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His room stinks.
Well, to be fair, it isn’t Kayn’s fault.
Sure, it was him who found that sketchy website, and it was him who clicked on the self-proclaimed ‘recipe for success’-- and it was him who had gathered his things (an old shoelace, some toothpaste, a two-day-old energy drink and, okay, maybe a little blood) and laid them out across his carpet.
Out of boredom, he justifies. Boredom and… curiosity.
As the shape of the jagged crescent and its two partner Xs (Kayn can’t quite make out what it’s supposed to be– If he’s honest, he thought it would’ve been some sort of pentagram) sizzle into the matted faux fur of the carpet underfoot, the pink-haired boy sits back on his bed and groans.
Seconds tick by, and Kayn soon becomes annoyed. There isn’t another sound in the studio apart from his own breathing, nor is there anything from the world outside– not even the sputter of a car backfiring, nor the comical yowl of a distressed cat.
It’s definitely going to leave a stain, this mess, and the smell isn’t exactly wafting away like petals on a summer breeze. And he can’t open the window, because he’s sure someone will be outside, begging for an interview with the newest pop scene pariah.
Squatting on the edge of his bed, Kayn scoffs out a cruel laugh. He reaches one hand behind his head, scratching unashamedly at the nape of his neck.
Let them come, he thinks. Let them come, and I’ll show them all who I really am.
He runs the same hand through his short hair roughly, moving suddenly from crown to bangs, no doubt sending some small strands off of his scalp and onto the floor below–
And then that’s when it changes.
The foul smell, not all too different from the stench of Sett’s socks left in the wash basket a day too long, suddenly picks up and becomes metal. The thrill of it rocks through Kayn’s system like fire– it smells like a performance, a gig with microphones and a roaring crowd, surging and screaming and alive.
And it’s so real. He can hear the audience, practically feel their presence in the room– it knocks him back onto the bed, his balance spent, and it’s weird because usually he’s so perfectly poised– but who cares, because the lights are on him, the cameras are on him, everyone’s eyes are on him, and they’re chanting his name:
Kayn! Kayn! Ka–
And then his room is plunged into darkness.
No, nothing jumps out of him, not even a slight shriek. No, he’s actually very composed and is totally fine with everything that’s happening, even if– everyone else is out right now.
Sett, K’Sante, Aphelios, Yone and Ezreal are out grabbing dinner while Kayn sulks at home.
Except he’s not sulking– he’s not sure what he’s feeling or what his face is doing, but his lips are stretched into some mixture between a wild smile and a toothy scream, because his room is shaking, and then everything is bathed in purple-pink light.
Posters fall from the walls, and his half-folded clothes somehow tumble into an even worse mess than before.
He has to squint against the light– electric as it is– but finds himself peeking over the side of his bed anyway, curious to no end.
His jaw drops open.
His carpet has split, torn roughly into two, his sloppily-drawn lines sparking with fire and bright white etchings of… something else.
And as he watches, the pit spreads open like a mouth, wide and hungry.
If he leans in close enough, Kayn is sure he can see something churning deep in its jaws, the rumble of something greater. His eyes go wide as the screams of fans and an entire world calling out to him envelop his mind and body, eyes unblinking so as to grasp more of it, take in more, more, more.
His knuckles are white, hands strained against the edge of the bed, head dangling dangerously over– but the thrill of it is intoxicating, and he can’t– won’t– look away.
Not even for a moment.
Half in a daze, one of his hands reaches out, disembodied and twisted.
He needs it, whatever this thing is offering. He needs their screams, their eyes, their voices– he needs it all. He reaches into the thing’s mouth– because it’s a mouth now, of course it is– and his hand stops against something hard, flexing instantly to hold a vice-like grip upon the object of his desires, the thing that kept him going, keeps him going, the thing he had lost hold of before, but never again, never–
Something flashes up through the tear in his carpet, snagging onto his face as it goes by. A yell tears its way out of his throat, and he falls back onto the bed.
The room flickers into darkness, but Kayn can only half-see it because his hands are clasped over his left eye, pain pulsing staccato beneath his fingertips. He scowls, spitting curses, and when he sits up, he becomes vaguely aware of something standing quite close to him.
His other eye is wavering, out of focus– slowly, he releases his injured eye, seemingly uninjured but notably itchy.
His gaze focuses as he squints, and then–
He jumps back with a yell, because there’s a fucking scythe propped against the bed before him, standing almost at attention.
Okay, well. It’s not exactly a scythe.
He’s calm as he approaches it, hands poised to administer a good beating– or whatever it is the intruder in his room is asking for.
It definitely wasn’t there before, that tall, sleek thing and its jagged pink-purple blade. It’s not even a blade, really, its humming sharpness tantalising yet– well. It’s purely tantalising.
Kayn isn’t an idiot. He knows he can fight whoever– or whatever’s– in his room. He knows he can pull himself into the nearest shadow, meld soul with gloom, but… he doesn’t really want to.
He stares at the weapon.
It’s a tall thing, sleek and high-end. He wonders, briefly, how everyone will think of him if he brings it out on stage, shocking what fans he has left. His old band will miss his antics, that’s for sure, suddenly wish that they had stuck together. He’ll come out on top, and then he can throw everything else away and relish in the glaring fire of the spotlight.
Kayn’s fist clenches tightly, nails digging into flesh.
And then someone laughs.
He whips around.
His room is empty.
Goosebumps break out over his skin, the sensitive flesh of his neck. Vaguely, he’s aware of something watching, analysing–
And when he spins around again at the sound of a broken cackle, he comes eye-to-eye with the blade.
He can see his face in the reflection of its shiny material, something different and foreign to him. One of his eyes has gone red, the result of that sudden clash from before. The rest of his face is as expected: Ragged, but preened. Good looking.
But alone.
You don’t have to be.
Kayn narrows his eyes.
“Who’s there?”
His voice is sharp, the question spat out like a curse. He isn’t one to be trifled with, especially not like this. Aphelios would have given in already, rolling his eyes at Kayn’s seriousness.
But this was not Aphelios.
No, it’s just him and… the scythe.
Tall, capable and oh so shiny.
He feels stupid, standing shell-shocked in the silence of the studio apartment.
He scowls, bringing one hand up to smack the heel of his palm into his forehead, damn himself for ever signing up to singing lessons way back when. Stupid, all of it stupid– that last fight, the tabloids, the gritted agreement, the rowdy breakfasts, the silence of the apartment. His own failures, echoing back in time to smack him in the face over and over again.
Kayn turns away from the scythe, and in that instant, something cool wraps itself around his mind.
You’re not really that weak, are you?
He freezes, then scowls.
“I’m not.”
And yet you seem satisfied to wallow in your own pity, cry with your tail between your legs.
Annoyance ripples through Kayn like a shiver.
“I’m not crying– and I am not wallowing. This– I don’t know what you are, but you are really pissing me off.”
He fixes the scythe with a glare. It stands motionlessly. They have a standoff, neither relenting. Either the scythe is stubborn or Kayn is actually hallucinating.
You continue to doubt yourself, and yet you can’t admit defeat. Then there's a chuckle, followed by a growled curse: stubborn and foolish. Don’t you want something better than this? Do you not deserve more?
The voice is loud in his head, rumbling and deep. Screams and the faint thrum of music waver in and out amongst its baritone hum. Kayn raises one hand, rubs the soft skin of his throat. The voice chuckles, and Kayn can’t help but feel as if it’s coming from behind him, or somewhere above– but he doesn’t want to risk glancing away from the weapon, not even once.
You could do so much more than this. BE so much more. And I can give it to you, make them see what you’re really capable of. I can make you stronger, louder. I can change it all, Kayn.
With me by your side, they won’t be able to look away.
There it is again. The ripple of the crowd, like a vast ocean. He can feel it pulling at his soul, tugging him forward.
His hand reaches out, fingertips whispering around the weapon’s hilt.
“What… what is this?”
This is a test.
When he grips the scythe, Kayn’s vision turns red, and then pink and purple– distantly, he feels his scratched eye right itself, eyeball searing white-hot in his skull.
Something laughs, that same voice now brighter and louder than ever, and he can’t let go of the weapon, its warmth now painfully familiar in his hand.
Adrenaline and anticipation soar through his veins, his heart beating erratically. The crowd gets louder, his own heart bass against their calls– except now, they call for a new name beside his own.
Rhaast! Rhaast! Rhaast!