The trip to Jinx's lair was less a stroll and more a vertical kidnapping. She dragged him up staircases clinging to the rock like metal spiders, across swaying catwalks over abysses that promised a quick, dirty death. Kaen didn't resist. Instead, he became the narrator of his own misfortune, his monotone voice an absurd counterpoint to his captor's silent fury.
"Behold, citizens of Zaun!" he cried to the canyon walls. "The passion of a fan taken to extremes! Is this devotion, or a kidnapping for the purposes of forced adoration? The debate is open! The humanity of this woman! Dragging an artist into her den without even offering him a snack!"
Jinx didn't answer. Her grip on the back of his jacket was steel. At last, they reached the entrance: the mouth of a gigantic, ancient ventilation turbine wedged into a wound in the fissure's heart. They stepped inside, and Kaen was released, dropping to the metal floor like a sack of potatoes.
He got up, dusted off his stolen clothes, and took in the place. It was a cathedral of chaos. A massive circular chamber at the center, the colossal fan blades serving as platforms and floors embedded in the fissure's rocky walls. The walls themselves were covered in manic graffiti: grinning monkeys and bullet-shaped clouds. Tools, scrap, and prototype grenades cluttered a workbench circling the middle. A battered old couch rested on one of the blades, and creepy dolls—mocking the likeness of children—hung from beams or sat on furniture, watching with hollow eyes.
"Interesting interior design choice," Kaen remarked, face expressionless. "Very 'post-industrial anarchy chic.' I approve the aesthetic."
Jinx wasn't listening. She dropped him and began pacing in tight circles, like a caged animal. The rage she'd held in on the way finally burst into a torrent of words.
"He thinks I'm weak!" she spat at the air, hands curling into claws. "Told me to rest! Said Sevika would handle it! Like I couldn't! Like I was—like I was weak!"
She stopped before a doll slumped on the couch. Mylo's ghost.
"I didn't mess it up!" she shouted at it. "I had a plan!"
Her gaze shifted to a stuffed figure hanging from a chain. Claggor.
"I was ready!" she whimpered, voice cracking. Hugging herself, she trembled. "I'm not weak! I'm not!"
Kaen tilted his head as he watched. To him, this wasn't a schizophrenic episode—it was theater. Performance art at its most dramatic. And his number one fan was delivering the show of her life.
In her agitation, Jinx snatched a little Progress Day airship toy from her workbench. With manic skill, she used it to ignite one of her Fire-Chomper grenades. In one swift motion, she shoved it over the central abyss of the turbine. Seconds later, a muffled BOOM rumbled from the depths, making the floor tremble. The explosion seemed to calm her for a heartbeat. She turned, and, needing an anchor, clung to Kaen's waist, her body shaking.
"I'm not weak," she whispered again, face buried in his dirty jacket.
While she clung, Kaen's gaze wandered around the workshop. The functional mess fascinated him—it was the space of a true artist, he thought. Then his violet eyes landed on something. Something that desecrated the very concept of art.
Sitting in a corner, atop an ammo crate, was his Poro. Or what remained of it.
Distortion had been… jinxified. It now sported improvised welder's goggles strapped on with wire. Ugly pink thread stitches ran along its side where "surgery" had clearly been performed. Worst of all, a small canvas pocket had been sewn to its chest, the word BOOM scrawled in pink paint.
Kaen's face stayed impassive, but inside, his artist's soul howled in agony.
"No…" he whispered, monotone but laden with comedic tragedy.
Slowly, Jinx still clamped on like a barnacle, he walked toward the abomination. Kneeling, he reached out a trembling hand to stroke the violated plush.
"Look how they massacred my boy!" he proclaimed to the air, quoting a movie no one in this world would understand.
With infinite solemnity, he picked up the modified Poro. Held it aloft, inspecting the damage—the botched stitching, the grenade pouch. A crime. Jinx, still in her haze, looked up. "What? You don't like Boom-Boom?"
That was the last straw. Kaen turned to her, met her eyes, and—raising the Poro—smacked it into her face with a soft but emphatic PLOF, forcing her to release his waist.
"You!" he said, voice flat but each syllable dripping dramatic accusation. "Woman with the memory of a goldfish suffering amnesia! Do your brain circuits reset every five minutes?"
Jinx blinked, utterly thrown by the sudden attack. The shock was enough to silence the ghosts in her head. "What!?"
"You made a vow!" Kaen went on, pointing the Poro at her like a weapon. "A sacred oath on the rust and bad taste of this bridge! You swore to be my greatest fan! The president of my fan club! And the first rule of the fan club is: Do not deface the artist's official merchandise!"
He grabbed her by the shoulders. "You think Silco thinks you're weak? Of course he does! You can't even remember your most basic duties as my number one follower! Your crisis of faith isn't with your crime boss—it's with me! Your idol! Your beacon in the musical darkness!"
His logic was so twisted, so unbelievably self-centered, that Jinx was speechless. She stared at him, brain struggling to process the whiplash. Her existential crisis, her trauma, her rage—all recontextualized by this idiot as a breach of fan obligations. It was so absurd that… it worked.
An incredulous laugh escaped her lips. "You're… mad about the plushie?"
"Mad?" Kaen replied, feigning monumental offense. "I am devastated. You've wounded Distortion's very plushie soul. But," he added, tone shifting to one of forced magnanimity, "as a compassionate artist, I forgive you. Because I know your vandalism comes from a place of love and uncontrolled admiration."
He released her and handed the Poro back. "Consider it your responsibility now. Restore it to its former glory. Or at least, give it a pocket that better matches its eyes."
Jinx took the Poro—now Boom-Boom—and hugged it. The storm inside her eased, replaced by an odd, amused calm. Kaen's chaos was an antidote to her own. She collapsed onto the couch, exhausted.
"You're so weird," she murmured, but there was no venom in it.
Kaen sat beside her, crossing his legs with elegance. "I'm a misunderstood genius. There's a difference."
They sat in silence for a moment. Jinx's gaze wandered over her workshop, finally landing on the little airship toy she'd used to light her grenade. A spark lit in her tired eyes. An idea. A solution. A way to prove she wasn't weak.
She turned to Kaen, expression now sharp and burning with renewed purpose.
"Hey, Dead Fish."
"Resident Artist, if you don't mind," he corrected.
She ignored him. Leaning in, eyes glinting with dangerous new light, she said, "I need something from up there. From that so-called man of progress's display. Something… shiny."
She pointed at the toy airship. "I want to steal one of his Hextech gems. And you," she said, smiling in a way that was both an invitation and a tender plea, "are going to help me."