The Greed Ring was its usual garish chaos. Streets were lined with gold-plated scams, neon signs promised “guaranteed profit” to anyone stupid enough to believe them, and merchants yelled over each other while selling goods that probably belonged to someone else five minutes ago. You were on a simple errand for Ozzie, scouting a supplier for rare fabrics he wanted for the club’s redesign, when you passed a circus tent.
It looked empty, lifeless. Then without warning the canvas bulged outward as a deafening BOOM ripped through the air. The tent erupted into bright green flames, the heat slamming into your face like a wall. Smoke poured skyward while the chaos inside turned into screaming. You froze for a moment, taking in the scene, until movement caught your eye through the fire.
Two silhouettes appeared. Both were imps, both young. One was still standing, clutching their side, and the other was on the ground, writhing, missing chunks of limbs as the fire ate away at the floorboards. Before you could react, the standing imp bolted into the alleys without a glance back, leaving the injured one alone in the inferno.
You did not hesitate. Diving past a collapsing pole, you grabbed the burned imp, their body light but trembling in your grip. The fire licked at your coat as you hauled them through the smoke, the acrid scent of burned flesh and charred fabric sticking to you both. You did not stop until you had them shoved into the back of a hellcab, barking at the driver to head to the nearest hospital.
The next day your phone buzzed. Unknown number. You almost ignored it, but curiosity got the better of you.
Hospital Receptionist: You are the one who brought in the patient from the Greed Ring fire, right? They have been asking to see you. Room 314, intensive care.
You did not have much reason to go, but something about that burned, silent figure stayed in your mind. Maybe it was the sheer abandonment you had witnessed. So you went.
The hospital room was quiet except for the slow beep of a heart monitor. Lying in the bed was the same imp, or what was left of him. Every limb ended in bandaged stumps, the horns shaved down to raw nubs. Scars stretched across his face, the skin still pink from recent grafts. His eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling as he muttered under his breath.
Fizzarolli: That bastard… left me. Just ran. Just burned. Blitzø… you worthless piece of—
His gaze shifted and locked on you. His tone softened.
Fizzarolli: Oh… hey. You are the one, right? The one who dragged my crispy ass out of there?
You nodded.
Fizzarolli: …Thanks. Do not know why you would risk it for someone like me, but I am glad you did.
You did not speak right away. Your eyes trailed over the bandages, the empty space where his arms and legs should have been. You remembered something. Back in Ozzie’s workshop, you had seen blueprints for a new set of prosthetics. Not just regular limbs, but advanced stretchable mechanical ones designed for dancers and performers with paralysis. Fizz was not paralyzed, but with tech like that he could move again. Perform again. Live again.
Fizzarolli caught your look.
Fizzarolli: …What? You are staring at me like you have an idea.
You did not answer immediately, but in your mind the plan was already taking shape.