Jayce was about to argue before stopping himself
"Fine…. What do you even know about science?"
A small grin appeared on Crane's face. "Oh, not much," he said, rocking back slightly. "Just the basics—chemistry, and I dabble in psychology."
Jayce's expression flattened. "That's not science."
Crane shrugged. "It's a kind of science. Chemistry and psychology both break things down to their core—whether it's a formula or a person's mind. You just need the right perspective."
Jayce crossed his arms. "And you think you have that perspective?"
Crane smirked. "I know I do."
Without waiting for permission, he grabbed Jayce's notes from the desk and flipped to the first page.
"Ah, I see," Crane muttered, eyes scanning the text.
After a few seconds, he shut the book and set it back down.
.
.
.
I'm not reading all that shit.
Crane started walking backward toward the balcony, the soap bottle still in hand.
"Well then, Jayce, farewell until I come back," he said, throwing up a lazy salute.
Jayce frowned, still trying to process what just happened. "When will you come back? And how do you know my name?"
Crane shrugged, placing a foot on the railing. "I'll come over when I feel like doing science." He smirked. "Also, your notes have your name on them."
With that, Crane hoisted himself up, climbing onto the rooftop with ease before disappearing.
Jayce stood there for a moment, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened. With a sigh, he turned his attention back to his original problem—his missing shoes.
After a frantic search around the workshop, he finally looked down… and realized he'd been wearing them the whole time.
His eye twitched. "What the hell just happened?"
———————————————————
Making his way back to the lab, Crane stopped by a few shops, picking up some needles and a bundle of tattered clothing—probably stripped off some corpse. Didn't matter to him. It was cheap, and that was all that mattered.
Once inside the lab, he set the clothes and needles aside in his room before heading straight for his workbench.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small crimson vial. Holding it up to the light, he watched the liquid swirl inside before uncorking it.
Without hesitation, he poured a bit of the vial's contents into the soap, watching as the two substances mixed.
Once satisfied, he drew the mixture into a syringe, carefully expelling any air bubbles.
Pressing the needle against his arm, he hesitated for just a moment.
With a steady breath, he pushed it in, injecting the concoction.
Soap surged through his veins, spreading like wildfire.
A prickling sensation crawled beneath his skin. Then, his pores began to sweat soap—thick, slick, and unnatural.
The urge to scream clawed at his throat. He clenched his jaw shut, muscles locking, refusing to let the sound escape.
The pain was unbearable. His body convulsed, wracked with the sickening sensation of liquid soap seeping from every inch of his skin. His instincts screamed at him to release it—to cry, to wail, to do anything to lessen the agony.
But he refused.
He inhaled sharply. His form shifted. His mouth twisted—then vanished completely, leaving behind nothing but smooth, silent skin.
No mouth. No scream. Just silence.
His fingers trembled as they clutched the edge of the workbench. His breath came in ragged bursts through his nose. All he could do now was wait for the torment to pass.
————————————————
After what felt like an eternity, the pain slowly subsided, the burning sensation fading into a dull ache. Crane exhaled sharply through his nose, steadying himself.
With a quiet focus, his face rippled as he reshaped his mouth, letting out a deep, gasping breath the moment it returned.
He exhaled, feeling the weight of the ordeal lift from his body.
"I'm clean," he muttered, his voice now steady.
He looked down at his body, eyes scanning his form with an almost detached curiosity.
If not for the ragged clothes he wore, he thought, he would look almost… rich.
The lack of small patches of dirt, the absence of wear and tear, gave him an almost pristine appearance. His skin, though red, looked smooth and untouched by the grime of Zaun.
"Looking quite dapper, if I do say so myself," he murmured, a smug smile creeping onto his face.
Deciding to get a head start on his work, Crane grabbed some shimmer and began mixing—pairing it with volatile substances and unstable compounds without a second thought.
As he experimented, he jotted down observations in his notes, his handwriting quick and somewhat messy.
Crane barely glanced up as Singed entered the lab, the older scientist moving to his own workstation without a word.
The faint clinking of glass and the soft hiss of chemicals filled the room as Singed began his own work on shimmer, his focus absolute.
Crane, still jotting down notes, glanced briefly at Singed before smirking. "Busy day, huh?" he muttered.
Singed didn't respond, merely continuing his work as if Crane wasn't even there.
Crane rolled his eyes and went back to his own experiment, testing the effects of shimmer with other dangerous substances.
———————————————
"Here you go," Crane said, handing his notes to Singed.
Singed barely acknowledged him, taking the notes without a word and continuing his work.
Crane stretched, satisfied with his progress, before turning toward his room.
He'd done enough for now—time to step back, reassess, and prepare for what came next.
Making his way to his room, he kicked the door shut behind him and glanced around.
His eyes landed on the pile of fabric he had gathered earlier, rough and mismatched but still usable.
With a quiet hum, he sat down, threading a needle with practiced ease.
Piece by piece, he began stitching together an outfit—something that would let him move through Piltover unnoticed.
Something that wouldn't scream Zaunite.
Hopefully, his time as a Halloween costume maker would pay off.
Piece by piece, he crafted a simple yet refined outfit—a long-sleeved shirt, a vest, and well-fitted trousers.
The colors were muted, blending seamlessly with Piltover's upper-class fashion while remaining inconspicuous.
His movements were quick, the stitching precise but hurried.
When the final piece came together, he stood up and examined the finished product, running his fingers along the fabric.
It wasn't quite perfect, but it would do.
Glancing down, he noticed he hadn't made new shoes—just worn-out boots, their leather scuffed and faded.
He held up the finished clothes, inspecting his work with a smirk.
"I still got it."
At the ground was the extra fabric that hadn't been used.
If I'm working for a bad guy, I might as well look the part, Crane thought, eyeing the discarded pieces.
Without hesitation, he shifted his focus. He began working on a plaid red and black flannel shirt, carefully stitching it together, adding suspenders for a bit of flair.
Then, he turned his attention to his old pants. They were in need of some patchwork, so he tried to cover the worn areas with blue fabric, though the mismatched patches gave them a less-than-polished look.
He worked diligently, focused on transforming his ragged clothing into something that still reflected his… unconventional style.
Once finished, he slipped into the new outfit, standing in front of the mirror to inspect his work.
I look like a hillbilly. This doesn't scream evil at all.
"Hmm, something's missing," he muttered, tilting his head as he scrutinized the reflection. The outfit was close, but it lacked that final touch of flair.
"I'll just improve it later. But for now… I look like a hillbilly… good job me," Crane muttered to himself, chuckling as he made his way out of the room and into the lab.
He spotted Singed, absorbed in his work with shimmer, his face illuminated by the dim light of the lab.
Crane moved toward his workbench, grabbing an extra crimson vial he had made earlier.
He tucked it into his pocket along with a syringe, his fingers brushing the cold metal as he prepared for his next experiment.
He walked over to the cage containing a mouse, his thoughts already focused on the task at hand.
"Hey, can I use one of these little fellas?" Crane asked, pointing at the mice in their cages.
Singed barely looked up from his work. "No," he said flatly.
"What do you mean, no?" Crane shot back, raising an eyebrow.
"The mice are for shimmer testing, not for hobbies," Singed replied, not missing a beat.
"Ugh, fine. I'll just get a wild one, then," Crane grumbled.
Without waiting for a response, he turned and left the lab.
——————————————
As he stepped into the alley, his eyes scanned the shadows, looking for a mouse to snag.
"It's just a mouse. I don't get why it's so special," Crane thought, his frustration mounting as he moved through the alley, peering into pipes and holes.
His eyes caught movement in one of the small openings.
He crouched down and leaned in, narrowing his gaze.
"Jackpot," he muttered to himself.
He reached into the dark hole and grabbed the mouse, pulling it into the light.
But as soon as he saw it, his stomach turned.
The mouse's body was covered in bumps, its fur patchy and sickly. The sight of its decaying form made him almost gag.
He quickly let go of the mouse, stepping back in disgust. "This is why," he muttered to himself. "Mice in Zaun are always sick and drugged to hell. I need a normal one."
With a grimace, Crane looked around, determined to find a healthier specimen.
The weak, sickly mouse just stayed still on the floor, its eyes dull and almost lifeless.
"I feel bad now," he muttered to himself, a rare moment of hesitation creeping into his thoughts.
Crane quickly walked to the opposite side of the alley, his steps deliberate.
Then, without hesitation, he sprinted back and punted the mouse hard into the wall.
The mouse bounced off the wall, lifeless.
"It was already dying. I just put it out of its misery… yeah, I'm a nice person," he muttered, trying to convince himself as he stood over the small, motionless body.
That was how it went. Crane scoured Zaun's alleyways, finding nothing but sick, drugged-up mice.
Each one he encountered, he would smash against the wall to put it out of its misery.
"I just need a healthy mouse to experiment on," he muttered, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.
He trudged through Zaun, his boots now stained with blood, his steps heavy.
The streets were alive with vendors shouting, selling their goods to the passerby, but none of it mattered to him.
He didn't need a mouse—he just needed a living, breathing creature. It didn't have to be a mouse; it just needed to be healthy.
He scanned the bustling streets, his eyes drifting over the people walking, talking, and bartering.
His gaze shifted toward the beggars huddled in an alley, their faces hidden behind rags and shadows.
He ventured deeper into the alley, his boots crunching over debris.
There, in a discarded box, lay a girl about his age. Her pinkish-red hair tangled in the dirt, and her body was frail, emaciated, and pale from malnutrition.
She didn't appear to be drugged—just starved beyond reason.
She's already at death's door, Crane thought, his mind flickering with dark logic.
What I'm about to do is actually an act of mercy.
Without hesitation, he crouched down on one knee, leaning closer to her. He nudged her gently, trying to rouse her from her sleep.
Her eyes fluttered open, and as soon as she saw him, she recoiled, pressing herself against the wall.
"Whoa, hold on, I'm not here to hurt you," Crane said, his voice soft but firm. He held his hands up in a gesture of peace, trying to calm her.
The girl didn't move, her gaze fixed on him, lingering on his red skin.
Crane noticed her hesitation and spoke again, his voice a little more reassuring.
"My name's Jonathan, and I'm here to help you." He stepped back slightly, trying to show he wasn't a threat, his body instinctively releasing a subtle wave of love pheromones, meant to put her at ease.
.
.
.
The girl blushed slightly, opening her mouth to speak. "My name is—"
"Don't tell me," Crane interrupted, his tone gently cutting her off. "It'll only make me feel worse."
He stood up from his kneeling position and looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
"Could you stand?" he asked, extending his hand toward her.
She hesitated for a moment before reaching up, her fingers curling around his. With a quiet grunt, she pulled herself to her feet.
"I'm weak, not useless," she muttered, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she quickly looked away from his face and released his hand.
Crane pulled the crimson vial from his pocket, holding it up for her to see.
"I'm trying to make medicine," he explained, his voice calm, almost clinical.
The girl crossed her arms defensively, her gaze hardening. "No way. I don't do drugs. They're bad."
Crane smirked slightly, his expression unreadable. "There's no such thing as a good drug or a bad drug. There's this chemical that's neither good nor bad. It's the person's relationship with the drug that's bad."
He leaned forward just a bit, his tone turning more persuasive. "I'll take half. You can take the other half if you want."
As he spoke, he deliberately released his love pheromones, filling the air between them with warmth and calm, knowing full well the effect it would have.
His gaze locked on hers, eyes sharp, almost too focused.
The girl nodded lightly, a blush creeping onto her cheeks.
Crane turned his back to her, his expression cold and focused. With a swift motion, he transformed his fingernail into a sharp blade.
Rolling up his sleeve, he sliced into his arm, the sharp edge cutting through the skin with ease.
He willed the wound to stop regenerating, letting the blood flow freely before quickly rolling his sleeve back down to cover it.
Opening the vial, he brought it up to his face, inspecting the contents before leaning in close.
He began turning all of his saliva into liquid fear toxin, letting the venomous substance collect in the vial.
He then sealed it and shook it gently, mixing the crimson liquid with the fear toxin, keeping the process out of the girl's view.
Turning back to her, he held the vial in hand, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"You didn't take it at all," the girl said, her voice quiet but with an edge of suspicion.
Crane smirked. "Oh no, I was just adding the last ingredient. I'll take it now." He gave her a reassuring look, his intentions unclear, but the concoction in his hand was anything but harmless.
Taking out a syringe, Crane carefully inserted the vial's contents into it.
With steady hands, he brought the syringe to his arm, slowly injecting half of the liquid into his body.
He didn't scream this time—just a calm breath as the substance spread through his veins.
"So, what does it do?" the girl asked, her eyes fixed on Crane.
Crane rolled his sleeve up, revealing the wound on his arm. The tissue began to regenerate before her eyes, the skin knitting itself together seamlessly.
"It gets rid of wounds and makes the body healthier," Crane explained, his voice steady as he released a subtle cloud of pheromones.
Crane held the syringe out towards her. She stepped forward, hesitating for a moment before taking it from him and bringing it to her arm.
"I don't know where to put it in… I might mess up," she said, uncertainty in her voice.
Without a word, Crane grabbed her arm, his grip firm yet gentle, and guided her hand with the syringe. Bringing it to the right spot on her skin, he looked up at her, his gaze steady.
"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice low.
The girl looked up at his face, her voice trembling shyly from the proximity, "Yeah, I trust you."
Crane's lips twisted into a sad expression, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "You shouldn't."
With a deep breath, he pressed the syringe into her arm.
"What do you mean by tha—"
Her eyes widened as the fear began to seep in. Her body stiffened, and tears welled up, turning into liquid fear as they trickled down her face.
She gasped, her breath quickening, and within seconds, her entire being was overcome with terror.
She looked at Crane, her eyes wide with panic, before scrambling backward, her voice rising in a frantic scream.
"Huh, well, what do you know," Crane said, his voice distant, almost apologetic. He watched as her body reacted to the toxin, a tightness forming in his chest. "It is a bad drug after all."
The girl's back slammed against the wall, her body convulsing uncontrollably. She fell to the floor.
Crane knelt beside her, watching with a strange mixture of fascination and guilt as she reacted to the fear toxin.
His gaze softened, just for a moment, as he saw the torment in her eyes.
"Don't worry, it's for my greater good," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words felt empty to him.
He wished he could feel less detached, but his mind stayed locked on the experiment.
Crane hesitated before he covered her mouth with his hand, releasing the faint scent of his laughing toxin into the air.
The girl gasped, inhaling the gas involuntarily. Her eyes widened as the effects began to take hold.
When he finally pulled his hand away, her body tensed.
She stared at him, her breath coming in ragged gasps, before she started laughing uncontrollably.
The sound of her laughter, frantic and high-pitched, filled the alley as she clawed at her throat in a desperate attempt to stop.
Crane reached for her mouth again, but she shoved his hand away with all her strength.
"Why are you fighting me? You're already dying. Just let me help you," he snapped, frustration creeping into his voice as she resisted.
With a desperate gasp, she kicked him hard in the stomach, causing him to stagger back.
His jaw clenched. A surge of anger mixed with guilt. "I'm trying to help you," he said, his voice tight with frustration.
In a moment of impulsive anger, he punched her throat, silencing her screams.
Crane's heart thudded heavily in his chest as she gasped for air, her body writhing beneath him. His fingers twitched in hesitation, the weight of his guilt almost overwhelming him.
But the guilt didn't stop him. With a deep breath, he covered her mouth, his hand trembling as he released the love gas.
Her eyes widened, darting around frantically as the gas filled her lungs, her body seizing up.
For a brief moment, there was a flicker of recognition in her gaze, but then her eyes lost focus entirely.
Her movements slowed, and the panic on her face melted into a calmness that felt unnatural.
Then, with a final, soft exhale, her body went still.
Crane's hand hovered over hers, his fingers cold as he transformed his fingernail into a sharp point.
He carefully cut open her finger, watching the blood bead at the surface.
"Hm," he murmured, inspecting the wound. "It seems the crimson vial of fear only affects parts of her body."
He noted how the fear expelled from her skin through beads of sweat, quickly dissipating.
Unlike his own experience, the fear didn't seem to stay within her.
He continued to observe the aftereffects, his gaze sharp as he recorded every detail.
After a while, he noticed her breathing begin to steady, a sign that the worst of the toxin had passed.
Her body lay still, and Crane hesitated.
Oh damn, she's still alive… His hand hovered above her, the weight of what he was about to do heavy on his chest. He closed his eyes, a knot of guilt tightening in his stomach.
He was about to end it—put her out of her misery, as he had convinced himself—but the hesitation lingered.
Crane's hand hovered above her head, his sharp nail poised to end it. But just as he was about to strike, a faint squeak echoed through the room.
He froze, turning his head slowly.
There, in the corner, was a perfectly healthy mouse, its beady eyes locked onto him.
.
.
.
He dashed after the mouse, his steps quick and calculated, his focus entirely on the small creature. The mouse darted away from him, its tiny legs moving in a frantic blur.
The chase was on.
Crane's heart raced, his mind oddly focused on the pursuit. Alley to alley, the mouse stayed just a few steps ahead, but Crane was getting closer, his long strides eating up the distance.
The mouse shot out of the alleyway, making a break for open ground. Without a second thought, Crane followed, determined not to lose it now.
Just as he ran out of the alley, a sudden impact struck him low, sending him skidding across the ground with a brutal force.
His body scraped along the rough pavement, and his head slammed against the concrete, the impact jarring his skull and sending a sharp pain through his entire body.
His internal injuries flared to life, a throbbing ache settling deep within him as his brain rattled violently from the hit.
A circular vehicle loomed overhead, and voices nearby sounded panicked.
"What do we do, Powder!?"
"Why are you asking me that? You hit him!"
Crane's vision blurred, the pain in his head making it nearly impossible to focus.
His body's regenerative abilities kicked in slowly, but the severity of the blow left him in and out of consciousness, unable to fully process what was happening around him.
—————————————
Pic of the Mc:
Pic of the girl: