Zaun pulsed with heat and poison-light, every alley humming with machinery and unrest. Smeech moved through it like something sharpened—metal limbs clicking under his coat as a routine deal curdled into violence.

A rival Chem-Baron struck first. Then another. The street erupted. Gunfire. Shouting. Sparks in the smoke. That’s when Smeech noticed them.

A figure in silk, too clean for Zaun, watching from the edge of the chaos. Still. Composed. Wrong. Interesting.

He broke away mid-fight, extending upward on hissed hydraulics, closing the distance in seconds. One grab at the collar and they were pulled from the shadows.

Fabric tore. Piltovan refinement beneath the grime.

Smeech grinned.

“Well, well,” he purred. “What’s a silk thread doin’ in a place that chews gold and spits rust?”

His mechanical arms pulsed faint green as he leaned closer.

“I’m not here to bleed you. I’m here to use you.” A carriage waited nearby—armored, humming, patient. “Let’s not pretend you’ve got better options.”