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The suspension lasted three months. Ninety days during which it was explicitly stipulated that Seraphine could not post anything on her social media or be featured on Pentakill's official account, even though both fandoms already knew the news. She was "punished," but her new friends didn't see it that way.
The first few weeks were an introduction to the band. Pentakill wasn't a brotherhood of hardcore metalheads; their genre ranged from progressive metal and power metal to the heavy metal most teenagers listen to. There was no need to scream in every song like in Predator; they could create authentic melodies with soft tunings and syncopated rhythms instead of the epic, fast, and melodic style present in classic tracks like Lightbringer.
They started looking for a new nickname for Seraphine. Unfortunately, the title of "angel" was already taken by Kayle—and deservedly so—so half the band was racking their brains to find another nickname for their new vocalist. Although… it was funny to tease Seraphine with that stupid name the internet had given her. Cupcake. Who in their right mind would call something so sweet and cute someone who always made a face and wrinkled her nose when Olaf or Yorick smelled of beer? Only her, because the rest were used to it or had lost their sense of smell.
In the end, they kept Cupcake to tease her, and Banshee for her new identity in Pentakill.
Now that her stage name was settled, the band—or rather, Thresh—wasted no time starting rehearsals. Vocal lessons with Karthus, choreography with Mordekaiser; she never imagined the giant had a penchant for the performing arts, even if it was just lessons on how to enter the stage, move with the group, and know when to show off her outfit.
Her new family… It was chaotic. Strange, but not in an unpleasant way. They included her in all their plans; dragging her along to unofficial events in ridiculous outfits and teasing her by telling security she was a "weird" fan they'd decided to adopt for the day.
Seraphine never knew something so simple could be so much fun, until shopping day arrived to choose her new fashion. Karthus suggested industrial-style clothing: cargo pants and a tight top, simple. Olaf suggested leather and chains, and Kayle… the angel of the underworld, would secretly take pictures of her whenever an outfit looked terrible on her.
Was it mandatory to be goth, or could she hide behind her oversized t-shirts?
In the end, they postponed Seraphine's outfit for another day and promised not to make fun of her if she returned to the studio in pastel colors. Oh, but that pink hair had to be dyed, another matter that would be resolved in the coming weeks. In fact, the first two months had flown by with rehearsals, parties, and laughter; there were only a few days left before her public ban ended, and today she'd been dragged out of The Threshold again at Karthus's request (or rather, obligation). The lead singer wanted to replace a microphone—whose cable had been stretched beyond its limits by Yorick stepping on it—and he was convinced that taking Sera would be pleasant. What he hadn't considered was that the little cupcake would be glued to the screen the entire time.
Karthus kept complaining about the traffic and Morde's lack of motivation to rehearse over the weekend, but to Seraphine, his voice was just a blurry drone. Her fingers were numb from pressing the edges of her phone case so hard. She unlocked the screen for the fifth time in two minutes, holding her breath, her eyes glued to the top corner of the chat. Nothing. Just a sad «Seen at 4:42 PM». She felt a familiar knot in her stomach, that feeling of having screwed up by trying to get near Viego's mental fortress. She typed a few words, hesitated, and deleted them with angry taps of her thumb. It was like walking on thin ice; one wrong step and he'd disconnect completely.
"At this rate, you're going to burn your eyes, Sweetie," Karthus's voice pulled her back into the passenger seat.
She hadn't gone to rehearsal. The excuse of being off-key and having poor vocals had crumbled the moment she entered The Threshold's living room. Viego hadn't even bothered to turn on the amplifiers or the computer system. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the worn leather sofa, cleaning his guitar case with unbearable listlessness.
"Your pitch is fine, I already told you that in a message," he'd said, without bothering to look up. "I don't know why I agreed to meet with you, Serafín. If the 'jailer' sent you to keep an eye on me, tell him to spend the record label's money on something else."
Seraphine had frozen in the middle of the worn carpet. The sharp tone, laced with that rancid venom he used against anyone who tried to get close, made her stomach churn. She tried to take a deep breath and force the soft voice she used in radio interviews.
“Your frequency is quite erratic,” she murmured, trying to maintain a professional facade, her voice sweet. “It’s difficult to rehearse if I always sense the dissonance in your soul… I want to help you, Viego.”
Viego let out a dry laugh, an unpleasant sound that echoed off the obsidian walls of the studio. He didn’t run a hand over his face; he stood up, invading her space, exhaling that cold rage that froze the air.
“Don’t give me your textbook therapy bullshit, Seraphine,” he hissed, pronouncing her name correctly as if it were an insult. “You’re not my therapist. You’re not my friend. You’re a porcelain doll who’s just been punished, and you’ve asked me to meet up to play charity with you. Does my grief turn you on? Do you want to see a real career destroyed so you can catch some reality?”
Something broke inside Seraphine. The sweet girl who sang about emotions on YouTube, the pop diva who smiled because she was contracted to, died in that second.
“Go to hell, Viego!” she yelled, giving him a shove in the chest that barely moved him, but echoed throughout the room. “You’re an insufferable egotist. You love it when people hate you because that gives you an excuse not to lift a finger for anyone. Yes, you were leaked, yes, your damn divorce is all over Twitter and every platform you can imagine, but at least you can scream into a microphone! They’ve got me gagged.” I've left my whole life up there, the only damn place where I thought I could be real, and you treat me like I'm made of plastic.
The silence that followed was painful. Viego looked at her, not with his usual suspicion, but with a coldness that chilled her blood.
"Well, go back to your rose-gold cage if the underground is so hard for you. You're not fooling anyone here, Serafín."
The honking of a car horn behind them startled her. The traffic light had turned green.
Seraphine sighed again before turning back to Karthus. “That was the first argument we ever had.”
“What do you mean?” Karthus frowned at the thought of the first altercation between the two young people. He clicked his tongue, glancing in the rearview mirror to see Seraphine’s dejected expression. “Viego is complicated. He hates people feeling sorry for him and is too proud to ask for help,” the vocalist added, breaking the tension in the car. “What on earth did you do to make him so angry this time?”
Seraphine shook her head, avoiding eye contact. She didn’t usually shy away from conversations involving feelings or social conflicts; on the contrary, she was altruistic.
She steeled herself. Karthus was the closest thing to a "father" in the band, along with Morde and Thresh… the manager was a different story; sometimes he acted as a voice of wisdom, and other times he was the worst jerk you'd ever want to meet.
"After that argument…" Seraphine began to explain the whole situation that had led her to be so anxious.
After that fight, they didn't exchange messages for several days. Seraphine would log into his chat, type a few words, and then delete them. She was offended; she really wanted to help him, but it bothered her a lot that Viego was so difficult and suspicious of everyone.
The times they met were always because Thresh insisted; rehearsals were important if he wanted to maintain his guitar skills, share intonation tips with Karthus, and send dark humor memes to Kayle.
Seraphine soon realized he was ignoring her. Maybe walking right past the pink cupcake was one thing, but he also seemed to avoid her by showing interest in some silly band matter or arguing with the manager. After a few days, she understood that she had to spy on him if she wanted to learn from him and try again. She got help from his manager, who told her things about Viego that Seraphine would never have considered: he liked fashion, hanging out with the band (even if it didn't seem like it), and he greatly valued the lack of filters, something Seraphine had repressed and accumulated to spare.
It was complicated, shedding that fake persona. She was supposed to be popular and a role model… maybe not to that extent, but the whole point of being a celebrity was to wear a carefully crafted mask, the one created by the PR team. She'd changed so much: last year she was serving coffee and stuttering while serving customers, then she rose to fame at the Ocean Song Festival, and finally reached the top when Ahri contacted her. She came from humble beginnings, her parents had instilled good values in her, but… why was she so tired of pretending all the time? She had bad days too, she swore from time to time, and maybe a controversial comment slipped out.
And the only one who had seen that darkness and tasted the poison on her tongue was the vocalist. He didn't judge her or try to stop her; he did the complete opposite, encouraging her to keep raising her voice, as if it amused him. It was so frustrating, but… but for some reason, it was soothing.
She had to apologize. Of what? She'd only told him she wanted to help him. It wasn't until mid-July that her phone screen lit up with a message from Viego.
It wasn't an apology, but the message contained a promise: «Can we meet tomorrow?» If she were still angry, she might have told him to get lost; but now that the flames had died down to embers, she thought it over before confirming the date.
They arranged to meet at a bar downtown. He was waiting for her, half-finished with his drink, fiddling with the plastic straw. Had he been waiting for her for a while, or was he so anxious he'd downed half his glass in one gulp? She approached slowly, observing the boy's haggard expression. Should she say something? Something about his unwell face, or greet him politely, as she did with everyone? In the end, she decided to sit across from him and share a few seconds of awkward silence, their eyes locked.
Seeing that neither of them said anything, Viego took the initiative, but Seraphine had already considered the same thing. They interrupted each other a few times until the pink-haired girl apologized in a whisper and lowered her head.
“...I know the way we handled things wasn't right. You had good intentions, and I rejected them in the worst possible way... I apologize; for telling you that you were a porcelain doll, for telling you that you didn't fit in... and for being the only one who showed any interest in helping me. You're not trying to be charitable to me; you're doing what any friend would do.”
Apologies weren't his style. In fact, he'd never felt the need to truly apologize to anyone. Isolde always pardoned him when he did her some nice thing and bribed or threatened those who offended his morals. But with Seraphine, it was different. He still saw the fragile, glass figure, but just as she perceived the dissonance in his soul, he could also sense something stirring beneath all that pretense, only he didn't know how to confront it. She wasn't Isolde, but neither was she someone he had to be overly cautious with.
Viego sensed that he had to elaborate, and rightly so; Seraphine was kind, something he was not at all. He hurt himself daily, haunted by the echoes of his marriage, and despite being at the top of his game, he felt he was still mired in misery. He wanted to be someone else, someone friendlier and not so imposing, like Seraphine. He wanted her around the studio, swimming around him—drowning in his misery—and around everyone else, but at the same time, he loathed her presence.
He had forgotten what it meant to "love oneself," the importance of everything else, as well as his own self-loathing, because with Isolda… everything revolved around his ex-wife. And Seraphine… she had a good heart, too good to be poisoned by her fears and insecurities.
After the apology, Viego began to open up to Seraphine; not with the same speed as someone who starts a friendship, but at least he'd gotten the man to tell her about his hobbies and interests. They even shared Instagram accounts and sent each other memes until late into the night, each one worse than the last, just to annoy Sera, who wouldn't admit to face-to-face that perhaps she found the offensive humor funny because of how cruel it was.
Rehearsals were more bearable, and the others noticed; as usual, no one said anything, but the atmosphere had definitely livened up. They also started meeting up more often, sometimes at a shopping mall to have friendly discussions about their fashion tastes; they'd choose an outfit the other had picked out and wear it to the next get-together, or they'd meet for a walk in the park to vent, or they'd stay at The Threshold practicing new vocal techniques and composing new songs.
Meanwhile, Karthus had changed direction and was driving toward Seraphine's apartment, listening intently, occasionally nodding or tapping the steering wheel.
Seraphine continued her story, explaining that she felt quite uncomfortable when Thresh made cynical comments about the situation.
«I'm glad to see the therapy is working, Cupcake. The record label's accountant is keeping an eye on you two. Make sure that 'friendship' gets him on stage next month. We're not paying your K/DA penalty so you can be a therapist for free.»
She was a pawn, a puppet that had been switched to a different puppeteer to be used as a rehabilitation tool for the young vocalist. She was doing the right thing, or so she thought. She was helping him tune his frequency, helping him heal in baby steps, and the slowness frustrated the manager. But there was a part of her, a despicable and unpleasant facet of her, that felt pride in seeing that her empathy, her magic, were helping him recover. It was a personal victory.
All that progress in rehabilitation began to unravel when Seraphine let slip condescending remarks or some textbook advice.
Viego was unstable, with more gray days than happy ones, and it was impossible to predict when he might break down. Every day he said goodbye to Sera with a simple, monotonous text, even though he'd be tossing and turning in bed with thoughts he couldn't control, thoughts that fed on his misery. Most of the time he fell asleep before opening Seraphine's chat and telling her the truth.
Despite finding a certain comfort in the girl's cheerful personality, his instincts still repelled her; something just didn't quite fit. He began to observe her more closely; he appreciated each afternoon they went for a walk around the city or met at a new restaurant, but… all that friendliness didn't seem to be well-intentioned. They almost always talked about their problems and Pentakill, about the band's greatest hits up until her joining, but they never spoke about her on a personal level. And the times he showed interest, she dismissed him with some sweet comment.
The porcelain doll still hadn't taken off her mask. And if he did… would he want to know what was behind all that hypocrisy?
It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to maintain his composure, whether in the studio or when they met; in fact, those moments alone were becoming more and more uncomfortable as she tried to ease the tension with her magic. Was she doing it intentionally? Whatever the reason, he didn't want a painkiller to calm his instability, because it was insulting him and mocking all the progress they had made.
«You're completely empty, Seraphine. You're the fakest person I know, and if you think you're special just because you can sense people's frequencies, well, that's your fucking problem. You're disgusted when Olaf smells like beer, but you're not disgusted when you come here and tear my misery apart? Forget it, Sera; I'm fed up with all your hypocritical bullshit and your damn plastic smile. You're truly repulsive.»
Those words had hurt, but they were true. Seraphine had lost sight of her true purpose; she was supposed to become his friend, earn his trust so she could help him escape that darkness, but instead she had chosen to treat him like a broken object to be fixed, a personal project that didn't even benefit her, and if it did, only inflated her ego.
She was a monster.
The asphalt crunched under the tires as the car stopped. The engine continued to vibrate even though they were no longer driving, and Seraphine's house awaited them just a few steps away.
The atmosphere inside the vehicle was heavy; the radio was turned off halfway through the journey, when Sera's story began to deepen. Neither of them dared to look at each other, and even glancing at the reflection in the windows seemed too much.
To Karthus, all this talk of "frequencies" and Sera's magic was Greek, just like that absurd habit of today's youth of declaring war or love through flickering screens. However, he could recognize the effort; the young woman had gotten down and dirty to try to lift Viego up. The old vocalist watched her tears out of the corner of his eye. He didn't feel sorry for her—in The Threshold, tears didn't pay the bills—but he could distinguish an honest mistake caused by a savior complex from cold manipulation orchestrated by Thresh.
“That selfish mistake doesn’t make you the new villain of Pentakill.” Karthus’s voice broke the tension as he turned to her, demanding her attention. “We’re all just as rotten inside, if not more so. Thresh is a calculating jerk who only cares about money, Viego is a heartbroken kid who hates self-pity, and you… you made a mistake trying to play God with the feelings of someone so unstable.”
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the dying purr of the engine. Seraphine didn’t reply; she endured the lecture with her head bowed because she knew every damn word was true. Karthus let out a static-laden sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, gripping the steering wheel with his other hand before pressing the button for the central locking system. The metallic click of the doors sounded like a release.
“Don’t try to fix it. The boy doesn’t need a nurse, he needs a mirror. And now that you’ve seen your own darkness, maybe you’re ready to leave all those masks and filters behind.” The passenger door unlocked, allowing Sera to open it. “We’ll start recording the new track tomorrow. Don’t bring that rehearsed smile; bring the monster.”
Seraphine nodded gently. The weight of shame was still there, but it came with a strange, soothing relief. It was comforting to discover that Pentakill was starting to feel like a real family; one that didn't mince words when reminding her of her blunders or try to excuse her mistakes with corporate flattery.
As she said goodbye, she had to turn around when she heard the old vocalist yell at her from the car.
"Oh, if that idiot writes you anything hurtful, tell me and I'll smash a guitar over his ribs."
Seraphine laughed shyly, her lips twitching as she couldn't decide whether to smile or keep that dismayed expression. Finally, she said goodbye to the man with a genuine smile before heading home.