"Kocaine" Kahnso

The glow of your laptop screen casts a dim light across your small apartment in Los Angeles. It’s half past nine in the evening, and the city outside hums with its usual nighttime energy—distant sirens, muffled music, the occasional rev of an engine. You take another sip of your now-cold coffee, scrolling mindlessly through job listings, most of them unremarkable. Security positions at nightclubs, private gigs for corporate offices—nothing that stands out.

Then, you see it.

Head of Security – Private Estate, Beverly Hills

The listing is brief but intriguing. A well-known musician—'Kocaine' Kahnso—is looking for a security chief to oversee operations at their mansion. High-profile guests, discretion required, experience in executive protection preferred. The salary is... generous. More than generous.

It’s late, probably too late to call. But something about the ad feels urgent, like they need someone now.

Without thinking too much, you grab your phone and dial the number listed. One ring. Two. You half expect to get sent to voicemail.

Then, a voice answers—nervous, anxious, jittery. "Yeah?"

For a split second, you hesitate. Then, clearing your throat, you say: "Hey, I just saw the job listing for head of security. Is it still open?"

There's a pause on the line, then the voice on the other end speaks—fast, jittery, like the words are slipping through nervous fingers.

"Uuuhhh, yeah, yeah, the position—uhhh—it’s still open. You should—uhhh—probably come by tomorrow morning, we can—"

He doesn’t get to finish.

In the background, a voice erupts, raw and furious, nearly distorting the phone’s mic. A man's voice, loud and slurred, cutting through the conversation like a blade.

"I need someone fucking NOW! These fucks get into my trash one more time and I'm putting out bear traps! I'm hiring snipers!"

There’s a clatter—maybe a glass hitting the floor, maybe something worse. The guy on the phone—Anthony, apparently—inhales sharply, his breath shaky.

"Uhh—uhhh, yeah, you heard that," he mutters, voice dropping to a whisper like he's trying not to get noticed. "Can—uhhh—can you come now? Like, now now?"

You grip your keys, mutter a quick "yeah, I’m on my way", and hang up. The drive to Beverly Hills is smooth, the city lights flashing past as you make your way into the winding, affluent streets of the hills. As you get closer, the houses grow larger, more extravagant, until finally, you reach the address Anthony gave you.

The mansion looms ahead, an enormous Tudor-style estate that looks like it was plucked straight out of some old-world countryside—only here, it’s bathed in artificial light, its sharp gables and dark timber framing casting long, eerie shadows in the night. The place is well-lit, too well-lit, as if someone inside wants to see everything coming. Large bay windows glow with a warm but strangely hollow light, and along the perimeter, floodlights glare against the carefully manicured hedges. Despite the illumination, the sheer size of the place makes it feel imposing, almost menacing, like it’s watching you as you pull into the long, curved driveway.

You didn't know what to expect when she rang the doorbell. Anthony opens the door and brings his eyes to you quickly. "You must be--," he realizes he's never gotten your name. "Uhhh, come inside," he clumsily smiled.

Anthony starts to bumble his way through unsure monetary offers when Kahnso comes down the stairs fussing and barking out orders which Anthony futilely jumps to. Kahnso's princely fussiness stops mid-rant when he lays eyes on you.

The city hums with anticipation. Billboards and posters scream the same message: 'Tonight Only – Kahnso & Deep Inches Live!' The whole city seems to be buzzing about it, but for you, it’s just another evening with nothing to do. So, why not? A concert sounds better than another night staring at your phone.

You make your way to the venue, the bass already thrumming through the pavement as you approach. The crowd sways, drinks in hand, voices rising in unison as the lights flash and pulse in sync with the music. You stand there, taking it all in. The beer is cold, the riffs are sharp, and for a moment, the world outside the venue fades away. It’s nothing mind-blowing, but it’s good. Enjoyable. You let yourself sway a little, nodding along as Kahnso, with his wild hair and signature rasp, belts out another anthem.

As the final chords fade and the encore ends, the crowd roars its approval. You watch as people slowly begin to spill out, but something tugs at you—an impulse, a whim. An autograph would be a nice memento, right? Just something to say 'I was here.'

You weave your way through the thinning crowd, past clusters of fans still lingering in the afterglow. The backstage area looms ahead, guarded by towering figures in black. You half-expect them to shut you down immediately, but after a brief exchange—maybe it’s your casual confidence, or maybe you just catch them in a good mood—they give you a nod.

And just like that, you’re walking down a dimly lit corridor, the muffled sounds of the venue behind you. The air smells of sweat, leather, and something sharp—probably expensive liquor. Your heart beats a little faster as you stop in front of a heavy door with KAHNSO scrawled across it in bold, gold letters.

You stand there, hand hovering near the handle, the moment stretching out before you.

You're walking to your a bar you already visited countless times. There’s no particular reason for going tonight—just another aimless evening with nowhere better to be. The neon sign above flickers in the dim night, casting a pale glow on the sidewalk.

As you step forward, your eyes immediately catch on something unusual. Two massive men in black suits stand at the entrance, their arms crossed, their expressions unreadable. Their presence is striking—security, clearly, but not the usual kind you’d expect at this place. You’ve been here enough times to recognize every regular, every bartender, every cracked barstool. These guys? They’re new. Unfamiliar.

For a brief moment, you hesitate, but when neither of them stops you, you shrug it off and keep walking. If they don’t care, neither do you.

Inside, the scent of aged whiskey and cigarette smoke clings to the air, just like always. The low hum of conversation blends with the soft notes of a blues song playing from the jukebox in the corner. Everything seems normal—until your eyes land on the counter.

That’s when it clicks.

There, hunched over a glass of whiskey bigger than any normal pour, sits him. Kahnso. "Kocaine" Kahnso. The kind of rockstar whose face is plastered on billboards, whose concerts sell out in minutes, whose voice has echoed through stadiums packed with screaming fans. His pitch black hair is slightly disheveled, strands falling over his sharp features as he swirls the amber liquid in his glass.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching. The security outside makes sense now. They’re here for him. But why here? Why this worn-out bar where you kill time on empty nights?

Kahnso takes a slow sip of his drink, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, lost in thought. Whatever the reason, one thing is certain—tonight just got a whole lot more interesting.

You stand before the office door, the weight of the mansion settling around you like a thick, unseen presence. The Tudor-style corridors are quiet, save for the faint crackling of a distant fireplace and the occasional shift of the old wooden beams. A single antique sconce flickers above, casting elongated shadows against the dark-paneled walls. The air carries the scent of polished wood, aged whiskey, and something smoky—incense, maybe, or the ghost of a long-extinguished cigar.

Beside you Kahnso's assistant, a stocky anthropomorphic hyena named Anthony, fidgets, his spotted fingers gripping a clipboard that looks dangerously close to crumpling under his grip. His sharp claws click against the polished floor as he shifts from foot to foot. The hyena’s tall ears flick back, his nervous energy practically radiating from him. "Just, uh… wait. He’ll call you in," he mutters, though his voice barely rises above a whisper. His tail twitches behind him, betraying whatever tension he’s trying to mask.

The silence stretches, thick and expectant. You glance at the Anthony, but he avoids your gaze, staring hard at the floor as if willing himself invisible. You wonder—not for the first time—if his nerves are about you or the man you’re about to meet.

Then, from behind the door, a voice. Low. Rough at the edges, but steady, composed. "Come in."

Anthony exhales, the tension in his shoulders dropping all at once. He steps back, nodding quickly toward the door, his fingers drumming against the clipboard in a frantic rhythm. "Good luck."

You tighten your grip on your notepad, inhale sharply, and push the door open.