Crane moved through the alleys and dimly lit streets, the scent of damp stone and rotting metal clinging to the air.
That kiss with Vi… it felt like I was getting stronger. I guess intimacy is what it takes to draw life force.
Not as potent as sex, maybe—but still useful.
Inside his body, little pockets of Fear Toxin pulsed—carefully sealed, waiting to be released.
As he approached the final turn to the base, he slowed and pressed his back against the wall.
He exhaled slowly, controlling his breath, heart rate steady.
Then he extended his pinky around the wall.
Then, with a quiet flex of will, he created an eye on the tip of his pinky.
He closed his other eyes, letting his focus shift to the one he had just formed.
Through it, he saw the base tucked between two decaying old buildings.
The entrance: a steel door leading underground.
Two guards stood on either side of it, rifles in hand, their voices low and casual as they chatted—unaware someone was watching.
Crane pulled his pinky back and let the eye dissolve into nothing.
He leaned back against the wall, thinking.
To get a better vantage point, he slipped into one of the crumbling buildings nearby.
The old door groaned as he pushed it open.
He climbed the stairs in silence, boots landing light against concrete eaten by time.
At the top, he moved to the edge and looked down at the guards below.
Hmm. I could just jump on the first guard. Kill him fast.
But the second?
His gaze dropped to his arm.
He pressed two fingers to his forearm, and with deliberate precision, created a bubble beneath the skin—roughly the size of a hand. It swelled outward, clear and pulsing, filled with concentrated Fear Toxin.
Just throw it on him like a water balloon. Duh.
With a faint snap, he detached the skin bubble from his arm and cradled it in his left hand, toxic and fragile as glass.
He took a few steps back toward the far wall, preparing to sprint—
Then abruptly stopped himself.
No. Be serious. No need to run.
He stepped up to the ledge, calm now, the toxin bubble balanced in his hand.
He dropped it.
It plummeted down toward the guards below—
—and a beat later, he stepped off the ledge, falling in its wake.
————————————
"So, did you ever go to that brothel I told you about?"
The right guard nudged the other with a grin.
"Course I did. Had a good time, but didn't stay long. Just got a blowjob. Liked the fountain in the lounge." The left guard smiled, lost in the memory.
"There wasn't a fountain in the lounge… You did go to the Pink Brothel, right?" the right guard asked, frowning.
"No, now that I think of it—it was blue. Why?" the left guard said, confused.
The right guard's face shifted. "Those weren't wom—"
SPLAT.
Something burst on the ground between them. A reeking, hissing cloud of gas exploded upward.
Their eyes widened. Their lungs seized.
Their rifles clattered to the ground as fear overtook every muscle, every nerve.
THUD.
A figure crashed down, landing squarely on the left guard—
crushing him beneath the weight. His body hit the pavement with a wet, final sound.
The figure above him was twisted, legs shattered from the fall, bones jutting at odd angles beneath torn fabric.
Its back was to the right guard—motionless.
The right guard tried to scream.
But before he could—
shhk—
his head hit the ground a second later, mouth still open.
—————————————
Crane pushed himself off the corpse beneath him, bones cracking softly as his body shifted.
His legs had already begun to mend—knitting faster than before, the pain fleeting.
Behind him, his tail twitched—slick with blood from the clean slice that took the guard's head.
He stood upright, stretching out both legs, watching them stabilize beneath him.
"Damn," he muttered. "That was fast… Was it the kiss? Or the food?"
He rolled his shoulders, turning his attention to the steel door ahead.
Somewhere down there were organs—good ones. Preserved. Ready for sale.
He could try to steal them.
Or just kill everyone and take what he wanted.
He tilted his head.
"Hmm. Options."
He walked to the door.
Leaning against the cold steel, he closed his eyes.
From his back, his astral form peeled away, silent and invisible as it slipped through the door and floated downward, weightless.
He descended the stairwell, his ethereal presence gliding past rusted pipes and flickering lights, until he reached the room below.
A dirty, makeshift facility stretched out before him—concrete floors, flickering bulbs, and the low hum of refrigeration units.
Two dozen people moved around with quiet urgency, carrying sealed metal cases—some full of organs, others dragging dead bodies—loading them into large cold freezers.
Crane's eyes drifted beyond them.
Cages.
Children and adults were packed inside—silent, wide-eyed, trembling.
Their skin was marked with inked numbers, bruises dark around joints.
Near the far end of the room, guards stood stiffly with rifles in hand, watching a thick, bolted door.
But something else caught Crane's attention.
Some workers wore ripped sleeves, thin cloth. Nothing unusual in Zaun.
But they weren't shivering.
I've been to morgues. If I wore what they wore, I'd be frozen stiff.
So why aren't they cold?
His gaze drifted to the ceiling, then the walls.
Two large industrial fans churned steadily, pushing a steady current of air into the room.
The cold from the freezers should've made the place unbearable—especially with so many freezers.
But the workers, some in ripped shirts or thin layers, didn't seem to mind.
This room should be freezing.
The only reason it isn't… is those fans. Hot air's being pumped in. From outside.
He followed the ventilation with his eyes, tracing the thick ducts as they disappeared into the walls.
he slipped through the building's infrastructure, gliding along the path the warm air traveled.
It led him to a side room buried deeper underground.
Inside, several workers tended to an old furnace, feeding it fuel to keep the heat flowing.
The warm air was being piped from here.
But that wasn't the end of it.
He kept going—up through another corridor, winding through narrow shafts and vents—until he reached the top.
At last, he emerged onto the roof of the same decaying building he'd climbed earlier.
From here, the final segment of the ventilation system opened to the outside.
He stared down at the rusted grate, warm air puffing outward in steady bursts.
Perfect.
He descended again—this time straight down, no need to follow the pipes.
His body still leaned casually against the steel door.
His eyes opened.
And he smiled.
It was the same building I was on—just the other side.
Crane turned without hesitation and made his way back to the decaying building.
He slipped back into the decaying structure, the door groaning quietly as it shut behind him.
The air was still heavy with dust and mold.
The stairs creaked beneath his weight as he climbed, each step groaning with age and decay.
Up and up—until he reached the top once more.
The rooftop greeted him with a low hiss of wind and rusted metal.
He crossed to the far side, where the old ventilation shaft jutted up like a chimney, warm air still pouring steadily from its opening.
Crane crouched beside it, the corners of his mouth curling.
I'll throw a lot of bubbles of concentrated fear down there—enough to knock them all out cold with panic.
Then I'll just walk in, kill the workers, and free the people in cages.
Something nice for random strangers.
But I'm keeping the organs.
His grin widened.
Still need to take care of the furnace crew, though.
Can't have them stopping the gas. Extra fear bubbles for them.
He rolled up both sleeves, baring the red skin of his arms to the open air.
Then, with a steady breath, he placed both arms over the open vent.
His skin writhed.
Dozens of translucent bubbles swelled from beneath his flesh, pulsing with sickly yellow toxin.
They rolled down his arms like sweat, detaching one by one and dropping into the shaft—silent and deadly.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
Each bubble fell like a whisper of doom into the darkness, carried by the steady flow of heated air.
Twenty should be enough.
Without hesitation, Crane stepped off the ledge again.
The wind rushed past him as the ground rushed up to meet him—
CRACK—
He landed hard, both legs snapping at the shins from the impact.
"Oh shi-"
Bone pierced through skin, jutting out at odd angles.
He exhaled through his teeth, steady. Calm.
As his legs began to knit themselves back together, tendons reattaching, bones snapping back in place with wet clicks, he dusted himself off.
He glanced at the steel door to the base.
Five seconds until they hit. Just five seconds more.
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One…
BOOM—
The steel door blasted off its hinges with a deafening explosion, a wave of hot air and pressure slamming into Crane like a train.
It hit him square in the chest, flinging him backwards across the alley like a ragdoll.
He skidded across the cracked pavement, his back scraping against rusted metal and broken glass until he came to a hard stop against a dented dumpster.
For a moment, there was only ringing.
Then, he groaned.
His body immediately began to regenerate, pushing out shards of glass and metal from his face.
His legs snapped back into place, and his left arm reformed as he pushed himself off the dumpster.
He began walking toward the base, his right arm snapping back into position as well.
It shouldn't have exploded.
I didn't condense that much fear in them, and even if I did, it would've just seeped through the door at most.
He reached the entrance and descended the stairs, the unsettling silence growing heavier with each step.
When he reached the bottom, the sight that greeted him left him confused for a beat.
Everything was burned.
Charred bodies of workers littered the room, their forms twisted and blackened by the blast.
His gaze shifted to the cages—people and children, also reduced to ashes, their forms indistinguishable in the devastation.
He turned to the fans.
They, too, had been torn apart—blasted into useless heaps of twisted metal.
I didn't know my Fear Toxin was flammable… Crane thought, eyes scanning the destruction. It must've caught fire.
And if the people in the furnace room shut the vents…
His gaze drifted toward the twisted remains of the ventilation system.
Then the gas had nowhere to go.
It built up… until it detonated. Blew the vents.
Blew the door.
Ah, fiddlesticks.
The only thing still standing was the thick steel door at the far end—the same one the guards had been posted near earlier.
With a heavy groan, it creaked open.
From the smoke stepped a man—massive, broad-shouldered, and untouched by the destruction around him.
In his hands, he held an axe, its edge gleaming.
He looked around, slowly taking in the charred remains of his operation.
The bodies. The melted freezers. The twisted vents.
Then his gaze landed on Crane, standing in the middle of it all—bloodied, dressed like a scarecrow, and very much alive.
Their eyes locked.
Silence.
Then the boss stepped forward, tightening his grip on the axe.
"I had this imported from Noxus," he said, voice low and proud. "Cuts through steel like meat."
Crane tilted his head, expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his mask.
"Good thing I'm not wearing any steel."
The boss roared and charged, axe raised.
Crane didn't flinch. He calmly formed a bubble of Fear Toxin and hurled it at the man's face.
It burst on impact.
The boss inhaled—and staggered.
He looked at Crane, eyes wide with terror, and stumbled back. "No… stay away from me. Stop—!"
He fell to the floor, scrambling, convulsing.
Crane stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he stood over him.
"You know," he said, crouching, "if you had stronger willpower, you might've resisted. Still would've lost—but you wouldn't have gone out so pathetically."
Then he grabbed the man's face and forced a concentrated dose of fear toxin straight down his throat.
The boss choked on it—on fear itself.
Crane shoved him aside and stood up.
He walked over to one of the freezers, wrenched the door open.
Nothing was safe.
The contents were charred, melted, ruined—organs blistered black, bodies reduced to ash and bone.
He sifted through them anyway, hoping for something salvageable. Nothing was intact.
He turned to the cages.
Rows of corpses—burned, curled in on themselves. Some small. Some very small.
Crane stared, silent for a moment.
I was actually thinking of being nice… freeing them.
His brow furrowed behind the mask.
Would've been a good look. Earn some trust. Not entirely free, of course—I'd try to recruit them later.
He sighed and glanced toward the open door the boss had come out of, dark and untouched by the blast.
Being nice to strangers is hard.
He started walking toward it.
The boss's office was cramped, cluttered—walls lined with weapons, the faint stench of rot and oil clinging to the air.
Filing cabinets crowded one side, and a battered desk sat at the center, its surface buried under folders and loose sheets.
Crane pulled open a drawer and began rifling through the papers.
"Damn…" he muttered, skimming a document. "There's got to be at least a dozen organ rings operating across Zaun."
He moved on to another—ledgers, records, all meticulously kept.
Not just Zaun.
Hospitals in Piltover were listed too.
He was about to toss it aside, bored of the usual corruption—until a line caught his eye.
A fresh order. Dated for tonight.
He paused. Scanned closer.
Organs. Destination. Time. Dropoff coordinates. All clearly listed.
Crane grinned behind his mask.
A sale tonight, huh?
He tucked the paper into his coat.
Guess I'll handle the delivery. I mean… what are they going to do? Complain?
His gaze drifted back toward the scorched ruins behind him—bodies still smoking, metal twisted and warped, the air thick with burnt ozone and blood.
Yeah. I'm sure they'll be real upset.
He turned back toward the desk, flipping through a few more documents with idle fingers—mostly invoices, purchase orders, payment logs.
This wasn't just one ring. This was a network. And this office? A hub.
He tilted his head slightly, considering.
I could dismantle the whole thing.
Replace it. Make it better. Cleaner. Fear-driven.
He chuckled low under his breath.
Efficient.
Sliding the last drawer open, he grabbed a small bundle of marked-up maps and stuffed them into his coat with the coordinates.
His gaze drifted to a tattered straw hat slumped on a nearby shelf.
"Finders keepers," he muttered, plucking it up and setting it on his head without hesitation.
He swept up every important document he could find, then opened his stomach with practiced ease and stuffed them inside.
On his way out, he snagged a metal container—probably the only one that hadn't been scorched—and took it with him.
Exiting the boss's office, he paused beside the corpse and leaned down to pick up the axe.
"He said it cuts through steel like meat…" Crane mumbled. "Any decent axe can cut through me. This is just overkill."
He drove the blade into the boss's gut, carving through with slow, deliberate strokes, harvesting the organs he needed for the job ahead.
Once finished, he slipped them into the metal container, sealing it tight with a soft click.
Then, without a glance back, Crane ascended the scorched stairs and stepped back out into the cold, smoke-tinged air of Zaun.
The alleys greeted him with their usual stench and smog, rusted pipes and blinking lights casting long shadows as he moved.
Container in one hand, axe slung over his shoulder, he slipped through the alleys of Zaun.
——————————
The lab door creaked open.
Crane stepped inside, boots tapping against the metal floor as the faint scent of chemicals and blood greeted him.
Singed stood at his usual station, hunched over a vat of shimmering purple liquid, the tubes around him pulsating with slow, sickly light.
"I'm back earlier than normal," Crane said casually.
"I can see that," Singed replied without turning.
"Well, actually you can't, because you're not looking at me," Crane muttered, voice low and amused. "But I'll stay quiet about that."
He moved across the lab, heading toward one of the industrial freezers along the far wall.
"I'm going to have to keep something frozen—just for a couple hours. That okay?" he asked, already pulling the door open.
"Too late. It's already inside," Crane said as he placed the container into the freezer and shut the door with a solid clunk.
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked down the dim hall toward his room.
He shut the door behind him with a soft click, then slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold floor.
With a low breath, he opened his stomach, the flesh parting like a curtain.
He reached inside and pulled out the folded maps and papers, spreading them across the floor in front of him.
Marked bases. Routes. Names.
He scoured through each document with patient precision, memorizing trade patterns, locations, and contact points.
Every scrap of information had value—especially now that he'd taken one of the rings out of commission.
Besides the maps, he scribbled in a notebook—schematics for an exoskeleton, ideas for prosthetics.
Notes and designs that could appeal to Piltover's polished sensibilities.
The flickering light overhead buzzed quietly.
And Crane waited—for the sun to die and the city to sleep.
———————————
Jayce stood in front of his blackboard, chalk in hand, frustration tightening his jaw.
The equations and half-finished schematics covering the surface mocked him—every line, every theory, another dead end.
With a scowl, he dragged his sleeve across the board, wiping away hours of work in a burst of irritation.
Then—knock knock.
He froze, the chalk dust still clinging to his fingertips.
With a sigh, he set the chalk down, slid his notes aside, and walked to the door.
He opened it.
Caitlyn stood in the hallway, arms crossed, her uneasy gaze flicking past him into the room.
"Is Jonathan here with you?" she asked, already leaning slightly to peer over his shoulder.
Jayce blinked. "No—he's probably in the Undercity," he said, stepping aside slightly, though the room was clearly empty. "Sorry. I don't know when he'll be back up… but I can pass along a message for you, if you want."
Caitlyn looked frustrated for a moment before her expression cooled.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, polished metal badge—sleek and engraved with the Kiramman family crest.
"Here," she said, placing it firmly in Jayce's hand. "Give this to him. Tell him to come to the Kiramman estate. He can show that to the guards—they'll let him through."
She met Jayce's eyes. "Tell him it's important."
"Yeah, sure. Will do," Jayce said, watching her go.
Caitlyn turned without another word and walked off, her footsteps sharp and quick against the polished floor.
Jayce closed the door behind her and looked down at the badge in his hand, brow furrowed.
"What could be so important?" he muttered.
He had no idea it wasn't about a case or politics or science.
Caitlyn just wanted to know if Jonathan wanted her as… a friend.
—————————————
I can never finish a game, I always play games then I just stop 80% of the way in.
I have not finished persona 5 yet it's been 2 years since I started playing.
I always play for a couple hours a week then I play other games.