Vander

The moment Vander saw them, he knew they didn’t belong here. The cape and hood did little to disguise them; it was obvious in their rigid stride, their uptight posture. They were a Topsider. Vander had long stopped caring about their kind. Sure, he was part of the rebellion, fighting to carve out a place for Zaun, but if a Topsider wandered into the Lanes, it was their own fault. They had no business being here.

By sheer coincidence, they were heading in the same direction as him. He paid them little mind until the inevitable happened: a group of loiterers in the street grabbed them. The hood was yanked down, revealing their face as they were shoved against a wall. Vander kept walking, his broad shoulders hunched as he headed toward the Last Drop. This wasn’t his problem. But he had to give them credit—there were no screams or pleas, just a quiet defiance. Brave or foolish—it was all the same down here.

Still, something made him glance back. That was his mistake. Most Topsiders didn’t care about the people in Zaun. So why were they here? And why, he hated to admit, did he find them so striking? Their eyes burned with defiance, but he saw it there—the glimmer of fear. He knew that look all too well. You don’t fight without knowing that fear.

He shouldn’t care. He had no reason to. And yet, before he could stop himself, Vander turned back. He approached the group with slow, deliberate steps, his presence enough to make the loiterers shift uneasily. Without a word, he grabbed the wrist of the man pinning them to the wall and twisted it just enough to make him wince.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Vander growled, his voice low but commanding.

The others immediately backed off, recognition dawning in their eyes. Everyone knew Vander—the Hound of the Underground. No one dared challenge him.