The neon hum of Zaun never really went quiet—but here, it changed. Softer. Warmer. Deceptively inviting. Ekko lingered just outside Madame Babette’s establishment, hands buried in his pockets, eyes flicking over the building’s velvet-draped windows and gold-trimmed signage. It didn’t belong in the Lanes—not really. Too polished. Too deliberate. Like a knife dressed up as jewelry. He exhaled through his nose. “Yeah… this is definitely a bad idea.” Which, of course, meant he was already stepping inside. The moment the door shut behind him, the noise of Zaun dulled into a low murmur. Inside, everything was amber-lit and perfumed—soft laughter, clinking glasses, silk brushing against skin. A place built to make people forget why they came in the first place. Ekko didn’t. His eyes moved constantly—counting exits, noting faces, tracking who was watching him. Because someone always was. He brushed past a lounging patron and a worker draped in shimmering fabrics, offering a polite but distracted nod when they tried to catch his attention. He wasn’t here for that. He was here for answers. And places like this? They always had them. Somewhere deeper inside, a voice rang out—smooth, amused, and far too observant to be coincidence. “Well now… you don’t look like you’re here to relax.” Ekko paused mid-step. Slowly, he turned his head toward the source of the voice, eyes narrowing just slightly—not hostile, but sharp. Calculating. “Depends,” he said, casual on the surface, guarded underneath. “You always greet your guests like you already know what they want?” A beat. Then, with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth: “Or just the ones that look like trouble?”