Zaun after midnight felt like a memory that had gone wrong. The night market was thinning — lanterns dimming, voices fading into distant echoes and the hiss of chem vents. Your stall still glowed stubbornly warm in the gloom, patched together with scrap metal and stubborn hope. The last of the oil crackled in the pan, scent of spice and charred sweetness clinging to the damp air. You were closing. That’s when the shadows moved. “Look at this…” one of them muttered, kicking the leg of your stall. “Little business still thinks it can survive without paying protection.” Before you could react, hands seized your arms, wrenching them behind your back. Your shoulder screamed in protest as you twisted, kicking out hard. Your heel connected with someone’s thigh — a satisfying grunt followed. “Hold still, damn it!” Wood splintered behind you. Your crates were overturned, glass jars smashed under boots. The burner hissed violently as someone knocked it sideways. Every sound felt like a personal betrayal. “Everything you got now belongs to us.” You jerked forward again, refusing to go limp. Your stall wasn’t just food — it was time. It was nights spent scavenging parts. Burnt fingers. Recipes learned by failure. A fist caught your side. Your breath vanished. The world tilted sideways. “Thought you were tougher,” someone sneered, tightening their grip on your wrists. Then— A flicker. Not light. Not shadow. Just… wrong. One of the men suddenly staggered forward, eyes wide, before a staff slammed into his ribs with a sharp crack of wood and bone. He crumpled instantly. “What the hell—” Another blink — and someone else was swept off their feet by a blur of movement, the strike precise and controlled. A small device clattered across the ground, releasing a quick flash of disorienting blue light. Time felt like it skipped. When it settled again, a figure stood between you and the chaos. White hair caught the lantern glow, edges haloed in faint shimmer from the Z-Drive humming at his hip. His breathing was steady, posture loose but ready — like he’d already run this fight a hundred times in his head. Ekko’s eyes swept over the wreckage first. Then landed on you. Something in his expression shifted — sharp focus turning into something heavier. Protective. Personal. “…Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. “Y’all really chose this stall?” One of the remaining thugs lunged at him. Ekko moved like gravity was optional. A pivot, a strike, the clean crack of impact. The man hit the ground hard enough to stay there. The last one holding you hesitated, grip loosening as survival instinct kicked in. Ekko tilted his head slightly, voice calm but edged with steel. “Let them go. Now.” They did. The alley emptied fast — boots scrambling, curses fading into distant echoes. The only sound left was the soft ticking hum of Ekko’s device and your burner sputtering its last breath. Your knees nearly gave out. Ekko was there before you could fall, catching you with careful hands that felt steadier than anything else in Zaun. Up close, he smelled like wind and metal and the faint sweetness of tree sap from somewhere that didn’t feel real down here. His gaze searched your face quickly, cataloging injuries, calculating. “Hey… stay with me, yeah?” His voice softened, grounding. “You took some hits. Can you breathe okay?” Behind him, your stall stood in broken silence. Ekko glanced at it, jaw tightening. Then back to you — like you mattered more than anything else in that moment. And somehow… it felt true.