Archive of Our Own

The air conditioning in Thresh's old sedan hissed with a monotonous regularity, but it couldn't dispel the oppressive atmosphere that had settled inside. Two days had passed since the rehearsal, barely hours since the "Pisces" video had swept across the internet like wildfire, and on this third day, the drive toward the glass skyscrapers of Los Angeles felt like a funeral march toward the surface.

Seraphine pressed her forehead against the cold window. Beyond the glass, the industrial landscape of the West Adams District was giving way to the imposing and dazzling silhouettes of the financial district. Thresh drove in near silence, one hand on the wheel and the other rhythmically tapping the gearshift knob.

There was no music, no corporate chatter, no last-minute warnings. Only the smell of old leather, stale tobacco, and that icy distance that sent a shiver down Sera's spine. She glanced sideways at her manager; in profile, the shadow of his eyes, hidden behind dark glasses, reminded her why everyone in the underground feared him. Thresh wasn't there to comfort her for breaking with her past; he was there to carry out a transaction.

To calm the trembling of her hands, Seraphine turned on her phone screen. The device vibrated immediately, overwhelmed by an endless flood of notifications. The internet had torn the pink cupcake to shreds, but the result wasn't what the K/DA management had expected. Their fanbase was fractured in a perfect civil war.

"What have they done to my girl?" read one of the top-voted comments on their official forums, accompanied by broken heart emojis. "Those metal troglodytes have brainwashed her, look at how she's dressed, it's pathetic." Pop purists mourned the loss of the porcelain diva. However, with a swipe, a completely different current emerged with a savage force. “Sera with guttural vocals is the best thing that’s happened to music this year,” read a Twitter thread with thousands of retweets. “She has more vocal range than all of commercial pop combined. The cupcake has teeth.” Hundreds of accounts were already editing her peachy-pink aesthetic, interspersing it with gothic iconography, chains, and dark textures, or even suggesting Babymetal-style clothing. The alternative audience morbidly devoured her “new frequencies,” fascinated by the savage rawness she had displayed on The Threshold. She was no longer a perfect doll; she was a dangerous enigma, and the world wanted to see more.

Thresh’s voice suddenly broke the silence, like a loud bang. “Turn that off,” he said harshly. There was nothing kind in his tone. “Don’t let the noise of others confuse you before you even step in. Today is the day you will face the consequences of your words.”

Sera swallowed hard and locked the screen.

The law firm handling K/DA's affairs was located on the thirty-sixth floor of a skyscraper that gleamed intensely in the morning sun. The meeting room was an elegant space with white marble, reinforced glass, and a simple, professional style that could be a little overwhelming. Ahri wasn't there in person, because her anger was too valuable to let on display in a meeting. However, her influence could be felt by each of the men sitting across the table, all in gray suits with very serious expressions.

Thresh's plan, that web of legal loopholes and poorly drafted exclusivity clauses he had boasted about so much in the bowels of The Threshold, couldn't withstand the multinational's counterattack. The pop divas' lawyers weren't going to let their defenses fall apart after being humiliated in front of the entire world.

The leather folders opened with a sharp click. There were serious problems: damage to their image, branding issues, and penalties for breaking the contract. The amount of money they offered in the document was enormous. It had a lot of zeros. Seraphine's breath caught in her throat. It was an absurd amount of money that was trying to ruin her future with Pentakill before it even began.

Sera looked at Thresh, waiting to see some sign of fear. But the manager just stared intently at the paper. The tension in the room was palpable. The air seemed to vibrate. Thresh bit his tongue and clenched his jaw. His plan hadn't worked. The bureaucracy was a bigger problem than any concert.

Thresh laughed humorlessly and pulled a pen from his jacket. "Mordekaiser already told us that money isn't the issue," Thresh said, quickly signing the documents. “Money can always be earned again. But a voice like Seraphine’s is unique. You don’t find it every day. It’s an investment for the future. We keep what matters.”

K/DA's lawyers remained unfazed. They passed around another document, the most restrictive of all. One of the advisors peered at Seraphine through his glasses. “Miss Seraphine,” the lawyer said coldly. “As part of the agreement, you cannot have any contact with Ahri, Evelynn, Kai'Sa, or Akali. You cannot call them, you cannot text them, you cannot mention them on social media. If you do, there will be serious problems, and Pentakill will be ruined before it even begins. It's complete isolation. Understood?”

The silver pen hovered between them, reflecting the LED lights on the ceiling.

Seraphine shuddered as she reached it. She looked at her dead phone and recalled the names of her friends, trapped in a void she could no longer access. She knew she had hurt them, especially Ahri and Evelynn, and that the law didn't allow her to explain anything to them. It was as if a glass wall had risen between them. But this was the price of her freedom.

Thresh watched her intently, waiting to see if she would break down at the last moment. However, Seraphine remembered the feeling of being trapped in her old life. She remembered the rose-gold cage, the obligation to smile every day while her magic was being stifled. She remembered the metallic taste in her mouth and the security she had found by unleashing her true voice.

It didn't matter what the contracts said or the threats from important people. Seraphine knew she no longer belonged in that world. The musicians of Pentakill, strange and troubled as they were, had become her true family. She was ready to sing with them and leave her old life behind.

With determination, she tightened her fingers around the pen and signed the document. The silence that followed didn't bring the freedom she had hoped for. Instead, the bureaucracy was just beginning.

As they descended in the elevator, Thresh reviewed the paperwork on his phone. Signing the document was only the first step. Now, Pentakill faced months of legal trouble. There would be no new songs on Spotify, nor any official announcements of her joining the band. Lawyers had blocked the distribution rights to her voice for the next three months. Anything she recorded would be frozen on the servers until the audits were completed and the funds transferred. It was a creative embargo, a musical quarantine.

As they stepped out of the skyscraper, the Los Angeles air hit them—heavy, hot, and thick with pollution. Thresh walked a few steps ahead, stuffing copies of the contracts into his briefcase, probably already mentally calculating how to squeeze every last bit of Spotify stream to recoup the millions they'd lost.

Seraphine paused for a moment before getting into the car and looked up at the sky, where the buildings seemed to want to crush her. She no longer felt the vertigo of the outbound journey. The debt was enormous, the isolation complete, and the road ahead was full of obstacles. As soon as she sat in the passenger seat, she opened social media out of habit, and her stomach clenched at the latest news.

K/DA's official account had posted a statement. A simple image with gold lettering on a black background read:

By mutual agreement and in order to prioritize the well-being and artistic development of our members, we announce Seraphine's official departure from K/DA. We appreciate her sensitivity and the time we shared on stage. The group's legal team has negotiated the terms to ensure a peaceful transition, free from future litigation.

Seraphine read the text three times. A wave of bitter, sharp resentment rose in her throat. Mutual agreement? Peaceful transition? They were letting her go without a fight. They were simply discarding a defective garment before it taints the rest of the collection. Not a mention of her music, not a personal message subtly woven between the lines like yesterday's. Nothing. It was the corporate machine erasing her tracks to protect the K/DA brand from investors.

However, after the initial burst of anger, came cold clarity. Sera looked at the reflection of her tired eyes on the screen. She knew perfectly well that, behind that cold diplomacy, her friends had also saved her ass. Her spontaneous “collaboration” with Pentakill, her escape to the West Adams District, and her immature impulsiveness, blinded by the mud, would have been enough for the multinational to sue her criminally for fraud and brand sabotage. Ahri and Evelynn could have publicly destroyed her, burying her career forever under a mountain of media mudslinging. Instead, they had paid the price of silence, allowing Thresh to buy her freedom for millions. They had fired her, yes, but they had also protected her from her own immaturity. And the fact that she couldn't call them to say thank you or apologize because of the isolation clause made the silence hurt twice as much.

A metallic click pulled her from her thoughts. Thresh had just lit a cigarette, lowering the window a couple of fingers to let the smoke out. To Sera's surprise, the manager no longer had that icy rigidity from the drive there. His posture behind the wheel was relaxed, almost slouching, his left arm resting on the door frame. The "business mode" of the skyscrapers had evaporated, giving way to a much calmer atmosphere.

"Don't stare at that little screen with a funeral face, cupcake," Thresh said, exhaling a puff of gray smoke that the highway breeze immediately dissipated. His voice was still raspy, but the tone was strangely warm, almost protective in its own way. "You did the right thing. The pop bitches saved the day, and you got what you wanted. Everyone's happy."

"They froze our music for months, Thresh." Sera muttered, her voice subdued, oblivious to the fact that her new manager had called her former bandmates "bitches."

"I can't sing, I can't release anything with you guys. I'm basically a million-dollar expense stuck in an abandoned factory."

Thresh let out a dry laugh, tapping his finger on the steering wheel to the beat of an imaginary song.

"So what? Do you think Pentakill was born yesterday? Morde and Karthus don't give a damn about waiting three or six months to release a track. Metal takes time, kid. We're not a churro factory that needs a single every two weeks to keep TikTok's algorithms happy. All this downtime is working in our favor."

Sera glanced at him sideways, blinking as she processed the manager's change of heart. It no longer gave her chills; now he seemed like a seasoned mentor, hardened by countless barroom brawls, who knew exactly which cards to play.

"Do you really think so?" she asked, searching for a glimmer of reassurance.

“I’ve seen dozens of talented young women come through this city, Sera. They all end up the same: with shaved heads, having a live panic attack, or trapped in lifetime contracts where they don’t even own the color of their underwear.” Thresh tossed the ash out the window and glanced at her for a second, a half-smile playing on his lips. “You’ve got something different. You’ve got venom in your throat and skin tough enough to go underground without your legs shaking. You’ve paid a heavy price today, yes. Isolation sucks, and your high-society friends are going to pretend you don’t exist. But now the cake’s on us. And I promise you, when this legal quarantine is over, we’re going to make those at the top wear earplugs.”

Seraphine didn’t reply, but let her head fall back against the headrest, watching the Los Angeles skyscrapers shrink in the rearview mirror. The resentment over the statement lingered, and the silence imposed by the contract weighed heavily, but as Thresh spoke of his career in the plural—as part of a "we"—the dark, noisy studio in West Adams began to feel, for the first time, like a true home.

Thresh knew how to read Spotify charts, but he also knew how to read people; the pink cupcake was on the verge of collapse, consumed by an invisible guilt that threatened to rust her throat prematurely. He sent a short, direct message to the band's group chat: «The kid's broken. Get your asses off and do something special so she doesn't regret signing.»

By the time the car finally pulled up in front of The Threshold's peeling facade, Seraphine felt her legs go heavy. Thresh turned off the engine, but before getting out, he stared at the briefcase containing the copies of the contracts. He said nothing more, but as soon as Sera crossed the threshold of the studio to disappear down the hallway and retreat to the bathroom to wash her face, the manager pulled out his phone.

By the time Seraphine emerged into the main studio room, shuffling along with slightly red eyes, she was met with a completely unexpected scene.

The studio's flickering fluorescent lighting had been tampered with. On the dusty mixing desk, someone had placed a wobbly stack of greasy pizza boxes and a couple of six-packs of cheap beer. Mordekaiser was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with his usual impassive, iron-giant demeanor. Beside him, Sona sat on a turned-off amplifier, her keyboard resting on her knees.

Not everyone was there; the bunker was usually a hive of activity, but the rest of the regulars had their own lives and problems to deal with outside those black marble walls. However, those who remained shared a quiet purpose.

“Wow…” Sera murmured, stopping abruptly and forcing a shy smile. “I didn’t know there was a party today.”

Mordekaiser let out a low growl that rattled the acoustic panels in the ceiling, snatching a slice of pizza with utter disregard for manners.

“Thresh says they’ve put you on a legal leash upstairs,” the giant said, his voice gravelly. “That you can’t talk to your old associates. Utter bureaucratic nonsense. We don’t need golden notices down here. You’ve signed. You’re one of us. Eat something; you’re too thin to handle the distortion.”

Sera blinked, shaken by the utter crudeness of the gesture. She moved toward the table, but the guilt remained, a tight knot in her stomach that prevented her from feeling hungry. She felt small, immature, an intruder who had just cost them millions for a teenage whim.

It was then that she felt a gentle presence beside her. Sona had risen from the amplifier. Being mute, there were no awkward questions, no welcoming speeches, no recriminations. Sona simply placed a warm hand on Seraphine's shoulder and, with the other, ran her fingers across the keys of her instrument. It wasn't a metal melody, nor a pop song; it was pure frequencies, low, comforting notes that vibrated directly in Sera's chest, tuning into her muted magic. Sona gave her a gentle look, filled with such profound empathy that Seraphine's defenses completely crumbled. She didn't need to explain herself there. She wasn't being judged for having shattered her past; They accepted her, cracks and all.

The echo of spontaneous laughter and crushed beer cans began to fade as the reality of the underground scene reasserted itself. The festive atmosphere, which for a moment had made Seraphine forget Ahri's missed calls and the threats from K/DA's lawyers, dissolved into the weariness of midnight.

Yorick dragged a huge black garbage bag, muttering under his breath about the price of pizzas, while Sona stacked the empty boxes on the study table with her usual leisurely pace. Mordekaiser had already retreated into the gloom of his office, leaving behind a heavy silence.

Seraphine, sitting on the worn leather sofa, felt the weight of the last fourteen hours on her shoulders. It was then that her phone vibrated in her lap.

A small, shy, and strangely relieved smile curved her lips as she read the first messages. There was no trace of the corporate snobbery she was used to in the upper echelons; this was the Underground.

Pentakill 💀

Today

Karthus
About time. Welcome to the pit, little
mermaid.
Keep an eye on your own mug next
time,Olaf uses everyone else's.
Olaf
Liar!
At least I clean them once in
a while.
Welcome, Sera 🔥That guttural growl
was killer!

Kayle
Keep it up and don't let the manager
use you as a bargaining chip.
Welcome.

Sera typed a quick «Thanks guys! I promise to take care of my mugs :) », feeling a warm flush in her chest. However, curiosity got the better of her. She swiped through the member list and stopped at the name that hadn't typed anything.

Viego.

She snooped around his profile. There was no photo; just a gray, hostile, empty box. His profile status didn't have motivational quotes or Spotify links, just a black dot. But what caught Sera's eye was the indicator under his personal chat: Online. There he was, completely ignoring the group, locked away in his own public mourning, probably drowning in the news feed about his divorce and the new scandal he hadn't asked for.

“Move it, sweetie. If you still want me to take you home, I’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot in five minutes.” Thresh’s raspy voice startled her.

The ride back in the manager’s car was a masterclass in psychological manipulation. The car smelled of old leather and stale tobacco. Thresh drove with one hand, glancing at Sera in the rearview mirror as the neon lights of the dying city washed over them.

“You did a good job with the contracts today, Seraphine,” Thresh said, with that drawn-out, deliberate cadence. “But all the paperwork is useless if our most unstable asset decides to shoot himself in the media before the tour.”

“Viego isn’t well,” Sera murmured, staring out the window.

“Viego is a spoiled brat with a broken heart and a microphone,” Thresh spat out contemptuously. “He’s bitter about the world because the internet turned his misery into a fifteen-second circus. But you… you understand that, don’t you? You feel the ecosystem. You know what it’s like to pander to a mass that demands a perfect smile while you’re drowning. He won’t listen to me, or Karthus. You’re the only one whose hands aren’t stained by his past. Pull his ear, Sera. Make him come back to us before he finishes destroying himself.”

When Thresh dropped her off in front of her apartment, Bao’s soft, short meows greeted her with a much-needed warmth. She was exhausted. The bureaucratic headache danced behind her eyes. She kicked off her shoes, collapsed onto the bed without changing her clothes, and pulled out her phone. Thresh’s words echoed in her head, but it wasn’t just manipulation; Sera had really seen Viego’s eyes in the studio. She had seen the devastation of a man exposed to millions of strangers.

She opened Viego’s private chat. Online.

She rubbed her temples. She needed an excuse. Something that didn't sound pitying, something that wasn't cheesy, but that would somehow break through the obsidian wall the vocalist had built. She thought about the music, about how rough her voice was in rehearsal… No, that would be completely selfish. What if she tried to help him directly? No one at The Threshold had mentioned the young vocalist.

She hesitated for a few moments. Was it right to worry? Maybe the man had no one, and having a lot on his mind wasn't good. The rest of the band hadn't—or hadn't even bothered to ask—and their manager had entrusted her with this task. Privately.

But how could she approach him without the lead singer telling her to get lost? She watched the small, furry animal that had settled down beside her, giving it a few strokes before biting her lip and wondering what she'd done to deserve being someone's therapist.

She typed quickly, before she regretted it.

It was a lame and selfish excuse, especially the latter. The man had been humiliated yesterday, and she was writing to him for work (or not even that). Maybe she just didn't know how to approach him without making things seem suspicious.

She stared at the screen for a few seconds. He was still online; what if he'd seen it but decided to ignore her? Or what if he had read receipts turned off? Seraphine was racking her brain. She laid the phone on her chest, holding her breath. One minute. Two minutes. The status changed to Typing..., then disappeared again. Digital tension hung in the dim light of the room.

Finally, the screen lit up.

Sera looked at the message and, for the first time all day, let out a long sigh, managing a small, tired smile. The technical excuse had worked. The ruined king was still holed up in his apartment, but at least he'd given the little mermaid a glimmer of hope. Or so she thought.

He turned off the screen, closed his eyes, and fell asleep to the noise of the cars and the crowds of the big city.