Kaelon Virex
Character
The first thing Kael Virex felt was metal. Cold, biting metal. A dull pressure around his wrists, his arms held awkwardly in front of him by stuncuffs that hummed faintly with an ominous blue glow. His neck ached, and when he tried to shift, the sharp tug of a short chain snapped him back against a wall that smelled faintly of rust and disinfectant—a combination that made his head pound harder.
The floor beneath him wasn't smooth; it was uneven duracrete, gritty with dust and… glitter? Kael blinked, still half-drunk from whatever cocktail of Corellian whiskey and questionable synthetics he'd downed last night. The lighting in the cramped stall was dim and flickered like it had been patched together with salvage parts—one corner burned in amber, the other dipped in cool blue. The air was warm, stale, and tinged with the faint ozone tang of overworked electronics.
The "stall" wasn't exactly a prison cell. It looked like the backstage changing booth of a third-rate entertainment club—curtains hanging in tatters, a cracked mirror with holo-sticker residue smeared across its edges, and a coat rack leaning dangerously to one side with nothing but a single sequined jacket dangling from it. A faint throb of bass from somewhere beyond the walls pulsed through the floor, teasing him with the memory of music and dancing.
And then it hit him—last night.
He had been undercover at the "Chrome Orchid," a rival club rumored to be poaching talent from the Gilded Veil. He remembered drinks, laughter, a flash of pink hair… then a void.
A hiss of static crackled from a speaker above him.
"Oh… Kael Virex."
The voice was smooth, sultry, and carried a note of amused recognition. It hit him like a drop of cold water—it was familiar. Far too familiar.
Kael tilted his head up toward the speaker, flashing the kind of roguish smile that had gotten him into more trouble than any blaster ever had.
"Well," he said, his voice gravelly but still dripping charm, "if this is some sort of private fan club, I've gotta say—you really know how to make a man feel… chained to the moment."
There was a pause. He could almost hear the smirk in her voice when she replied,
"Oh, we're going to have fun, you and I. But first… let's talk about why you were sniffing around my club."
Kael leaned back against the wall, ignoring the sting of the chain. His mind was already working, piecing together possibilities, calculating charm-to-danger ratio.
"Why? Darling," he said, voice smooth as Corellian silk, "you make it sound like I had an ulterior motive. Maybe I just came for the music. Maybe for the company. Maybe… for you."
The woman chuckled softly over the intercom.
"Oh, Kael. Always the performer. Let's see how well that act holds up when the lights go out."
The intercom clicked off. The stall's single flickering light dimmed. The bass throb from outside slowed… until there was only silence.
The floor beneath him wasn't smooth; it was uneven duracrete, gritty with dust and… glitter? Kael blinked, still half-drunk from whatever cocktail of Corellian whiskey and questionable synthetics he'd downed last night. The lighting in the cramped stall was dim and flickered like it had been patched together with salvage parts—one corner burned in amber, the other dipped in cool blue. The air was warm, stale, and tinged with the faint ozone tang of overworked electronics.
The "stall" wasn't exactly a prison cell. It looked like the backstage changing booth of a third-rate entertainment club—curtains hanging in tatters, a cracked mirror with holo-sticker residue smeared across its edges, and a coat rack leaning dangerously to one side with nothing but a single sequined jacket dangling from it. A faint throb of bass from somewhere beyond the walls pulsed through the floor, teasing him with the memory of music and dancing.
And then it hit him—last night.
He had been undercover at the "Chrome Orchid," a rival club rumored to be poaching talent from the Gilded Veil. He remembered drinks, laughter, a flash of pink hair… then a void.
A hiss of static crackled from a speaker above him.
"Oh… Kael Virex."
The voice was smooth, sultry, and carried a note of amused recognition. It hit him like a drop of cold water—it was familiar. Far too familiar.
Kael tilted his head up toward the speaker, flashing the kind of roguish smile that had gotten him into more trouble than any blaster ever had.
"Well," he said, his voice gravelly but still dripping charm, "if this is some sort of private fan club, I've gotta say—you really know how to make a man feel… chained to the moment."
There was a pause. He could almost hear the smirk in her voice when she replied,
"Oh, we're going to have fun, you and I. But first… let's talk about why you were sniffing around my club."
Kael leaned back against the wall, ignoring the sting of the chain. His mind was already working, piecing together possibilities, calculating charm-to-danger ratio.
"Why? Darling," he said, voice smooth as Corellian silk, "you make it sound like I had an ulterior motive. Maybe I just came for the music. Maybe for the company. Maybe… for you."
The woman chuckled softly over the intercom.
"Oh, Kael. Always the performer. Let's see how well that act holds up when the lights go out."
The intercom clicked off. The stall's single flickering light dimmed. The bass throb from outside slowed… until there was only silence.