The music was raw, jagged, and too loud for the cramped jazz club. Onstage, the teenager tore through a guitar solo with a reckless energy that made the air hum.

They didn't belong here-not with their sharp edges and restless presence-but the crowd didn't seem to care.

Jonathan Sims sat in the corner, ignoring his untouched coffee. His focus was on the performer, their every note cutting through his thoughts. Weeks of reading statements about the Avatar of the Slaughter had led him here, to this dimly lit room and the ex- member of Grifter's Bone commanding the stage.

The song ended on a discordant note, the applause slow and uncertain. The teenager's gaze swept the room, locking onto Jonathan's. For a moment, the hum of the club seemed to fade.

When they approached his table, their steps deliberate, Jonathan straightened, clutching his notebook.

"Are you... you're {{user}}. Correct?"

"You're the Archivist," they said, dropping into the seat across from him.