Archive of Our Own

The music of «Glory Box», cold and seductive, floated throughout Evelynn's penthouse, enveloping the minimalist marble and glass space like a nighttime fashion runway. It didn't matter that it was daytime; in Eve's world, the sun only rose if she felt like opening the automatic blinds.

Sitting at the kitchen island, a porcelain cup in her hands, she moved her finger across her phone screen with the slowness of a cat, almost in a daze. Her gaze was fixed on the avalanche of Instagram and Twitter notifications.

In the background, almost drowned out by the Portishead chords, the radio murmured with the morning news. The anchor's voice was clear, objective, the ideal tone for announcing a serious car accident or a seven-figure public relations crisis.

«...Meanwhile, the digital music markets continue to show unusual activity after the media blackout surrounding K/DA. Rumors about Seraphine's possible permanent departure from the group are intensifying, a theory fueled by the record label's complete silence.»

Eve let out a short, soft giggle through her nose before taking a sip of her coffee.

"Permanent departure," she muttered to herself, chuckling at how unoriginal the press was. "So boring."

On social media, the chaos was far more creative. Pop and metal fandoms had collided headlong in a quagmire of conspiracy theories. She scrolled through the trending hashtags. K/DA fans were going wild, flooding Twitter with the story that Pentakill had taken or corrupted the "pink cupcake" after she was spotted entering The Threshold studios a few days ago. The metalheads, on the other hand, were lamenting in the forums, wondering what on earth Pentakill would become if they introduced commercial pop into their dark temple. The only certainty was that Sera was still there, holding the line while Thresh sorted out their legal troubles.

The radio host changed tack, his voice rising in urgency.

«…But the real storm broke much later, with the leak of a video barely fifteen seconds long. A clip from Pentakill’s official Stories, which they apparently deleted a few minutes later, showing a tremendous emotional breakdown from the singer, Viego.»

Eve's smile widened. Oh, Viego's video. She replayed it on her screen for the fifth time that morning. Watching the "Ruined King," so absurdly dramatic and haughty, tearing his throat out with a deranged scream inside the booth was pure poetry. The internet had split in two: some swore that the outburst was the prelude to a new single; others said it was the end of the band's identity vibe because of that emotional massacre, and the tabloids were already labeling it a pathetic tactic of emotional blackmail against his ex-wife.

It didn't matter what the truth was. Sensationalism sold, and that clip was pure gold.

Seeing Seraphine's image replicated in thousands of tweets alongside the Pentakill hashtag, Eve rested her chin on her palm, letting nostalgia tinge her thoughts with an aristocratic cynicism.

To think that this same girl, not so long ago, smelled of steamed milk and burnt coffee. Ahri had found her serving espressos for minimum wage at a coffee shop in the city, uploading acoustic covers to YouTube with a cheap microphone, and singing on street corners for a handful of strangers to throw her coins. Eve remembered Ahri's almost maternal dedication to rescuing her from mediocrity, the blank checks from Ocean Song's funding to give her a facelift before the real rehearsals, the million-dollar investment to turn a starving barista into the new global pop sensation.

And there the kid was now. Vanishing off the map and preferring the mud, the shouts, and the bleeding ears of the old rockers in the bunker to the high-fashion spotlights that K/DA had handed her on a silver platter.

"Ungrateful... but she's got guts, you have to admit," Eve whispered, feeling a subtle and dangerous flicker of respect for the pink-haired girl's childishness.

The drone of the radio and the Portishead music cut out abruptly when her phone screen was hijacked by an important notification. A text message from the boss.

Evelynn locked her phone, placing it on the marble island. She finished the last drop of coffee, smoothed her clothes in front of the hall mirror, and struck her best hunting pose. The time for enjoying the fire from the attic was over. It was time to head down to K/DA's studio and see how the perfect pop empress was trying to keep her empire from falling apart.

K/DA's main studio always smelled of expensive perfume, cutting-edge electronics, and quiet ambition. But today, the atmosphere wasn't one of shouting; it was something far worse. It was that dense, icy calm that precedes the worst public relations storms.

When Evelynn entered, dragging her heels with lethal slowness, she found the exact scene her instincts had told her to. Kai'Sa sat cross-legged on the leather sofa, scowling over performance charts on her tablet. Akali, unusually still, was pacing in the producer's swivel chair, toying with a lighter between her fingers without actually lighting it.

And at the center of it all, seated by the mixing desk, was Ahri.

The K/DA founder looked impeccable, as always. She held a cup of tea and gazed out the large window overlooking the city skyline. Her posture was relaxed, almost Zen-like. Too peaceful. That was the red flag. In the band's internal language, a silent and strangely calm Ahri while the entire internet was crashing was the unmistakable sign that she was seething inside. She was deeply disappointed, and that facade of peace was a shield to hide how much the snub stung.

"You're late, Eve," Ahri said, without turning around. Her voice was a silken murmur, soft, perfectly modulated.

"I was watching the internet burn from my penthouse." Eve replied, placing her designer bag on the sofa before crossing her arms. “It’s fascinating how quickly pink-dyed hair catches fire when it’s held near a rocker’s lighter.”

Akali stopped her chair abruptly with her foot, letting out a huff.

“Well, the Ruined King has a serious case of sandpaper in his throat, what can I say?” the rapper remarked, putting away her lighter. “The clip his drummer uploaded is a true work of art. I didn’t know the Pentakill crew had an emotional side besides being goths and pretending to be our musical ‘competition.’”

“It’s not musical competition we should be worried about, Akali. We’re two completely different genres,” Kai’Sa interjected, turning off her tablet. “It’s the record label. Officially, Seraphine is still under our label for the next quarter. Aesthetically, she’s holed up in a basement reeking of beer and distortion. The sponsors are demanding explanations.”

Ahri took a leisurely sip of her tea. She turned slowly, leaning against the mixing desk with a slight, almost peaceful smile. It’s the kind of smile that scares anyone who really knows her.

“Pentakill isn’t just any band.” “They’re legends of the Underground,” Ahri said, her tone strangely understanding, as if she were talking about the weather. “Remember a few years ago, we were the ones who proposed that crossover with them because we respected their power. In the end, the project was shelved because of Thresh and his corporate clauses, but we know their worth. If Seraphine has found an opportunity there… if her voice fits in that darkness, I’m not going to be the one to shut the door on her. K/DA has always been a platform to shine, not a gilded cage. If the little one wants to leave the nest, let her.”

Akali and Kai’Sa exchanged a knowing glance. Ahri’s pristine maturity was the biggest lie of the year. They knew perfectly well that behind every positive word lay a deep disappointment, a wounded pride at having been treated like a cold boss and not the mentor who had gone out of her way for her.

It was Evelynn who stepped forward, breaking the charade. Even though Eve loved watching the world burn through her phone screen, within those four walls she was the mother of the group. And nobody messed with her girls. Nobody.

“Oh, drop the diplomatic act, Ahri, we’re family here,” Eve blurted out, fixing her sharp eyes on the leader. “It’s hurting you. And it pisses us all off. Not because she’s leaving; she can explore rock if she wants. It pisses us off that she’s so unprofessional. That she lacks the guts to not come here upfront.”

Eve walked to the center of the room, circling the mixing desk with the grace of a panther protecting its territory. Her usual cynicism gave way to a protective, firm, and stern tone.

“We’ve broken our backs polishing that kid,” Eve continued, looking at Akali and Kai’Sa. “If high-fashion pop was too much for her, if the industry's pace was giving her anxiety, or if she simply wasn't feeling comfortable with us, we would have talked about it. We would have come up to her, had a coffee, and said, «Girls, I'm suffocating, K/DA is a huge step for me.» We would have understood. We would have supported her. But to find out through an Instagram leak that our backing vocalist is locked away in The Threshold doing who knows what without any explanation… I won't stand for that. It's an insult to the years we dedicated to her, to Ocean Song's money, and to us. She's treated us like we're a cold corporation just looking to exploit her, when we were the ones who took her off the streets.”

Eve's words landed like stones in the studio. Akali nodded, her jaw clenched, and Kai'Sa lowered her gaze, sharing that same pain of a mother and older sisters betrayed.

Ahri placed her teacup on the table. Her peaceful smile didn't waver, but her golden eyes narrowed into icy slits. The contrast between her relaxed demeanor and the frigid aura she exuded was terrifying.

"Eve's right," Ahri admitted, maintaining that falsely calm voice that only heightened the tension. "We're not going to beg her to come back. Nor are we going to be the villains dragging her into court; we won't stoop to that. If Pentakill wants to keep her, Thresh can pay every last cent of the record label's buyout clause, and I assure you, it'll sting. But the internet wants answers. And K/DA isn't hiding."

"So what do we do?" Akali asked, crossing her arms.

Ahri glanced at the tablet, where the clip of Viego screaming his grief was still trending.

"We're going to give them the perfect narrative," Ahri declared with lethal calm. “Prepare an official statement. We’re going to publicly wish her ‘the best of luck in her new chapter.’ We’re going to be the perfect, understanding, and generous older sisters who let the youngest go. We’re going to come across as impeccable to the world… and we’re going to let the pressure of living up to us drown her in that bunker. If she wants mud, let her wallow in it.”

Thresh's office deep within The Threshold had no windows, nor did it need them. It was a sanctuary of dark wood, metal filing cabinets that creaked shut, and a perpetual smell of strong coffee and stale tobacco smoke. The only light inside came from the bluish glow of three monitors and the chrome temples of Thresh's reading glasses.

In front of the desk, almost completely occupying the aged leather sofa, Mordekaiser sat motionless, his arms crossed over his chest. His mere presence made the bookshelves seem small. He listened to the hum of the air conditioner with the patience of a stone monument, while Thresh finished reviewing, for the third time, the fine print of the buyout agreements that had arrived from Los Angeles.

"K/DA is going to bleed us dry with that clause," Thresh remarked without looking up from the papers, sliding a fountain pen between his fingers with the deliberate precision of a surgeon. “Ahri isn’t going to court; she’s too smart to get her haute couture gown dirty with legal mud. But she’s going to make us pay for every last coffee that girl drank in her studio.”

“Let them pay.” Mordekaiser’s voice boomed off the walls, a deep bass that made the ashtrays rattle. “Money comes and goes, Thresh. What matters is the weight of the music. And that kid’s got something.”

Thresh let out a dry chuckle, adjusting his glasses. He laid the papers on the table and turned one of the monitors toward the colossus. On the screen, frozen on the exact second of the scream, was the viral clip of Viego’s crashout that Olaf had uploaded by mistake.

“Viego did a year’s worth of our marketing in fifteen seconds,” Thresh said, raising an eyebrow. “The internet is on its knees. Pop fans are hysterical, searching for their ‘cupcake,’ and our savages are digging trenches because they fear we’ll become commercial and soft. It’s the ideal scenario. Tension creates anticipation, and anticipation creates numbers.”

Mordekaiser glanced at the monitor, observing Viego's distraught face in the booth.

"Viego's a volatile volcano," Morde said sternly. "He sings with his guts hanging out because he still hasn't accepted that his marriage is dead. But Pentakill isn't a pop melodrama, Thresh. We're not going to turn the band into our lead singer's divorce diary."

"Of course not," Thresh retorted, stretching his lips into a corporate shark grin. "Viego's the demolition; what we need is structure. And structure is Seraphine. Look at her, Morde. She's reached the top of global pop in the blink of an eye. She's got a discipline our guys can't even begin to imagine. It's not about 'pumping' her until she breaks; it's about channeling that massive fanbase she's got and bringing them into our world. It's a full-blown 'fuck you and see what's coming' kind of thing."

Thresh typed something on his computer. The screen changed, opening a video file from a couple of days ago, locked away on the studio's private server.

"It's time, Morde. We have to release this right now."

The recording of Seraphine's audition began playing on the monitor. Not the one under the K/DA spotlights, but the one they'd secretly recorded right after the Ocean Song event. In the video, Sera's makeup was a mess; the star decorations and glitter on her cheeks were ruined by sweat, her mascara was smudged, her peachy-pink hair was disheveled, and she had that scared barista look Evelynn had described. But when she opened her mouth to The Threshold's microphone, the distortion and raw power with which she performed "Pisces"—that clean guttural growl, that wild transition no one expected from a porcelain doll—filled the space with a beautiful violence.

Mordekaiser leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the screen. His fingers drummed on his knee, following the heavy rhythm of the memory's drumbeat.

“That session was recorded for internal use, Thresh,” Morde recalled, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his intrigue. “We promised to keep it under wraps until her legal affairs were cleared.”

“Legal affairs are cleared with money, and the money will come when the world sees what this girl is capable of when you let her scream,” Thresh insisted, the poison of ambition dripping from every word. “Imagine the impact. The internet is debating whether Pentakill will lose its dark vibe by bringing in a pop star. We drop this clip of her post-Ocean Song audition. Without warning. Let them see their beloved, adorable 'cupcake' smashing the microphone with the same sandpaper as Viego himself. We shut the purists up and openly declared war on the K/DA empire.

Mordekaiser was silent for a few seconds, watching Seraphine’s image on a loop, delivering that perfect guttural growl that defied all commercial logic. Finally, the colossus let out a snort that sounded almost like approval.

“Do it,” Mordekaiser declared, rising from the sofa and slamming the floorboards together. “Upload the audition. Let the world understand once and for all that Pentakill doesn’t adopt pets. We adopt monsters.”

Thresh grinned from ear to ear, his index finger hovering over the upload button.

“Welcome to the Underground, Seraphine…”

Thresh stopped, his finger squinting behind his glasses. Mordekaiser, who was already walking toward the exit, stopped dead in his tracks, noticing his manager's sudden silence.

“What's wrong, Thresh?” the colossus boomed.

“The Empress has beaten us to it,” Thresh muttered, his shark-like grin morphing into a grimace of corporate annoyance. “Look at this.”

On the screen, K/DA's press release had been circulating online for a few minutes, crafted with the meticulous precision and divine elegance that only Ahri could master. A minimalist image, the group's logo, and text in the description that exuded impeccable maturity:

The move was perfect. Within minutes, the internet was flooded with praise for K/DA: "What queens," "That's maturity," "The best big sisters in pop." Ahri had won. She had cleaned up the group's image, leaving Seraphine as the spoiled brat who went off to play rock while they blessed her from on high.

But in the bunker of The Threshold, Thresh let out a laugh that sounded like bones crunching. The annoyance on his face evaporated, replaced by a look of pure, psychopathic malice.

"Oh, Ahri... what a clean move," Thresh hissed, adjusting his glasses. "How elegant. How maternal. You've painted us as the dumping ground where broken dolls who can't handle your spotlight go to die."

Mordekaiser approached the monitor, reading the divas' statement. His stony face didn't change, but his eyes flashed with icy fury.

"They think Pentakill is a daycare for scared little girls," the colossus said, clenching his fist. "Show them the monster they've raised, Thresh."

"With pleasure."

Thresh didn't write any elaborate text. He didn't use diamond emojis or pretty words. He simply dragged the video file of Seraphine's post-Ocean Song audition—the one they'd kept under lock and key—and uploaded it to Pentakill's official account. As a caption, he simply wrote their next member's provisional nickname:

The impact on the internet was equivalent to detonating a nuclear bomb in the middle of a fashion show.

Phones around the world vibrated in unison. In the five-minute, ten-second video, the same Seraphine that K/DA had just portrayed as a "sensitivity seeking refuge" appeared in the shadows of The Threshold, her makeup ruined, her peach-pink hair disheveled, and her gaze truly terrifying. And then, the drop of the song "Pisces" blasted through the speakers. The young woman bent over the microphone stand and unleashed a raw, gritty, and brutal guttural growl, a savage transition that shook the foundations of the studio with the same violent, sandpaper-like voice as Viego himself.

In the K/DA studio, Ahri's teacup froze mid-sip. Her peaceful, unflappable smile froze completely. Her golden eyes snapped open, fixed on the monitor screen where Seraphine was shredding her throat with a perfect guttural growl.

Beside her, Akali dropped her lighter, which hit the floor with a dull crack. Kai'Sa covered her mouth with one hand, unable to process what she was hearing. On the forums, both the metal and pop camps erupted simultaneously: "Little sister?", "Soft-hearted?", "SHE JUST PEELED THE PAINT OFF THE WALLS WITH HER THROAT!"

K/DA had just been exposed as a bunch of pretentious clowns in front of the entire world. They hadn't "let go of the cupcake." They hadn't the slightest clue who the hell they'd had in their nest all this time.

The mud of the underground had just swallowed the shine of Los Angeles.