Kaen Vexis was crouched in an alley, surrounded by a pile of scrap he'd gathered like a crow obsessed with shiny things. Twisted pipes, rusty gears, fragments of metal reflecting Zaun's neon lights—it was all his raw material. His violet eyes gleamed with a mix of determination and peak concentration as he shaped a chunk of junk into something that, with a generous dose of imagination, could pass for a sculpture.
"This is art," he murmured, voice flat but full of pride in his creation. He held up a tangle of pipes and wires that vaguely resembled a hungover bird. "The snobs in Piltover would pay fortunes for this. Zaun isn't ready for my genius."
He had spent the whole morning testing his Shimmer-enhanced skills, and the results were… impressive. His hands were faster, his fingers more precise, and he could bend metal like it was playdough. The tingling in his veins was addictive, but Kaen knew pushing the Shimmer too far was probably a bad idea. "I don't wanna end up like a B-movie mutant," he told himself, though the idea of having tentacles did sound vaguely fun.
His plan was simple: turn scrap into "art" and sell it to Zaun's passersby with the shameless confidence of a professional scammer. The goal: earn enough gears to buy that beat-up electric bass he'd seen at the night market. The instrument had been calling to him like a siren ever since, and Kaen wasn't about to let something as trivial as poverty stand in his way.
He stood up, bundled his "sculptures" into a ragged bedsheet, and headed for the market. The street was alive with noise: merchants shouting, thugs arguing, kids pickpocketing with surgeon-level precision. Kaen found a spot between two stalls, spread his sheet on the ground, and placed his creations like they were museum pieces. Then, with his blank expression and flat voice, he began the show.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Zaun!" he called out, gesturing as if he were on stage. "Behold the future of art! Unique sculptures, crafted with the soul of the city! Perfect for your home, your bar, or to impress that boss you secretly hate!"
A few pedestrians stopped—more out of curiosity than genuine interest. One of them, a guy with a makeshift monocle, eyed a "sculpture" that looked like a cross between a broken fan and an octopus. "What the hell is this?" he grunted.
Kaen, not missing a beat, pointed at the piece with theatrical flair. "That, good sir, is The Sigh of the Fog. It represents Zaun's struggle to breathe freely. Deep, isn't it?" His voice remained monotone, but his violet eyes sparkled with mischief.
The man frowned. "Isn't this just squashed garbage?"
Kaen placed a hand on his chest, pretending to be offended. "Garbage? This is treasure! But since I see you have a fine eye for exclusivity, I'll let it go for… ten gears. A steal."
"..."
The man snorted. "Ha! Alright, kid. I'll give you five gears for your 'art.' Just because it caught my eye."
Kaen tilted his head, considering. "Ten gears."
"Six."
"Ten," Kaen repeated, face unchanging.
The man looked at him, half amused, half exasperated. "You're a cheeky little bastard. Seven. Final offer."
Kaen nodded and handed over the sculpture. "Deal." The man tossed seven gears, which Kaen snatched out of the air with a swift motion, thanks to his Shimmer reflexes. "A pleasure, sir. Enjoy your masterpiece." He gave the man an exaggerated bow.
As he pocketed the gears, he felt a tingle at the back of his neck. He looked up toward a nearby rooftop, where a small figure with blue braids crouched like a cat. Jinx. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, though she said nothing.
The rest of the afternoon went the same way: Kaen convincing vendors, thugs, and even a couple of teenagers with more gears than common sense to buy his "sculptures." He used his enhanced strength to mold pieces on the spot, bending metal with his hands like clay, which drew more attention. At one point, he improvised a "statue" for a woman with dyed red hair, telling her it was "a tribute to her fierce vibe." She paid twelve gears, absolutely thrilled.
By the time the market started to thin out, Kaen had a pocketful of gears and a deeply satisfied grin—though his face remained as blank as a wall. "I'm a criminal genius," he muttered, counting his coins. "Or an artistic one. Maybe both."
Without wasting time, he headed straight for the stall where he'd seen the electric bass. The vendor—same guy with welding goggles and a mustache that looked alive—gave him a suspicious look. "Back again, huh? You got gears this time?"
Kaen emptied his pockets onto the counter, coins clinking like a tiny orchestra. "Twenty gears, like you said. Hand it over before I blow it all on noodles."
The vendor counted the coins, grumbled something about "weird kids," and handed over the bass. Kaen took it like it was a sacred relic, eyes gleaming. The instrument was beat to hell—rusty strings, chipped paint—but to him, it was perfect. He slung it over his shoulder with a dramatic flair, like he'd just won a duel. "The world isn't ready for my solos," he said, voice flat but hands already miming chords.
With the bass secured, his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since that "borrowed" skewer from the nameless hero. He walked toward a food stall he instantly recognized: the one run by the fish-man. A pirate-looking guy with bulging eyes who spoke in a guttural language no one really understood. The stall was wedged between pipes and neon lights, smelling of spices and frying oil, with skewers sizzling over a makeshift grill.
Kaen approached, face unreadable as he examined the menu—or rather, the various chunks of meat impaled on sticks. "Hey, boss," he said, his monotone directed at the fish-man, who stared back with a look that might've been curiosity or indigestion. "Give me three of those skewers. Put it on my dad's tab—Singed."
The fish-man blinked, his gills twitching, and let out a string of sounds that resembled a dying engine. Kaen, unbothered, leaned against the counter like he owned the place. "Yeah, yeah, Singed. The guy with the jars and mad scientist face. We're family, you know? Super close." He waved vaguely, as if that explained everything.
The fish-man stared at him, grunted something, and handed over the skewers—probably because he didn't want to argue with someone that shameless. Kaen took the skewers with an exaggerated bow. "You're a hero, my friend. Tell Singed his favorite son says hi." He walked off, biting into a skewer, the burnt spice flavor filling his mouth as the fish-man shook his head, mumbling in his weird language.
Kaen sat on a curb, the bass resting beside him, devouring the skewers with the calm of someone who had just scammed half of Zaun and was living his best life. "Step one: get the bass. Done. Step two: free food. Done. Step three…" He looked toward the horizon, where Piltover's towers gleamed like a distant dream. "But first, I need to practice."
He gently stroked the bass, his fingers brushing the rusty strings. He had no idea how to play it, but that had never stopped him before. "Get ready, Zaun," he muttered, voice flat but eyes sparkling with gremlin energy. "The concert of the century is coming."
And as the night market buzzed to life around him, Kaen Vexis—armed with his busted bass and ridiculous confidence—felt, for the first time, like he truly belonged in this world of lunatics.