind, he was on his knees, screaming a dramatic "NOOOO!" at a nonexistent sky while (imaginary) rain soaked his hair.
"Stolen," he murmured, his voice flat and devoid of the tragedy he felt inside. "The first martyr of my musical career. Distortion, the Poro, your sacrifice will not be in vain. I shall write a seventeen-minute progressive rock ballad in your honor."
He sighed, an exhalation that sounded like artistic defeat. With the dignity of a dethroned king, he rose from the rusted catwalk. Hunger, an enemy far more persistent than the Enforcers, roared back. He needed gears. And fast.
His eyes landed on a promising target: a burly man, with more muscle than common sense, polishing his mechanical leg with an oily rag. Kaen approached with the confidence of someone about to sell a bridge.
"Greetings, distinguished gentleman of cybernetic enhancement," Kaen began, his voice monotone. "I have admired your magnificent prosthesis. A true work of art. And as a fellow artist"—he gestured toward his bass—"'Ear-Splitter,' I feel a connection to your passion."
The man looked him up and down, his one organic eye narrowing. He eyed Kaen's posh clothes, now dirty and torn. "What do you want, lost pretty boy?"
Kaen placed a hand over his chest, as if the word "pretty boy" had caused him deep emotional pain. "I am a visionary, not a pretty boy. And I am offering a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. For the modest sum of ten gears, I will compose an epic fanfare in your honor. An anthem celebrating the glory of your leg."
The man stared at him for a long second. Then burst into laughter that sounded like an avalanche of scrap metal. "Ten gears? For a horrible noise? Get lost before I use this leg to tune your face!"
"But it's an investment in your legacy," Kaen insisted, unfazed. "Think about it. People will gather and say: 'There goes the man with the legendary leg, whose greatness was immortalized in the song of the musical genius, Kaen Vexis.' It's cheap immortality."
"The only cheap thing here is you," the man growled, returning to polishing his leg. "You've got three seconds to disappear."
Just as Kaen was preparing for a tactical retreat, a stampede of Zaunite children ran between them, screaming and laughing as they played a chaotic version of tag. Kaen, with Shimmer-reflexes, dodged them with a fluidity that seemed out of place, stepping aside effortlessly.
When the children were gone, his hand, by pure instinct, went to his pocket to check if anything was missing. The pocket, of course, was empty, as always. It had been a reflexive gesture, one he didn't fully understand. As he watched the kids vanish into an alley, the world went silent.
The noise of the market, the hum of the pipes, all faded away.
In their place, he heard two crystalline voices—children's voices that weren't there.
"Wait, Orianna!" a boy's voice said, breathless, full of childish worry. "Your father said we shouldn't go too far from the workshop!"
A girl's laugh, like the tinkling of crystal chimes, replied. "Hehe, it's fine, Kaen. Don't worry." The sound of her steps was not running, but the light, precise jumps of a dancer.
The sound cut off as suddenly as it had begun. The chaos of Zaun rushed back into his ears. Kaen stood frozen, his expressionless face hiding a whirlwind of confusion. Orianna? Kaen? Why did that boy's voice sound… familiar?
The man with the mechanical arm noticed his stillness. "What's wrong with you, weirdo? See a ghost?"
Kaen blinked slowly. He turned his head toward the man, his expression as blank as ever. "Something like that," he murmured. He touched his temple, as if checking whether his brain was still there. "Hmm. Auditory hallucinations. Fascinating."
He walked a few steps, thoughtful, his gestures exaggerated in contrast to his face. "Of course. Makes sense. I've been under extreme artistic stress. My international debut, the overwhelming public response, the tragic sacrifice of my Poro… naturally, my mind begins to fracture under the weight of my own genius." He reached a conclusion with absurd solemnity. "I have entered my artistic schizophrenia stage. Many greats suffer from it."
He decided, with flawless logic in his mind, that he needed medical attention. "I need a doctor. An expert in the psyche of the tortured artist. And I only know one with the necessary experience to handle a case as complex as mine."
The only "doctor" he knew. Singed. His "father."
And if there was one place in Zaun where you could find the mind behind the underworld, it had to be his headquarters: The Last Drop.
Getting there was easy. Follow the trail of important-looking thugs and the smell of power and cheap beer. The entrance was guarded by two gorillas who looked like they'd been built with the same parts as a tank.
"Hold it right there," one of them growled, blocking his way. "This isn't a place for lost pretty boys."
Kaen looked at them with artistic disdain. "Gentlemen, your perception is understandable but mistaken. I'm not here to consume your plebeian brews. I'm here to see my father."
The guards exchanged a confused glance. "Your father?"
"Yes. Singed," Kaen said, as if it were the most common surname in the world. "We have a family appointment. To discuss my troubling mental health and the budget for my next tour. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
He tried to pass, but the other guard stopped him. "Singed isn't here. And even if he was, we wouldn't let some lunatic claiming to be his kid inside."
Kaen sighed, a long, suffering sound. "Look, your skepticism is an insult to both biology and nepotism. If you don't let me in, my father will find out about your lack of respect toward his one and fabulous heir. Do you want to be the ones to explain why his son had to get therapy in a dirty alley instead of his opulent office? Think about it."
The guards looked at each other again, this time with a hint of doubt. Kaen's absurd confidence was unsettling. Finally, the first guard shrugged. "Let him in. If he's lying, Sevika will take care of him."
They opened the door. Kaen entered with a nod. "Wise decision. I'll get you tickets for my next concert. VIP section."
The inside of The Last Drop was lively, full of Shimmer smoke and hostile stares. The moment his posh shoes touched the wooden floor, all conversation stopped. Dozens of eyes locked on him. The silence was heavy.
Kaen scanned the room, his face a mask of supreme boredom. "Relax," his monotone voice cut through the tension. "I haven't come to judge your depressing décor. Continue with your important activities of drinking and muttering."
Conversations resumed, though quieter, with furtive glances his way. He walked deeper into the bar, heading for the counter like he owned the place. There, he spotted a familiar figure. Sevika. She was standing with a small group, her mechanical arm humming softly. Her face was tight with anger.
"…a complete disaster," she was saying, her voice a low growl. "We lost the whole shipment and now I have to clean up that brat's mess! And Silco wants me to pin it on the Firelights! Like anyone's gonna believe that!"
Kaen approached and leaned casually on the bar beside her, with utterly undeserved familiarity. "Trouble in criminal paradise, Mrs. Terminator?"
Sevika spun sharply, eyes narrowing as she recognized him. "You. The scam artist. What the hell are you doing here?"
"Looking for my father," Kaen said simply. "Doctor Singed. He owes me pay and an explanation for my new and interesting hallucinations. Have you seen him? Or is he busy creating more masterpieces like me?"
"Father? Are you insane?" Sevika was about to grab him with her mechanical arm, her patience already worn thin by the day's events. "Get out of here before I turn you into wall décor."
"So aggressive," Kaen remarked. "It's just a simple family question. Though if you don't know where he is, maybe you could help me with something else. I need funding for my next album. It'll be titled 'Ode to a Stolen Poro.' Very emotional."
Sevika was about to explode. Her human hand curled into a fist. "I'm going to—"
BANG!
The upstairs door slammed open, smashing against the wall. Jinx appeared at the top of the stairs, her face twisted in fury and frustration. "'Rest a little, Jinx!'" she mimicked Silco's voice with venomous sarcasm. "'Sevika will take care of it!' Like I need that ogre to clean up my messes!"
She stormed down the stairs, her foul mood a black cloud around her. Her furious gaze swept the bar until it landed on the scene at the counter: Kaen, the noisy king, chatting cheerfully with Sevika, the thief of her responsibilities.
She stopped. The anger on her face was replaced by a blank, determined expression. Without a word, she strode quickly across the bar, ignoring everyone's stares.
Sevika saw her coming. "Jinx, this isn't the time for your—"
She didn't get to finish. Jinx ignored her entirely. She came up behind Kaen, who was about to offer Sevika an honorary position in his fan club, grabbed him unceremoniously by the collar of his elegant jacket, and, without slowing, began dragging him toward the exit.
Kaen being hauled away, his feet scraping comically along the floor. He didn't resist. He didn't even seem surprised. Instead, he raised one arm dramatically toward the stunned crowd in the bar.
"Help!" he exclaimed, his monotone stripping the word of all panic and turning it into a performance. "My number one fan, in a fit of possessive affection, is taking me to her basement to have me all to herself! It's the classic yandere scenario! Tell the world my story!"
The entire bar watched in silence as Jinx dragged the dramatic and strangely calm musician out of The Last Drop, her face a mask of silent fury while her "prisoner" narrated his own kidnapping with the enthusiasm of a documentary host. The door closed behind them, leaving Sevika and a room full of criminals in a state of absolute and total confusion.