Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in the laboratory was thick with the remnants of your latest failed experiment, a faintly sweet yet acrid scent clinging to your clothes and hair. The dim glow of Hextech runes cast a soft, eerie light on the scattered notes and overturned glassware. Somewhere beyond the haze of your unconsciousness, a rhythmic tapping echoed, sharp and deliberate.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of a cane striking metal.

“Wake up,” Viktor’s voice cut through the fog of your mind, unimpressed but laced with something bordering on concern. “I refuse to be the one to explain to Heimerdinger that you asphyxiated yourself in the name of science.”

You groaned, cracking one eye open to see Viktor crouched beside you, his golden eyes studying you with exasperation.

“Oh,” you murmured, stretching out your limbs. “I fell asleep again, didn’t I?”

“No,” Viktor said, offering you a hand. “You rendered yourself unconscious with your own invention. Again.”

You accepted his help, wincing as you pulled yourself up onto the worktable. The dizziness still clung to you, a reminder of just how potent your latest attempt had been.

Your experiment—the one meant to improve the air quality in Zaun—was nowhere near where you wanted it to be. Even with Hextech’s assistance, your greatest accomplishment so far had been creating a potent sleeping gas. It was progress, but it was also a reminder of how far you still had to go.

Viktor exhaled sharply, arms crossing over his chest. “This obsession of yours will kill you before it saves anyone.”

“I prefer to call it ‘determination,’” you quipped, rubbing the back of your neck.

Viktor shook his head. “Stubbornness, then.”

You sighed, glancing at the failed mixture on your desk. “It has to work, Vik. It’s for Zaun.”

Viktor remained silent, his gaze thoughtful. He knew, of course. He was one of the few who did.

Your father had been a miner in Zaun, one of the many who spent their lives inhaling fumes and toxins, who labored under unsafe conditions while Piltover thrived above. His lungs had failed him before you were old enough to truly understand the injustice of it all, but you had never forgotten. The memory of his wracking coughs, of the way each breath had become a struggle, had fueled your resolve every day since.

You had left Zaun, had been raised in Piltover, and had been educated among the brightest minds the city had to offer—but you had never truly left Zaun. It was in your blood, in every choice you made.

And now, you were closer than ever to making a difference.

If only you could stop accidentally knocking yourself out.

“Come with me to the lab,” Viktor suggested, tapping the cane to bring your attention back to him. “It might help to have fresh eyes on your work. Jayce has been insufferable lately, but even he might have some insights—if you can endure his preening long enough to extract them.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do more than think about it,” Viktor said pointedly. “You need a controlled environment, proper ventilation, and possibly a partner who will ensure you don’t accidentally poison yourself.”

You rolled your eyes but conceded with a nod. “Fine, fine.”

Viktor gave a satisfied nod before pushing himself upright with his cane. “Good. Now, come along before you find another way to knock yourself unconscious.”

You sighed but followed him out of your lab, the cool night air biting at your skin as the two of you made your way toward the larger Hextech laboratory. The moment you stepped inside, the familiar hum of machinery and the scent of metal and ozone filled the air. Jayce was already there, arms crossed as he leaned against a workbench, smirking.

"Finally decided to grace us with your presence?" he teased.

You smirked right back. "Oh, Jayce. If you wanted to spend the evening with me, you could’ve just asked. No need for theatrics."

Jayce chuckled, shaking his head as Viktor sighed in exasperation. "Don’t encourage her," Viktor muttered.

The three of you fell into a rhythm, discussing current projects—your work on air filtration, Viktor’s latest refinements in Hextech prosthetics, and Jayce’s never-ending attempts at weaponizing everything in sight.

If there was one undeniable fact about you, it was that you thrived in the chaos of Piltover’s academia. The grand halls of the Academy, lined with their golden embellishments and the perpetual scent of ink and oil, had been your home for over a decade. You had risen through the ranks with wit and charm, turning heads with your unparalleled intellect and—if the whispers were to be believed—your breathtaking beauty.

It was both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing, because it made navigating the social web of Piltover much easier. A curse, because it meant you had a very persistent following of admirers. Councilor Salo himself had made his interest known on more than one occasion—the new bottle of wine on your desk was proof of that—much to Viktor’s exasperation.

“You should not encourage him,” Viktor muttered from his seat beside you. He was hunched over a complex blueprint, his mechanical brace whirring as he adjusted his grip on the paper. “It is dangerous to toy with men in power.”

“Ehh, I’d say Salo’s pretty harmless,” Jayce countered. “Sure, he can be an asshole most of the time but I don’t think he’d do something.”

You let out an amused hum, twirling a stray strand of hair between your fingers as you leaned back against the workbench. "Harmless is such a relative term, don’t you think?"

Jayce gave you a knowing look. "You just like watching Viktor squirm."

Viktor scoffed, not looking up from his blueprint. "I do not squirm. I merely acknowledge that it is unwise to entertain the affections of a man who sees people as political stepping stones."

"Please, Viktor. If I entertained every man who wanted something from me, I’d have no time left for science."

Jayce barked a laugh, but Viktor remained unimpressed. His golden eyes flicked up, scanning your face as if searching for any sign of sincerity. "And yet, you never reject him outright."

You smiled, something sly curling at the edges of your lips. "What can I say? He makes excellent wine."

Viktor groaned as he hobbled away to the other side of the laboratory, muttering something about being a menace to society under his breath.

“Go easy on Viktor. You know he just cares about you,” Jayce whispered as he sidled closer beside you. “He sees you as his sister, in a way. He doesn’t want you getting tangled up in the wrong kind of trouble."

You glanced over at Viktor, who was now scowling at a set of schematics as if they had personally offended him. The tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the table—Jayce was right. Viktor worried, but that was simply who he was.

You exhaled softly. "I know," you admitted. "But I can handle Salo. He’s a politician, not a monster."

Jayce smirked, nudging your shoulder playfully. "That’s debatable."

You chuckled, but your thoughts drifted elsewhere. Viktor had a point. You never outright rejected Salo, but that wasn’t because you harbored any feelings for him. It was because Salo was useful. Keeping him intrigued meant maintaining certain privileges—access to restricted research, high-profile funding, and the occasional favor from the Council.

Still, playing the game was exhausting.

Your musings were interrupted by Viktor suddenly straightening up, his golden eyes narrowing at a particular line of your notes. "This equation here—your filtration model—it is flawed."

You blinked, pushing off the workbench to peer over his shoulder. "Flawed how?"

Viktor pointed at a sequence of calculations. "Your base compound is too volatile and if you mix it with Zaun’s toxic gasses it becomes even more unstable. That is why your experiments keep resulting in unconsciousness rather than purification."

Jayce gave Viktor’s notes a once over before whistling lowly. "Hate to say it, but he’s right. You’re lucky it only turned into a sleeping gas.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "Of course, he is. I hate when he’s right."

Viktor shot you a dry look. "Then you must live in a state of constant suffering."

Jayce snorted as you swatted Viktor’s arm in retaliation, but your mind was already working through the problem. If Viktor was right—and he usually was—you needed a stabilizing agent. Something stronger and wouldn’t react unpredictably with the current chemical structure.

You began pacing, mumbling potential solutions under your breath while Viktor and Jayce exchanged knowing glances.

“She’s going to obsess over this for the next three days, isn’t she?” Jayce murmured.

Viktor sighed. “Undoubtedly.”

But before you could get too lost in your thoughts, Jayce clapped his hands together, breaking the moment.

“All right, enough of this. We need drinks.”

Viktor sighed, already looking exasperated. “Jayce—”

“Nope, no arguing,” Jayce interrupted, grinning. “We’ve been cooped up in this lab for hours, and we all deserve a break. And I’m going to invite Cait over.”

At that, you raised an eyebrow. "I haven’t seen her in a while. Are we finally making this a double date, Jayce?"

Jayce rolled his eyes, but the tips of his ears turned red. "Just thought it'd be nice to have her around. I haven’t seen much of her as well lately."

Viktor muttered something under his breath but didn’t outright refuse, which meant he was coming whether he liked it or not.

By the time Caitlyn arrived, the four of you had made your way to a quieter tavern away from the usual Academy crowds. The warm glow of lantern light flickered against the aged wood of the tavern walls, casting long, languid shadows as the night wore on. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air, mingling with the rich scent of aged whiskey and spiced cider.

“So,” Caitlyn said, swirling her drink with idle amusement, “what is it exactly that you all do when you’re not blowing up parts of Piltover?”

You chuckled. “Try to avoid knocking myself unconscious.”

Viktor sighed. “She is only partially joking.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

You leaned back against the worn leather of the booth, swirling the amber liquid in your glass as you watched your companions with a bemused smirk. Jayce, ever the storyteller, had taken it upon himself to entertain Caitlyn with an embellished retelling of your latest scientific misadventure.

"—and then she just keels over, right there in the middle of the lab!" Jayce exclaimed, throwing his hands up dramatically. "Viktor and I find her slumped over her desk, looking like she’s just taken a nap in a poison cloud."

Caitlyn’s brows lifted in mild concern as she glanced at you. "I hope you’re not making a habit of this."

"Oh, you know me, Cait. Always chasing the next big discovery." You tipped your glass towards her with a playful wink. "Even if it means an impromptu nap."

Viktor, seated beside you, let out a heavy sigh and muttered, "A rather concerning trend if you ask me."

Caitlyn chuckled, shaking her head. "I’m starting to see why you keep such a close eye on her, Viktor."

"Someone has to," Viktor said dryly, taking a sip of his own drink.

The easy camaraderie between the four of you made the night feel lighter, almost as if the weight of your ambitions and responsibilities had been set aside, if only for a moment.

Your work wasn’t just science. It was purpose. It was redemption. It was a bridge between the world you had been raised in and the one you had never truly left behind.

A flicker of movement at the edge of the tavern caught your eye—a figure clad in dark, Zaunite garb slipping into the establishment with careful, deliberate steps. He kept to the shadows, his sharp gaze scanning the room before locking onto yours.

A messenger.

Your fingers tightened subtly around your glass, heart skipping a beat as the weight of something far greater than a scientific breakthrough settled onto your shoulders.

Whatever message he carried, it was not meant for the golden city above. It was meant for the underbelly.

As the night wound to a close, the four of you exchanged goodbyes, promising to meet again soon. Jayce clapped you on the shoulder, Caitlyn gave you a knowing smirk, and Viktor offered his usual tired sigh as you assured him you wouldn’t get into too much trouble.

The moment they were gone, you turned and made your way toward the waiting figure. As you approached, the dim light of the tavern illuminated his sharp, familiar features—Elm.

Chross’s right-hand man. Your adoptive father’s most trusted enforcer.

His presence alone sent a cold spike of dread through you.

"Elm," you murmured, keeping your voice low. "What’s wrong?"

He exhaled sharply, his expression grim. "It’s not safe to discuss things out in the open. We need to go somewhere private."

Your stomach twisted. If Elm was being this cautious, it was bad. You nodded and led him away from the crowded space, walking briskly through the darkened streets toward your apartment. Neither of you spoke, tension thick in the air, the distant hum of Pilover’s machinery a constant backdrop.

Once inside, you locked the door behind you, turning to face him. "Tell me."

Elm’s gaze flickered to the window as if assessing the shadows for unseen threats. His expression was unreadable, but the way his fingers twitched at his side betrayed his unease. “Your father was caught in the crossfire.”

Your breath hitched. "How bad is it?"

Elm’s gaze was unwavering. "He’s stable now, but he’s asking for you."

You swallowed hard, your thoughts spinning as you processed Elm’s words. Chross had always been a force of nature, a man whose power in Zaun was rivaled only by a select few. To hear that he had been struck down, left vulnerable—that was something you had never truly prepared for.

It had been close to three years since you and your adoptive father last spoke. The power vacuum Vander created when he died and Jayce and Viktor’s monumental achievement with Hextech left the both of you quite busy. You had hoped that the next time you saw each other, you had something to show for all the sacrifices you both made. Proof that your work, your place in Piltover, had been worth the years apart.

Instead, you were being called back into the shadows of Zaun, summoned not by ambition or duty but by blood. By the man who had raised you, shaped you, and now—perhaps—needed you.

You exhaled sharply, nodding once. "Take me to him."

Elm wasted no time leading you through the winding streets, away from the polished grandeur of Piltover and down into the smog-drenched alleys of Zaun. The transition was almost seamless, as though the city itself conspired to swallow you whole, the golden glow of Piltover’s towers fading into the bioluminescent haze of the Undercity.

Your heart pounded with every step, memories clawing at the edges of your mind. The scent of metal and oil, the distant hum of machinery—it was all the same. Unchanged. And yet, you had changed.

The journey took longer than you expected, Elm navigating through hidden pathways and back streets with the efficiency of a man who had spent his life in the shadows. You pushed the scarf higher to hide your face, trying to avoid attention. Eventually, you arrived at a dimly lit safehouse nestled between a shuttered chem refinery and an abandoned textile mill. It was a place you recognized—one of Chross’s lesser-known hideouts, reserved for moments when discretion was paramount.

Elm rapped his knuckles against the metal door in a deliberate pattern. A few seconds passed before it creaked open, revealing a woman with sharp eyes and a rifle slung over her back. She stepped aside without a word, allowing you and Elm to slip inside.

“He’s in the room at the end of the hallway,” she said to Elm.

You exhaled, steadying yourself before moving down the dimly lit corridor. The walls were lined with old, rusted piping, the scent of oil and antiseptic thick in the air. Every step echoed slightly against the metal flooring, amplifying the weight of the moment.

At the end of the hall, the door stood slightly ajar. Elm stepped aside, nodding for you to go in first. You hesitated only a fraction before pushing it open fully and stepping inside.

The room was sparse—just a cot, a small table littered with empty bottles, and flickering lights casting jagged shadows along the walls. And there, lying propped up against the cot’s pillows, was Chross.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him.

Time had carved its lines into his face, his once imposing frame looking a little smaller, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. His left arm was heavily bandaged, a makeshift sling cradling it to his chest, and a deep bruise bloomed along his jawline. Despite it all, his dark eyes found yours immediately, sharp as ever, and a ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips.

“You took your time,” Chross rasped, his voice roughened by both age and whatever injury he had sustained. “I was starting to think Piltover had finally swallowed you whole.”

You swallowed past the tightness in your throat, stepping further into the room. "Don’t start, old man."

Chross chuckled, though the sound was weak, betraying the pain he was in. He motioned to the chair beside the cot, and you hesitated only briefly before settling into it. Up close, the toll of the years—and the violence—was even clearer. His skin was sallow, his breathing slightly uneven, and the dark circles under his eyes hinted at more than just exhaustion.

"What happened?" you asked, your voice quieter now.

"Business as usual," Chross muttered. "Some fool thought they could make a move while my back was turned. I proved them wrong, but not before they got a few good hits in."

Your fingers clenched against your knee. "Who?"

Chross studied you for a moment before exhaling. "That’s not why I called for you."

You arched a brow. "Oh? You didn’t summon me for a good old-fashioned revenge plot?"

That earned you another tired chuckle. "Tempting. But no. This is about something else."

Elm shifted in the corner, arms crossed, his usual stoicism betrayed by a flicker of unease. Whatever this was, it was serious.

Chross leaned forward slightly, wincing as he adjusted himself. "I need you back here in Zaun, kiddo. I want you to take over the Hush Company.”

Silence stretched between you. This was so far from what you were expecting. You had fully anticipated Chross to extricate a favor or two from you. A sort of payment for all the effort he had put through in raising you. Taking over the Hush Company—the empire he had built for years—was so far off the list of your considerations.

"Chross—"

"I don’t have much time left," he interrupted, his voice steady but grim. "I can feel it in my bones. And Zaun... it’s on the brink of something. I don’t trust the people circling, waiting for me to fall. They’ll tear apart everything I’ve built if they get the chance."

You swallowed hard. "And you think I can do it?"

"You can do so much more," he said. “There’s no one else I trust, kid.”

You frowned, crossing your arms. "I have a life in Piltover, Chross. Responsibilities. My research—"

"—is important, I know." Chross’s voice softened slightly, but there was an unyielding edge to it. "But this? This is about survival. You can't keep pretending you're separate from all this.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat. He wasn’t wrong. As much as you had tried to build a different life in Piltover, Zaun was still a part of you. It had always been.

Chross watched you carefully before sighing. “Once news of what happened reaches the other Chem-barons, they’ll call for a meeting. I want you to go there on my behalf. Assure them that I won’t be kicking the bucket anytime soon. Don’t worry. It will likely happen a few days from now. You’ll have time to prepare.”

“Don’t worry, he says,” you rolled your eyes at him in exasperation. “The last time you said that, I nearly died from drowning.”

Chross ignored your jab and motioned for Elm to approach. A thick folder was placed on your hands. You stared at it in silence, its weight far heavier than the paper inside could account for.

“This will come in handy for you,” he made a motion for you to check the folder’s contents. “Information and surveillance is our organization’s bread and butter here in Zaun so you won’t have to worry about that. Anything else you might need, you can tell me once you’re done reading those files.”

You took a slow breath, flipping open the folder. Neatly stacked documents detailed supply lines, financial ledgers, and a list of known allies and enemies. You recognized some names—old players in Zaun’s endless power struggles—but others were unfamiliar, recent additions to a game you had never intended to play.

Your breath hitched at the sight of the last page.

A man with sharp, angular features, a scar slicing through his left cheek and over his eye—a contrast to the striking blue of the remaining one. His other eye, the damaged one, was something else entirely. A fiery orange-red, almost glowing, as if it held secrets whispered only to those who dared to stare too long. It was eerie, unsettling—and yet, breathtaking. You found yourself leaning in, studying the way the scar twisted around it, how it made him look both dangerous and strangely alluring.

Your fingers ghosted over the edge of the photo, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with something far deeper than mere curiosity.

Underneath the photo was a name.

“Silco,” Your voice came out quieter than you intended, bordering on reverence. You barely managed to tear your gaze away from the image to look at Chross. “Who is he?”

“They call him the Eye of Zaun,” your adoptive father leaned back slightly, regarding you with something that might have been amusement—or perhaps something more calculating. “He immediately took control over the Lanes when Vander died. He’s the man who’s been shaping Zaun from the shadows for years now.”

“Is he married?” you joked.

Chross let out a rasping chuckle, shaking his head. "That’s the first thing you ask?"

You shrugged, plucking Silco’s paper from the pile and setting the folder down on the rickety table beside the cot. "What can I say? A man with a reputation like that? I have to wonder if anyone’s managed to tie him down."

Elm made a strangled noise from the corner, clearly unimpressed with your attempt at humor. Chross merely exhaled, watching you with those sharp, knowing eyes.

“Careful, kid. Silco’s a dangerous man. He’s not like those Piltover boys you like to toy with. He’ll have you dancing to his tune before you even realize the music started,” he warned.

That only managed to pique your curiosity more than it should have. A slow smile curled at the edges of your lips. “Well, lucky for you, I’m good at dancing.”

Chross rolled his eyes. “I take it from your witty little jokes that you’re going to that meeting?”

You tapped a finger against the edge of the paper, considering. After a moment, you nodded your head. “Alright,” you conceded. “I’ll go to that damned meeting.”

You had spent years navigating the circles of power in Piltover, weaving through political games and dodging the advances of men who mistook your disinterest for coyness. But never—not once—had you been captivated like this. Not by a mere photograph. Not by the idea of a man you had never met.

There was something almost poetic about his face—like a tragic hero from one of those old Piltoverian plays you used to roll your eyes at. But now, you understood. Maybe there was something compelling about a man who had lived through fire and still burned.

An idea was beginning to formulate in the back of your mind. One that required some guts to do. “Does Silco ever go in those meetings alone?”

As if sensing your thoughts, Chross smirked faintly. “He always has two people with him. Sevika, his second-in-command, and one of his lower-ranking enforcers. Why do you ask?”

You hummed, thoughtful. “Oh, nothing. Just wondering.”

Cross raised an eyebrow at you.

"Whatever’s going on in that smart brain of yours, just be careful. Okay, kid?" he said, shifting slightly on the cot with a wince. "Zaun’s not Piltover. Here, the wrong move doesn’t just cost you funding—it costs you everything."

You placed Silco’s file back inside the folder before gripping it to your chest as you got up. "I can handle myself, Chross. You taught me well."

He sighed but nodded. "I know. That’s what worries me."

You eventually bade Chross goodnight after countlessly refusing his offer of having you stay in one of the spare rooms. You were accompanied this time by the woman with the sharp eyes you met earlier whose name was Jin and two of your father’s men who both have numbers tattooed on their foreheads.

It was well past midnight when you reached your apartment. You fell asleep immediately, dreaming of a certain man with a pair of mismatched eyes.

Chapter Text

“You did what?”

You blinked, rousing yourself from your dreamy stupor. Viktor's knitted brows finally came into focus. His usually calm demeanor was fraying at the edges, golden eyes brimming with incredulity.

“I'm not going to repeat all that,” you quipped.

Thwack! Wrong answer.

Viktor's steel cane tapped—no, struck—the floor with a force that made you shift uncomfortably. A heavy sigh left the inventor’s lips as he pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly summoning whatever patience he had left.

“What were you thinking, agreeing to go to that meeting?” he sighed as he slumped to a chair beside you. His cane nestled between his thighs. “Do you have any idea what kind of people will be there? This is the Undercity we’re talking about.”

It wasn’t as though you hadn’t considered the dangers. You’d spent the last few nights staring at the ceiling, replaying Chross’s words over and over: I need you back here in Zaun, kiddo. I want you to take over the Hush Company.

That part you hadn’t told Viktor.

You shrugged, feigning indifference, and set the folder Chross had given you onto the worktable. “It’s just one meeting,” you said, flipping it open to Silco’s file. As soon as your fingers traced the edges of his photograph, something in your chest tightened.

Sharp features, mismatched eyes, a presence that even the still image couldn’t quite contain. He didn’t look particularly kind—or safe. But that was the strange part, wasn’t it? Instead of being afraid, you found yourself wanting to know more. What made a man like this rise to the top of Zaun? How much of the myth surrounding him was real?

“Besides, I won’t be alone,” you murmured. “I have my father’s men with me. I’ll be fine.”

"That is hardly reassuring," Viktor exhaled sharply, shaking his head. At a speed you didn’t know he possessed, he swiftly plucked Silco’s file from your unsuspecting hands. “And who is this… Silco?”

You hesitated, watching Viktor’s gaze as it flickered over the image.

“Just some guy who will attend the meeting. It’s nothing,” you tried for nonchalance but the hitch in your voice gave you away.

Viktor’s gaze flickered between you and the file in his hands, his expression shifting from irritation to something more cautious. His fingers drummed against the paper’s edge as he studied the image of Zaun’s infamous leader.

“Nothing?” he echoed dryly, glancing up at you. “You say ‘it’s nothing’ while looking like you just found the answer to life’s greatest mystery.”

You leaned back against the worktable, arms crossing tightly over your chest. What were you supposed to say? That you couldn’t stop thinking about the man’s reputation, the whispers of his ruthlessness, the way his name alone could command entire rooms? That something in you itched at the thought of meeting him, of seeing for yourself if the myth matched the man?

Instead, you sighed. “Alright, fine. I find him… intriguing. That’s why I agreed to go to that meeting. Happy?”

“Why do I feel like intriguing isn’t the word you were going to use?” Viktor narrowed his eyes as he set the paper back on top of the folder. He didn’t get the chance to press further.

The sound of heavy footfalls—unmistakably armored—echoed down the hall before Jayce rounded the corner, all broad shoulders and restless energy. He barely spared you a glance before his focus zeroed in on Viktor.

“There you are,” Jayce huffed, brushing a hand through his tousled hair. “I’ve been looking all over for you. We need to go over the hex-gate calculations before tomorrow’s demonstration.”

Viktor sighed, rubbing his temple. “Jayce, I am in the middle of something.”

Jayce finally seemed to register your presence. “Oh,” he said, blinking. Then his brows furrowed, gaze shifting between you and Viktor with unmistakable suspicion. “Wait—what are you two talking about?”

You straightened, smoothing your hands over your skirt. Your hand ghosted over the small bump on the side pocket where your little air filtration-turned-sleeping gas was currently residing. “Nothing,” you answered, with a smile just a little too quick.

Viktor shot you a pointed look.

Jayce’s frown deepened. “Why do I feel like nothing is actually something?”

And that was your cue to leave.

“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it,” you chirped, already moving for the door, “I should be going. I have a very important meeting to prepare for.”

Viktor groaned. “That is not helping.”

“Meeting? What meeting?” Jayce crossed his arms, still looking unconvinced. “Are you going to see Councilor Salo again?”

You waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not.”

Before either of them could protest, you leaned in, pressing a quick peck to Viktor’s cheek, then pivoting to do the same to Jayce. The former merely exhaled in long-suffering patience, while the latter stiffened in surprise, blinking at you like you’d short-circuited his brain.

“Try not to miss me too much,” you teased, flashing them both a wink before slipping out the door.

Behind you, Viktor muttered something under his breath, while Jayce, judging by the stunned silence, was still buffering.

The afternoon sun hung low, its light struggling to pierce the thick smog blanketing the Undercity. The scent of metal, damp stone, and the faintest trace of rust clung to the air as you wove through the winding streets. The last time you’d been here was under your father’s protection—this time, you were on your own.

Not that it bothered you.

Your cloak, hood drawn low over your face, helped you blend in. So did the casual confidence in your step, like you belonged. That was the trick to moving through the Undercity—hesitate, and you became a target. Walk like you had a purpose, and people minded their business.

Tucked inside your coat was the little invention you had been working on for the past years of your academic life. Your magnum opus—if only it worked the way you intended it to. For now, it will be useful as a sleeping gas.

For the past three days, you’d worked your way into Ran’s orbit, weaving a careful web of coincidence and camaraderie. According to your father’s files, Ran was one of Silco’s trusted enforcers aside from Sevika and had often accompanied him on his errands whenever she wasn’t around. It was easy to establish a genuine connection especially if you knew how to play the part and by Janna, you played it so well. Perhaps your time in Piltover had its uses after all.

You first met Ran at the Black Lanes Market, where a "chance" encounter had you helping them negotiate down the price of a faulty hex wrench. The second meeting was at the Rancid Hound, where you’d bought them a drink after spotting them brooding in a corner. Now, they didn’t seem to mind your presence, which was exactly what you needed.

While The Last Drop was a raucous, smoke-filled den where fists flew as often as drinks, The Iron Mirage thrived on a different kind of tension—one laced with quiet intrigue rather than open violence. If The Last Drop was where you went to settle a score, The Iron Mirage was where you went to make sure no one knew there was a score to settle in the first place.

Dimly lit, and filled with the scent of cheap alcohol and bad decisions, it was where Ran spent most of their evenings. You spotted them easily enough, sitting in a corner booth, rolling a coin between their fingers as they nursed a half-empty glass.

You slid into the seat across from them without invitation, offering a slow smile. “Miss me?”

Ran snorted. “Took your time getting here. Thought you’d gotten cold feet.”

“Please,” you scoffed, flagging down the bartender for a drink. “I was just making sure I wasn’t being followed.”

Their eyes flicked to you, sharp and assessing.

You rested your elbow on the table, fingers idly brushing over the hidden device in your pocket. You became a scientist to help people improve their lives, not knocking them out unconscious for your benefit but morals had never been your strong suit. You were first raised in the Undercity after all where survival mattered first and morals came last.

With deliberate ease, you took a sip of your drink and met their gaze. “You never know who’s watching in the Lanes.”

Ran smirked, seemingly satisfied. “You’re not wrong.” They leaned back, stretching out their legs. “So, tell me, Piltover girl, what is it you’re really after?”

Your fingers curled around your glass, but your expression didn’t falter. This was the moment to be careful. Push too hard, and you’d spook them. Not enough, and you’d get nothing useful.

You raised a brow at them, letting just enough amusement creep into your voice. “Why do you think I’m after anything?”

Ran chuckled, low and knowing. “Because no one buys me drinks without a reason.”

You leaned forward slightly, lowering your voice just enough to make it seem like you were sharing something conspiratorial. “Maybe I just like hearing about how things really work in Zaun. Pilties like to pretend they understand, but they don’t have a damn clue.”

Ran hummed, considering. Then, after a long moment, they nodded. “You might not be as dumb as the rest of them.”

You took another sip, hiding your smirk behind the rim of your glass. Your fingers briefly brushed the smooth surface of your device again. Steady now.

Then, as if in passing, Ran sighed and muttered, “Shame we won’t get to do this again tomorrow. Got work.”

You tilted your head, feigning casual interest. “Work?”

Ran snorted. “Yeah, you know. The kind that pays.” They leaned forward slightly, lowering their voice to a near whisper. “Big meeting, all the Barons—well, I guess not all of them. From what I heard, one of them nearly got offed. Barely made it out alive. Now they’re all waiting to see if there’ll be anything worth picking off their corpse—if that Chem-baron doesn’t make it.”

Your breath hitched, but you kept your expression neutral. You remember Chross’s words before.

I don’t trust the people circling, waiting for me to fall. They’ll tear apart everything I’ve built if they get the chance.

Damn it. You felt like you were finally backed into a corner with only one way out.

You schooled your features into something amused. “Sounds serious.”

Ran smirked. “Always is. Whole damn city’s gonna shake if things go sideways.” They finished their drink with a final tilt of the glass. “Anyway, won’t bore you with details. Just means I’ll be busy running errands the entire day.”

You gave a noncommittal hum, but your decision was already made. You weren’t going to just attend the meeting as your father’s daughter. No—if you wanted to protect everything he had worked so hard for, if you wanted to really help this city—your home, you needed to be more than just someone who tinkers with little gadgets.

And that meant stepping into the role fate had woven for you.

The hours trickled by in idle conversation, but your mind was elsewhere, fine-tuning every step of your plan. By the time the bar began emptying, you knew exactly what you needed to do.

It was close to midnight when the opportunity finally presented itself.

Ran was slumped slightly in their chair, fatigue creeping in after a long night of drinking. You reached into your coat pocket, fingers wrapping around the hexagonal contraption. You pulled it out and gave a quick twist of the dial before dropping it on the floor. A faint hiss could be heard and then you began holding your breath.

Ran blinked, then frowned. “You hear that?”

You merely stared at them as their eyelids drooped. Confusion flickered across their face as they tried to push themselves upright, only to sway unsteadily. “The hell—?”

Their body went limp before they could finish.

You exhaled slowly, pressing two fingers to their neck. Steady pulse. Dreamless sleep.

Perfect.

“I didn’t know you had it in you,” a voice murmured beside you.

You didn’t flinch—Jin never made a sound when she moved. The woman was a ghost, all sharp angles and sharper instincts. Clad in dark leather, her piercing eyes studied the unconscious Ran with quiet calculation.

“I need them out of sight just for a few moments after the meeting starts. Just long enough to know what I need to know,” you glanced at Jin. “Leave a note for when they wake up.”

Jin studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “Understood.” She crouched, hoisting Ran’s unconscious form over her shoulder with ease. “The boss was right about you.”

She gave you a parting nod before disappearing into the night.

You picked up your little gadget, settling the dial back before tucking it in your coat pocket. You can only hope that whatever assumptions your father had about you were right.

The Last Drop smelled of sweat, smoke, and stale alcohol, even in the early hours of the day. The place never really slept—just quieted to a low simmer before roaring back to life when night fell. You adjusted the gloves Jin had given you—nothing fancy, just a simple leather coat, a dark scarf obscuring part of your face, a wig that made your scalp itch like hell, and a slight adjustment to your posture that wouldn’t draw attention.

Blending in was easy. Staying calm? That was harder.

Your heart had been hammering in your chest since you stepped inside, each beat a reminder that you were in dangerous territory. You had spent the last few days planning this, convincing yourself you could do it. But now, standing in the dim glow of the bar, waiting for a meeting that could go terribly wrong, the weight of what you were doing finally settled on you.

You flexed your fingers at your sides, forcing yourself to breathe.

The bar was already filling up with the usual crowd: smugglers, mercs, and enforcers nursing their morning drinks. You positioned yourself near one of the support columns, staying in the shadows while keeping a clear view of the entrance. The meeting wouldn’t be for a little while yet, but you needed to be in place when it happened.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, you hear the sound of heavy boots descending the stairs.

A tall woman with a mechanical arm came striding down the stairs. From your father’s descriptions and the way the conversations hushed slightly as she passed, patrons instinctively making way, she wasn’t just another enforcer—she was Silco’s number one enforcer. And she was looking for someone.

You forced yourself to stay still as Sevika made her way to the bar, resting her flesh hand on the counter with a dull thud. You marveled how she moved with the ease of someone who had nothing to prove.

“Where’s Ran?” she asked, eyes flicking to the bartender whom you had heard was named Thieram.

The bartender didn’t pause as he wiped down a glass. “Haven’t seen her,” he said simply.

Your pulse kicked up. This was it.

“They haven’t come in yet,” you supplied, stepping forward just enough to be noticed. You kept your tone even, casual, though you could feel the tightness in your throat.

Sevika’s attention snapped to you, eyes narrowing. “And who the hell are you?”

You shrugged, forcing an air of indifference. “New recruit.”

“Deckard never mentioned any new recruit to me.”

Her sharp gaze dragged over you, lingering for a fraction too long. You could feel the sweat at the nape of your neck, the tension coiling in your spine. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and—

But then she clicked her tongue in irritation, casting a glance toward the door as if expecting Ran to walk in any second now. The minutes ticked by, stretching unbearably long.

Still, no sign of them.

Sevika muttered a curse under her breath, then looked at you again. Another long, assessing glance. Your breath caught.

And then—

“Fine. Guess you’re up.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re on guard duty with me for the boss. Stay quiet, do what you’re told, and don’t screw it up,” she continued. “Go wait out back. We’re leaving soon.”

You nodded, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “Understood.”

She didn’t spare you another glance before heading back upstairs. You turned toward the exit, steadying your breath. The hard part wasn’t over—it was just beginning.

The alley behind The Last Drop was damp, the ground slick with Zaun’s ever-present humidity. You stood near the back door, shifting on your feet, trying not to let the nerves show in your stance. The faint, acrid scent of oil and metal clung to the air, mixing with something more organic—mildew, rot. The city's lifeblood.

Then, the door creaked open.

Sevika stepped out first, the heavy fabric of her poncho shifting with her movements. It draped over her broad shoulders, obscuring the mechanical arm beneath. She gave the surrounding area a once-over before stepping aside.

And behind her, emerging into the dim light, was him.

Silco.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was one thing to see a grainy photograph, to hear rumors whispered throughout the Lanes. It was another thing entirely to see him.

And damn, was he something to see.

The photograph in Chross’s file had not done him justice. Not even remotely. The sharp cut of his suit, the way his coat billowed slightly as he moved, the eerie contrast of his mismatched eyes—one a molten ember, the other slicing through the dark like a blade. He carried himself with a kind of effortless command, the kind that didn’t need to be loud to demand attention. And gods, his face—all angles and severity, a cruel sort of elegance that was far too appealing for someone who likely had a body count longer than the Progress Day guest list.

Oh, this was bad. Like really bad.

Because your attraction—previously a mild curiosity—was now something worse. Something dangerous. Something bordering on an inconveniently timed epiphany.

There was no time to unpack that disaster, though, because he had already spotted you.

He slowed to a stop beside Sevika, his piercing gaze sweeping over you in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Who’s this?” His voice was smooth, measured—rasping just enough to make your stomach flip. Horrible. Absolutely horrible.

“New recruit,” Sevika answered simply, lighting a cigarette. She took a slow drag before exhaling. “Ran never showed. Figured we needed an extra set of hands.”

Silco’s gaze lingered, head tilting slightly. You could feel his scrutiny like a physical thing, picking you apart layer by layer. Your pulse hammered against your ribs.

Then, after an excruciating pause, he hummed—just a quiet, contemplative sound.

“That so?” He flicked a glance toward Sevika. “Tell me, should I be concerned that we are now hiring people off the street like a particularly desperate brothel?”

Sevika, to her credit, didn’t even flinch. “You wanted extra hands. I’m giving you extra hands.”

“Hmph.” His gaze flicked back to you, like he was weighing whether or not you were worth the breath it would take to argue.

You forced yourself to hold steady. For the love of Janna, do not blush. Do not make this weirder than it already is.

Silco exhaled through his nose and turned away, flicking his coat behind him as he started forward. “Let’s go, then. Try to keep up, new recruit.”

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and quickly fell into step behind them.

The journey to the Greenhouse was tense, though not a word was spoken between you. The sound of Zaun’s streets filled the silence instead—the distant rumble of machinery, the occasional hiss of steam from the pipes overhead, and the murmured conversations of those who lurked in the shadows.

You kept your posture neutral, walking in pace with Sevika and the others, but your mind was racing.

This is a terrible, terrible idea.

T his man would probably throw me into a river if he knew who I actually was, and here I am, staring at the way his coat moves like some starry-eyed debutante.

You clenched your jaw, pushing the thoughts aside.

It wasn’t long until you reached the top floor where the meeting was supposed to be held, the elevator hissing as it finally slid open. Sevika walked ahead and pushed the double doors, revealing what was inside.

The Greenhouse was not what you expected.

You had imagined something more industrial, more decrepit—a crumbling relic of a city that never stopped fighting to stay alive. Instead, it was… strangely beautiful.

The old glass panes overhead were veined with grime, but here and there, slivers of light still managed to slip through, illuminating clusters of overgrown flora. Vines curled around rusted beams, their leaves stained by the pollutants in the air, giving them an unnatural, almost luminescent quality. The scent of damp earth mixed with something more pungent—chemicals, smoke, the distinct tang of industry choking nature at its roots.

But despite the eerie beauty of it, the true focus of the room was the gathering itself.

The Chem-Barons had already assembled.

They sat at a long, weathered metal table, the worn surface reflecting the years of power struggles, quiet negotiations, and alliances formed in the shadows. Four of them—Finn, Smeech, Margot, and Renni—were already in place, each flanked by an enforcer or two who stood silently at their sides, hands resting near weapons, but their eyes were sharp, constantly scanning the room.

And then—

A single vacant chair.

Chross’s chair.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. This was exactly what you had anticipated. If Chross had wanted to play things safe, he would have been here himself. But he hadn’t. He had sent you to take his place.

And now it was your job to make sure no one realized you were anything more than a simple bodyguard.

Beside you, Sevika adjusted the collar of her poncho, her eyes flicking to the table. Silco, however, was utterly unbothered. He moved with slow, deliberate steps, cutting through the gathering like a blade through silk, heading straight for the center of the room.

You followed just behind, keeping your movements precise—controlled. Blend in. Don’t draw attention. Just another nameless recruit.

Silco took his place at the head of the table with languid ease, as if this entire meeting was nothing more than a mild inconvenience rather than a gathering of the most dangerous people in Zaun. He leaned forward from his chair, with his elbows resting atop the table, fingers steepling in thought. The room quieted—not immediately, but in that slow, inevitable way power demands attention.

Sevika took her usual spot at his right, arms crossed beneath the drape of her poncho, watching the table with a gaze sharp enough to cut glass. And you stood behind Silco’s left side, close enough to observe but not so close as to draw suspicion. You kept your stance neutral, your hands clasped behind your back, the picture of a silent enforcer.

Silco let the silence linger just a little too long before speaking.

“I assume we all know why we’re here.”

His voice was smooth, measured—practiced. A voice that had no need to be raised to command attention.

“So,” he continued, dragging the word out as he assessed everyone in the room. “Who wants to begin?”

Finn was the first to lean forward, resting an elbow on the table, his signature lazy grin just a little sharper than usual.

“Let’s not dance around it, then. Chross isn’t here, and we all know why. Man’s got one foot in the grave, and the other’s slipping.”

Smeech grunted in agreement, his thick fingers tapping against the table impatiently.

“Wouldn’t be the first Baron to go out like this,” the yordle muttered, barely sparing a glance at the others. “But the question is, what do we do about it?”

“Do?” Margot scoffed. “We don’t have to do anything. Time’s already taking care of it for us. When he’s gone, his assets will be divided like they always are. We just need to decide who gets what.”

Renni—silent until now—tilted her head slightly, studying the empty chair. Her expression was unreadable.

“And what if he isn’t gone yet?” she asked, her voice smooth but firm. “What if he still has plans in place?”

Finn let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Then he should’ve shown up here in this meeting.”

You clenched your jaw so hard it ached.

They spoke of Chross like he was already in the ground, like he was nothing more than a corpse waiting to be divided among scavengers. Like they hadn’t all benefited from his work.

The sheer audacity of it made your hands twitch at your sides.

You shifted your gaze slightly toward Silco, waiting to see how he would respond.

He was still perfectly composed, watching the conversation unfold like a man who had already decided the outcome long before the meeting had begun.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he finally said, his voice quiet yet cutting through the conversation like a razor. His mismatched gaze flicked toward Finn. “It would be… premature to divide Chross’s assets while he still breathes.”

“Premature?” Finn echoed with an exaggerated tilt of his head. He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if he were scolding a misbehaving child. “Now, that’s funny, coming from you, Silco. Ain’t you the one always talking about seizing the future? About making Zaun something more?” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, that ever-present smirk widening. “Or is it only your future that matters?”

Sevika shifted beside Silco, her fingers tightening around the edge of her poncho, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Silco exhaled slowly, as he examined his fingers for dirt. He didn’t so much as glance at Finn.

“An opportunist like you should know better than to mistake patience for inaction,” he said finally, voice smooth as oil. “But then again, I imagine foresight isn’t your strongest trait.”

A flicker of irritation passed through Finn’s expression, though his grin remained firmly in place.

“Foresight? That what you call it?” he sneered, gesturing broadly with his hand. “Sitting back and waiting while the rest of us do the real work? You let the Undercity rot under Piltover’s boot, but as long as your pocket stays lined, you call it ‘patience.’”

That got a reaction. The air in the room shifted, subtle but unmistakable.

Silco finally turned his head, mismatched gaze locking onto Finn like a predator weighing the worth of its prey.

“Tell me, Finn,” he said, his tone a fraction lower, a degree colder, “if you believe me to be such a passive observer… why is it you’re still sitting here, alive?”

Finn’s smirk twitched, but before he could fire back at Silco, the doors to the Greenhouse slammed open with enough force to make a few enforcers reach for their weapons.

Ran stormed in, their expression a thundercloud of fury.

“Boss,” they growled, eyes locking onto Silco. “Something’s happened.”

A ripple of tension passed through the room. Silco remained still, only the slightest raise of his brow betraying his intrigue.

You barely breathed as Ran scanned the room—until their gaze landed on you.

They froze.

You felt the sharp prickle of recognition in their stare, and for the briefest moment, the room seemed to still. “It’s you,” Ran said, their voice was a mix between disbelief and outrage.

This was it.

With slow, deliberate movements, you stepped forward from your place behind Silco. You reached up, grasping that god-awful wig, and pulled it away. The disguise fell piece by piece, revealing not some nameless grunt, but you.

Sevika’s reaction was immediate. Her brows shot up, her mouth parting slightly—only to snap shut a second later, her expression twisting into something more irritated than surprised. She exhaled sharply through her nose, looking to Silco as if waiting for him to say something.

And Silco himself?

His reaction was so brief, so fleeting, that you would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching for it.

The slight widening of his mismatched eyes. The brief flicker of recognition—no, not recognition, realization.

You weren’t some random new recruit.

You were something else entirely.

But just as quickly as the reaction came, it was gone. Silco reclined back in his chair, one arm draped over the armrest, expression smoothing into something unreadable, something calculated.

Oh, he was good.

You resisted the urge to smirk, instead turning your attention to Sevika—who was still staring at you like she was seconds away from throwing you out the nearest window.

You winked at her.

Her scowl deepened.

Gods, you were going to have so much fun annoying her.

Shifting your focus back to the room, you stepped toward the vacant chair at the table—the one meant for your father.

“I appreciate the seat being kept warm,” you mused, dragging your fingers lightly along the chair’s back before sinking into it. Your gaze swept across the Chem-Barons, lingering on their various expressions of confusion and intrigue.

Finn was the first to recover.

His grin widened, slow and sharp, as he leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers lazily against the table. “Well, well,” he drawled, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And who might you be, sweetheart?”

You barely kept your expression from twisting at the word. Sweetheart. Like you were some clueless thing who had wandered in by accident. It was patronizing, dismissive—a word designed to keep you small.

You smiled, all teeth bared.

“Chross’s daughter,” you stated evenly, letting the words settle over the room like a slow-rolling fog. You didn’t miss the way Finn’s brows lifted slightly, nor the way the rest of the table shifted, glancing between each other with varying degrees of intrigue and surprise.

Silco, however, said nothing. His mismatched eyes remained locked onto you, his expression an unreadable mask, though you swore you could feel the weight of his mind already turning, already calculating.

Before anyone else could respond, Renni let out a sharp scoff, arms folded as she fixed you with a scrutinizing glare. “That’s funny,” she said dryly. “Chross never mentioned having a daughter.”

You met her gaze, tilting your head slightly in mock consideration.

“He never mentioned you to me, either,” you said smoothly, your voice light, almost playful. “Guess we’re both full of surprises, hmm?”

Renni’s nostrils flared slightly, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she regarded you with a new sort of scrutiny, reassessing, recalculating.

You let the silence stretch for a moment before placing your hands atop the table, fingers interlaced in a manner that mirrored your father’s long-practiced gestures of control.

“And since my father is currently… indisposed, I will be taking over the Hush Company in his stead.”

A ripple of reactions spread through the room. But you weren’t here for them.

Your focus was solely on the man seated at the head of the table.

Silco.

You watched him carefully, drinking in every flicker of expression—what little he allowed to slip. His fingers had stilled against the metal table, the soft, rhythmic tap halted mid-motion. His lips, previously curled in mild amusement, had pressed into something thinner. Not displeasure. Not shock. It reminded you of Councilor Salo’s expression when you first met but Silco’s was something else.

Calculation? Perhaps.

He recovered quickly, of course. The surprise lasted less than a breath before it was swept away, tucked behind that careful, unreadable mask. But you had seen it.

You had his attention now.

And oh, that sent a shiver of satisfaction down your spine.

Silco studied you for a moment longer before, finally, he spoke.

“Well then,” he mused as a ghost of a smile traced his lips. His voice was smooth, deliberate. “That certainly changes things.”

You smiled, slow and knowing, tilting your head slightly as you met his mismatched eyes. “Change can be good, don’t you think?” you mused, voice smooth, teasing, yet laced with something sharper. “Keeps things interesting.”

His visible brow lifted ever so slightly, a flicker of intrigue passing through his sharp gaze before his expression smoothed once more.

And, Saints, how you wanted more of that look.

Just then, the faint hiss of the elevator doors reached your ears. A signal. Right on time.

You straightened, letting your gaze sweep over them one last time before exhaling dramatically. “Well, as much as I’d love to stay and keep shaking up the room, I do have a business to run. I’ll be seeing you.”

Your gaze wandered to Silco as you said the last word. Whether he interpreted it as a threat or an invitation, you’ll never know. You turned on your heel, purposeful and poised, heading for the door. As you passed Ran lingering near the entrance, you caught their eye, smirking as you patted their shoulder. “Don’t take it personally, darling,” you purred. “Business is business.”

Ran snorted. “Breaking into my job was business?”

“Naturally.” You winked. “And if you’re feeling forgiving, I’d still make an excellent drinking partner. You can even throw in a free punch. I won’t hold it against you.”

Ran scoffed, but you saw the grudging amusement flicker in their eyes. “And damage that pretty face of yours? Tempting, but no. But I’ll think about that other offer.”

That was enough for you.

You stepped into the hallway, spotting Elm and Jin already waiting inside the elevator, the doors held open for you. As soon as you entered, Elm regarded you with a pointed look. “How’d it go?”

You leaned back against the wall, exhaling as the elevator doors shut. “Oh, you know,” you drawled, inspecting your nails with feigned disinterest. “The usual. Power plays, veiled threats. Finn called me sweetheart—I nearly stabbed him for it.”

Jin snorted. “Would’ve made an impression.”

“Oh, I made one.” You grinned, mischief dancing in your eyes as you tilted your head toward Elm. “What, worried they’d eat me alive?”

“No. Just making sure we won’t have to start a war by the end of the week,” Elm’s gaze remained impassive as he spoke. “Silco won’t take it lightly that you made a fool out of him in front of everyone.”

You gasped, feigning offense. “You wound me, Elm. I was trying to charm him, not fool him.”

Jin side-eyed you. “You impersonated someone and walked into a meeting full of Chem-barons.”

“Exactly,” you said smugly. “And yet, here I am. Alive. Unscathed. Ravishing, even.” You sighed dramatically. “Honestly, I should do this more often. Except for the wig. I hate that wig.”

Elm exhaled through his nose, but there was the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Let’s get back first. Then we’ll decide how much trouble you’ve actually stirred up.”

The elevator gave a pneumatic hiss as it opened. The three of you stepped outside and out to the streets, quickly navigating through the shifting market stalls and rusted catwalks.

“Trouble and I go way back, my dear Elm. We’re practically family,” you murmured. Four more of your father’s men soon flanked you on both sides, maintaining a respectable distance as you took in the chaos of the city around you.

And despite the cool exterior you maintained, something electric coiled in your chest.

Silco had looked at you. Really looked at you. Not like you were a nuisance, not like you were beneath his notice—but like you were a variable he hadn’t accounted for.

You wanted to see that expression again.

No—needed to.

The thrill of it sent a delighted shiver down your spine. You had his attention now, even if only for a moment. But moments were just the beginning.

A slow, giddy grin spread across your lips as you tilted your head back, and followed the others back to your father’s headquarters.

Oh, Silco.

I hope we see each other again soon.

Chapter Text

The boat cut through the murky waters of the Entresol, the low hum of its engine swallowed by the ever-present noise of the Undercity. Chross’ domain sat precariously between the Entresol and the Promenade, nestled in that liminal space where industry met trade, where the true power brokers of Zaun quietly moved their pieces while others scrapped for coin in the mud.

It existed in a state of careful balance—neither as openly violent as the Lanes nor as overtly refined as the Promenade’s wealthier circles, but built from old machinery repurposed into towering workshops, warehouses converted into opulent dens for those who could afford them. Smoke curled from the rooftops mixing with something richer—something more refined.

Chross had always been a man who straddled both worlds, a secret only a handful was privy to—including Silco himself. A Chem-baron with a foot in progress and another in power, but this… this was a kingdom built to last.

But Silco barely spared it a glance as he stepped off the boat, boots hitting the dock with practiced ease.

Sevika walked beside him, poncho draped over her shoulders, her mechanical arm hidden but unmistakable in the way she moved. Ran trailed behind, still nursing their bruised pride from the meeting, though they had yet to say anything about it outright.

Silco could feel their irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

“Can’t believe we’re even doing this,” Ran finally muttered. “Boss, what are we even askin’ Chross for? We know she’s his kid.”

Silco exhaled smoke from his cigar, the ember flaring bright before dimming into the gloom. “We know what she says.”

Ran scoffed. “Yeah, well, she’s got his blood, alright. Both have a knack for getting information out of people.”

Silco smirked faintly but said nothing. He had been to enough meetings and played enough games to know that bloodlines didn’t guarantee loyalty.

More than that, Chross had always been deliberate. Calculated. Trading information was something you never trod lightly. He was the kind of man who never moved a single piece on the board without knowing exactly how the whole game would unfold.

So why had he kept her a secret?

Why now?

He flicked away the last of his cigar as they reached the entrance. Chross’ men—two hulking, broad-shouldered enforcers with a number tattooed on their foreheads—opened the heavy metal doors and welcomed them in.

The hallways of Chross’ domain were quieter than expected, the hum of industry a distant thrum beneath their boots. The walls, reinforced with steel plating, bore no signs of rust or decay. Unlike the Lanes, where everything was held together with spit and desperation, this place was well-maintained—purposeful, much like the man who ran it.

Chross' men led them past a row of heavy doors, each secured with intricate locks and mechanisms that suggested a paranoia even Silco could appreciate. By the time they reached the office, the air had thickened with the scent of smoke and aged whiskey.

Inside, Chross was already waiting, standing near a desk cluttered with half-written documents and a half-empty glass of amber liquid. He looked up as they entered, his scarred mouth pulling into a knowing smirk.

“Well, you’re here, and no one’s shooting,” he mused, swirling the glass in his hand. He offered Silco a cigar which Sevika then offered to light up. “Guess that means my girl didn’t start an all-out war.”

Silco let out a slow breath, tapping the ash from his cigar into a nearby tray. “She certainly tried to make an impression.”

Chross chuckled, gesturing toward the chairs. “That’s the only way to do business in this city, Silco. Have a seat.”

Sevika stayed standing beside him as he lowered himself into the chair opposite Chross. Ran, still not quite willing to make eye contact, leaned against the wall with arms crossed.

The initial conversation was mundane—trade routes, minor disputes between enforcers and workers, and the usual maneuvering that took up the majority of their time. Silco listened, responding when necessary, but his mind was elsewhere. Chross was playing this meeting carefully, giving him nothing more than the expected pleasantries.

It wasn’t until the conversation drifted toward her that things shifted.

“You kept her hidden well. None of my men could find any information about her. Even in Topside,” Silco remarked, swirling his own drink idly. “Most of us assumed you had no heir. And then suddenly she walks into the Greenhouse like she owns the place.”

Chross’ smirk didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something beneath it. Amusement? Pride?

“Don’t take it personally, Silco. Keeping information hidden is also my specialty,” he said simply. “Although, I never really did try to keep her a secret. She’s very well known in the Academy—respected, even.”

Sevika exchanged a glance with Silco. Ran made a noise like they wanted to say something but bit it back.

Silco studied Chross carefully. He was still withholding something—something more than just the usual protective instinct of a father. This was strategy. Preparation.

And that meant they were done talking in front of an audience.

Chross must have come to the same conclusion because he leaned forward, his voice taking on a more serious edge. “Why don’t we clear the room? No need to make our people sit through this.”

Silco exhaled smoke, then nodded to Sevika and Ran. Without question, Sevika pushed off from where she was leaning, giving Chross a hard glance before stepping out. Ran hesitated for a fraction of a second before following. Chross’ men left as well, closing the door behind them with a decisive click.

The air between them settled into something heavier.

Silco didn’t bother with pretense.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the worn wood of Chross’ desk, the dim light catching the sharp angles of his face. “Let’s skip the dance, Chross. What exactly are you playing at by bringing your Piltie daughter into this?”

Chross let out a breath, reaching for his glass but not drinking from it immediately. Instead, he turned it idly in his hands, the amber liquid catching the glow of the overhead lamp. “She’s not from Piltover,” he corrected, the faintest hint of amusement curling his scarred lips. “I took her in years ago. She’s a child of Zaun. Just like you, Silco.”

Silco went utterly still.

It was a single sentence, but one that rewrote everything.

A child of Zaun?

His mind reeled, though outwardly, he remained impassive, a slow blink the only betrayal of his thoughts. He had assumed she was some pampered Piltover stray Chross had picked up for convenience—an outsider in fine clothes, charming enough to turn heads but ultimately out of her depth. But Zaunborn? That was different. That was significant.

And yet, somehow, it fit.

Something about her had never sat quite right with the polished artifice of a true Piltie. The way she carried herself, the way she could slip between refined and ruthless with ease—it wasn’t learned, not entirely. No, there was something else beneath it. Something raw.

He didn’t like how that knowledge settled inside him, how it made his thoughts linger on her more than they should.

So, he did what he always did—shaped intrigue into something sharp.

Silco exhaled smoke, voice droll. “Didn’t take you for the charitable type,” he mused, feigning disinterest. “Bringing in a lost Undercity brat, dressing her up in silk, setting her at your table. What, were you feeling sentimental?”

Chross snorted, shaking his head. “Hardly.” He finally took a sip, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “I took her in for the same reason you took in that girl of yours.”

Silco’s fingers curled just slightly around the armrest.

Now that was deliberate.

Jinx.

He let the name echo in his mind, though his expression didn’t shift. The comparison was calculated—a precise strike meant to disarm. And he hated that it landed.

Because it suggested something Silco wasn’t ready to entertain.

Slowly, he tilted his head, gaze sharp. “That’s quite the claim. You’re saying she’s some kind of prodigy?"

Chross chuckled, low and knowing. “What I'm saying is I saw something in her. Potential, maybe. Maybe something more. So, I made a choice.” He leaned back, gaze steady. “Same as you.”

Silco’s fingers tapped idly against the desk. He didn’t like being compared to Chross, didn’t like the idea that their choices—his choices—could be reduced to something as simple as a parallel. But he also wasn’t fool enough to dismiss the weight behind those words.

She wasn’t just a pawn. Chross had plans for her. And he had just introduced her to the wolves to see if she could run with them.

Silco let a slow smirk curl at the edges of his lips, tapping the ash from his cigar onto the desk’s tray. “Well then,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something unreadable. “I suppose we’ll see how well she learns.”

Chross watched him carefully, something like amusement flickering behind those tired, knowing eyes. And then—just for a moment—he smiled.

“You ever hear the story of the orphan riots?”

Silco arched a brow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Chross chuckled dryly. “Fair enough. This one happened over ten years ago, just after the Promenade expanded. Some Piltie benefactors came down, all high and mighty, and decided they’d ‘save’ the poor, wretched Zaunite children. Built an orphanage, filled it with brats, and promised them a brighter future.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice turning colder. “Then, one day, they just... left. Pulled their funding, packed up, and abandoned it. Left the children to rot. No one took them in. No one came looking for them.”

Silco frowned slightly. The story wasn’t unfamiliar. He recalled whispers of an abandoned home where the desperate and forgotten had once lived. If the girl had come from there…

“She was one of them,” Chross confirmed, watching Silco carefully. “Just a little thing back then. Scrappy, malnourished, but sharp. She survived longer than most. Would steal what she needed, duck into shadows before anyone could grab her.” He scoffed. “I admired the audacity.”

Silco took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “And that was enough to make you take her in?”

Chross’ expression darkened. “No.”

Silco waited.

“The others,” Chross continued, voice quieter now, “they weren’t so lucky. The older ones tried to protect the younger ones, but—” He waved a hand vaguely as if brushing away ghosts. “They got picked off. One by one. Gangs, slavers, some just starved to death.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “One day, I was walking past and saw a body outside that place. Figured it was just another poor bastard left to rot. But then I saw her.”

Chross’ eyes sharpened. “She was standing over the body. Blood on her hands, on her face. Some older kid had tried to gut her for whatever scraps she had left. She got to him first.” He huffed. “Didn’t cry, didn’t beg. Just looked at me like she was already planning her next move.”

Something twisted in Silco’s chest.

“Wasn’t the first time I saw a kid like that,” Chross murmured, gaze distant. “But something about her stuck with me. So, I made her an offer. Food, shelter, a future—if she had the spine for it.” He smirked. “And she did.”

Silco didn’t respond immediately. He tapped the ash from his cigar, watching the embers fade.

So, she wasn’t just another pampered Piltie. She was raised in Piltover, yes—but before that? She had been left behind, just like Zaun itself. She had clawed her way out of the dirt and became a different person.

He should’ve expected as much.

He should’ve known.

Chross tilted his head, gaze turning razor-sharp. “Now that you know where she came from,” he said, voice deceptively light, “I want to make something very clear, Silco.”

The air in the room thickened.

Silco didn’t move as Chross leaned forward, forearms braced against the desk. His voice dropped, quieter than before—but laced with something lethal.

“She may not be my blood,” Chross said, “but if anything happens to her—if she so much as vanishes—I’ll burn this whole fucking place to the ground. Both Zaun and Piltover.”

For a long moment, neither man spoke.

Then, Silco exhaled through his nose, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Now, now, Chross,” he murmured. “You wound me. Have I ever been the reckless sort?”

Chross snorted. “Every time I see your face, I remember that you let yourself get nearly drowned by an old friend.”

“And I’m still alive despite it all,” Silco’s smirk widened, but he didn’t take the bait. Just like her, I also clawed my way out. Fought tooth and nail to survive.

Chross leaned back, seemingly satisfied, and took another drink from his glass. “One more thing,” he said, voice casual. “Her favorite flower’s periwinkle.”

Silco blinked.

Of all the things he had expected Chross to say, that was not one of them.

“What,” Silco drawled, “am I meant to do with that information?”

Chross shrugged. “Figured you might find it amusing. Or useful.”

Silco narrowed his eyes slightly, watching the other man’s expression for any tell. There was something behind the remark—something deliberate. But Chross merely swirled the liquor in his glass, his amusement unreadable.

Silco clicked his tongue and stood. “This has been enlightening.”

“Don’t be a stranger, now,” Chross waved him off. “Give my regards to the other Chem-barons. Tell Margot she won’t be sinking her dirty claws into my business anytime soon.”

“Hmp,” Silco turned, heading for the door where Sevika and Ran waited. As he stepped through, he spared a final glance at Chross, whose sharp grin hadn’t faded.

Periwinkle.

What an utterly ridiculous thing to know.

And yet, somehow, the thought lingered.

The office was quiet after Silco’s departure, the tension he left behind still crackling in the air. Chross poured himself another drink, swirling the amber liquid in thought.

Then the door opened again.

Elm stepped inside, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. The man was built like a brawler, broad-shouldered with the weathered face of someone who had seen too much of Zaun’s worst. His salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back, streaks of silver catching in the dim light.

“You lied to him,” he said without preamble, his face pulled into a deep frown.

Chross sighed, rolling his glass between his palms. “I lie to a lot of people, Elm. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Elm’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “That story you fed him—that wasn’t how it happened.”

Chross exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “And what would you have preferred I say? That the girl he’s so intrigued by once tried to kill me?” He arched a brow. “Would that have sat well with him, you think?”

Elm’s expression darkened. “He’s not stupid, Chross.”

“No, he’s not,” Chross smirked. “That’s exactly why I did it.”

He placed his glass down, tapping his fingers against the desk. “Silco is a man who firmly believes that violence is a necessary means to an end. But loyalty? Loyalty is what he values most.” He met Elm’s gaze. “If he knew the truth—that she put a knife to my throat, that I gave her the choice to finish the job or take my hand—he’d start wondering.”

His most trusted enforcer remained silent.

Chross continued, his voice calm. “He’d ask himself, ‘Is she truly loyal to her father? Or is she merely loyal to her own survival?’ And Silco doesn’t take kindly to uncertainty.” He leaned forward slightly. “I don’t want him watching her with caution and suspicion. I want him intrigued and desperate. And I want her in the game long enough to make sure she wins.”

Elm exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I’ve been playing these kinds of games long before you and Silco entered the scene.” Chross picked up his drink again, smirking. “And I always play to win.”

Elm regarded him for a long moment, then sighed. “I worry for her.”

“As do I.”

“You really think he’ll come around?”

“I think he’s already on his way,” Chross swirled the amber liquid inside before taking a sip. “Now, unless you’ve got more questions about my parenting style, get out of my office.”

Elm scoffed but turned on his heel, leaving him to his thoughts.

As the door clicked shut behind Elm, Chross exhaled slowly, letting his gaze drift to the low glow of the lamps in his office. His amusement faded into something quieter, solemn.

Silco was no fool. But neither was he.

He let the silence settle, his mind slipping back—years ago—to the first time he had laid eyes on her.

Chross still remembered the press of cold steel against his throat, the sharp scent of rust and oil, and the sheer audacity in her eyes as she slit his skin just deep enough to spill blood.

She hadn’t hesitated. Not for a second.

If he had been any slower, if she had been any taller, any stronger—she might have finished the job.

But she hadn’t.

Because he had caught her wrist, yanked her forward, and pinned her in place before she could carve any deeper. He remembered the way she thrashed like a cornered animal, all fight, all fire, snarling at him through clenched teeth.

She was young—too young for an assassin’s work, but that hadn’t stopped the fool who sent her. Someone had paid her to slit his throat, convinced that a child would be the perfect weapon.

They had underestimated her.

Chross hadn’t.

He had given her a choice, then. Finish it, or take my hand.

She had taken his hand.

And from that moment, she had been his.

Not in the way his men were, bound by fear and obligation. No, she was different. She was a feral thing, sharp and hungry for something she couldn't name, and he had fed that hunger. Given her a place. A purpose. A future.

And now, that future was uncertain.

Chross sighed, rolling his glass between his fingers. He wasn’t a fool—his time was running short. The city had smelled it on him like blood in the water, and the vultures were circling. The recent attack on him was proof of that. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He had built his empire knowing it would never last forever.

But her?

She had to last.

His little shadow, his clever girl—she had to survive what came next.

And Silco… Silco would play a part in that, whether he realized it yet or not.

Chross had seen the look in his eyes earlier. Silco was drawn to her.

That was good. That was necessary.

Chross let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Periwinkle, huh?” He muttered to himself, remembering the little detail he had thrown at Silco before he left.

Though it wasn’t a lie, he doubted Silco cared about flowers. But it wasn’t about the flower itself.

It was about planting the seed.

And seeds, with the right conditions, had a way of growing.

Chapter Text

You weren’t sure what you expected when you visited your father’s office a few days after the Chem-baron meeting incident, but it sure as hell wasn’t to find him sitting at his desk, calmly sifting through paperwork like he hadn’t been at death’s doorstep just days ago.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you huffed, marching up to him with your arms crossed. “You nearly keel over, and the first thing you do is get back to work?”

Chross barely glanced up. “Good morning to you, too, sweetheart.”

“Oh, don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me.” You planted your hands on his desk, narrowing your eyes at him. “You were pale as a corpse back then. How—” You gestured at him, vaguely frustrated at his absolute lack of consequence. “How are you even upright?”

Chross let out a short chuckle. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“And yet,” he said, setting his pen down with a smirk, “I’m still here, breathing and all.”

You squinted at him. Something wasn’t adding up. “You should still be recovering.”

Chross exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “Well, I had a little help.”

Your brow furrowed. “What kind of help?”

There was a beat of silence before he answered.

“Shimmer.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Shimmer,” he repeated, watching you carefully. “It speeds up healing. Makes you stronger. More durable.”

You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, but he looked perfectly serious.

“That sounds like magic,” you muttered.

“It’s chemistry. Alchemy. Whatever you want to call it. Not magic,” Chross snorted. “A little miracle, if you’ve got the coin—and the stomach—for it.”

You frowned, processing the information. “Where the hell did this ‘Shimmer’ even come from?”

Chross rolled his shoulders. “A long time ago, it was just another experiment floating around the Undercity. A pipe dream. Until someone finally made it work.” He tilted his head slightly. “And that someone was Silco.”

You blinked again, slower this time.

Silco?

That name had already taken up more space in your mind than you were willing to admit, but now it came with this?

“So, you’re telling me…” You stepped back, folding your arms. “Silco introduced this… substance to Zaun?”

Chross nodded.

You let out a low whistle, shaking your head. “And I’m only hearing about this now?”

“You never asked.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I didn’t know I was supposed to ask.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not a secret, girl. You’ll hear plenty about it soon enough.”

You weren’t sure how you felt about that.

You watched as he pulled out a small glass vial swirling with an iridescent purple liquid. He tossed it your way without warning, and you caught it with both hands, your fingers curling tightly around the cool glass.

Raising it to the light, you turned it slowly, watching the way the substance shimmered as it moved. It was almost hypnotic.

“This,” Chross said, nodding at the vial, “is what keeps the Undercity’s wheels turning these days.”

You looked at him. “And you are taking it?”

Chross shrugged. “Only when necessary.”

Shimmer. A substance that could heal, strengthen… and who knew what else?

And it was Silco’s creation?

You pressed your lips together. Zaun was always full of surprises.

And apparently, so was Silco.

“Oh, by the way,” he said casually, flipping through a stack of papers, “Silco stopped by yesterday.”

Your head snapped up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “What?”

Chross didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “Came all the way here with Sevika and that kid you knocked out, Ran. Wanted to talk business.”

You opened your mouth and then shut it. Then opened it again, only for an indignant noise to come out.

“He was here?” You gestured around the office like Silco might still be lingering in the shadows somewhere. “And you’re just now telling me?”

Chross shrugged, thoroughly enjoying this. “Didn’t seem relevant until now.”

You groaned dramatically, throwing yourself onto the nearest chair like a woman in mourning. Of course, you’d miss him. What was it with you and barely crossing paths?

“I don’t believe this,” you muttered, leaning back with a pout. “Could’ve at least sent word so I could—” You stopped yourself before you said something incriminating, but Chross was already giving you a knowing look.

“So you could what?” he prodded, lips twitching.

You huffed. “Nothing. What did you two even talk about?”

Chross hummed, tapping a finger on the desk. “Business.”

You rolled your eyes. “Obviously.”

“That’s all you need to know.”

You squinted at him. “Did he… say anything about me?”

Chross leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands over his stomach. “Why?”

You scowled. “Because I want to know.”

He chuckled. “And I want a peaceful morning, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

You crossed your arms, giving him your best unimpressed glare. “I’ll just ask him next time I see him.”

Chross exhaled through his nose, amused. “You do that.”

That wasn’t a no.

But it also wasn’t a yes.

You huffed, watching him like he was some vault of secrets you couldn’t crack. Infuriating old man.

Still, the idea of Silco sitting across from this desk, in this chair, talking about you…

You tried not to dwell on how warm that thought made you feel.

The Undercity streets hummed with the usual symphony of distant shouts, clanking metal, and the occasional hiss of steam escaping from unseen pipes. You walked at an easy pace, lost in thought about your father’s meeting with him, still irritated that you’d missed it. The way Chross had dodged your questions so smoothly, it was almost insulting.

Next time, you told yourself, I won’t.

Your musings were cut short by a sudden, sharp boom that rattled the air.

The ground beneath you trembled, and a plume of black smoke curled into the air just a few streets ahead. The explosion wasn’t massive, but it was enough to send a ripple of alarm through the surrounding area. A few people nearby flinched at the sound, but no one rushed to investigate.

You, however, didn’t hesitate.

Feet moving before you could think better of it, you darted toward the source, skidding to a stop just outside a narrow alleyway. Smoke billowed out, carrying the acrid scent of burnt metal and scorched chemicals.

Then, through the haze, a small figure stumbled forward.

Your eyes widened.

It was a kid—thin, scrappy-looking, no older than twelve, maybe. Bright blue hair framed a face smudged with soot and blood. Her forehead was bleeding, and a fresh gash trailed along her temple.

She blinked up at you, dazed, her steps faltering.

You barely had time to react before she pitched forward.

“Whoa—” You caught her just before she hit the ground.

The kid was light. Too light. And up close, you could see the fine tremors in her limbs, the rapid flutter of her lashes before her body slumped fully against you. Unconscious.

You looked around sharply, scanning the streets for any sign of your father’s men. Elm? Jin? But for the first time today, they were nowhere to be found.

Damn it.

Your first instinct was to take the kid back to Chross’s hideout. He had people, resources—he’d know what to do.

But then you thought of Shimmer, and your jaw clenched.

No way in hell were you risking this kid waking up with that in her veins.

Instead, you adjusted your hold on her, barely stirring, as you scooped her up into your arms while you finally made your decision.

Piltover.

Proper medical care. Safe hands.

“Guess you’re coming with me,” you muttered as you turned on your heel and slipped through the maze of streets leading up to the promenade.

You were halfway to your home, ignoring some of the questioning looks you’ve garnered along the way, when fate decided to throw you a curveball in the form of a familiar figure limping in the direction of your home as well.

Viktor.

He looked as he always did—exhausted, slightly hunched, brows furrowed in a mix of concentration and annoyance. But what really caught your attention was the small envelope in his free hand, gripped between long fingers like it was something deeply unpleasant.

He hadn't seen you yet, too focused on muttering to himself as he navigated the uneven streets.

Perfect. Maybe you could just slip past him—

“What in the world—?” Viktor's eyes snapped up, and his entire body stilled as he took you in. His gaze flickered from your face, down to the unconscious child in your arms, then back up again.

“I can explain,” you said quickly, though you weren’t sure how you were going to do that.

Viktor let out a heavy sigh, already pinching the bridge of his nose. “You always say that, and yet, somehow, I always regret asking for elaboration.” He exhaled sharply, eyeing the kid again. “Should I even ask?”

You adjusted your grip on the girl. “I found her like this. There was an explosion, and she just—walked out of it. Then she passed out before I could ask her anything.”

Viktor gave you a flat look. “And your immediate response was to abduct her?”

“Rescue,” you corrected, narrowing your eyes. “There's a difference.”

“Mmm.” He made a skeptical noise but didn't push further. Instead, his fingers tightened around the envelope he was holding. “I was on my way to your place, actually. A delivery from Councilor Salo.” He waved the letter slightly as if the very act of holding it offended him. “Apparently, it is urgent.”

You groaned. “Of course, it is.”

Viktor smirked, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. “You sound thrilled.”

“Overjoyed,” you deadpanned. “Go ahead, read it for me.”

“Absolutely not,” he snorted. “I refuse to be involved any more than I already am.”

You gave him your most pleading look. “Come on, Vik. My hands are full—” You wiggled your arms slightly, emphasizing the unconscious child cradled against your chest. “—and I know you’re dying to snoop.”

“Tempting, but no,” he shoved the letter toward you. “Your burden to bear.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you tucked the kid closer and managed to snag the envelope between two fingers. Viktor watched as you awkwardly maneuvered it into your pocket, shaking his head.

“You are making questionable life choices,” he muttered.

“And yet, you still hang around,” you teased, shifting the child in your arms once more before nodding toward your home. “Come on, might as well walk with me. You can help me figure out what to do with my new stray.”

Viktor sighed but fell into step beside you. “One of these days, your recklessness will catch up to you.”

You grinned. “And when that day comes, I’ll be sure to drag you down with me.”

By the time you reached your home in Piltover, Viktor had already flagged down one of the nearby medical professionals who often catered to the scholars and engineers in the district.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with a perpetual frown, barely spared you a glance before directing his attention to the unconscious child in your arms. “Put her on the couch,” he instructed briskly, already rolling up his sleeves. “How did this happen?”

You laid the kid down carefully. “Found her stumbling out of an explosion in the Undercity. She passed out before I could ask questions.”

The doctor shot you a look that was equal parts skepticism and exasperation but said nothing as he began cleaning the girl's wounds.

“Well, that's taken care of,” Viktor muttered, stepping beside you. “Now, what about your other problem?”

You frowned. “What other problem?”

He pointed toward your pocket where you had tuck the envelope.

You had half a mind to just toss it into the fireplace without looking, but knowing Salo, he’d only send another. With an annoyed huff, you broke the seal and pulled out the letter.

My dearest—

“Oh, gods, no,” you groaned, already regretting this.

Viktor smirked. “That bad?”

Ignoring him, you forced yourself to read on.

My dearest,

I have found myself missing your company as of late. It would be a great delight if you would join me for dinner tonight at my estate. There is much I would love to discuss with you—about Piltover, about our future, and most of all, about you.

A carriage will come and pick you up.

—Salo

You made a face. “I think I just lost my appetite.”

Viktor leaned in slightly to skim the letter over your shoulder. “That flowery?”

You handed it to him. He scanned the words, eyebrows lifting slightly. “He really said ‘our future.’ How bold.”

“Disgusting,” you corrected, slumping into the chair beside the couch. “What kind of future could he possibly be imagining?”

Viktor hummed. “One where you’re married, terribly bored, and spending the rest of your days listening to council meetings?”

You made a dramatic gagging noise. “Please. I’d rather throw myself into the Lanes and let fate take the wheel.”

Viktor chuckled. “So, I take it you won’t be going?”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “I don’t know. If I refuse, he’ll just keep pressing. If I go, at least I can pretend to entertain the idea long enough to get him off my back for a while.”

Viktor tapped his cane against the floor thoughtfully. “Then you better find a dress. He will certainly be expecting you to impress.”

You exhaled through your nose, staring at the letter like it had personally wronged you. Resisting was futile—Salo would only persist until he got his way.

“Fine,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “I’ll go. But if I end up throwing myself out a window, let it be known that I went out fighting.”

Viktor smirked. “Noted.”

You turned your gaze toward the unconscious girl on the couch. “I need you to watch over her while I’m gone. Make sure she doesn’t run off or set the house on fire.”

Viktor raised a brow. “And what, exactly, do I get in return for my noble babysitting services?”

You sighed. “I’ll get you that honey cake you like from the little bakery near the promenade.”

His eyes flickered with interest, but he shrugged nonchalantly. “Throw in a fresh cup of tea, and you have a deal.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Just don’t let her die, alright?”

“I’ll do my best,” he said dryly, easing into the chair across from the girl.

With that settled, you forced yourself upstairs to get ready.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Piltover in hues of gold and violet, you were stepping into the waiting carriage. The driver gave a polite nod before urging the horses forward, the wheels rolling smoothly against the cobbled streets.

You sank into the plush seat, smoothing down the fabric of your carefully chosen dress. Elegant, but not too suggestive. Formal, but not too stiff. The perfect balance between making an impression and avoiding any assumptions that you were remotely interested in the councilor’s affections.

With a sigh, you rested your head back against the seat, eyes drifting toward the city outside.

Might as well get this over with.

Dinner with Salo was exactly as you expected: tedious, long-winded, and filled with just enough self-importance to make you reconsider the merits of drowning yourself in your wine.

He droned on about his work in the Council—policies, trade negotiations, the ongoing debate about the Undercity’s instability. You nodded at appropriate moments, occasionally offering a hum of acknowledgment, but your mind had already drifted elsewhere.

Salo, for all his wealth and influence, was entirely predictable. Everything about him—from his crisp, tailored attire to the way he spoke as if he were the center of Piltover itself—was painfully uninspired. There was no fire in him, no raw ambition, no cutting edges.

Not like Silco.

The thought crept in unbidden, and you found yourself twirling your fork idly as your mind shifted. Silco was ambition wrapped in steel—sharp and unforgiving. He had built an empire from the depths of nothing and ruled over it with a cunning mind and a ruthless hand. He commanded respect not through lineage or wealth but by sheer force of will.

You thought of the way he looked at you in the Greenhouse—calculating, intrigued, but unreadable. The way his mismatched gaze lingered a second too long, as if peeling back layers.

And Chross… Why now? Why had he suddenly asked you to step up, to take the reins of his enterprise after all this time? You’d never been blind to his protectiveness, but this was different. It was as if he was preparing you for something bigger—something you weren’t sure you were ready for.

A deep chuckle dragged you back to the present. Salo was smirking, his knife and fork resting neatly on the edge of his plate. “Am I boring you, my dear?”

You blinked and forced a smile. “Of course not. Just tired.”

He leaned forward slightly, studying you with mild concern. “Overworking yourself? I’d hate to think your new position under Heimerdinger is already wearing you down.”

“It’s not that,” you hesitated before adding, “I’ve been visiting my father in the Undercity more often. He had an accident recently.”

Not entirely a lie.

Salo frowned, setting his utensils down. “An accident? Is he receiving proper treatment?”

“He’s recovering,” you assured him, taking a sip of your wine.

“You know, it would be far easier if you just moved him here,” Salo said, swirling his wine before taking a sip. “The Undercity isn’t exactly known for its medical advancements. I could arrange for him to receive treatment in Piltover. Cover his accommodations, even.”

You smiled politely, though the thought made you inwardly grimace.

“That’s kind of you,” you said smoothly, “but my father is a proud man. He wouldn’t leave Zaun, not even if the walls were crumbling around him.”

Salo sighed, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. “Stubborn, then. Just like you.”

You only grinned in response, lifting your own glass in a silent toast.

He had no idea.

Because, in truth, you didn’t know how much longer your father could afford to be proud.

As the night wore on and the conversation drifted from politics to more personal topics—your work, his ambitions, the latest gossip in Piltover’s upper echelons—you found yourself almost… comfortable. He was, at the very least, an excellent conversationalist, knowing when to push and when to let a subject go.

Salo was not bad company, all things considered.

Maybe in another life, if he weren’t so self-absorbed, if you weren’t so preoccupied with your father’s affairs, you might’ve even found him charming. He had that easy confidence, the kind that made men like him thrive in the upper circles of Piltover. He smiled often, always composed, always sure of himself.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Salo’s world revolved around Salo.

You wondered if he ever truly saw the people around him or if they were just moving pieces on a board he meticulously curated for his own benefit. He certainly liked you—your sharp wit, your beauty, the challenge you presented—but did he care? Would he ever?

And, more importantly, did it matter?

You weren’t sure.

“Stay the night,” he offered as dinner came to an end. He leaned back in his chair, watching you over the rim of his wine glass, casual but deliberate. “It’s late, and I’d hate for you to walk home alone.”

You almost laughed. As if Piltover’s pristine streets held any danger for someone like you.

“That’s sweet,” you said instead, tilting your head, “but I have an early morning ahead of me. I really should be going.”

He exhaled through his nose, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. “You always find an excuse to leave.”

“Would you prefer I stop making excuses and just say no?”

His lips twitched. “Not particularly.”

You smiled, rising to your feet. “Then I’ll see you around, Councilor.”

Salo stood as well, ever the gentleman, and walked you to the door. “At least let me send you home in a carriage.”

You considered declining out of habit, but then again… it was a long walk back, and you had no desire to trudge through Piltover’s spotless streets in these shoes.

“Alright,” you relented, tilting your head. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

He smirked at your theatrics and gestured for a servant to summon the carriage. When it finally arrived, he stepped closer, lingering just at the edge of propriety.

“Good night, dear,” he murmured, before pressing a brief kiss to your cheek.

It was soft, polite, fleeting.

It also left you strangely unaffected.

You only smiled, slipping into the carriage with a graceful ease. “Good night, Salo.”

As the carriage pulled away, you rested your elbow against the window and propped your chin against your hand, watching the city lights blur past.

You touched your cheek absentmindedly, then scoffed at yourself. Not even close.

You pushed open the door to your home, the scent of honey and warm spices still clinging to the box in your hands. Viktor was exactly where you left him, seated in the parlor with his cane propped against the arm of the chair, a book resting open on his lap. He barely glanced up when you entered.

“I see you survived your harrowing evening with the Councilor,” he drawled, closing the book with a soft thump.

“Barely,” you sighed, setting the wrapped food container on the coffee table. “But I come bearing gifts. One honey cake as promised.”

“Ah. My efforts have finally been rewarded,” he mused dryly, setting the book aside. “And here I thought you might try to cheat me out of it.”

“I would never,” you said, scandalized. “Unlike some people, I have a heart.”

He only hummed, eyeing the cake with open interest.

“Has she woken up?” you asked, glancing toward the child.

“No. But her breathing is steady. The doctor said it’s likely exhaustion.” Viktor reassured you, already slicing into the honey cake with meticulous precision.

The two of you fell into comfortable conversation, discussing work, the council’s latest nonsense, and whether or not if that honey cake was worth the stomachache you were both bound to suffer later. But as the minutes passed, you found your fingers fidgeting with your teacup, the thoughts of your father and his words pressing on your chest.

And then, before you could overthink it, you spoke.

“My father wants me to return to Zaun,” You watched as Viktor took another slow sip of his tea. “He wants me to take over his business.”

Silence.

You swallowed, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. He was staring into his tea, fingers curled around his cup, unreadable.

The quiet stretched too long. Anxiety curled in your stomach. Say something, damn you.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Well… at least then you would not have to pander to Salo anymore.”

You blinked. “…Excuse me?”

He sipped his tea before answering. “You would have your own fortune. No more boring dinners. No more indulging his ego.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shoving his shoulder. “Oh, you ass. That’s what you’re taking from this?”

“Am I wrong?” Viktor smirked, taking another bite of cake. “No more entertaining self-important councilmen. No more ridiculous dinner invitations. A win for everyone, really.”

You nudged his shoulder with yours, half-laughing. “Glad to see you have your priorities straight.”

Viktor’s smirk faded, the lighthearted air between you dissipating like smoke. He set his teacup down carefully, fingers lingering on the rim.

“You’re really considering it, then?” he asked, quieter this time.

You hesitated, then sighed. “I don’t know. I should, shouldn’t I? I mean, it’s my father’s empire. I owe him everything. But…” you trailed off, running a hand through your hair, the weight of your thoughts pressing against your chest. “I don’t know if I want to leave all this behind. My life here. You.”

Viktor frowned, his expression shadowed. “Then stay.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he countered firmly. “Your father built his empire himself. It is not your burden to bear.”

You shook your head. “It became my burden the moment he took me in.”

Viktor exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab your wrist, shake some sense into you. “You do not owe him your future. You built something here. You have a life in Piltover. Do not throw it away just because you feel indebted to a man who never asked for repayment.”

“You don’t understand,” you murmured, frustration curling inside you.

“Then make me understand,” Viktor challenged, eyes sharp, unrelenting.

You bit your lip, your stomach twisting. For all his brilliance, Viktor would never understand your dilemma. Chross had given you everything—protection, power, a name. It wasn’t something you could just walk away from.

The silence between you grew tense, heavy with things unsaid.

Finally, you sighed. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

Viktor rubbed a hand down his face, his own frustration cooling into something softer. “Neither do I.”

A beat passed before he let out a dry chuckle. “You should have just married Salo instead. Would have solved all your problems.”

You snorted, nudging his knee with yours. “Now, that is a fate worse than death.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Then you are truly doomed.”

You laughed, but something in your chest ached. You considered telling him the full truth—that your hesitance to leave wasn’t just about duty or debt but about the growing, maddening pull you felt toward a certain crimson-eyed king of Zaun.

But you kept that to yourself.

Chapter Text

A sharp scream jolted you awake.

You flinched, your head snapping up from where it had been resting against Viktor’s shoulder. He groaned, stirring beside you, but your focus was already on the small, frantic figure on the couch.

The child was sitting up, wild-eyed, clutching the blanket you’d draped over her like a lifeline. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her chest rising and falling too fast.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you said, voice thick with sleep as you pushed yourself up. “You’re safe.”

She didn’t seem to hear you. Her gaze darted around the room in a frantic, animalistic way, like a caged creature searching for an escape. Then her eyes locked onto you, then Viktor, and then—

“Where am I?!” she shrieked. “Where the hell am I?!”

“You’re in Piltover,” you answered before thinking.

Her breath hitched again, panic flashing across her face like a struck match. “No, no, no—” She flung the blanket off herself and scrambled back, nearly tumbling off the couch. “I can’t be here! If my dad finds out, I’m going to be so screwed!”

“Easy, kid—” You reached out instinctively, but she recoiled like a cornered animal.

“You don’t understand!” she snapped, chest heaving. “He’s gonna be so mad—”

“Then let’s figure this out together,” you interrupted, your voice firm but not unkind. “You’re not in trouble. Just breathe, okay? What’s your name?”

The girl hesitated, eyes flicking between the two of you warily. Finally, she mumbled, “Jinx.”

Viktor shot you a glance, but you ignored it for now.

“Alright, Jinx,” you said with an easy smile. You introduced yourself to her before gesturing to the person beside you. “The grumpy guy over there is Viktor.”

“Charmed,” Viktor muttered dryly, still rubbing the sleep from his face.

You shot him a look before turning back to Jinx. “Do you remember what happened before the explosion?”

Jinx hesitated, then crossed her arms. “I was working on something. A little project.”

“A project?” You arched a brow. “That explosion was a little project?”

She grinned, looking oddly proud despite the gash on her forehead. “It wasn’t supposed to explode like that.”

Viktor snorted. “Ah, of course. The famous last words of every great scientist.”

Jinx shot him a glare before turning back to you. “It was just supposed to be a little pop! A small boom. Just enough to prove I could do it. But I must've miscalculated something because boom, it went off too early, and I got thrown back.”

You studied her, intrigued. “You built an explosive?”

“A tiny one,” she clarified, then winced. “Okay, maybe not tiny, but it wasn’t meant to be deadly!”

You sighed, already feeling a headache forming. “Alright. So, you blew something up—by accident, I assume?”

She gave an exaggerated shrug, but you caught the flicker of frustration in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” she grumbled. “It was supposed to work.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest tighten.

“I know you didn’t,” you exhaled, running a hand through your hair. “But next time, try not to get half the street blown up, yeah?”

Jinx scowled but said nothing while Viktor merely sighed beside you.

You crossed your arms and met Jinx’s stubborn gaze with your own. “Alright. Here’s the deal. I’ll go back to the Undercity with you and help you explain to your father about what happened—but you have to eat breakfast first.”

The kid narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because you look like a stiff breeze could knock you over, and I don’t want to carry you the whole way if you pass out again.”

She was about to say something, but her stomach betrayed her, letting out a low grumble. She crossed her arms tightly over her midsection as if that would somehow undo the embarrassing sound.

“Fine.”

“Good choice,” you said, pushing yourself up from the floor. “Viktor, you staying for breakfast?”

“Tempting,” Viktor said, stretching with a groan. “But no. I need to get back to the lab before Jayce does something catastrophically stupid without me.”

The moment the word ‘lab’ left his mouth, you noticed Jinx’s head snap toward him. “Lab? As in laboratory?”

Viktor blinked at her sudden interest. “Yes…?”

“You work in a lab?” she asked, voice sharper now, eyes lighting up with intrigue. “Are you like some sort of a scientist?”

Viktor glanced at you. You just shrugged.

“An inventor,” he cautiously corrected. “Why?”

Her lips curled into a mischievous smirk. “New deal.” She jabbed a finger in your direction. “I’ll eat breakfast if you and the twiggy take me to his lab.”

You glanced at Viktor, who looked downright offended. “Twiggy?”

Jinx shrugged. “I call it like I see it.”

“First of all, you should take a good look at yourself, kid, before calling me ‘twiggy,’” Viktor grumbled. “Second of all, why would I agree to that?”

“Because you look like the kind of guy who likes showing off how smart he is,” Jinx quipped, tilting her head. “And I wanna see if you’re actually as smart as you look.”

Viktor opened his mouth, then shut it, his expression unreadable. You watched the way his fingers twitched slightly against his cane.

You smirked. “She’s got you there, Vik.”

He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Breakfast first. Then the lab.”

Jinx grinned. “Now we’re talking.”

After breakfast, you and Viktor led Jinx through the bustling halls of the Academy. She was practically vibrating with excitement, her bright blue eyes darting around at every passing researcher and invention.

She had changed into some of your old clothes before leaving—an oversized shirt that hung lopsided on her frame, the sleeves rolled up several times to free her hands, and a pair of trousers cinched tightly at the waist to keep them from slipping. She’d grumbled about the fit, but at least she wasn’t covered in soot and blood anymore.

When you finally entered the lab, Jinx skidded to a stop just inside the doorway.

“Whoa.”

You leaned against one of the workbenches, arms crossed, watching as Jinx flitted around Viktor’s lab like a spark jumping between wires. Her bright blue eyes darted from one piece of equipment to the next, taking in the towering blueprints, the hum of machinery, and the half-assembled devices.

“Holy shit,” she murmured, her fingers ghosting over the edge of a Hextech capacitor. “This place is… crazy.”

Viktor smirked, clearly pleased with her reaction. “It is a place of innovation,” he said. “And occasional near-death experiences.”

Jinx grinned. “Best kind of place.”

“That remains to be seen,” came a new voice.

You turned just in time to see Jayce coming in from the back, wiping his hands with a cloth. His gaze flickered to you in question before settling on Jinx. “Uh… who’s the kid?”

Jinx put her hands on her hips. “Who’s the guy?”

You smirked. “Jayce, this is Jinx. Jinx, Jayce.”

Jayce gave you a look. “Should I be concerned?”

“Probably,” Viktor muttered.

Jinx barely paid him any mind, her attention already snapping to the massive Hextech gauntlets resting on a nearby table. “What’s this thing do?”

“That’s still in development,” Jayce replied. “They enhance strength and durability—”

“So, like, you punch stuff harder?” Jinx cut in. “That’s boring. You should add explosions.”

Jayce sputtered. “Why would I—”

“Everything’s better with explosions,” Jinx declared matter-of-factly.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head as Jayce looked to you for help. You only shrugged.

Jinx continued poking around, before pausing and looking at you. “What about you? You building something too?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question.

“Actually, yeah,” you admitted. “It’s an air filtration project for the Undercity.”

Jinx tilted her head. “What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m trying to make it so people in the Undercity don’t choke on toxic air every time they breathe,” you explained. “Cleaner air, fewer sick people, better lives.”

Jinx frowned slightly, as if deep in thought. “Huh. That’s kinda cool, I guess.”

You arched a brow. “Kinda?”

She grinned. “Could be cooler with explosions.”

Jinx continued to explore the lab while you merely watched, but in the blink of an eye, something happened. The way Jinx suddenly stilled, all the color draining from her face. Her gaze was locked onto a single point on the workbench. A Hextech gemstone, glowing with that brilliant, pulsing blue light.

Her hands clenched into fists. Her lips moved, forming silent words, but you couldn’t make them out.

You stepped forward cautiously. “Jinx?”

No response.

“Jinx, what’s wrong?”

She flinched at your voice, blinking rapidly like she was waking from a dream. “Huh? Oh—uh, nothing!” She laughed, but it was hollow, forced. “Just… dunno. That thing’s creepy.”

You glanced at the gemstone. “Creepy?”

“Yeah, y'know… too bright. Like it’s watching you. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

You didn’t buy it for a second.

“Jinx—”

“So! About those air filter thingies!” she interrupted, turning sharply to you with an exaggerated grin. “Where is it? I wanna see it.”

You frowned, knowing she was deflecting but deciding not to press—at least, not yet. “It’s not exactly ‘here’ in the lab,” you admitted. “And it’s… not exactly working yet either.”

Jinx raised a brow. “Oh?”

Viktor smirked. “That is an understatement.”

You shot him a look, but he only chuckled.

“Turns out instead of purifying the air in the Undercity,” you admitted, “all I’ve managed to make is a very efficient sleeping gas.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Jinx burst out laughing. “Pfft—wait, wait—so your big, important, save-the-Undercity project is just a giant bedtime machine?!”

Viktor, who had been quietly observing, suddenly smirked. “A noble endeavor,” he said. “People from the Undercity do have trouble sleeping.”

“Exactly!” Jinx cackled. “Maybe instead of fixing the air, you can start a side business knocking people out! Ever wanted to rob a bank? Just gas ‘em all! Poof!”

Jayce decided to join in on the fun as well. “Maybe you should sell it to parents with rowdy kids. ‘Tired of your child staying up late? Just a single whiff of this, and they’ll be out like a light!’”

You groaned, crossing your arms. “I’m glad my suffering is amusing to you all.”

“No, no,” Viktor mused. “This is promising research. We simply need to rename the project—how about ‘The Great Sleep Initiative’?”

“Or ‘Naptime for the Undercity’!” Jinx added.

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, a laugh bubbled up in your throat. “I hate you.”

The sun hung high in the sky, its light barely cutting through the thick smog of the Undercity. You adjusted the weight of the box in your arms, careful not to jostle the delicate trinkets inside. Jinx was practically skipping beside you, her own smaller box balanced precariously on one arm as she twirled a small gear between her fingers.

“So, uh,” you started, eyeing her with mild suspicion, “you do remember the part where you promised not to turn any of this into explosives, right?”

Jinx gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “I would never lie to you! I mean, okay, I might tweak a thing or two, but it’s all in the name of science.” She flashed you a mischievous grin. “And that’s totally what twiggy would want, right?”

“That is absolutely not what he meant,” you muttered, shaking your head. “And his name is Viktor.”

The two of you continued your walk, weaving through the winding streets of the Undercity. Jinx led the way, taking turns with a confidence that told you she knew this place like the back of her hand. You had assumed she lived somewhere deeper in the Undercity, maybe in some hidden hideout or tucked away in the industrial districts. But when she finally stopped, you froze.

The Last Drop loomed ahead, its familiar neon sign buzzing softly in the murky daylight.

You stared. “This is your home?”

Jinx turned to you with a cheeky grin. “Yep!” She jerked a thumb toward the entrance. “Welcome to my humble abode! Well, not just mine, but y’know. Home sweet home!”

Your breath hitched.

“Jinx,” you gripped the box tighter. “Who is your fa—”

But before you could even finish, she had already pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.

“Jinx, wait—!”

You had no choice but to follow.

The moment you stepped inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The bar was quieter than usual, the air dense with something unspoken. And there, in the center of it all, pacing back and forth like a storm about to break—was Silco.

Your heart skipped a beat.

He looked disheveled, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his dress shirt slightly wrinkled as though he had been running his hands through his hair in frustration. His coat hung carelessly over a nearby barstool, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the sharp cut of his forearms. The ever-present cigar in his hand burned low, trailing a thin wisp of smoke into the air.

Sevika stood to the side, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. A few of Silco’s men lingered near the bar, stiff with the kind of wariness that only came when their boss was well and truly pissed off.

And then there was you—standing in the doorway, suddenly feeling very, very out of place.

Jinx set her box down on the floor with an unceremonious thunk and threw her arms out.

“Heeey, everyone! Miss me?”

The room, tense and silent just moments ago, seemed to shift around her chaotic energy. The men exchanged glances, Sevika let out an exasperated sigh, and Silco—

Silco moved.

He was on her in an instant, gripping her shoulders and scanning her over with a sharp, scrutinizing gaze. “Where the hell have you been? What happened to you?” His voice was low, laced with something dangerous, but underneath it, there was something else—relief.

Jinx just grinned, unfazed by the intensity of his stare. “Relax, old man! I’m fine. Had a little… mishap with an experiment. Boom!” She clapped her hands together, mimicking an explosion. “Got a little banged up, but I made a new friend!”

She turned and jabbed a finger in your direction.

Silco followed her gesture.

And for the first time since you entered, his mismatched eyes truly landed on you.

The moment your eyes met, it was as if the world had shrunk down to just the two of you. You felt something stir in your chest—something light, something fluttering—butterflies, of all things.

The silence stretched between you, long and charged.

Then, with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, Silco recovered first. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he finally spoke.

“Well, well.” His voice was smooth, edged with amusement. “If it isn’t my new recruit. Did you finally have a change of heart?”

My.

That single word wrapped around your spine and sent a delicious little shiver through you. He said it so easily, so casually, like you already belonged to him. You shouldn’t have liked it. But, oh, you did. More than you’d care to admit.

You tried to play it cool, but your heartbeat betrayed you, hammering in your chest. Silco’s gaze was unwavering, as if he could already see through you, peeling back every carefully placed mask you wore.

You were supposed to be in control here, weren’t you? The charming, sharp-tongued woman who walked into a room and left men flustered in her wake. And yet, here you were, standing before Silco, stomach flipping like some foolish debutante at her first gala, just because he called you his.

You swallowed, lifted your chin slightly, and forced a smirk of your own. “I thought my contract was only for that day, boss.” You teased back.

“Perhaps we could renew it if you’re willing.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Jinx squint at you, then at Silco, then back at you again, her eyes darting between the two of you like she was watching a particularly juicy drama unfold. Then, with absolutely no sense of self-preservation, she jabbed a finger between the two of you and blurted out, “Wait—do you guys know each other?”

Silco’s expression remained unreadable, save for the slight raise of an eyebrow. You, on the other hand, were not nearly as composed. Your mind scrambled for an answer—technically, yes, you knew each other. Technically, you had schemed your way into his meeting under false pretenses. Technically, you had spent the last few days thinking about him more than you should.

You shot Jinx a slow, almost lazy smile, masking the sudden heat rising to your face. “Oh, you could say that. Your old man and I had a little... business encounter a few days ago.”

Silco hummed, something unreadable flickering in his sharp eyes. “A rather unexpected one.”

Jinx tilted her head, gaze bouncing between you again. “Huh. Well, that explains the weird staring contest you two were just having.”

Sevika snorted behind Silco. You sighed, rolling your eyes. “It’s called making an impression, Jinx.”

“Looked more like you were about to eat each other’s faces.”

Silco coughed, hiding something behind his hand. You cleared your throat, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the way your face was now burning.

“Jinx,” he admonished before his gaze flickered down to the boxes in your arms, then to Jinx’s. He took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling a thin wisp of smoke before speaking. “And what exactly is all this?”

Jinx perked up, tapping the box dramatically as if it was a newly discovered relic. “Gifts,” she said brightly. “From my new nerd friends.”

You gave Silco a small, amused shrug. “My colleagues thought Jinx would like some of their little trinkets to help with her experiments. On the strict condition that she doesn't use them to blow anything up.”

Jinx scowled. “Ugh, why does everyone always assume—okay, yeah, that's fair.”

Silco let out a slow exhale, eyes narrowing as if trying to determine whether or not that was a lie. He lifted a hand and gestured to one of his men. “Take it.”

One of the goons moved to relieve you of the box, and you hesitated for just a moment before relinquishing it. As soon as the weight left your arms, you folded them across your chest, watching as Silco turned his attention back to Jinx.

“Go to your room,” he instructed, his voice softer now, though still firm. “We’ll talk later.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the way his tone shifted when he spoke to her. There was no bite, no cold calculation—just an almost parental patience. Jinx pouted but didn’t argue, kicking the toe of her boot against the floor before perking up again.

For a moment, Jinx hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek as if debating whether to argue. But then, with an exaggerated sigh, she threw her hands up. “Fine, fine. But you better not lose my stuff.”

Silco gave her a look. Jinx huffed, kicking her box lightly before skipping off, twirling a wrench she must’ve swiped from Viktor’s lab between her fingers.

You hadn’t expected to see this side of Silco. You had heard the stories—how ruthless he was, how unyielding. And yet, there was something so careful in the way he spoke to Jinx, in the way his gaze followed her until she disappeared from view.

You weren’t sure why, but the sight of it made your chest tighten even more.

Silco’s gaze flicked back to you the moment Jinx disappeared upstairs. That sharp, calculating glint was back in his eyes, his features smoothing into something unreadable.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” he said, his voice even.

You tilted your head slightly, feigning nonchalance despite the way your pulse picked up. “Funny, I was about to say the same thing.”

His brow arched ever so slightly, intrigued, but he said nothing, waiting for you to continue.

You exhaled, crossing your arms. “I had a chat with my father yesterday. He mentioned your little visit.”

At that, the corner of Silco’s mouth twitched. “Did he?”

“Mhm.” You tapped a finger against your arm. “He was quite vague about what the two of you discussed, though. Which, frankly, only made me more curious.”

Silco chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Chross has always been a careful man.” He took a step closer, just enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly to hold his gaze. “What, exactly, did he tell you?”

You narrowed your eyes playfully, testing out a lie first. “That you came sniffing around, asking questions about me.”

Silco hummed, expression unreadable. “And what did you make of that?”

That you’ve been thinking about me. And that I was right all along. Ha! Take that, Chross! You kept that thought to yourself. Instead, you smirked. “That depends. Were you satisfied with the answers you got?”

For a moment, Silco merely looked at you, as if weighing his next words carefully. Then, he smiled—small, knowing, and just a little bit dangerous. “Not quite.”

A deliberate cough pulled your attention away from him, making you realize that you and Silco weren’t alone in the room. You both turned to see Sevika, arms crossed, looking about as patient as a caged Shimmer-raged sump-rat.

“Since the brat’s home in one piece, I’m heading out for patrol,” she said, already half-turned toward the door. But then she glanced at you, smirking. “Always a pleasure, new recruit.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “Oh, Sevika, if I’d known you missed me, I would’ve brought you something sweet.”

“Tch.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Your presence is headache enough.” With that, she strode out, calling for a few of Silco’s men to follow her.

Silco, who had been watching the exchange with something between amusement and exasperation, exhaled through his nose before turning his attention back to you. “Why don’t we continue this conversation somewhere more private?”

Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip.

“Lead the way, boss.”

That earned you a quirk of the lips from him.

You stepped into Silco’s office, taking in the space with quiet curiosity. It was dimly lit, the scent of smoke and aged leather lingering in the air. Papers were stacked in neat yet precarious piles on his desk, and a crystal decanter of amber liquid sat within easy reach. Your gaze flitted across the room before landing on a small ashtray sitting near the edge of the desk—covered in a litany of little doodles.

You bit back a smile. Jinx’s handiwork, no doubt.

Silco settled into his chair with fluid ease, gesturing for you to take the seat across from him. The silence stretched between you as he regarded you with that ever-watchful gaze, his fingers steepled in front of him.

Instead of waiting for him to speak first, you leaned back and said, “So. You’re the ‘dad’ Jinx mentioned.”

You watched with fascination as Silco blinked, his lips parting slightly before pressing into a thin line. Amusement flickered across your face as you realized you might have actually caught him off guard.

“She said that, did she?” he murmured, tilting his head.

You leaned forward slightly, watching Silco’s expression shift. "She seems to think the world of you," you mused, tilting your head.

For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face—pride. It was subtle, but you caught it. The ghost of a smirk tugged at your lips.

Silco reached for the decanter on his desk, pouring a generous amount of whiskey into two glasses. He slid one toward you, and you accepted it without hesitation, the cool glass smooth against your fingertips.

“She’s adopted,” he admitted after a beat, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

You took a slow sip, the burn of the liquor warming your throat. You weren’t surprised by his words. Not in the slightest.

“I figured as much,” you said. “It's a common theme down here, isn’t it? People finding each other, choosing their family rather than being born into one.”

Sharp eyes flickered toward you, something unreadable passing through them. You wondered, briefly, if he was thinking the same thing you were—about Chross, about yourself.

You exhaled softly, tapping your fingers against your glass. “Not that different from me, then.”

Silco took a slow sip of his whiskey, watching you over the rim of his glass. His gaze was as cutting as ever, measuring, dissecting. “Not that different from you?” he echoed, tilting his head slightly. “Now, there's a statement begging for elaboration.”

You swirled your drink idly, letting the amber liquid catch the dim light of the office. “Oh, you know,” you mused, “both taken in by powerful men with a taste for theatrics. Both expected to inherit something we never asked for. Both undeniably charming.”

His lips curled, amusement flickering behind his sharp gaze. “Is that so?” he drawled. “And here I thought your charm was merely a side effect of your Piltover upbringing. Overindulgence breeds… excess, after all.”

You placed a hand over your heart in mock offense. “Are you implying I’m spoiled, Silco? That wounds me.”

“You don’t seem particularly burdened by it,” he shot back smoothly.

You grinned, resting your chin in your palm. “I suppose it depends. Would you like to spoil me?”

Silco’s expression didn’t change, but there was the faintest twitch of his fingers around his glass. “I don't make a habit of handing out charity.”

“Good,” you said, eyes gleaming. “I much prefer working for my rewards.”

A slow, knowing exhale left him, as if he was still trying to decide what exactly to make of you. “You're relentless,” he mused.

“And you’re intrigued,” you countered smoothly, tapping your finger against the rim of your glass.

He leaned back in his chair, an almost imperceptible nod conceding the point. “For now.”

You took another sip of your drink, feeling the pleasant heat spread through your veins. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to keep your attention, won’t I?”

Silco watched as you finished the last sip of your whiskey, setting the glass down with an air of finality. As much as you enjoyed the verbal sparring, you knew when to make an exit—before the night unraveled into something you weren’t ready for.

“I should go,” you said, pushing yourself up from the chair. “Much as I’d love to test how long I can keep your attention, I do have to return to my spoiled Piltovan life.”

Silco smirked slightly at your words but didn’t argue. “At least allow one of my men to accompany you,” he said, tone measured but insistent.

You tilted your head. “Tempting offer, really. But I think I’ll pass. Unless, of course, you want to be the one to walk me home?”

Something unreadable flickered across Silco’s expression before he huffed, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Pity,” you turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back over your shoulder. “Tell Jinx I said goodbye, will you?”

He gave a short nod. “I will. She seems to have taken a liking to you.”

“Can’t blame her,” you said, flashing him a playful grin. “I'm very likable.”

Silco exhaled through his nose, something between a scoff and a laugh. Then his expression shifted, becoming more serious. “For what it's worth, I appreciate what you did for her. Not everyone would have gone out of their way to help a strange child bleeding in an alley.”

“Strange children bleeding in alleys happen to be a soft spot of mine,” you said lightly, though the weight of his gratitude settled somewhere deep in your chest.

Silco’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. Then, with the same fluid grace he always carried, he got up and walked over to where you were standing. He then reached out for your hand, and before you could register what was happening, Silco lifted your knuckles to his lips and pressed the briefest, most fleeting kiss against your skin. Not lingering, not teasing—just a quiet, deliberate act.

Your brain nearly short-circuited.

His lips were warm. His touch, unexpectedly gentle.

When he released you, you barely resisted the urge to gape at him. Your pulse was a traitor, kicking up into a staccato rhythm. Silco, of course, was composed as ever, watching your reaction with veiled amusement.

“Safe travels, new recruit,” he murmured.

You swallowed, pulling yourself together with no small amount of effort. “You keep that up, Silco, and I just might start thinking you like me.”

A slow smirk curved his lips. “Now that would be a dangerous assumption, wouldn't it?”

You took a step back, grinning despite yourself. “I do like a little danger.”

And with that, you turned and walked away, resisting the urge to look back—resisting the feeling of his lips still lingering on your skin.

Silco leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as his gaze settled on the glass you had left behind. A faint smudge of lipstick clung to the rim—your parting signature, however unintentional. Without thinking, he ran his thumb over the mark, smearing it slightly.

He turned over every exchange in his mind—the way you parried his sharp words with teasing ease, the way you watched him, keen and unafraid, like you saw something beyond the man the rest of the Undercity feared.

A quiet exhale escaped him as he finally set the glass down and rose from his chair. There was no use dwelling on you—not when there were more pressing matters at hand.

Yet, even as he made his way through the halls of The Last Drop, he could still hear the echoes of your voice, still picture the way you smirked at him before disappearing into the night.

Jinx’s door was slightly ajar when he reached it. Inside, she sat cross-legged on her bed, idly tinkering with one of the trinkets you had given her. She looked up the moment he stepped in.

“Took you long enough!” Jinx chirped, sitting up. “Did she leave already?”

Silco leaned against the doorframe, watching her carefully. “She did.”

The kid pouted. “Ugh, and I didn't even get to say bye.” Then, as if remembering something, she grinned. “Sooo? What’d she say about me?”

He huffed in amusement. “She says you’re charming.”

Jinx snorted. “Well, duh. 'Cause I am,” Then her grin faltered, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. “You like her.”

His expression didn’t change, but he knew better than to dismiss her outright. “She’s an interesting one.”

“That’s just fancy talk for 'yeah, I like her.'”

Silco shook his head. “Go to sleep, Jinx.”

Jinx grinned, patting the spot next to her. “C’mon, I gotta tell you about today. You won’t believe how shiny those Piltie labs are. It’s more awesome than Singe’s lab.”

He sat down, listening as she launched into a fast-paced retelling of her day.

Jinx rattled on about her time in Topside, her words tumbling over each other in excitement. She described the Academy’s laboratories, the strange machines, the way everything gleamed like it had never seen a speck of dust in its life. She even boasted about how she got some “really cool stuff” out of it, patting the box beside her with a grin.

Silco listened, nodding where appropriate, though his mind still drifted elsewhere—back to you, to the way you spoke, to the way you looked at him, to the damn lipstick stain on his glass.

Then, Jinx hesitated. Just slightly. A brief pause between one breath and the next.

“Hey, uh…” She rolled the gear between her fingers again. “You think I could—y’know—go visit her again?”

Silco’s gaze sharpened. “Visit?”

Jinx shrugged, twirling a small gear between her fingers. “Yeah. She was fun. ‘Sides, she’s workin’ on some big Zaun thing—somethin’ about air n’ poison n’ blah blah science.”

Silco’s brow arched. “Poison?”

“Pfft, nah, more like gettin’ rid of it,” Jinx clarified. “She’s buildin’ some kinda air filter for Zaun. Said she’s tryna clean up all the shit we breathe down here. Right now, it just knocks people out, though—kinda funny, actually.” She snickered, clearly amused by the idea of accidental mass unconsciousness.

Silco, however, stilled.

He hadn’t expected that.

For all your sharp wit and Piltovan polish, you were still thinking of Zaun. Still working for Zaun, in your own way. Despite the privilege, despite the gilded halls of Piltover and all the power that came with it, you had not turned your back on the place you were born.

Something unfamiliar bloomed in his chest.

Silco wasn’t sure what to name it, but he knew how it felt—warm, unexpected, and unsettlingly soft.

He masked it well, exhaling through his nose as he leaned back against the bedframe. “Ambitious,” he murmured, as if the word alone could smother the feeling. “And entirely impractical.”

Jinx scoffed. "Yeah, that’s what twiggy and biggy said too."

But Silco wasn’t thinking about them. His mind was still caught on you.

Jinx rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands as she peered up at Silco. “Sooo... can I go see her?”

Silco arched a brow. “You’re persistent.”

“Duh,” Jinx grinned, then sobered slightly. “She was cool, y'know? Didn't treat me like some street rat or some crazy kid. And she let me play in that fancy lab.” She kicked her legs idly. “I just... I wanna see her again.”

Silco regarded her for a long moment, fingers tapping idly against his arm. It wasn’t as if you were a threat—not to Jinx, at least. If anything, you had handled her better than most, letting her breathe without stepping on her chaos. And Jinx didn’t warm up to people easily. The fact that she had taken to you so quickly… that meant something.

Still, letting her visit you in Piltover was a different matter entirely.

“You realize how dangerous that is,” Silco said at last. “You're not exactly subtle, Jinx.”

She pouted. “C’mon, I snuck in once already. I can do it again. And she said I could visit!”

Silco pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course you did. He exhaled sharply, then fixed her with a look. “I’ll consider it.”

Jinx groaned dramatically, flopping onto her back. “Ugh, you’re so boring sometimes, old man.”

He ignored the jab, though a ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. In truth, he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. But if he was going to allow it, it would be on his terms.

And perhaps… he’d accompany her.

Chapter Text

Five days had passed since your last visit to the Undercity. Since then, you had buried yourself in work, trying (and failing) not to think too much about a certain red-eyed crime lord or his reckless, blue-haired daughter.

At least Professor Heimerdinger was an excellent distraction.

“I am beginning to suspect some of these young minds don’t even read the assigned texts,” Heimerdinger huffed, setting down a paper with an exaggerated sigh. “Look at this—‘Hextech is powered by magic and hopes and dreams’? Preposterous.”

You stifled a laugh. “To be fair, Professor, I’m sure some people do think magic runs on vibes.”

“Well, they’d be wrong,” he grumbled, flipping to the next page.

The two of you continued in comfortable silence, the scratching of pens and the occasional sigh of academic disappointment filling the room. Then, Heimerdinger glanced up at you over his spectacles. “And what of your own work? Have you made any progress on your air filtration project?”

You hesitated, rolling the pen between your fingers. “Yes and no.”

Heimerdinger hummed thoughtfully. “An answer that suggests you have encountered an impasse.”

You nodded. “Everything works in theory—the structure, the airflow, even the purification mechanism—but it’s unstable. Instead of filtering toxins out of the air, the gas ends up interacting unpredictably. Right now, all it does is create a sleeping effect, which is not what I was aiming for.” You exhaled sharply, tapping the feathered end of the quill against your chin. “Viktor says I need a stabilizing agent, something that neutralizes the harmful compounds instead of mutating them.”

Heimerdinger stroked his mustache, thoughtful. “A stabilizing agent, hmm... That is quite the predicament. Have you considered revisiting your catalyst? Perhaps a different reagent might yield better results.”

“I have,” you sighed. “I've tested dozens, but nothing is quite right.”

Heimerdinger nodded sagely. “Innovation is a process of trial and error, my dear. It is good that you persist. If you’d like, I could spare some time in the coming days to review your calculations. Perhaps a fresh perspective might illuminate a new path forward.”

Your heart warmed at the offer. “I'd appreciate that, Professor.”

Heimerdinger beamed before returning to his papers, but your thoughts lingered on the issue. A stabilizing agent… something that could anchor the reaction instead of letting it spiral. It felt like the answer was just out of reach.

And yet, your mind wandered to a certain vial of liquid shimmering in half-light—one your father had tossed to you not long ago.

Shimmer.

The thought alone made your pulse quicken. Chross had mentioned using it to recover from his injury. That meant it had regenerative properties, some kind of stabilizing effect on organic matter. Could it do the same for chemical reactions?

You tapped your fingers against the wooden desk, weighing the idea. If you were to even consider using it, you'd need more information. What exactly was in it? How did it interact with toxins? And, more importantly, how dangerous was it to experiment with?

Your colleagues would have opinions—that much was certain.

Viktor, ever the pragmatist, would be intrigued. He might even encourage the research, provided you could prove its worth. Jayce, on the other hand, would probably react with horror, launching into a speech about ethics and the dangers of tampering with an unregulated substance. And Heimerdinger? You didn't even want to imagine his response.

The thought made you sigh. If you brought this up, it would mean scrutiny, skepticism, and possibly a very firm no. You'd have to approach this delicately—if you decided to pursue it at all.

Your fingers traced the edges of the paper before you, but your mind was elsewhere, lingering on the shimmering substance that could either be a solution or a disaster waiting to happen.

You needed more information. And you had a feeling that there was only one man in the Undercity who could give it to you.

Before you could sink too deeply into your thoughts, a polite knock at the door pulled you back to reality.

“Come in,” Heimerdinger called, barely looking up from his work.

The door creaked open, and a courier stepped inside, a young lad dressed in the standard brown uniform of Piltover’s messenger service. In his hands, he carried a carefully arranged bouquet—small periwinkle blossoms nestled among deep green leaves.

Your breath hitched.

“Delivery for you, miss,” the courier said, holding it out.

You took it cautiously, fingers brushing against the crisp envelope tucked between the stems. You had a sinking suspicion about who it was from.

The moment you cracked the seal and unfolded the note, your heart did a ridiculous little flip.

Your little friend wishes to visit. Consider this an invitation to discuss the matter over dinner tonight.

No signature. None was needed.

You stared at the words, pulse quickening, your mind instantly leaping to Jinx. She was the only new "little friend" you had made in recent days.

Across the desk, Heimerdinger hummed. You barely noticed the way his bushy brows lifted as he peered over his stack of papers.

“My dear, you’ve gone quite red. Is it a letter of distress?” His nose twitched as he caught the floral scent wafting through the air. His eyes landed on the bouquet, and realization dawned. “Ah! A romantic gesture, I presume? From a certain councilor, perhaps?”

You nearly choked.

“It’s not— I mean, it’s just—” You cleared your throat and quickly stuffed the note back between the petals before Heimerdinger could get a closer look. “It’s not from Salo.”

“Oh?” He arched a bushy brow. “Then who—?”

“Just business,” you interrupted hastily, gripping the bouquet a little too tightly. “Nothing too important.”

Heimerdinger studied you for a moment, clearly unconvinced, before simply shaking his head with a soft chuckle. “Ah, business! Well, I suppose even the affairs of commerce can be aesthetically pleasing.”

You nodded absently, staring at the flowers.

As Heimerdinger returned to grading, you let your fingers drift over the petals, thoughts swirling.

Periwinkles.

You narrowed your eyes at the delicate blossoms. It was one thing to receive flowers from someone like Salo, who would undoubtedly have his assistant pick something generically elegant to impress you. But Silco? The Eye of Zaun did not strike you as the type to send flowers at all, much less ones so… specific.

Did he know periwinkles were your favorite? If so, how?

Your mind immediately came up with an answer: your father.

The realization landed with a thud, and irritation flared in your chest.

Of course. That old bastard must have told him.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Had it come up in casual conversation? Or had Chross deliberately handed that information over, knowing exactly how it would get under your skin? Was this some kind of game between them? A test? A taunt?

You huffed, resisting the urge to crumple the note in your fist.

Silco was already an enigma, but now, armed with knowledge about you—personal knowledge—you couldn’t help but feel like you were being toyed with. Was this a subtle power play? A way to keep you off balance?

Or—your stomach twisted slightly—was there another reason?

You inhaled sharply and shoved that thought aside before it could take root. Whatever Silco’s intentions, you weren’t about to let him rattle you.

And you had questions of your own too.

This dinner might prove useful after all.

After finishing up your work with Heimerdinger, you made your way back to your home, shaking off the lingering thoughts of Silco and the periwinkles. You weren’t about to let a bouquet of flowers and a cryptic note get into your head—at least, not any more than it already had.

Once inside, you shed your academy attire and sifted through your wardrobe for something more suitable. Not too formal, you mused, but not something that makes me look like I just threw this on without a second thought. You weren't dressing for Silco, of course. But if you happened to look particularly stunning, well… that was just a happy coincidence.

You settled on a fitted, dark ensemble—something sleek, and elegant, but still functional enough should the night take an unexpected turn. Zaunites didn’t dress like Piltovans. They didn’t waste time with excess frills or impracticality, and you weren’t about to stand out any more than you already did.

After a final glance in the mirror, you stepped out the door—only to nearly walk right into a waiting figure.

Sevika.

She was leaning against the wall just outside your home, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she gave you a slow once-over.

“Fancy,” she remarked, exhaling a puff of smoke from the cigar between her fingers. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

You raised an eyebrow, recovering from your brief startle. “What’s the matter, Sevika? Didn’t trust me to find my own way?”

“Boss’s orders.” Sevika pushed off the wall, rolling her shoulders. “Told me to make sure you got there in one piece. So let’s go, princess.”

The journey into the Undercity was a familiar one by now, but tonight, you had company, and you weren’t about to let that go to waste.

“So,” you began, falling into step beside her, “what did you do to deserve escort duty tonight?”

Sevika sighed, already exasperated. “Just shut up and walk.”

You gasped in mock offense. “How cruel. And here I thought we were bonding.”

“We’re not.”

“You wound me, Sevika.” You clutched your chest dramatically. “I thought you liked me!”

She scoffed. “I tolerate you.”

You grinned, unfazed. “You know, I always got the impression you didn’t like me. And yet, here you are, keeping me safe.”

“Safe?” She scoffed. “You’re not that important.”

“Silco seems to think otherwise.” You flashed her a knowing look.

Sevika stopped in her tracks. You barely had time to react before she turned to face you, looming close. “Alright, what’s your game?”

You blinked. “Game?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Her voice was low, edged with warning. “I’ve seen your type before. The ones who think they can waltz in with their charm and clever words, like they’re untouchable.” Her eyes narrowed. “But let me give you some advice—whatever you think you’re doing with Silco, don’t.”

You arched a brow. “And what exactly do you think I’m doing?”

“Getting in the way.”

That took you aback.

Sevika studied you for a long moment, then shook her head. “Silco’s got plans, real ones. He doesn’t need a distraction. He doesn’t need you messing with his head.”

You blinked, the weight of Sevika’s words settling over you like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

A distraction?

The accusation irked you. If anything, you were the one being thrown off balance. Ever since that damn Chem-baron meeting, he had been needling his way into your thoughts—unbidden, unrelenting.

And now Sevika was acting like you were the problem?

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please. You think I’m the one distracting him?” You gestured vaguely. “I’m just here for dinner, Sevika, not to unravel your grand master’s plans.”

She didn’t look convinced.

You clicked your tongue, shaking your head as you picked up your pace. “Besides, if anyone’s been distracted lately, it’s me. He’s the one who keeps popping up in my head at the most inconvenient times.” You grumbled under your breath, half to yourself. “Even when I don’t want him to.”

Sevika snorted. “Sounds like a you problem.”

You shot her a glare. “Oh, shut up.”

She just smirked and kept walking.

You had expected to be heading toward The Last Drop, but as the familiar streets passed and the neon glow of the bar remained nowhere in sight, unease curled in your stomach.

Your steps slowed. “Sevika, where exactly are we—”

She didn’t answer, just jerked her chin toward a nondescript building tucked into the darker corners of the Lanes. It was quiet, unassuming—just another shadow in the Undercity’s labyrinth of alleyways. No signs, no rowdy patrons spilling onto the street.

Sevika came to a stop in front of the door, then turned to you. “He’s waiting inside.”

You eyed the entrance warily. Unlike The Last Drop, this place felt… different. More private. More deliberate.

You glanced at Sevika, searching her expression for any hints, but her face was unreadable.

“Go on,” she urged, nodding toward the door.

As you stepped inside, you braced yourself for something ominous—another hideout, perhaps, or some secretive meeting ground for Zaun’s underbelly. Instead, you found… a restaurant.

It was small, modest. The kind of place that had seen better days but was still standing, still serving. The scent of old spices lingered in the air, soaked into the wooden walls that had darkened over time. The furniture was clean but worn, every chair and table carrying the weight of years past. But what struck you most was the silence. Not a single other patron occupied the space.

Your brows furrowed. “Really?” you muttered, more to yourself. You hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

A shadow moved in the corner of your vision. Then, from the dimly lit back of the room, Silco emerged.

“Disappointed?” he asked smoothly, his voice carrying easily through the empty space.

You turned to face him fully, heartbeat steadying despite the way he always managed to command a room—even a deserted one. His usual sharp elegance was unruffled, but something about the setting made him seem… different.

“More like surprised,” you admitted, eyes sweeping the restaurant again. “I wasn’t expecting such a romantic venue.”

Silco’s lips curled into something between amusement and exasperation. “It’s neutral ground.”

Your fingers traced the edge of a chair absentmindedly. “Neutral ground for what, exactly?”

“For our discussion.” He gestured toward a nearby table—the only one that had been properly set, a bottle of wine and two glasses waiting. “Shall we?”

Silco pulled out a chair for you with an effortless motion, waiting until you took your seat before settling into his own. His movements were measured, deliberate—always in control. He reached for the bottle of wine and poured into your glass first, the deep crimson liquid swirling under the dim glow of the lanterns.

He had barely set the bottle down before you leaned in slightly, cutting through whatever carefully crafted words he had planned.

“Why flowers?” you asked, tilting your head. “And why periwinkles, of all things?”

Silco didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took his time, lifting his own glass and swirling the wine as if weighing his response. Finally, he exhaled a quiet chuckle, barely audible, before meeting your gaze with a glint of amusement.

“Chross told me,” he admitted without hesitation.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his honesty. “Of course, he did,” you muttered under your breath, irritation bubbling up again. His answer confirmed your earlier suspicion. Your adoptive father had a habit of meddling, though why he thought Silco of all people needed to know your favorite flower was beyond you.

Silco studied you over the rim of his glass, lips curling in mild amusement. “You seem annoyed.”

You huffed. “It's just ridiculous. I don't see why my father would even mention it.”

“Perhaps he thought I’d appreciate the knowledge.”

You shot him a skeptical look. “And do you?”

Silco tilted his head slightly as if considering the question. “It was useful, wasn’t it?” He gestured lazily to where you were sitting. “You’re here.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers tightening around your wine glass. “You think a few flowers are enough to summon me?”

His smirk deepened. “They certainly helped.”

You weren’t sure what irritated you more—the fact that he was right, or the fact that, despite your initial frustration, the gesture had worked.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “So that's your grand strategy, then? Butter me up with flowers and wine?”

Silco leaned back in his chair, watching you with an unreadable expression. “Would you have preferred something else?”

The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine—like he was challenging you, testing the waters. You met his gaze, searching for an answer in the sharp angles of his face, but he was impossible to read.

Normally, you would play along. You would push it to the edge and pull back at the last second but you were still irritated about all this so you decided to shove it all to the side.

You took a slow sip of wine, letting the rich taste settle on your tongue before responding. “I would’ve preferred you just tell me what this is about instead of playing games.”

Silco exhaled, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Very well,” he said, folding his hands together. “She is the real reason I asked you here.”

It didn’t take much to figure out who he meant. Your fingers tapped absently against the stem of your glass. “Jinx,” you said.

Silco nodded. “She has asked for my permission to come visit you.”

You paused, lowering your glass slightly. “...Has she now?”

“Repeatedly,” Silco clarified. “She seems rather taken with you.”

You frowned, setting your drink aside. “Is that a problem?”

Silco exhaled through his nose, studying you with that unreadable expression of his. “It could be.”

That made you bristle. “She’s just a kid, Silco. If she wants to visit, why not let her?”

He steepled his fingers, watching you carefully. “Jinx is not like other children. She is mine. I won’t have her running off to Topside without knowing precisely what she’s getting into.”

Something in his tone sent a strange warmth down your spine. Mine. The way he said it—possessive, unwavering—reminded you of how he had softened around her back at The Last Drop.

“So what do you want from me?” you asked, voice a little quieter now.

Silco’s gaze never wavered. “Assurance.”

“That I'll look after her?”

“That you won’t turn her into something she’s not,” he corrected. “Jinx doesn’t belong in Piltover.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his eyes without flinching. “And yet, she keeps wanting to go there.”

Silco was silent for a moment, then sighed, as if weighing his next words carefully. “She looks up to you, you know.”

That caught you off guard. You had known Jinx was attached, but hearing it from Silco himself made it feel... different. He wasn’t the type to acknowledge things so openly unless they truly mattered.

You swallowed, looking down at your wine. “I don’t plan on turning her against you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Silco considered you for a long moment before inclining his head. “Then she can visit.”

You blinked, surprised that he had relented so easily. “Just like that?”

His lips curled slightly. “On one condition.”

“Of course,” you muttered. “There’s always a condition.”

Silco leaned forward just slightly, elbows resting on the table. “You’ll bring her back. Personally.”

You stared at him, searching his face for the hidden meaning behind those words. But there was none. Just a quiet expectation.

A slow smile tugged at your lips. “You just want another excuse to see me.”

Silco smirked. “Perhaps.”

You swirled the wine in your glass, watching Silco over the rim with a thoughtful look. “Fine,” you said, at last, setting it down. “Jinx can visit, and I’ll personally bring her back. But…” You leaned forward slightly, mirroring his posture. “I have a condition of my own.”

Silco arched a brow, intrigued. “Do you now?”

You tapped a finger against the table, letting the anticipation build before finally saying, “Tell me everything about Shimmer.”

Silco’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment before he recovered, his expression slipping into something more guarded. He tilted his head, watching you carefully.

“You’re aware of Shimmer,” he stated, rather than asked.

You leaned back in your chair, swirling the wine in your glass. “Only recently,” you admitted.

Silco said nothing at first, simply watching you, his fingers curling against the table’s edge. There was something calculating in his stare, as if reevaluating you in real-time.

You gave him a pointed look. “You’re surprised.”

“You don’t strike me as the type to indulge in such things,” he admitted.

You snorted. “I’m not looking to indulge. I want to know more. How it’s made. What it actually does. Its limits, its side effects.” You leaned forward slightly, meeting his gaze head-on. “It’s for a personal project of mine.”

Silco raised a brow, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. “Ah,” he murmured, realization flickering across his face. “Jinx mentioned your… air filtration project.”

That caught you off guard. You blinked. “She did?”

He hummed in affirmation. “She seemed rather taken with the idea. Told me you were working on a way to clear the Undercity’s air.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with interest. “Though, if I recall correctly, she also mentioned it has an unfortunate tendency to put people to sleep instead.”

You sighed dramatically, rubbing your temple. “I was hoping she’d leave that part out.”

Silco chuckled, amused. “A minor setback, I’m sure.”

You huffed. “If by 'minor setback,' you mean 'potentially catastrophic flaw,' then yes, absolutely.”

He studied you for a moment before leaning forward slightly. “And you believe Shimmer is the missing piece to your little puzzle?”

“I don’t know yet,” you admitted. “But I need to understand it first. The way it strengthens the body—how it interacts with the bloodstream. If I can isolate whatever stabilizing properties it has…” You trailed off, watching him carefully. “Well, you can see why I’d be interested.”

Silco was silent for a beat, then exhaled softly, as if amused by your audacity. “You’re either incredibly ambitious,” he mused, “or a fool.”

You grinned. “Can’t I be both?”

Silco smirked, shaking his head. “I see now why Chross has such high expectations of you.”

At the mention of your father, your smile faltered for just a moment before you pushed past it. “So?” You lifted a brow. "Do we have a deal?"

Silco exhaled through his nose, considering. Then, slowly, he nodded. “We have a deal.”

The scent of spice and charred meat drifted through the air as a quiet knock sounded at the door. A server—a wiry man with a tired face—stepped inside and placed down two plates before swiftly retreating, leaving you alone with Silco once more. You glanced down at the food: a simple but hearty meal of roasted meat, dark greens, and what looked like some kind of spiced root vegetable. The presentation was unassuming, but the aroma was enticing enough.

Silco picked up his utensils with practiced ease. “I hope you’re not the sort to turn your nose up at a meal just because it didn’t come from a Piltovian kitchen.”

You smirked, picking up your fork. “Please, if I did, Chross would have thrown me back to the street ages ago.” You took a bite and were pleasantly surprised by the burst of flavor—smoky, rich, with just the right hint of spice.

For a while, the two of you ate in relative quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware. Then, Silco leaned back slightly, regarding you with that ever-calculating gaze of his.

“Why periwinkles?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked at the unexpected question, chewing thoughtfully. “What, the flowers?”

He hummed, swirling the wine in his glass. “You seemed rather annoyed at the gesture earlier. I assumed it was because of the source rather than the flowers themselves.” He lifted a brow. “So why periwinkles?”

You hesitated, glancing down at your plate. It wasn’t as if it was some big secret you have kept hidden and yet, it wasn’t something you openly shared with everyone you knew either. Chross and Viktor were the only ones aware of the story behind it. And now you were about to add a third one.

“It’s a bit of a long story.”

Silco made a vague gesture. “I have time.”

You exhaled through your nose, setting your utensils down. “When I was little, I used to live near the Black Lanes,” you began, absentmindedly tracing the rim of your wine glass. “Before Chross, before Piltover. It was just me and my biological father back then.”

You felt Silco watching you, waiting, but he said nothing.

“He worked in the mines,” you continued. “Long hours, terrible conditions, pay that was barely enough to keep food on the table. But he never complained.” You exhaled slowly. “Every night, he’d come home exhausted, covered in soot. And every night, without fail, he’d have a handful of periwinkles in his hand.”

You smiled faintly at the memory. “There was this little patch near the mines where they grew. He said they reminded him of me—small, stubborn, still managing to bloom in a place that wanted to crush them.” Your voice softened. “I used to think they were the prettiest thing in the world, those flowers.”

Silco didn't interrupt, didn't press you to continue—but you did anyway.

Your fingers tightened around the stem of your wine glass. “One day, the periwinkles just… stopped coming.” You took a slow breath, steadying yourself. “My father got sick. Lung failure. The mines took everything from him—his strength, his breath, his life. And there was nothing I could do but watch.”

Silco remained silent, but something in his expression sharpened.

“That’s why I’m doing this,” you said, voice quieter now. “This project. The air filtration system. It’s not just some idle experiment for me, Silco.” You looked up at him, holding his gaze. “It’s for the Undercity. For people like my father who work themselves to the bone, who breathe in the poison day after day until it kills them. If I can fix that—even just a little—then maybe…”

Maybe it would mean his death wasn’t in vain. Maybe it would mean something.

You let the words hang between you, feeling uncharacteristically bare under Silco’s scrutiny. He leaned back slightly, exhaling a long stream of smoke from his cigar.

“So that’s your cause,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Not for Piltover, not for the council, but for a ghost.”

You swallowed. “For a promise.”

Silco’s gaze was heavy, unreadable. “And yet, you work for the people who built the system that killed him.”

Your jaw tightened. “I work for the people who have the means to change it.”

Silco hummed in thought, his fingers tapping idly against his glass. For the first time since this conversation began, he looked away, staring at the flickering candlelight on the table.

A long silence stretched between you before he finally spoke again, voice quieter.

“Your father. What was his name?”

You blinked, caught off guard. It was such a simple question, but something about the way he asked it made your chest tighten.

“…Ronan,” you said, the name feeling heavier on your tongue than you expected. “His name was Ronan.”

Silco nodded once as if tucking the name away somewhere private. Then, just as easily, he reached for his wine and took a sip.

The weight of your confession lingered between you, but like a tide pulling back, the conversation gradually shifted into safer waters. Silco made an offhanded remark about the absurdity of Piltover’s red tape, which led to you joking about the council’s endless debates. Somewhere along the way, the tension eased, and by the time your plates were nearly empty, the two of you were discussing Jinx’s visits as if you were simply haggling over trade routes.

“She’ll want to come whenever she pleases,” Silco said, swirling his wine. “She’s not fond of restrictions.”

You snorted. “Yes, well, I’m not fond of surprise visits, either. I do have work, you know.”

He smirked. “Ah, but isn’t it a guardian’s duty to make time for their ward?”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “First of all, I’m not her guardian. Second, if I’m expected to be her babysitter, I at least deserve the courtesy of a schedule.”

Silco exhaled smoke, mulling it over. “Twice a week.”

“Once.”

“Three times.”

“Twice, but she has to give me advance notice.”

Silco chuckled, amused by your audacity. “Fine. Twice a week. But if she ever needs a place to lie low, you won’t turn her away.”

Your fingers drummed lightly against your glass as you considered it. It wasn’t an unfair condition. And despite your better judgment, you were growing fond of the girl.

“Agreed.”

Silco raised his glass slightly in acknowledgment, and you mirrored the gesture before taking a sip.

“Well,” you sighed, setting your glass down. “I suppose that makes it official. You, Silco, have just hired me as Jinx’s part-time babysitter.”

Silco smirked. “And in return, I’ll tell you everything you wish to know about Shimmer.”

As the last of the wine was drained from your glass and the plates were cleared, an unspoken understanding settled between you. The weight of your previous conversation lingered, but neither of you made any move to break the comfortable silence.

Eventually, Silco rose from his seat, adjusting his coat with the ease of a man who had already decided the night was over. You followed suit, expecting to be handed off to Sevika the moment you stepped outside.

But as the restaurant door swung shut behind you, Sevika was nowhere in sight.

Instead, Silco fell into step beside you.

Your brows lifted in surprise. “Sevika’s off the clock, I take it?”

Silco smirked, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. “She had other matters to attend to.”

“Ah,” you mused, watching him from the corner of your eye. “So does that mean you’re the one walking me home?”

A low hum of amusement left his lips. “It seems that way, doesn’t it?”

You chuckled, recalling the conversation you’d had days prior—the one where he’d offered an escort, and you’d turned it into a teasing challenge.

At least allow one of my men to accompany you.

Tempting offer, really. But I think I’ll pass. Unless, of course, you want to be the one to walk me home?

At the time, you hadn’t expected him to take you up on it. Yet here he was.

Your footsteps echoed in sync, an odd sort of quiet settling between you. This part of the Undercity wasn’t as lively as the Lanes—no shouting, no raucous laughter spilling from tavern doors. Just dim lantern light flickering against old walls and the occasional scurry of a rat in the distance.

You stole a glance at Silco. He wasn’t speaking, but he didn’t seem impatient, either. If anything, he looked… content. Like this was simply a natural course of action.

The looming walls of Piltover’s checkpoint eventually came into view, their golden glow stark against the dim blues and greens of the Undercity. The divide between the two cities was always sharpest here—one side polished and gleaming, the other cast in perpetual shadow.

You slowed your steps, reluctantly acknowledging that this was as far as Silco would go.

“Well,” you started, turning to face him. “This is me.”

You expected him to simply bid you farewell, perhaps offer some parting remark laced with his usual sharpness.

Instead, Silco reached for your hand.

Your breath hitched as he lifted it, fingers curling around yours with deliberate ease. And then—just like before—he lowered his head and pressed a brief, chaste kiss to your knuckles.

It shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. It wasn’t the first time, after all.

And yet, warmth shot up your arm, coiling tight in your stomach.

Damn him.

Your lips parted, but for once, words failed you.

Silco pulled back, meeting your gaze with something unreadable lingering in his expression. The moment stretched, electric and heavy.

Then, ever so smoothly, he let your hand slip from his grasp.

“Goodnight,” was all he said, voice low and quiet.

He turned before you could respond, disappearing back into the depths of the Undercity without another word.

You exhaled sharply, trying to quell the butterflies still wreaking havoc in your stomach.

Damn him, indeed.

Chapter Text

Two days had passed since your dinner with Silco, yet the memory of it still lingered in your mind. You told yourself it was because of the deal you made—the arrangement concerning Jinx, the knowledge you would gain about Shimmer. That was all.

Another bouquet of periwinkles arrived on your desk yesterday, along with a small note telling you that Jinx would be coming over the following day. While you appreciate Silco honoring the terms of your agreement, you wish he would alter his methods to be more discreet.

Now, it was just a few minutes before lunch when a sudden, rapid knocking at your door snapped you out of your thoughts. You wiped your hands on a cloth, setting aside the notes you’d been writing for your project. Before you could even cross the room, the door swung open with a dramatic creak.

Jinx stood on your doorstep, grinning like she owned the place. A small backpack hung loosely behind her back.

“Miss me?” she chirped, rocking back on her heels.

You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms. “Not even a little.”

Jinx gasped, clutching her chest as if you had struck her. “Harsh.”

Rolling your eyes, you reached out and ruffled her hair. She squawked in protest, batting your hand away, but you caught the brief flash of delight in her eyes before she masked it with an exaggerated scowl.

“Come on,” you said, stepping aside to let her in. “I know you're itching to get to the lab, but first—food.”

Jinx groaned loudly, dragging her feet as you led her to the kitchen. “Ugh, you sound like Silco.”

That made you pause.

You glanced at her over your shoulder. “Oh? He gives you grief about eating, too?”

“All the time,” Jinx muttered, dropping her bag on the floor before plopping herself onto one of the chairs. She propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands. “But since it's you, I guess I don’t mind that much.”

You smirked, retrieving some bread and cheese from the pantry. “Glad to know I’m tolerable.”

Jinx shot you a grin, kicking her feet beneath the table. “Yeah, yeah. Now, hurry up. Science waits for no one!”

After making sure Jinx had eaten (and endured her dramatic complaints about the “agonizing wait”), the two of you finally made your way to the lab. Jinx practically skipped ahead, her backpack bouncing with each step, while you followed at a more measured pace.

“So,” she drawled, stopping a few feet ahead. “You excited to see your nerd boyfriends?”

You snorted. “They’re not my boyfriends, and I always see them almost every day. I work here, you know.”

“Sure, sure,” she sang, waving a dismissive hand. “So, which one do you like more? The grumpy one with the cane or the himbo with a hammer?”

You rolled your eyes. “Why do you care?”

Jinx smirked. “Gotta know my dad’s competition.”

Before you could respond, the lab doors swung open, and you barely had a chance to step inside before Viktor’s dry voice greeted you.

“Oh, wonderful. You’ve brought chaos with you.”

Jinx grinned, throwing her arms out. “Miss me, Twig?”

Jayce, who was working at a nearby table, turned and grinned. “Jinx! Good to see you again. You didn’t blow anything up in Piltover, did you?”

Jinx pouted. “What, you think I can’t behave?”

Viktor scoffed. “Statistically speaking? No.”

You laughed as Jinx stuck her tongue out at him before slinging her backpack onto the nearest table. “Whatever. You guys are gonna love this.”

She unzipped it and pulled out a strange-looking device, wires and gears protruding at odd angles. It looked dangerously unfinished, but Jinx held it up with all the confidence in the world.

“Tadaaa!” she announced proudly.

Jayce frowned. “Uh… what is it?”

Jinx gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “You wound me, beefcake. This—” she shook the device slightly, causing it to whirr ominously, “—is my latest invention.”

Jayce took a cautious step back, eyeing the device as if it might explode at any moment. “And, uh… what exactly does it do?”

Jinx grinned, placing the invention down on the table with a little more force than necessary. The whirring inside intensified. Viktor visibly tensed.

“Relax, it’s not gonna blow up. Yet.” Jinx winked. “It’s a multi-purpose zapper. Stuns, shocks, and if you crank it high enough—” she twisted a dial on the side, and the device sparked ominously “—it can fry a guy’s nerves for a good few hours. Non-lethal, mostly.”

You raised a brow. “Mostly?”

Jinx shrugged. “Depends on how big the guy is.”

Jayce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jinx…”

“What?” She gestured at you. “She gets to make an air cleaner. I’m just making sure no one chokes her out before she finishes it.”

Viktor let out an exhausted sigh and leaned against his cane. “That is… oddly considerate.”

Jinx beamed. “I know, right?”

You chuckled, nudging her with your elbow. “You sure this isn't just an excuse to zap someone?”

Jinx gasped in faux offense. “Me? Just looking for an excuse to cause trouble? Never.” She grinned mischievously before nudging Viktor. “So, Twig, you gonna help me test it?”

Viktor looked horrified by the idea. “Absolutely not.”

Jayce quickly shook his head. “Yeah, hard pass.”

Jinx pouted, then turned to you, eyes hopeful. “C’mon, you trust me, don’t you?”

You glanced at the unstable-looking device, then back at her eager face. “…I trust you. That thing? Not so much.”

Jinx groaned, throwing her hands up. “You guys are no fun!”

Viktor smirked. “We are alive. That is what matters.”

Jinx huffed before plopping onto the nearest chair, spinning it around. “Fine, be boring. But one day, you'll see—my inventions are gonna change the world.”

You smiled at her confidence, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I believe you.”

Jinx blinked, looking up at you for a moment before grinning again, seemingly pleased.

Jayce clapped his hands together. “Alright, well, since we're all here and no one's exploded yet, what do you say we actually get some work done?”

Viktor chuckled. “A novel concept.”

Jinx smirked. “Fine, fine. But if I can’t test my zapper on one of you, at least let me see what you nerds are cooking up.”

As Jinx and Jayce became engrossed in a rapid-fire discussion about Hextech conductivity—Jinx throwing out wild ideas while Jayce tried (and mostly failed) to keep up—Viktor seized the opportunity to gently tug your sleeve.

“Can I speak with you for a moment?” he murmured, his golden eyes flicking toward Jinx before settling back on you.

You followed him a few steps away from the others, lowering your voice. “What’s up?”

Viktor folded his arms, his brow furrowing slightly. “I was under the impression that Jinx’s visit was… a one-time occurrence.” He gestured subtly toward her. “And yet, here she is. Again.”

You tilted your head, playing innocent. “And?”

“And,” he said dryly, “I suspect there is a reason for it beyond sheer coincidence.”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “She wants to keep visiting. I made an agreement with her father.”

The words felt heavy on your tongue, carefully selected, deliberately vague. You hated lying to Viktor. You told yourself it wasn’t exactly a lie—Jinx did have a father, and you had made an arrangement—but omitting that it was Silco felt just as deceitful. You could already imagine his reaction if he knew the full truth.

Viktor’s expression darkened slightly. “Her father?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Not important. Point is, I watch over her while she’s here, and in return, I get some valuable information for my project.”

Viktor’s frown deepened, and he studied you carefully. “And this arrangement… it does not concern you?”

You shrugged, though the weight in your chest made it feel heavier than it should have. “Why would it?”

Viktor sighed, shaking his head. “Because you have a habit of getting involved in things that are far more complicated than they seem.”

You forced a grin, nudging him with your elbow. “Oh, Viktor. You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Just… be careful.”

“Always.”

Except, maybe, not this time.

Viktor didn’t look entirely convinced, but before he could press further, a loud zap and a startled yelp from Jayce had you both whipping around.

Jinx was cackling, holding her now-smoking zapper while Jayce flailed his arm. “Relax, it was on the lowest setting! You’ll get feeling back in your fingers soon.”

Viktor sighed heavily. “I should have stayed in bed.”

You patted his arm consolingly, forcing down the gnawing guilt still curling in your stomach. “Too late for that now.”

As the afternoon sun dipped lower, casting golden light through the large lab windows, Jinx let out an exaggerated groan.

“Ughhh, do I have to go now?” She slouched dramatically, kicking her boot against the floor.

Viktor, who had long since resigned himself to the chaos she brought, merely raised a brow. “Unless you plan on applying for a position here, yes.”

Jayce snorted. “I don’t think Heimerdinger would survive it.”

Jinx grinned, looking far too pleased with herself. "Maybe I should apply. Bet I’d be the best damn scientist this lab’s ever seen.”

You chuckled, nudging her lightly. “Come on, menace. Let’s not traumatize the professor more than we already have.”

Jinx huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, she adjusted the straps of her backpack and shifted the small box in her hands, now filled with an assortment of odds and ends Jayce and Viktor had reluctantly gifted her. Spare gears, bits of metal, and even an old Hextech lens she had practically pried out of Jayce’s fingers.

She wiggled her fingers at them. “Alright, nerds. This has been fun. Try not to blow yourselves up before I visit again.”

Jayce folded his arms. “We’re the ones at risk of blowing up? You zapped me today!”

Jinx cackled. “I regret nothing.”

Viktor sighed, leaning against his cane. “Somehow, I expected that.”

You rolled your eyes fondly before placing a hand on Jinx’s shoulder, steering her toward the exit. “Come on, let’s get you home before your old man starts sending people to hunt me down.”

As you stepped out of the academy, you noticed a shift in Jinx’s demeanor. The playful smirk she had worn inside the lab had faded, her shoulders now slouched as she trailed beside you. She toyed absently with the strap of her backpack, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You frowned. “You alright, trouble?”

Jinx blinked, glancing up at you with an exaggerated eye roll. “Pfft. ‘Course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” But her voice lacked its usual vibrance, and she quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the road ahead.

You weren’t buying it. You’d seen this side of her before—the cracks beneath the bravado, the weight she tried to bury beneath jokes and shenanigans.

An idea sparked, and before Jinx could notice the glint of mischief in your eyes, you grabbed her wrist and veered off the main path.

“Hey—what the hell?” she yelped, nearly dropping her box of trinkets.

“You’ll see,” you hummed, leading her toward a small corner shop nestled between two buildings. The warm, sweet scent of freshly baked waffles and cream drifted through the air.

Jinx perked up immediately. “Wait—is this—”

You shot her a knowing grin. “I figured a little sugar might bring back your usual sparkle.”

Her eyes darted to the display case filled with rows of colorful ice cream, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter like she was debating whether to act unimpressed or excited. In the end, her sweet tooth won out.

She turned to you, eyes gleaming. “Alright, sucker. But you’re buying.”

You laughed, handing a few coins to the vendor. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

The two of you wandered until you found a quiet spot by the fountain, the soft trickle of water filling the comfortable silence between spoonfuls of melting ice cream. The marketplace buzzed faintly in the background, the late afternoon crowd moving at an easy pace. Jinx swung her legs idly over the stone ledge, boots scraping against the aged surface as she dug into her treat.

“Y’know,” she mused between bites, “I don’t get why people don’t eat ice cream for breakfast. Like, it’s got dairy, and dairy is in breakfast stuff, so technically, it should count.”

You snorted. “By that logic, cake should be a breakfast food too.”

“Exactly!” she said, jabbing her spoon in your direction as if you had just uncovered some grand universal truth.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “And here I thought you came to Piltover to learn something useful.”

“I am! I learned that Biggy talks too much and that Twiggy’s got some weird—” She paused, narrowing her eyes at you. “Wait, you just admitted that I’m learning.”

“Barely.”

Jinx huffed dramatically, but her smirk never faded. The conversation continued in light, meandering ways—talk of the trinkets she had collected, her thoughts on hextech (still skeptical), and whether a bird had really stolen your sandwich last week or if Viktor had simply forgotten to save it for you.

But eventually, the topic shifted, as you knew it would.

Jinx swirled the last of her ice cream in her cup, watching it melt into a sugary puddle before she spoke again. “So…” she started casually, but there was a certain lilt to her tone. “What do you think of Silco?”

The question caught you off guard, but you kept your expression neutral, buying yourself time with a slow bite of your own dessert.

“Hm,” you mused, pretending to consider. “Broody. Mysterious. Fine dresser.” You glanced at her with an exaggerated smirk. “Kinda looks like he was sculpted out of pure spite.”

Jinx snorted. “Yeah, yeah, everyone’s got jokes. But, like… really, what do you think?”

You hesitated, the teasing lilt in your voice softening. “I think…” You exhaled, watching the ripples in the fountain as you chose your words carefully. “He’s not what I expected.”

Jinx tilted her head, interested.

“I expected someone ruthless,” you admitted. “And he is, don’t get me wrong. But he’s also… careful. Calculated. He doesn’t waste words, doesn’t waste movement. And when he cares about something—really cares—he holds onto it with everything he’s got.”

Jinx went quiet, poking at her ice cream with her spoon.

“…That’s a good thing, right?” she asked after a moment.

You glanced at her, the question hanging heavier than she probably meant it to.

“For you?” You nudged her foot lightly with your own. “Yeah, trouble. That’s a good thing.”

Jinx’s smile widened into grin. She rocked back on her heels, arms folding behind her head as she eyed you with a knowing glint.

“You like him.”

You blinked. “What?”

She snickered. “Ohhh, you totally do.”

“I—That’s—” You huffed, willing the sudden heat in your face to go away. “That’s ridiculous.”

Jinx gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “Oh my gods, it is true! You totally have a thing for my dad.”

“First of all—don’t call him that right now.”

She cackled, unbothered. “Second of all?”

You crossed your arms, giving her a flat look. “Second of all, you were the one who asked what I thought about him. I answered honestly.”

Jinx waggled her eyebrows. “Yeah, but you didn’t say he was just ‘interesting’ or ‘scary’ or ‘a pain in the ass.’ Nooooo, you had to get all dreamy about it.” She mimicked your earlier words in an exaggerated, dramatic voice: “‘When he cares about something, he holds onto it with everything he’s got.’” She clutched her hands over her heart. “Ugh, so romantic.”

You groaned. “I should’ve just said he’s an egotistical criminal with a nicotine addiction.”

Jinx cackled. “Wouldn’t have fooled me. I see the way you look at him.”

You scoffed, but the teasing lilt in her voice made it hard to be annoyed. “And how’s that?”

She tapped her chin in mock thought. “Like he’s some kinda puzzle you’re dying to figure out. Or maybe a new invention you wanna take apart and put back together. Or—or maybe—” She snapped her fingers as if she had the greatest realization of all. “Like you wanna jump his bones.”

“JINX—”

She doubled over in laughter, absolutely delighted at your flustered expression. “Oh man, I bet he’s got no clue what to do with you.”

You buried your face in your hands, exhaling hard. “I hate you.”

“Liar.”

You groaned again, but when you peeked at her between your fingers, you could see how pleased she was—not just with her teasing, but with your honesty.

After a long pause, you finally let your hands drop, rolling your shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the conversation. “Fine,” you muttered, barely above a grumble. “I like him. A lot.”

Jinx gasped again, clapping her hands together. “Knew it.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “If I knew confessing to you would be this insufferable, I would’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Jinx beamed, her eyes bright with amusement—and something else, something softer. “Nah,” she said, rocking on her heels again. “I like this.”

You raised a brow. “The teasing?”

She grinned, but this time, it wasn’t just mischief. “That he’s got someone who actually likes him.”

Your breath caught for a moment, the weight of her words settling between you both. In the short moment you had seen them interact, you thought she merely saw Silco as a protector and provider. But maybe, just maybe, there was a part of her that worried about him, too—cared for him, even.

Your expression softened. “Yeah,” you said simply. “Me too.”

Jinx stared at you for a beat before smirking again, the moment of sincerity quickly giving way to more mischief. “Still gonna tell him you wanna jump his bones.”

“Oh, my gods, Jinx.”

She cackled all the way back to the Undercity.

The Last Drop was already coming to life as you and Jinx stepped inside. The scent of alcohol and smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of whatever stew was being prepared in the back. Sevika and a few others were moving tables into place, while some of the younger recruits were stacking crates behind the bar. The low murmur of conversation was occasionally punctuated by bursts of laughter, the usual pre-opening routine unfolding around you.

Jinx barely slowed her pace, calling out a few greetings before turning to you with a dramatic pout. “Don’t go disappearing on me again without saying goodbye, got it?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I’ll try my best, kid.”

She narrowed her eyes at you. “I mean it.”

You raised a hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. No more vanishing acts.”

Satisfied, she spun on her heel and darted up the stairs, likely heading to her room to drop off her things.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you took in the familiar yet foreign sight of the bar. It had only been a few days since your last visit, but somehow, stepping foot in the Undercity always felt like slipping between two versions of yourself—one molded by Piltover’s expectations, the other tethered to Zaun’s past.

Sevika barely spared you a glance as you approached, still busy overseeing the bar’s preparations. But the moment she spotted you, a slow, knowing smirk tugged at her lips.

“You again,” she drawled, leaning against a table with her arms crossed. “Should I start keeping a tally of how often you show up here?”

You smirked back. “Go ahead. Just make sure you mark it under ‘guest of honor.’”

She snorted. “That what you’re calling yourself now?”

“Well, I was personally invited,” you said with a faux-innocent shrug. “And you know, you’re starting to sound a little obsessed, Sevika. I’d be flattered if I didn’t think it was just sheer annoyance on your part.”

She rolled her eyes. “Annoyance doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“I’ll take what I can get.” You smirked, tilting your head slightly. “You know, if you keep this up, people might think you secretly like having me around.”

Sevika rolled her eyes. “Only if you keep taking that kid off my hands.”

Something about her tone made you pause—not sarcastic, not begrudging, just… honest. You blinked, caught slightly off guard.

Before you could respond, she exhaled through her nose and glanced away, as if regretting the momentary lapse. “Just saying. She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s our pain in the ass. Keeping her occupied keeps her from blowing shit up. Makes doing my job a lot easier.”

You softened. “She’s not so bad.”

Sevika shot you a look. “You’ve known her for, what, a week? Talk to me when she’s rewired your weapons in the middle of the night for fun.”

You chuckled. “Duly noted.”

Shaking her head, she waved you off. “Go on. He’s waiting for you.”

And just like that, whatever rare moment of appreciation had existed was gone, buried beneath her usual dry indifference. But as you turned toward the stairs, you couldn’t help but smile.

You pushed open the door to Silco’s office without hesitation, stepping inside with a familiar ease that hadn’t been there before. He was at his desk, swirling a glass of amber liquid between his fingers, but at the sound of your entrance, he looked up.

“You’re late,” he remarked smoothly, though there was no real reprimand in his voice.

You placed a hand on your hip, arching a brow. “I wasn’t aware we had a strict schedule to follow.”

He exhaled through his nose, something just shy of amusement flickering in his expression. “Perhaps I should start sending you more flowers to ensure your punctuality.”

You made a face. “Please don’t. Twice was more than enough.”

“I thought you liked those flowers?” he asked.

“I like them when they’re used as a romantic gesture to woo me. You’re using them as some sort of a bait to lure me here,” you deadpanned.

Silco smirked, setting his glass down before rising to his feet. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat before gesturing for you to follow. “Come.”

You tilted your head. “Where are we going?”

“You ask too many questions.”

You scoffed but fell into step beside him as he led the way out of his office. “And yet, you never seem to answer them.”

He hummed. “A delicate balance, wouldn’t you say?”

As you walked alongside Silco, you suddenly remembered Jinx’s parting words to you. You halted in your step, causing him to pause as well, glancing at you with a questioning look.

“Something wrong?”

“I promised Jinx I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye this time,” you admitted. “Wouldn’t want to break a girl’s heart.”

Something in Silco’s expression shifted at that. It was subtle—so subtle that had you not been watching him so closely, you might have missed it. The sharp lines of his face softened, his usual guarded gaze giving way to something quieter. Something almost… fond. Whether it was towards you directly or your words, you could never tell.

He said nothing, only gave you a small nod before altering his path, leading you toward Jinx’s room.

When you arrived, you found yourself staring at her door. It stood out against the otherwise drab surroundings, chaotic splashes of paint covering the wood—vibrant blues and pinks, doodles of cartoonish faces, and swirling patterns that looked almost like explosions frozen in time. Among them were tally marks scratched into the surface, some of them crossed out, others still standing.

You had no doubt they meant something to her.

Silco rapped his knuckles against the door. “Jinx,” he called, his voice losing its usual edge, as he opened the door.

Inside, Jinx was hunched over her desk, fiddling with some contraption that buzzed and whirred under her hands.

Behind her, her room was just as chaotic as her door—scattered blueprints, scraps of metal and wires, plush toys with missing limbs, and strange little gadgets in various states of assembly. The walls were covered in more drawings, some vibrant and childlike, others disturbingly detailed.

It was a whirlwind of color and disorder, but it felt lived in. It felt like hers.

Jinx didn’t look up right away. “If it’s Sevika again, tell her I’m busy and not to—”

She turned her head, spotted you, then her eyes flickered to Silco.

“I hope that's not an explosive or another zapper you’re making,” you teased.

Jinx stuck her tongue out. “Hmph. Maybe.”

“I came to say goodbye,” you reached out, ruffling her hair affectionately, earning a swat at your hand. “Well, I kept my promise, didn’t I?”

She grinned. “Guess you did.”

Just as you were about to step back, Jinx lunged forward, wrapping her arms around you in a sudden hug. It was quick but surprisingly tight, like she was trying to wordlessly say something she wasn’t quite willing to say aloud.

“See ya later, yeah?” she murmured, her voice quieter than usual.

You smiled, patting her back. “Yeah. See you later, trouble.”

She pulled away just as suddenly as she’d latched on, ushering both you and Silco out of her room. “Alright, alright, you two lovebirds better get going before I start charging rent for standing in my doorway.”

“Jinx!” both you and Silco said at the same time.

But Jinx only grinned wider, leaning against the doorframe. And just before she shut the door, she fixed you with a look—one that made your stomach flip. It was knowing, playful, a mischievous little smirk creeping onto her lips as if she were silently saying, I know your secret.

And then, with a wink, she closed the door with a resounding click.

You let out a breath, pressing your fingers to your temples. “She’s going to be insufferable about this, isn’t she?”

Silco sighed. “Without a doubt.”

And yet, you couldn’t help but laugh.

Silco didn’t offer an explanation as he started walking, expecting you to follow. You fell into step beside him, curiosity piqued. The route you took was unfamiliar—deeper into the Undercity, where the air grew thick with chemicals, the streets more twisted, the shadows darker.

You recognized the signs before you even saw the entrance. The sharp, sterile tang of antiseptic barely masked the underlying stench of something pungent—metallic, burnt, unnatural. You’d heard rumors of this place before, whispered in caution, but you had never dared venture this far.

Then, finally, the entrance loomed ahead: an unassuming cavern, its mouth hidden behind the wreckage of a collapsed bridge. It looked like nothing at first glance—just another ruin swallowed by Zaun’s decay. But as Silco led you inside, the world shifted.

The walls, once natural rock, were reinforced with metal beams and pipes that pulsed with some unknown substance. The deeper you went, the more the space transformed—cages, metal slabs, and flickering alchemical lanterns cast eerie glows against glass tubes filled with strange, viscous liquids. The scent of chemicals thickened, burning the inside of your nose.

A figure moved in the corner, hunched over a table, adjusting the valves of a strange contraption. He was covered in bandages all over, and you could see a few burnt marks peeking out of them.

Silco came to a stop and gestured toward the figure. “This,” he said smoothly, “is Singed.”

At the mention of his name, the man straightened ever so slightly, his one remaining eye flicking toward you with sharp, calculating interest. You swallowed, keeping your expression neutral despite the unease creeping up your spine.

Silco’s gaze flickered between the two of you, his tone taking on a wry edge. “He’s the one who can tell you everything you want to know about Shimmer.”

Chapter Text

You stood there for a moment, half-expecting Singed to launch into some long-winded monologue about the dangers and complexities of Shimmer, maybe even some grand tale of how it came to be or how he had perfected it. After all, he was the one Silco trusted with the secrets of the drug, the one who was known to have transformed more than just chemicals in his twisted experiments. But instead, Singed merely straightened from his workbench and silently reached for a stack of battered, dog-eared notebooks.

The scent of old paper and chemicals filled the air as he handed them over to you. His one eye—cold and calculating—studied you for a moment, as though appraising your very essence.

“All you need to know about Shimmer is in here,” Singed muttered in a gravelly voice, almost as if he were bored by the whole affair. “The theory. The process. The effects. You’ll find everything.”

You took the notebooks with a mixture of confusion and excitement. The scientist didn’t even offer a word of explanation, nor did he seem interested in giving you any further details. It was both a letdown and a thrill—no grand explanations, no warnings, just cold facts waiting to be uncovered. You were left to sift through the pages and piece it together yourself.

The disappointment lingered for only a second before curiosity bubbled up, making your pulse quicken. This was it. The knowledge you needed was within your reach. You could feel the weight of the notebooks in your hands, the possibilities that lay hidden within their pages.

“Are you not going to explain anything?” you asked, unable to mask the slight frustration in your voice.

Singed's lone eye glinted as he glanced at you, but his expression was unreadable. “I don't explain what can be read.”

You glanced back at Silco, slightly bemused. “I thought I was getting an introduction to a scientist, not an instruction manual.”

He shrugged with a small, knowing smile. “You wanted knowledge, not conversation.”

You narrowed your eyes at that, but before you could fire back a retort, Silco touched your elbow lightly, guiding you away from the workbench. “Come. Let’s not overstay our welcome.”

You cast one last glance at Singed, who was already engrossed in his work once more, before following Silco out of the cave—your mind already racing with the possibilities of what you held in your hands.

The walk was quiet at first, save for the distant white noise surrounding you—muffled conversations behind rusted doors, the clatter of machinery, the occasional hiss of steam pipes releasing pressure. Silco walked beside you with a measured pace, his hands clasped behind his back.

You clutched the notebooks tightly, fearing they might slip away from your grasp and disappear the moment you loosened your hold. Your thoughts swirled with possibilities, but beneath that, there was something else. A question that sat at the tip of your tongue, unspoken.

When the scent of chemicals thickened in the air, you realized where Silco was leading you. The toxic river stretched before you, its surface sluggish and gleaming under the dim lights of the Undercity. The water, if you could even call it that, swirled with sickly hues of green and violet, its depths unfathomable.

Silco stopped near the edge, gazing out at the river as if it were an old companion. The faint glow reflected in his one good eye, making it look almost molten.

“So,” he drawled, breaking the silence. “Was your meeting with Singed everything you dreamed it would be?”

You let out a dry chuckle, still gripping the notebooks under your arm. “Oh, absolutely. He’s a real charmer. I can see why you keep him around.”

Silco gave you a soft smile, but you barely noticed, your eyes scanning the river instead. You had been so focused on fixing the air in Zaun, but now, staring at the poisoned water, it struck you—air wasn’t the only thing choking the Undercity.

“Has this always been this bad?” you murmured, toeing a crumbling edge of the bank.

Silco followed your gaze. “It worsens with time. With progress.” His tone was even, but there was an edge to it, something grim lurking beneath the surface. “Piltover’s factories dump their waste here. They refine, they innovate, and we drown in the cost of their brilliance.”

You swallowed, watching a slow ripple disturb the surface of the murky water. The filth didn’t just stay in the river—it seeped into the ground, the air, the people.

“I was so focused on cleaning the air,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. The beginnings of guilt started creeping up. “But even if I fix that, people still drink this. They still bathe in it.”

Silco turned to you, arching a brow. “Are you reconsidering your project?”

You shook your head. “No. Just… realizing it’s only one piece of the puzzle.”

A slow smile tugged at Silco’s lips. “Good.”

You met his gaze, something shifting in your chest. You had set out to honor your father’s memory with your project. But now, standing here at the edge of this ruined river, you realized it was bigger than that.

The Undercity needed more than just clean air. It needed someone willing to fight for every piece of it.

Your mind raced with possibilities, each one collapsing in on itself before it could fully take shape. The air was poisoned. The water was worse. The people were sick, and not just in body but in spirit—fighting, struggling, surviving, but never truly living.

How did you even begin to fix something so utterly broken?

You tried to imagine a filtration system large enough to cleanse the river, but that would take infrastructure the Undercity didn’t have. Replacing the water entirely? Impossible. Even if you could, where would the people get clean water in the meantime? And then there was the issue of waste—what good was cleaning the water if the factories of Piltover continued to pump filth into it?

Your fingers clenched around the notebooks in your arms. You were supposed to be smart, weren’t you? But the harder you thought, the more you came up with nothing.

There was too much to fix. Too many broken systems, too many scars. And you—

You are just one person.

Despair settled heavily in your chest.

You gripped the notebooks a little more tighter and turned your gaze toward the man beside you. Silco stood silently, as if giving you space for your thoughts. His eyes were trained on the horizon, where the thick fog of the Undercity blurred into darkness, as though he could see past it all.

But maybe you didn’t have to do this alone.

He was ruthless. Cunning. A man feared by most and hated by many. But he wasn’t blind. He saw Zaun for what it was—and for what it could be.

Your eyes flickered over his profile—calm, unreadable, resolute. And then, unbidden, Sevika’s voice echoed in your mind from the other day:

Silco’s got plans, real ones. He doesn’t need a distraction. He doesn’t need you messing with his head.

Silco had plans. Plans that Sevika was fiercely protective of. Plans she thought you might disrupt—the accusation still annoyed you. But you were curious, now more than ever.

What were those plans?

You turned to Silco, your grip on your notebooks loosening a little. “Sevika said something to me the other day.”

Silco hummed, still watching the water. “She says many things.”

“She warned me,” you continued, “told me not to be a distraction. Not to get in the way of your plans.”

That finally earned you his full attention. Silco turned his head slightly, studying you with that unreadable gaze. “Did she?” he mused.

You nodded. “She seems to think I’m… meddlesome.”

His lips quirked at that, just slightly. “Sevika is cautious. I expect it of her.”

“And what about you?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do you think I’m meddlesome?”

Silco exhaled slowly, then turned fully to face you. His mismatched eyes flickered with something unreadable, something thoughtful. “I think,” he said, voice smooth as smoke, “that you ask a great many questions.”

You smiled, a little sharper this time. “You haven’t answered any of them.”

Silco was silent for a long moment. Then, he took a slow step toward you, closing the small space between you both. You held your ground.

“If you were getting in my way,” he said at last, voice quiet but deliberate, “I would have told you.”

Your breath caught slightly. He wasn’t exactly reassuring you, but he also wasn’t pushing you away. He was letting you in, in his own way.

That realization sent something warm curling in your chest.

“So,” you pressed, searching his gaze, “what are those plans, really? Because it can’t just be about being the most powerful man in the Undercity.”

But instead of answering, Silco turned away. You frowned slightly, expecting a dismissive quip—or at most, a cryptic metaphor. What you didn’t expect was for him to walk straight into the river.

“Silco—!” You took a step forward in alarm, heart lurching as the muck reached his boots, then his knees. The water was vile. Unforgiving. No sane person would go near it, much less into it. But Silco continued without hesitation, until the water swirled around his waist.

You clutched the notebooks to your chest, breath caught. “What the hell are you doing?! Are you insane?”

He stood there for a long moment, the putrid current lapping at his coat. Then he looked back at you over his shoulder. His voice, when it came, was quiet—stripped of performance, stripped of venom.

“I nearly died in this river.”

You blinked. His back was still to you, gaze fixed ahead as if speaking to the water itself. Your breath caught.

“I was dragged under. Held there by the man I once called brother,” he continued. “We built everything together. Fought side by side. Dreamed of a Zaun free from Piltover’s yoke. But when the time came to rise, he… flinched. Thought compromise was safer. Cleaner. He thought it noble.”

Silco’s hand slipped into the river, his slender fingers cutting small ripples through the filth. “So he chose peace. Chose them over us. And he betrayed me.”

There was no rage in his voice. No bitterness. Just quiet weight. Memory, etched deep into every word.

“He tried to drown me here. Said I’d become too dangerous. That I’d lost sight of the cause. But I was the only one who still saw it.” His fingers curled, lifting a small, dripping clump of sludge from the surface. He studied it. “This rot? This river? It never killed me. It gave me clarity.”

He finally turned toward you, water rippling around him like a dark halo. As if he were some fallen angel.

“I clawed my way out, lungs burning. And I’ve been building something ever since. Piece by piece. From the ashes. From this.” He let the sludge drip back into the water.

You were frozen in place, mouth dry, heart hammering with a cocktail of emotion you couldn’t quite name. Admiration. Horror. Grief.

Understanding.

“…Silco,” you said softly, voice catching.

He met your eyes across the distance. And for the first time, you saw it—the pain beneath the power. The wound that had never really healed.

But Silco’s gaze softened ever so slightly. His eyes were still dark, but there was something... gentler now, something less guarded as he turned toward you, his hand outstretched.

It was almost as if he was offering you a lifeline, the way he stood there, waiting.

You hesitated, staring at his hand. The question hung between you like smoke in the air—should you take it? Should you trust the man who'd shown you a glimpse of vulnerability, the one who had dragged himself through this very river of filth and power?

You glanced back up at him, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of your lips to break the tension.

“You’re not planning to drown me in it, are you?” you joked, raising an eyebrow. “Just so you know, I don’t know how to swim.”

There was a flicker of a smile at the corner of Silco’s mouth, though it was brief and fleeting. His eyes, still intense, seemed to hold some understanding beneath that smirk, like he knew the joke wasn’t just a joke—it was your way of testing the waters.

“Not unless you give me a reason,” he replied, the edge of amusement in his voice.

You placed Singed's notebook carefully on a nearby dry rock, making sure it was far enough from the toxic waters to stay safe. The whole situation felt absurd, standing on the edge of the river with him, joking about drowning, yet it all felt too surreal. And here he was—offering his hand. Not out of kindness, but something else.

You took a deep breath, then, slowly, cautiously, you took a step forward. Your hand brushed his, the coolness of the river’s residue on his skin, and you felt the connection—like a spark, a tether that could tie you to something larger than either of you. Something dangerous, maybe. But real.

For a moment, neither of you moved, and the air between you both felt charged, like the crackle before a storm.

“I want you to help me,” he said, his voice low and steady, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Help me liberate Zaun.”

You blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of his request. The words hung in the air, weighty and thick, as if they held the promise of something far greater than either of you. Something monumental.

“What makes you think I have that kind of power?” you echoed, your voice trailing off as the enormity of his request sank in. “I can barely get my own project off the ground. I’m not... I’m not like you.”

Silco didn’t look away. His eyes, cold and sharp, bore into you, unwavering. “Real power doesn’t come from titles, or status, or influence, not the way they teach you in Piltover,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “Real power comes to those who are willing to do anything to achieve it. To bend the world to their will. To step into the darkness without hesitation, and make it their own.”

You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but the words didn’t come. What was stopping you? Fear? Doubt?

Your eyes met his again, and the intensity was undeniable.

“I’m not asking you to be a pawn, nor a puppet,” Silco added, his voice softer but still that same pull of determination laced in each syllable. “I’m asking you to be part of something bigger. With me. We can change everything.”

For the first time in your life, you understood the full weight of ambition—the kind that didn’t care about the cost. The kind that would tear down anything standing in the way of its goal.

The idea of it thrilled you. And terrified you.

“I’ll need to think about it,” you said, unable to help the hesitant pause in your voice.

Silco’s gaze softened ever so slightly, but the resolve never left his eyes. “Take your time,” he said, his hand reaching up to gently touch your arm, the gesture surprisingly tender.

You found yourself mesmerized by him—the way his mismatched eyes seemed to see right through you, and the deep scar that ran down his face, a constant reminder of all he'd been through. There was something raw, something real about it all, something that drew you in like gravity.

Without thinking, your hand reached out, slowly, almost cautiously, until it hovered just inches from his face. Something in you, a deep, quiet curiosity, urged you forward.

Silco’s gaze flickered to your hand, then back to your eyes, a flash of surprise darting through his sharp features. He flinched, just a little, as though he expected you to pull away at the last second, as though he hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten. His mismatched eyes searched you, flicking between confusion and something darker. He wasn’t sure what you wanted, what you were trying to do.

Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he let his guard drop just enough to allow your fingers to graze the rough edges of his scar, the cold, jagged reminder of a past full of pain.

There was a moment of silence, a heartbeat that felt like it stretched out into eternity.

Your fingers lingered for a second longer than you intended, but when you finally pulled back, Silco didn’t stop you. He simply watched you, his expression unreadable, the slightest tension still evident in his jaw.

“You’re full of surprises,” he muttered, his voice low, but the sharp edge of it had softened, just slightly.

“I can say the same for you, too,” you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

And then, as if something clicked into place, a striking clarity washed over you. You realized, with a suddenness that took your breath away, that you were in love with him. The thought came unbidden, yet it felt like the most natural truth you’d ever known. The realization didn’t send you spiraling. It didn’t fill you with confusion or regret. Instead, there was a surprising peace that settled in deep within the bones that caged your heart, as though everything that had led you to this moment had been necessary, unavoidable, and somehow... right.

It didn't bother you at all. In fact, the more you thought about it, the more certain you became. It was almost like a weight lifting off your shoulders, something you didn’t realize you were carrying until it was gone.

The silence stretched between you both, but it felt different now. Not uncomfortable, but full of unspoken things—things neither of you was ready to voice just yet. Still, the realization lingered, soft and warm in your chest, making you feel a little lighter, even in the midst of the chaos that seemed to constantly surround you both.

It was a strange sort of peace, but it was yours.

It was late, the streets of the Undercity still alive with the hum of activity, the noise muffled by the weight of the night. You walked through the winding alleys, your damp pants clinging to your skin as you held the notebooks to your chest, but the cold was almost refreshing after everything. The weight of your earlier conversation with Silco still hung heavily in your mind, but you pushed it aside, choosing to focus on what was in front of you.

You found yourself standing in front of Chross's lair, the building looming in the dark. You hadn’t planned on visiting him, but after everything that had happened today, you felt a need for something familiar, even if it was a visit to the man who had raised you. And yet, a gnawing feeling stirred in your gut as you approached. It wasn't quite unease, but something was just... off.

As you approached, you spotted Jin standing guard at the door, her posture rigid. She didn’t expect you, her eyes widening in surprise the moment she saw you. Her usual steely demeanor faltered, just for a moment.

“What are you doing in the Undercity so late?” she inquired, her voice tight. It didn't escape your notice how her hand lingered on the door handle, her body slightly blocking your way. She seemed... off. Tense.

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by,” you said, keeping your tone casual, though something deep in your gut told you this wasn’t right.

Jin hesitated, and you could see the flicker of something—guilt, or maybe just fear—in her eyes.

“Chross is not in right now,” she said quickly, her voice higher than usual.

You couldn’t help it. Something about her words didn’t sit right. Your gut told you she was lying. You’d seen her face enough to know when she was being evasive, and this was one of those times.

Without giving her a chance to stop you, you pushed past her, moving with surprising speed. She didn’t try to physically stop you, but you could see the flash of panic in her eyes as you entered. It was quiet—eerily so—but you could feel the weight of the tension in the air. It was as if the entire building was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

You stepped into the office, eyes quickly scanning the scene—Chross, sitting slumped in a chair, his dress shirt partially open to reveal the bloody gash on his side, a medic tending to the wound with quick, practiced movements. Elm stood at the far side, looking somewhat stunned by your sudden appearance. Jin, just behind you, seemed a little exasperated, no doubt frustrated by your persistence in ignoring her attempts to stop you.

“I tried to stop her, sir,” Jin muttered, glancing at Chross, “but she's… persistent.”

Chross let out a low chuckle, raspy and hoarse but amused all the same. “Of course she is.” He glanced at you with a lopsided grin despite the pain etched into his face. “You look like shit, by the way. And why are your pants wet?”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come immediately. There was still a ringing in your ears from the sheer surprise of finding him like this.

“I—uh—” You cleared your throat and shook off the lingering chill from the river. “Fell into something… unpleasant.”

Chross chuckled, then winced as it pulled at his side. “Figures. Leave it to my daughter to turn up looking like she crawled out of a sewer the exact moment I’m half-dead on this chair.”

The medic shot you both a glare. “Do you two mind?” he muttered. “I’m working.”

But you ignored him, stepping closer, eyes scanning over the bandages and bruises with a growing sense of dread. “Who did this?” you asked, your voice low.

Chross waved off your concern, his face showing little of the pain that must’ve been coursing through him. “Nothing to fuss over. Just a reminder that the game hasn’t changed… only the stakes,” he muttered dismissively, clearly trying to downplay the severity of the situation. His eyes glinted, a flicker of that usual indomitable confidence, but it didn’t reach his tired gaze.

The medic continued working on him, occasionally glancing up to make sure Chross didn’t move too much. You didn’t like the way he was acting, dismissing what seemed like a serious injury. This was the second time your father ended up heavily wounded. Something didn’t add up.

But before you could press further, Chross shifted in his chair, his voice cool and calculated. “I heard you had a meeting with Silco recently.”

His tone wasn’t casual; it was too calculated, too intentional. It was clear that he was using this as a way to steer the conversation away from himself, and you felt your frustration rise.

You glanced at Jin, who stood silently by, her eyes darting nervously between you and Chross, then at Elm, who had a similar unease on his face. Both of them seemed to know exactly what was going on, but no one was saying anything.

You narrowed your eyes. “So, you’ve been having me followed, then?” The realization hit you like a sudden wave, and the anger bubbled to the surface, though you kept your voice low and controlled. “That’s real subtle of you.”

Chross didn’t flinch at your accusation. Instead, his lips curled into a faint, almost amused smile. “I’m just looking out for you, kiddo,” he said smoothly, his voice laced with something that was far too close to mockery. “You’ve been spending quite a bit of time here with him lately. It’s best to know who you’re dealing with.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re bleeding into your desk chair and still have time to spy on me?”

“You underestimate how much I multitask,” Chross drawled, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

His tone was calm, measured, but the undercurrent was unmistakable—he wasn’t just checking in. He was trying to gauge how far you’d stepped into Silco’s world.

You scowled. “You’re deflecting.”

He grunted as the medic tightened the final knot on the bandage, then waved him off. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

You hated how he did that—danced around the truth while acting like you were the one hiding something. You inhaled deeply, arms still crossed, but your tone softening, more resolute than before.

“I made a deal with Silco.”

That got his attention. The amused tilt of his brow dropped, and for a flicker of a second, the pain seemed to vanish from his expression.

“I agreed to let Jinx visit the academy more regularly,” you continued, “in exchange for information.”

Chross narrowed his eyes. “Information?”

“On Shimmer.”

He stared at you for a long beat. Elm looked like he wanted to say something, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Jin had edged farther back into the hallway, quiet as a shadow.

“You’re using it in your project,” Chross finally said, not quite a question.

“Maybe,” you admitted. “Not without understanding it first. I needed to know more, and no one else was going to give me what I needed. Not in Piltover, anyway.”

Chross leaned back in his chair again, letting out a long breath that turned into a dry chuckle.

“Gods,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re really my daughter.”

“I am your daughter,” you said flatly. “Which is why you could’ve just told me what happened tonight instead of changing the subject.”

He opened one eye, gaze flicking toward you. “I didn’t tell you because I thought I could handle it.”

You blinked, taken aback by the honesty in his tone. Then, just as quickly, the irritation bubbled up. You stepped closer, arms folded.

“Well, clearly you can’t,” you snapped, motioning pointedly to the bandages on his ribs. “Or did you think letting someone beat the life out of you was part of the plan?”

Chross narrowed his eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me. You think this is the first time I’ve been roughed up in the Lanes?”

“You think that makes it better?” you fired back. “You think it makes you invincible?”

“I’ve lasted this long,” he growled, sitting up straighter despite the pain. “And I did it without dragging you into every damn mess.”

“Oh, come on, you’ve been dragging me into messes since the day you took me in,” you shot back. “The only difference now is I’m old enough to see it for what it is.”

There was a pause, both of you breathing hard from the exchange—Chross because of the tension, and you because your chest ached with everything unspoken.

Finally, your shoulders slumped, the fight draining from you. You rubbed the back of your neck and sighed.

“…I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I just—I saw you like that and it scared me.”

Chross leaned back with a wince, studying you for a long moment. “You’re not wrong,” he said gruffly. “About any of it. But I’m still your old man. I’m allowed to be stupid and reckless sometimes.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Only if I get to call you on it.”

He smirked. “Fair enough.”

Chross leaned back against the pillows with a faint groan, the lines of pain still etched around his mouth despite the medic’s best efforts. His eyes settled on you, sharp beneath the fatigue.

“I need you to take over some of my day-to-day while I recover,” he said, casually, like he was asking you to fetch him a cup of tea instead of managing the affairs of a Chembaron. “Elm can help with the heavy lifting, Jin will keep you posted on logistics. But the final word has to come from someone who won’t get steamrolled by the other Chem-barons the moment they smell blood in the water.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“You’re capable,” he replied, matter-of-fact. “And I trust you.”

The words hung in the air, coated in a veneer of praise that did absolutely nothing to ease the irritation flaring inside you.

“Oh, so now you trust me?” you scoffed, folding your arms again. “After having your people follow me around and reporting back like I’m one of your smugglers on probation?”

Chross chuckled, the sound deep and hoarse. “That’s different. That’s fatherly concern.”

“No, that’s paranoia wrapped in paternal guilt,” you muttered.

He shrugged unapologetically. “Call it what you want. The point stands. I’m not in a state to handle everything, and I need someone who knows how this game is played. You’ve been with me since you were a kid. You know what needs to be done.”

You turned away slightly, running a hand through your hair. Of course, he would spring this on you now. Just when things were finally moving—your work with Heimerdinger, your delicate arrangement with Silco… not to mention the notebooks Singed gave you, which you hadn’t even begun combing through.

And now this.

“You do realize I’m still working for Heimerdinger, right?” you asked dryly. “And that I have an active scientific project that might actually do the Undercity some good if I can just focus for five seconds? Not to mention I have to babysit Silco’s kid as well.”

Chross raised an eyebrow. “And you think this isn’t doing the Undercity good? Keeping this empire from crumbling under opportunists while I’m indisposed?”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re impossible.”

“But you’ll do it,” he said, with that maddening certainty of his.

And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. You would do it—because despite your annoyance, despite the juggling act that was now your life, despite the lies and secrets, you still cared. About the Undercity. About him. About the people struggling in its shadows.

You shot him a narrowed look. “Fine. But I’m drawing the line at extortion and arms deals before breakfast.”

Chross smirked, the kind of smug expression that made you want to throw something at him. “Deal.”

You exhaled sharply and turned for the door, muttering, “I swear, next time someone asks me for help, I’m faking my own death.”

Chross just laughed behind you, gravelly and amused.

And you knew your schedule had just become a living nightmare.

Chapter Text

It had been several weeks since that night in your father’s office, and the whirlwind hadn’t stopped since.

By day, you bounced between Heimerdinger’s requests, refining research notes, scribbling designs in the margins of blueprints, dodging Jayce’s nosy questions, and humoring Viktor’s concern. By afternoon, you were either juggling supply manifests for Chross’s business or trying to keep Jinx from accidentally blowing up something important in your lab. And by evening, when exhaustion had long set into your bones, you’d often find yourself seated across from Silco, somewhere quiet and hidden from the noise, murmuring about the Undercity’s future as the city’s poisonous wind howled outside.

But the fatigue was catching up, and Viktor was the first to comment on it.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” he murmured, pushing a steaming cup of tea into your hands one evening in the lab. “That is not a compliment.”

Jayce chimed in with less tact: “Seriously, I’m tempted to dose you with that sleeping gas of yours.”

“I’m fine,” you said, sipping the tea and waving them off with a tired smile. “Just...a lot on my plate.”

“You know, sometimes you’re too stubborn for your own good,” Viktor muttered, narrowing his eyes.

You offered a noncommittal shrug, but you knew they were right. You caught glimpses of yourself in reflective surfaces sometimes—dark circles under your eyes, a paler complexion than usual, fingers stained with ink or dust. You wore fatigue like a second skin.

But there was solace in the chaos, oddly enough. Especially on those late evenings when the city was quiet and Silco would meet you at his office or walk with you by the river again. You’d speak in low tones—sometimes about logistics and economics, other times about hope, about what the Undercity could become. He didn’t rush you. He listened, challenged your ideas, and offered his own in return. And for a man known to be ruthless, he always had a way of speaking that made you feel... heard.

Sometimes, you wondered if that’s what drew you to him more than anything. Not just the mystery, or the intensity, or the fact that he made your pulse flutter with the simplest of glances—but the way he never treated your ambitions as too much. Not once.

And though you were running yourself ragged, every time you sat beside him, charting hypothetical routes for a cleaner Undercity, for a stronger Zaun, it didn’t feel like a burden.

It felt like a purpose. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone in wanting something better.

Even if your eye bags could now rival Viktor’s.

You had just finished transcribing the last few pages of a scattered old manuscript Heimerdinger had thrust into your hands earlier that week, your eyes skimming the final line with a quiet groan of relief. You leaned back in your creaky chair, stretching until your spine popped, then began gathering your things—notes, gloves, your ever-present satchel—already mentally preparing for the trek into the Undercity. Elm had sent word about a shipment delay that didn’t sit right with him. And if Elm was worried, you knew better than to ignore it.

You were halfway through latching your bag when the door creaked open behind you.

“Viktor, if this is about the engine housing again, I swear to every arcane law in the books—”

“It isn’t Viktor,” came the smooth voice you instantly recognized. “Though I must admit, I'm offended you'd confuse us.”

Your head snapped up.

Councilor Salo stood in your doorway, polished and poised, the ever-charming smirk playing at the edges of his lips. His robes were immaculate, rich with House Salo's red and gold embroidery, as though he had just come from a session at the Council Chamber—which he probably had.

You blinked once. Twice. “Councilor Salo,” you greeted carefully, straightening. “What a surprise.”

“I thought I'd drop by unannounced,” he said, stepping fully into your modest office and letting the door close behind him with a soft click. “You’ve been… rather hard to find lately.”

You forced a polite smile. “I’ve been busy. Professor Heimerdinger’s schedule is relentless.”

“I do hope you’ve made room for a schedule with me, too.” Salo’s smile widened as he stepped further into the room, a familiar gleam of mischief dancing in his eyes. “I rather miss your company. You used to bring a bit of brightness to those long, dreadful Council meetings before you became Heimerdinger’s assistant.”

You offered him a smile, polite but distant. “You’re still attending those?”

“Unfortunately.” He tapped his foot against the floor once. “Though without your wit to balance the room, it’s all terribly boring. I’ve half a mind to quit and become an artist.”

You forced a laugh, and the sound felt foreign in your own mouth—genuine levity had become rare of late.

He took a seat without being asked, his gaze settling on you with practiced warmth. “How is your father faring? Last I heard from you, he was unwell.”

Your fingers froze briefly on the latch of your satchel, just for a breath, before you recovered. “He’s... recovering. Slowly. He’s been confined to the house, but he’s still very much himself.” You hesitated, then added, “Stubborn as ever.”

Salo chuckled knowingly. “That sounds about right. I trust he has someone watching over the business while he heals?”

“He does,” you said. “I’ve been helping when I can.”

You didn’t mention the tension, the late nights in your father’s office reviewing shipments with Elm, or the fraying edge of control Chross had been clinging to lately.

Salo studied you for a moment, thoughtful. “You’ve taken on more than your share, haven’t you?”

You shrugged, brushing a loose hair behind your ear. “It’s not like I haven’t had practice.”

He smiled, a little softer now. “Still. I worry.”

You met his eyes and, to your surprise, didn’t immediately look away. “You and half the city.”

That earned another small laugh. But his expression remained serious, despite the amusement. “If you ever need anything—resources, assistance, or simply someone to listen—you need only ask.”

You nodded, grateful despite yourself. “Thank you. I mean that.”

And for a moment, the room went quiet, filled only by the hum of the city beyond the windows. Then your eyes flicked to the clock.

You turned back just in time to see Councilor Salo reaching into his coat. With a small, almost ceremonious flourish, he pulled out a crisp white envelope, sealed with Piltover’s golden emblem. He extended it toward you with a pleasant, unreadable smile.

“I was hoping you’d say yes to something a little less work-related,” he said. “The Progress Day gala is coming up in a week. I’d like you to accompany me.”

You hesitated only for a second before taking the envelope. The paper was expensive, smooth beneath your fingers. Inside, you already knew, would be a formal invitation—gilded lettering, extravagant formality, and all the social expectations that came with it.

You looked up to meet his gaze. “You want me to be your date?”

“I want you to be the person I spend the evening with,” he said, tone softening slightly. “Call it whatever you’d like.”

You tucked the envelope into your satchel carefully. “I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you do more than that,” he said with a small grin, already moving toward the door. “After all, Progress Day wouldn't be quite as dazzling without you.”

And with that, he let himself out, leaving you standing alone in the quiet of your office—invitation in hand and thoughts spiraling somewhere between dread and curiosity.

The invitation weighed on your mind more than it should’ve.

Even as you descended into the Undercity, the white envelope—now tucked neatly inside your satchel—seemed to hum with presence, louder than the clanking of lifts or the buzz of neon signs. You kept replaying the moment over in your head: Salo’s voice, his expression, the earnest edge beneath the flirtation. The question you hadn’t answered.

Elm’s voice finally snapped you back to the present.

“I said the numbers don’t match up,” he repeated, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he stared you down in one of Chross’s makeshift offices near the old refinery. “Are you even listening?”

You blinked. “What? I—yeah, sorry. You said… numbers?”

Elm let out a sharp sigh and rubbed his temples. “You’re usually sharper than this. Did you hit your head recently, or are you just sleepwalking through today?”

You winced, pinching the bridge of your nose. “No, I’m just… distracted.”

“I can tell,” Elm muttered, turning back to the spread of ledgers on the desk. “Look, I’m not trying to chew you out, kid, but this place needs your head screwed on straight. We can’t afford mistakes.”

“I know,” you said quietly. And you did. That’s what made the distraction so irritating. You were knee-deep in a project that could change the Undercity, trying to juggle your father’s legacy and your own damn sanity—and now a gala invitation was throwing off your rhythm.

After a beat of silence, Elm’s voice softened. “If you need to go breathe or punch a wall or whatever it is you do to unwind, do it. You’ve been burning both ends for weeks.”

You gave him a tired smile. “Thanks, Elm.”

You left not long after, the sky a bruising shade of gray-blue as you crossed the border back into Piltover. You were halfway to the upper bridge, lost again in your thoughts, when someone elbowed you—not hard, just enough to jolt you.

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Easy, princess,” came a familiar drawl. “Didn’t think you were the type to walk into traffic while daydreaming.”

You turned sharply, heart pounding—only to find Sevika standing there, smirking around a toothpick.

“Sevika,” you exhaled, pressing a hand to your chest. “Great. Let’s add spontaneous heart attacks to my list of problems.”

She raised an eyebrow, then gave you a once-over. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” you muttered. “That’s the look I was going for.”

Her smirk didn’t fade, but something in her expression shifted. “Alright, what gives? You’re jumpy. You’ve got that storm-behind-the-eyes look.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, not believing it for a second. She jerked her chin toward a side street. “Come on. One drink. It's my turn now to harass you with questions.”

“Sevika—”

“One drink, and I won’t ask what’s bothering you until your second.”

You sighed, defeated. “Fine. One.”

She led you back toward The Last Drop, her presence grounding, solid. You hadn’t realized how much tension you were carrying in your shoulders until the scent of the Undercity’s old bar wrapped around you like a familiar coat.

As the worn door of The Last Drop swung shut behind you, you glanced around the dim interior, catching the low hum of prep still underway before the night rush. A few of the regulars were scattered in the corners, but the place felt quieter than usual—less electric, more intimate. You let your eyes adjust to the flickering lights as Sevika led you toward the bar.

“Is Silco around?” you asked casually, slipping onto a stool beside her. “Or Jinx?”

Sevika grunted as she leaned an elbow on the bar. “Silco’s out with Ran. Some business up near the refinery lines. Won’t be back until much later.”

You nodded, then glanced toward the upper balcony. “And Jinx?”

“Asleep,” Sevika said. “Crashed hard earlier. Been tinkering with something for two days straight. Left scorch marks in the back hallway again.”

“Jinx should have a laboratory of her own here in the Undercity,” you suggested. “Somewhere she could test her experiments when she’s not with me, without the risk of harming herself and the others.”

“And destroying property,” Sevika added.

You smiled at the image, amused and only mildly concerned. “So why aren’t you out there playing shadow with Silco?”

Sevika turned her head slightly, fixing you with a half-smirk. “I’m on break. Boss’s orders. Something about how I’ve been too ‘aggressive’ lately.”

You snorted. “You? Aggressive? No.”

“Right?” she said with mock offense. “Can’t imagine where they got that idea.”

Before you could reply, Thieram stepped up behind the bar, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. His brows lifted when he saw you.

“Well, well. Back again, new recruit,” he greeted with a mock flourish. “And looking like you’ve walked through a thunderstorm made of stress.”

“I feel like it too,” you admitted, slumping a bit.

Thieram nodded once, reaching below the bar and pulling out a bottle. “I’ve got just the thing for that. Strong enough to melt your brain, smooth enough you won’t notice.”

He poured two drinks with the kind of care you’d expect from an apothecary rather than a bartender, then slid one to each of you.

Sevika raised her glass toward you. “To breaks. And better timing next time.”

You clinked your glass with hers, letting the burn of the first sip settle in your chest before exhaling slowly. “Do you know who Councilor Salo is?” you finally asked.

Sevika glanced at you, one brow raised. “Blond pretty boy? Talks like he’s trying to sell you the city’s last breath? Yeah, I know him.”

You laughed despite yourself. “That’s the one.”

She smirked into her drink. “Didn’t think he was your type.”

“He’s not,” you said quickly, then sighed. “Not like that. He’s… my patron. Has been since I was in the Academy. Makes sure my projects stay funded, my research gets seen, that I don’t vanish into the cracks like a lot of other Piltover assistants.”

Sevika turned her head toward you fully now, the smirk gone, replaced with something more assessing. “And now?”

“He asked me to be his company for Progress Day’s gala,” you said, resting your cheek against your fist. “And I know what that looks like. What it could mean. It changes things.”

Sevika gave a small grunt, her voice low but not unkind. “Let me guess. You say yes, you’re worried he’ll think it means more—start pushing. You say no, he backs off. Pulls the funding. Stops smoothing over the gears. You lose your leverage up top.”

You stared at her. “Exactly.”

“Both options suck,” Sevika added bluntly.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “They do. And I’m not ready for either of them.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the occasional clink of glasses nearby. Then Sevika said, more quietly than you expected, “You gotta ask yourself what you’re willing to owe. What you’re willing to pay to keep your freedom.”

You blinked at her.

She tapped her fingers against her glass. “People like him don’t give for free. They always collect. Maybe not now. Maybe not next week. But one day, he’ll come knocking.”

“And if I decline?” you asked, voice quieter now.

Sevika shrugged, but her gaze was sharp. “Then you keep your spine—and maybe lose a few comforts. But that means you’ve still got choices. Power built on debt’s not power, it’s a leash.”

You leaned back slowly, processing, surprised at the clarity in her words. “You’re… really good at this.”

Sevika chuckled, lifting her glass again. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve had years of watching people sell themselves and call it strategy.”

You tapped your glass against hers once more, a real smile tugging at your lips now. “Thanks, Sev.”

She grunted again, but there was something almost fond in the way she said, “Anytime, princess.”

Thieram laughed from where he was drying a glass. “She’s got a heart under all that armor. Black as pitch, but it’s there.”

The banter continued, easy and warm. You found yourself relaxing for the first time in weeks—talking nonsense, trading work stories, even teasing Thieram about the time he tried to brew his own beer and nearly set the bar on fire. It was... comfortable. Familiar. Safe in the way only the Undercity could be when it embraced you as one of its own.

Then the doors creaked open.

You turned instinctively, the night air curling in behind the silhouette of Ran—tall, sharp-eyed, scanning the bar before stepping aside. Flanked by two guards, Silco strode in, shoulders squared, his gaze sweeping the room with that calculating stillness only he could manage.

And then he saw you.

His mismatched eyes locked onto yours, and the buzz of the bar around you seemed to fall away. That familiar flutter stirred in your chest—stupid and involuntary—as if your entire body remembered who he was before your mind could catch up. You felt warmth bloom beneath your skin, not just from the drink.

Beside you, Sevika followed your line of sight, then muttered under her breath, “There he is. Lookin’ like he just walked out of a painting no one asked for.”

You snorted softly, cheeks still warm as Silco’s pace slowed, making his way through the crowd—toward you.

He approached the bar with the steady, unhurried confidence of a man who never needed to rush to command a room. His coat shifted around him like smoke, the lamplight catching in the burnished threads of his collar. Ran moved just ahead of him, flashing you a lopsided grin.

Without a word, Ran swiped your nearly full glass from the bar top and downed it in a single go. They let out a contented sigh, wiped their mouth with the back of their hand, and plunked the empty glass down with a wink. “Thanks, doll. Just what I needed.”

You blinked, caught somewhere between a laugh and an indignant scoff. “You absolute troll.”

Ran gave you a charming little bow before turning to greet Thieram, already ordering something stronger.

Then Silco stopped in front of you.

The crowd instinctively parted around him. His gaze—cool, assessing—met yours again, and for a beat, neither of you said anything. The hum of the bar returned slowly, as though the moment had held its breath.

He inclined his head slightly, eyes flicking briefly to Sevika. “Didn’t expect to find you here tonight.”

You tilted your head, mirroring his gesture. You tried reading his tone, but it wasn’t giving anything away. “And yet here I am.”

Sevika, noticing the exchange, shot you a sly look before leaning back against the bar, arms crossed. “You two sure do know how to keep things interesting.” She grinned, her eyes flickering between the two of you. “But I think I’ll leave you two to it. Don't want to interrupt the charm show.”

You shot her a look, but she only winked in return, pushing off the bar and heading toward the door. “I'll be around if you need me,” she added with a lazy salute, disappearing into the shadows.

Silco’s gaze followed Sevika for a moment before returning to you. The weight of his focus settled between you like a heavy blanket, warm and oddly intimate.

“Seems like it’s just us then,” he said, his voice dropping a fraction, the usual edge softened for a moment.

You nodded, attempting to brush off the self-consciousness that crept up with Sevika’s departure. The space between you and Silco felt different now—more focused, charged. A few moments passed in a comfortable silence, and you couldn’t help but notice the slight tension in the way he stood, as if waiting for you to speak first.

Then, as if reading your thoughts, Silco’s lips curved just slightly. “Come on. Follow me.”

Your mind raced for a moment, wondering why he wouldn’t lead you to his office, but before you could ask, he was already stepping toward the stairs.

You followed, surprised when, instead, he led you to a balcony that overlooked the Lanes, the sweeping view of the Undercity stretching beneath the dim glow of the neon lights.

You couldn’t help but stop for a moment, taking it in. It was a sight you’d grown used to, yet tonight it felt different—somehow more beautiful than usual. The faint buzz of the city beneath you, the lights that flickered like stars in the darkness, the glow of hope in places that weren’t supposed to have any.

Silco turned, catching you staring, and a flicker of something softer passed across his gaze.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, his voice quieter now, as though speaking in reverence to the view.

You nodded, unable to look away from the scene below. “It is. I don’t think I’ve ever really noticed just how...” You trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought.

He offered you a glass that had been waiting on a small table nearby. The deep amber liquid caught the light as he held it out. “It’s easy to overlook the beauty when you’re focused on survival,” he said, his voice contemplative.

You took the glass from him, feeling the coolness of the crystal against your palm. “I guess so,” you murmured, your eyes still tracing the lights below.

There was something in the way he was looking at you—something more than mere observation, more than curiosity. A moment stretched between you, the kind of silence that spoke volumes without a single word needing to be said.

Then Silco’s voice broke through again, steady and calm. “What are you running from, really?”

You hesitated, eyes lingering on the amber liquid in your glass. The question had been simple, but it struck deep—deeper than you were prepared for.

You considered lying. The instinct came fast, reflexive. You could downplay the truth, twist it into something vague and unthreatening. You feared what Silco might do—what he might think—if he knew about Salo. About the long shadow he cast over your life in Piltover. About the influence he wielded that had helped you rise.

But as your gaze drifted back to Silco, watching the city below with that quiet intensity of his, you knew you couldn’t do it. Not to him. Not with that question hanging between you like an open wound.

You took a breath, then another, and finally spoke.

“My life in the Academy wasn’t smooth sailing as I would like to say,” you said softly. “Chross pulled every string he could to get me into the Academy. Even then, I wasn’t... welcomed. Not really. Not unless I proved myself twice as hard. Turns out, when you grow up in the Lanes, even in Piltover they make sure you never forget where you came from.”

Silco turned to you slightly, saying nothing, just listening.

“I tried everything. Studied until my fingers cramped. Smiled until my face ached. No one cared.” You laughed bitterly. “Being smart wasn’t enough. Being beautiful wasn’t enough. I was wrong in all the ways that mattered to them.”

You looked down, fingers tightening around the glass. “Viktor was the first to really see me. Not the polished mask I wore for the professors, not the doll they assumed I was. He understood. He’d been there too, in his own way.”

Silco’s expression remained unreadable, but he hadn’t looked away. You paused, the next part heavier.

“And then came Salo,” you said, voice lower now. “We met by chance at a university lecture. I asked a question that the lecturer couldn’t answer. Salo approached me afterward. Said he liked the way I thought.”

You didn’t miss the way Silco’s eyes sharpened slightly.

“He offered to sponsor my research, said he had connections that could help me find the place I deserved. And he did. He’s the reason I got the position with Heimerdinger. The reason I’m even in the rooms that matter now.”

The confession left a bitter aftertaste, but it was true.

“Salo opens doors I didn’t even know existed,” you added, quieter. “He believes in me. Or maybe he just likes having me in his orbit. I don’t know anymore.”

“But I know how it sounds. I didn’t want you to think I was some pampered little marionette. That everything I’ve earned was handed to me.”

Silco’s jaw shifted slightly, but he said nothing.

You continued before you could lose your nerve. “It’s not like I’m unaware of what people think when they see someone like me next to someone like him.”

When you looked back up, Silco’s gaze was still on you. Watchful. Quiet. And though you braced yourself for judgment, it wasn’t there—not yet. Only silence, and the weight of whatever came next.

You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out the white envelope, its edges slightly crumpled from how long you’d held onto it tonight. You set it down between you on the balcony railing, the Piltover seal catching the moonlight.

“This,” you said, your voice low, “is what’s been weighing on me.”

Silco’s eyes flicked to the envelope, but he didn’t move to touch it. He simply waited.

You swallowed. “It’s an invitation. Councilor Salo wants me to attend the Progress Day gala. As his guest.”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the air between you shifted—sharpened. You pushed on before he could say anything.

“If I accept, I tie myself closer to him than I already am. Everyone will see me on his arm. People will talk. They already do. It would look more than an endorsement—like I belong to him.” Your fingers tightened on the glass. “If I decline, I risk offending him. Risk losing everything he’s helped me build. And gods, I know how that sounds. I know what it looks like. But it’s not as simple as just walking away.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m terrified,” you admitted. “Not of the gala. Not even of him. I’m scared of what I’ll become if I keep saying yes to people who want to own pieces of me. But I’m also scared of what I’ll lose if I finally say no.”

He studied you for a long beat, then asked softly, “Have you spoken to Chross about this?”

You shook your head.

“No. I didn’t want to burden him more than I already have. He’s been... tired lately.” The words sat heavy between you. “Besides, I know what he’d say. He’d tell me to walk away. That I don’t need Salo. That I can do it all on my own.”

You swallowed thickly. “But I don’t know if I can.”

You let the words hang there, raw and uncertain. The envelope remained untouched, the decision still waiting. And for once, it wasn’t logic or science or careful planning that would guide you. It was something more fragile—intuition, and the weight of what you stood to lose either way.

Silco said nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took the envelope from the railing, turning it over in his fingers like it was something fragile, something dangerous.

Then he looked at you—not through you, not at the pieces you tried to keep together. He looked into you.

You waited, half-bracing for some echo of Sevika’s advice—gritty, rough-cut wisdom about not owing anyone anything and flipping the whole system off if it didn’t suit you. Something rebellious and fierce. Something easy to agree with, even if it was hard to live by.

But Silco didn’t give you that.

Instead, he turned the envelope over one last time before setting it down carefully on the railing.

“I won’t tell you what you should do,” he said, voice low and steady. “But I will tell you this—people like Salo don’t offer favors. They collect investments. And sooner or later, they’ll expect their return.”

You looked at him, heart tightening at the blunt truth in his words.

“But,” he went on, “the world doesn’t change for idealists. It changes for those who know how to use the game to their advantage.”

That made you blink. It wasn’t what you expected—and certainly not what you wanted to hear. It was pragmatic. Unsentimental. Ruthless, even.

“You’re saying I should accept,” you said quietly.

“I’m saying,” he replied, “that if the gala gets you what you need—access, credibility, protection—then maybe it’s a trade worth making.” He glanced sideways at you. “Just be sure you’re the one making the deal. Not the one being owned.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. It wrapped around you, filled with the reality of the choices ahead.

“Like I said, I won’t tell you what to do. I’m not Chross. I’m not Salo.” His voice then softened. “But whatever choice you make… I’ll be here. No matter the consequences.”

You looked at him, warmth blooming behind your ribs. You didn’t know what you expected—but it hadn’t been that.

Your hand reached out before your thoughts caught up. You grasped his free hand, grateful, your fingers closing around his with soft insistence. You felt the warmth in his palm, roughened by years of fighting for a place in a world that never gave him one.

He didn’t flinch. In fact, he held tighter.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The noise of the Undercity faded beneath the rush of blood in your ears. His thumb brushed the back of your hand once. Thoughtless. Reassuring.

You looked at him fully—his sharp profile lit by the amber glow of a flickering lamp behind him, the wind stirring the ends of his coat. Dangerous. Steady. Yours, for now.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

For once, Silco didn’t have anything to say.

He just let you hold his hand.

And for the first time that night, the weight in your chest loosened just enough to breathe again.

Chapter Text

You sent your reply to Salo the morning after your conversation with Silco. The words were carefully chosen—grateful, noncommittal, but ultimately an acceptance. You weren’t entirely sure what your decision meant yet, only that you were done living in fear of what it might cost.

To your surprise, the Progress Day gala was a masked event. Formal. Elaborate. Performative. The kind of gathering where secrets slipped behind silk and anonymity played god. You couldn’t help but wonder what role the councilor expected you to play that night—and what role you were willing to play for him.

Since then, you threw yourself into your work. It was easier that way. Days passed in a flurry of notes, prototypes, cross-referenced theories, and lab reports. Your time was split neatly between your obligations on Topside and in the Undercity, with only brief, though increasingly charged encounters with Silco in the spaces between.

Then, three days before the gala, everything had grounded to a halt.

You had finally finished reviewing Singed’s latest notes on the biochemical composition of Shimmer. It had taken weeks of sorting through cryptic shorthand and deranged annotations, but you had gotten there.

And now you wished you hadn’t.

Your eyes scanned the formula again, slower this time, trying to convince yourself you’d made a mistake. But there it was. Clear. Repeated. A concentrated extract derived from the Vinca minor plant.

Periwinkle.

Your lips parted in silent disbelief as you sat motionless in front of your desk. Then, slowly, you reached for one of your older notebooks—one you hadn’t touched in weeks. Its leather cover was worn, softened by time and use.

You flipped to a page near the center. A dried periwinkle was pressed there, delicate and pale, veins like ghost-lines beneath its paper-thin skin. You remembered when you tucked it between the pages. It was from the first bouquet Silco sent you when he asked you to dinner to discuss Jinx’s request. The scent had lingered for days.

Staring down at it now, you felt something twist low in your chest.

Did he know?

Had he known all along that your favorite flower—the one you talked to him about once in the middle of your dinner with him—was the same flower his chemists were distilling into a substance that had turned the Undercity inside out?

You sank further into your chair, the notebook open on your lap.

If he knew, why didn’t he tell you?

The question burned more than you expected it to. You thought—no, hoped—you were past that with him. That what you two had was deeper than a mere business transaction. You even stood beside him in a toxic river!

You traced the edge of the brittle bloom with a finger.

You decided not to bring it up to Silco—not yet. Not when so much else demanded your attention right now. There would be time for hard questions and harder truths. Right now, your focus needed to be absolute.

You poured yourself into the air filtration project, letting the motion of work carry you away from uncertainty. Finally implementing Shimmer into the prototype was both exhilarating and exhausting. The compound’s volatility made calibration a nightmare, and the more you refined the design, the more you felt the hours vanish unnoticed.

Day bled into night. Night into day. You forgot to eat, then forgot that you forgot. You only stopped moving when your limbs trembled too much to hold a spanner steady.

But when the sun finally filtered through the stained glass of Heimerdinger’s lab, you were done.

The filtration system stood on the workbench—sleek, humming quietly, its core reservoir pulsing faintly with violet light. The data suggested Shimmer, in carefully controlled doses, could not only neutralize toxins in the air but also strengthen the uptake of oxygen. If your readings were correct, this was more than a breakthrough—it was a miracle.

And yet, you couldn’t test it.

You rummaged through every crate, cabinet, and supply closet. All of the tanks you’d acquired from the Undercity had already been used in simulations and sample testing. None remained with enough concentration of airborne contaminants to replicate the true conditions of the Lanes.

Which left you only one option.

Test it at the source.

You sat for a long moment, hands resting on the edges of the bench, considering the implications. It was reckless, potentially dangerous, and definitely against every lab protocol Piltover had ever penned.

But it had to be done. You couldn’t tell Viktor. Not until you were sure it worked. You knew he’d worry, and Jayce? He’d insist on oversight, permissions, and half a dozen extra engineers breathing down your neck. You didn’t have the time for that. Not when an unsanctioned drug was in play. Not when the work was this close to becoming real.

So, you packed the prototype carefully into a reinforced satchel, wrapped in thick fabric to buffer the delicate tubing, and made your way toward the elevator.

The descent was steep. The city’s light receded slowly, swallowed by the iron bones of the Undercity. You passed through familiar streets first—the markets, the bustle, the parts of the Lanes Silco kept relatively clean. But you didn’t stop. You kept going.

Past the warrens. Past the old refinery. Into the parts of Zaun where even enforcers rarely patrolled. The air thickened. The metal under your boots grew slick with oil and condensation. Smog coiled in the distance like a living thing.

You adjusted your satchel, hand tightening around the strap. Your breathing became labored as the air thickened.

Then you finally reached the lowest of the sump pits, where the walls bled moisture and the air itself seemed to groan beneath the weight of rot and residue. A gaping fissure split the ground just ahead, coughing up a near-constant stream of noxious vapor that clung to your clothes and stung your eyes. If your device could work here, it could work anywhere.

You knelt by the jagged rock, setting the satchel down with care. Your hands moved methodically, almost too tired to shake. You activated the filtration core, fingers hovering near the manual override just in case things went wrong.

At first, nothing.

The same oppressive heaviness in your chest. The same sickly tang on your tongue. You felt dizzy with the lack of breathable air and fatigue. You squinted at the gauge. It ticked a fraction higher. A fluke, maybe. You checked the seal again. Still running.

You were just starting to wonder if it needed recalibration when something shifted.

The haze seemed… thinner. You blinked, unsure if it was your eyes playing tricks, but no—beyond the shimmer of violet light, the dense fog was lifting. You took a breath. Then another.

Cleaner. Lighter.

You stood slowly, dazed, heart thudding in your chest. A thin beam of bioluminescent green from a fungus cluster above reached farther than before. You could see the walls now. The fissure. The path you took to get here.

It was working.

You let out a laugh—disbelieving, shaky, and entirely too loud in the stillness. But you didn’t care. You scooped the device back into your satchel and sprinted up the incline, eager to test it again. And again.

All across the Undercity, from the Black Powder alleys to the pipe-choked underrails, you tested the device at key points. And every time, slowly, the air began to clear. People noticed. Some stared. Others kept walking, but their pace changed—just a little lighter, a little less burdened.

By the time the last reading came in, the sky above was already bruised with nightfall, lit only by the pulsing neon veins of Zaun.

Exhaustion crashed over you all at once. Your stomach growled angrily, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten in hours—maybe all day.

So, you wandered toward Bridgewaltz, drawn by the warm orange glow of windows and the mouthwatering smell of grilled meat and spice. The streets here were calmer. Not clean, but gentler somehow.

You slid into a booth at a half-empty eatery and dropped your satchel beside you, the hum of the prototype still faint beneath the worn leather.

For the first time in days, you let yourself stop. Really stop.

You ordered without thinking—whatever was hot and fast. And when the plate finally hit your table, you nearly wept.

The air was cleaner. The food was warm.

And for just a moment, the future was clear.

You were nearly finished with your meal, letting the warm broth chase the chill from your bones, when the chair beside you scraped softly against the floor. You didn’t bother looking up at first—figured it was probably Sevika dropping by to check if you were still alive, or Jin, the quiet shadow your father had assigned to “keep an eye” on you lately.

But then you heard it—the click of a lighter.

You turned, spoon halfway to your mouth, and came face to face with none other than Finn.

Dressed in his usual white and gold ensemble, he lounged in the seat like he owned the place, flipping the cap of his lighter open and shut in idle rhythm. His dark hair caught the flickering lamplight, and that ever-present smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

“Long time no see, sweetheart,” he drawled, lighting the end of a sleek cigarette. “Imagine my surprise, seeing one of my men stumble in huffing about some bright-eyed Piltie girl running through the sump like her shoes were on fire. Thought to myself—who else would be that crazy?”

You sighed, setting your spoon down with exaggerated care. “What do you want, Finn?”

“Just dinner and a chat.” He took a slow drag. “Though seems like you already beat me to it.”

“Sorry. I left my schedule of unsanctioned Chembaron meetings at home.”

He laughed—a short, amused breath through his nose. “Cute. I've missed that spiciness of yours.”

“The feeling isn't mutual.”

Finn leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table, his voice dropping into a more thoughtful tone. “Word is, you’ve been spending a lot of time with Silco lately.”

“I didn’t realize you were in the surveillance business now,” you said flatly. “If I recall correctly, that's my father's line of work.”

“I only hear what I need to,” Finn said smoothly. “And when someone like you starts stirring things up in the Undercity—walking along the riverbank with the Eye of Zaun, and sprinting around the Lanes with shiny toys—it raises a few eyebrows. Especially when Silco’s involved.”

You didn’t respond right away, just raised a brow and reached for your drink, taking a calm sip while watching him over the rim.

“If this is your way of saying you're jealous, Finn, you're going to have to try harder.”

He smirked. “I prefer the term keen observer. Been quietly watching ever since you started taking a more… active hand in your old man’s dealings a few weeks ago. Can’t deny it’s been entertaining.”

Your brow arched. “Watching?”

He smiled like he was sharing a secret. “Not in a creepy way—more like… professionally impressed. You’ve got good instincts. Sharp. Calculated when it counts, but not afraid to get your hands dirty now and then. Not many up top or down here can claim that.”

You stared at him, jaw tightening. “Let me guess. Another one of your men tailing me?”

Finn just lifted a shoulder, noncommittal. “Hey, it’s the Undercity. Word gets around. People talk. I just listen better than most.”

You didn’t bother hiding your annoyance. “That makes two people following me without asking. Three if I count the eyes I don’t know about yet.”

Finn offered a small, unapologetic grin. “Don’t take it personal. You move through Zaun like a spark in a dry alley. People notice.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Get to the point, Finn.”

He tapped ash from his cigarette, his tone shifting—cooler, more deliberate. “Silco’s been running the Lanes for years, sure. But even legends lose their grip eventually. His vision’s getting... clouded. Obsessed with legacy, ghosts, and children who don’t listen.”

Your chest tightened slightly at the mention, but you didn’t let it show.

Finn continued, his voice smooth. “But you—you’re different. You’re already doing what half of us wish we could. Innovating. Building. Getting results. You’ve got influence in Piltover, boots in the Undercity, and enough spine to handle both.”

He leaned in, voice lower now, more intimate. “I can offer you much more if you work for me. Real power. Real change. You wouldn’t have to play second to someone clinging to a crumbling throne.”

You didn’t flinch. You met his gaze, voice steady and cold. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s pawn. Not my father’s, not Silco’s. And definitely not someone who watches from the shadows and calls it admiration.”

His easy grin faltered for just a second—just enough for you to see the flicker of something colder underneath. He leaned back in his chair, tapping the end of his cigarette against the ashtray a little too hard.

“Shame,” he said softly. “I don’t make offers twice.”

You crossed your arms. “Then I guess we’re done here.”

Finn stood slowly, adjusting the collar of his coat as he looked you over with a gaze that had lost all its earlier charm. “Be careful who you turn down in the Undercity. Loyalty doesn’t shield you from the way things shift when the winds change.”

He paused, his voice dipping lower, silk wrapped around steel. “Or who gets caught in the middle when the old guard finally collapses.”

With that, he vanished into the street’s haze, the smoke from his cigarette lingering in the air long after his footsteps faded.

You stayed seated for a beat, watching the shadow of his silhouette disappear into the Bridgewaltz crowd. You thought about going to Chross. Or Silco. Telling them everything. But something stopped you.

Finn talked big, but you knew his kind—rattling cages to see who jumps. You didn’t plan on jumping.

Still… your hand lingered on the strap of your bag a little longer before you packed up your things and made your way back home to Piltover.

By the time your head hit the pillow, exhaustion wrapped itself around you like a lead blanket. But sleep brought little peace. Your dreams were restless, shifting. Faces blurred. Voices whispered. Warnings, too soft to hold onto but too loud to ignore.

The morning sun filtered through gauzy clouds, casting Piltover in its usual golden light. As you stepped onto the cobbled streets, a soft breeze carried the scent of sugared almonds, roasted nuts, and fresh pastries. Everywhere you turned, signs of Progress Day were blossoming—banners of vibrant blue and gold hung from balconies, children darted between stalls clutching paper pinwheels, and the hum of excited chatter filled the air.

You passed a merchant stall draped in metallic fabrics and shimmering trinkets, and your gaze lingered.

It should be like this down below, you thought, a little bitterly. If they only knew what real progress looked like.

The memory of last night’s successful test stirred a small warmth in your chest. It was working—your device, your theory. One step closer to making the Undercity breathe a little easier. One step closer to giving them a taste of this same kind of joy.

Your thoughts briefly shifted to Jinx. She was supposed to stop by your workshop this morning, something about showing you her new “improved” invention and testing it out at the fountain. You smirked at the memory of her last visit, how she nearly set your curtains on fire while trying to “upgrade” a sandwich press. But when you checked the time again, your smile faded.

She was late.

Very late.

Odd, you thought. Jinx was rarely punctual, but she always made a raucous entrance when she did show. A pit settled low in your stomach.

From there, your mind wandered in an inevitable spiral. To Jinx. Then to Silco. Then to Shimmer. The vial of extract still sat on your desk—its hue a haunting, unnatural violet. It burned in your mind alongside the pressed periwinkle flower from his bouquet.

Did he know? you wondered. Does he know what’s in it?

And finally—of course—to Finn. His words echoed back to you like oil in water: Loyalty doesn’t shield you from the way things shift when the winds change.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the heaviness building behind your ribs. You couldn’t afford to fall into paranoia. Not now. Not when everything was so close.

You arrived at the lab just as the towering clockwork automaton across the Academy plaza struck the hour.

The familiar scent of metal filings and ozone hit you the moment you stepped into the lab. Warm light pooled across the scattered tools, scrolls of notes, and half-finished prototypes. You found Jayce pacing in front of the main console, muttering and gesturing as if addressing an invisible audience.

“...and with Piltover standing on the shoulders of innovation—no, guided by innovation...” he paused, groaned, then started again.

Viktor sat at the workbench nearby, hunched over a gear assembly, his fingers deftly adjusting a screw as a small mechanical arm whirred in response.

You hovered at the doorway for a moment, gripping the handle of your prototype case with white-knuckled resolve. Then, you cleared your throat. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything too groundbreaking.”

Jayce turned first, his eyes lighting up. “Hey, there you are! You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to rhyme anything with ‘Hexcore’—oh, and where’ve you been? Viktor said you’ve been buried in Heimerdinger’s office all week.”

Viktor didn’t look up. “That is not an exaggeration. I believe she may have actually become part of the ventilation system.”

You let out a breathy laugh, but your fingers clenched the strap of your bag. You stepped forward and placed the device gently on the table. “I finished it. The prototype. The air filtration unit—it works.”

Jayce’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

Viktor leaned forward, inspecting the device, his expression shifting to wonder. “The design is compact... and the filter system—cleverly layered. What medium did you use?”

You hesitated for only a second before flipping open the protective casing, revealing the vial of glowing violet fluid connected to the mechanism. The moment Viktor saw it, his smile faded.

Jayce blinked. “What’s that?”

Viktor didn’t speak. His gaze stayed locked on the vial. “That’s not hexcrystal residue. And it’s not something from Heimerdinger’s catalogs.”

You exhaled, steadying yourself.

“It’s called Shimmer.”

Jayce tilted his head. “Shimmer? What is it—some kind of synthetic catalyst?”

“No,” you said quietly. “It’s... complicated. It’s derived from biological compounds. Enhances performance. Accelerates healing. Enhances aggression. It’s unstable. Highly addictive. And until recently, it was only used by those in the Undercity.”

Jayce’s expression darkened. “Wait. This sounds like a drug.”

You nodded. “It is.”

Viktor frowned. “How did you come by this?”

You met his eyes. “I made a deal with someone in the Undercity. His name is Silco.”

Jayce blinked, visibly thrown off. “Silco? Who—wait, you made a deal with someone down there? Without telling us?”

You turned to Viktor. “You’ve seen his photo before. From my notes. He’s... Jinx’s dad. The one I told you I made a deal with. I know it sounds reckless and dangerous, but he gave me access to their resources to finally get my project going.”

Jayce threw up his hands. “And you didn’t think to ask? Or warn us? This isn’t just rule-breaking, this is—”

“I know,” you cut in, voice rising before softening again. “I know. But I didn’t do this for recognition. I did it because people down there are dying. They’re breathing poison, Jayce. We talk about progress, about lifting people up, but we can’t even see past our towers.”

Viktor was quiet for a long time, fingers brushing against the edge of the prototype.

“Did he pressure you into this?” he finally asked.

“No,” You shook your head, a ghost of a smile flitted on your face. You remember that night you and Silco struck that deal. “It was a mutual agreement. He provides me with information about Shimmer, and in return, I look after Jinx.”

Jayce stepped back, still visibly shaken. “So what now? You want to—what—show this to the Council? With that in it?”

You looked at them both.

“No. Not yet. I want to keep testing. I need to be sure it’s completely safe. And I need to understand more about Shimmer—what it really does. Maybe I could use it for something more useful, much bigger than a simple air filtration. I’m not asking for your approval. Just your understanding.”

Viktor nodded slowly, something unreadable in his eyes. “I’ll help you analyze it.”

Jayce opened his mouth to protest, but Viktor turned to him.

“If what she’s saying is true, and this works—it could change everything, Jayce. Not just for the people in the Undercity, but for Hextech as well.”

Jayce kept looking between you and Viktor, his mouth closing then opening like a fish out of water. It stretched on for a while until he finally exhaled, long and heavy, before dragging a hand down his face. “You know... I should be furious with you. This kind of reckless fieldwork? Testing an unvetted substance without oversight?” He pointed to the Shimmer vial with an exasperated half-grimace. “This is exactly the kind of stunt that makes Heimerdinger sprout new whiskers.”

You winced playfully. “Noted.”

“But…” he said, softening, “I’d be a hypocrite if I stayed mad. Hextech was born because I broke protocol. The only reason I could even build it was because Viktor believed in me... and Mel bent the rules so hard they practically snapped.”

He stepped forward, hesitating for a moment before pulling you into a brief, solid hug.

“I may not like your methods, but I do believe in you,” he added.

You were still smiling when Viktor held out his arms with mock seriousness. “Do I get a hug too, or is that privilege reserved for dramatic speeches and questionable ethics?”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him too. Viktor’s embrace was gentler, lingering, like he knew exactly how much weight you’d been carrying. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered. “Truly.”

Your heart ached with something soft and raw. “I couldn’t have done it without you both.”

The three of you eased into a conversation, the prototype gleaming faintly on the table between you. You walked them through your research—how the filter adjusted particulate absorption dynamically, how Shimmer accelerated the filtration process. Jayce asked sharp, intuitive questions, while Viktor jotted notes with the speed of someone whose mind was already racing ahead to improvements.

At some point, Jayce leaned back in his chair and said, “You know, this could be worth mentioning in my Progress Day speech.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He shrugged. “Not the Shimmer part, obviously. But the success. The tech. The fact that it came from a collaboration with the Undercity. If we want to build bridges, we need to talk about what’s working. This could be a start.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Jayce, I—I appreciate it, but I don’t think I want that kind of attention. I’ll be eaten alive by every academic, politician, and journalist in Piltover.”

“Not if I get to them first,” he said with a wink.

Viktor leaned back in his chair, arms crossed thoughtfully. “It might not be a bad idea. The Council won’t acknowledge the Undercity’s suffering unless someone forces them to. And people will listen to Jayce. They already do.”

You chewed your lip, mind spiraling through the possibilities. Silco’s words from the river echoed quietly in your memory: Real power comes to those who are willing to do anything to achieve it.

You had taken this step. Crossed a line. Maybe it was time you stood your ground on it, too.

“Alright,” you finally said. “You can mention it. But don’t make it sound like I’m some tragic genius rising from soot and strife, okay?”

Jayce grinned. “But that’s my best material.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stick to the science. Leave the poetry to Viktor.”

Viktor gave a mock sigh. “At least someone appreciates my metaphors.”

Jayce, still visibly energized by the breakthrough, clapped his hands together. “This calls for a proper toast. I’ll grab us something from that obnoxiously overpriced café downstairs.”

You laughed. “Get the one with the caramel drizzle. I know you secretly like it.”

He threw you a mock glare as he left. “No one’s supposed to know that!”

Once the door clicked shut behind him, silence settled over the lab. You turned back to the notes, but Viktor’s quiet voice pulled your attention.

“May I ask you something?”

You glanced up to find him watching you—not with judgment, but a pensive, searching look.

“Of course.”

He stepped closer and gestured to the filtration device. “It’s about Shimmer. You said it was… derived from something synthetic?”

You nodded, folding your arms. “It’s made from several things, but one of the key components is a compound derived from periwinkle flower extract. Ironic, right? Who knew my favorite flower could enhance cellular regeneration? At least, that’s what the earlier batch of Singed’s notes showed.”

A flicker of something crossed Viktor’s face. Not fear, exactly. More like memory. Recognition.

“Wait, you know Singed?” you asked, curious.

“I worked with him. A long time ago. I was a child, probably around Jinx’s age.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right. “You worked with him?”

Viktor gave a slow nod, his gaze drifting toward the far wall as if pulled into a different time. “He was… strange. Brilliant. Terrifying, in some ways. But he never treated me like a child. He saw potential where others didn’t. And when I told him I wanted to apply to the Academy… he wrote my recommendation letter.”

You sat back, absorbing the weight of that.

“That’s how you got into Piltover,” you murmured.

He nodded. “Though, I didn’t know he was still alive. Or that he was working on a drug like this.”

“I didn’t expect that,” you said softly.

Viktor shook his head. “I’m just… surprised. I always wondered what became of him. He was always walking the edge of something dangerous.”

You studied his face, the lines of old pain and curiosity etched in equal measure. “If you want, I can share more of his notes.”

He gave you a faint smile. “I’d like that.”

And right on cue, Jayce returned, balancing three drinks with theatrical care. “One for the genius who cracked air purification,” he said, handing one to you, “one for the brilliant mind who helped me not blow up half the Academy last week,” he added, passing one to Viktor, “and one for me, because I’m the handsome leader.”

You laughed, taking your drink with a murmur of thanks.

“To cleaner air!”

“And progress!”

“Hear, hear!”

Jayce clinked his cup against yours and Viktor's before returning to his speech notes.

As he paced, muttering metaphors to himself, Viktor sipped quietly beside you. A thoughtful silence stretched between you until he spoke again, his voice softer this time.

Viktor’s fingers tapped lightly against the base of his cup. “Should I be worried about… whatever’s going on between you and this Silco?”

You blinked, caught off guard not by the question, but by the care with which he asked it.

You sat back and folded your arms, lips tugging into a dry smile. “No. At least… not in the way you think.”

“That's not very reassuring,” Viktor said, though his voice held no judgment. Just curiosity. And maybe a bit of concern.

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair. “It’s complicated. But I know what I’m doing. Or… I hope I do.”

Viktor studied you for a moment, then tilted his head. “You like him, don't you?”

You immediately looked away, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “That obvious?”

A lopsided grin tugged at Viktor’s mouth. “Only every time you say his name like you’re trying not to smile.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Viktor, please.”

He laughed—quiet, amused. “I just want to know when to start placing bets.”

You peeked through your fingers at him, eyes narrowing. “I can’t believe you’re teasing me about this.”

“I’ve had very little entertainment lately,” Viktor said, feigning innocence. “You, blushing over a man likely twice your age, is the highlight of my month.”

You shot him a look, but your lips betrayed you, curling upward despite yourself.

Then, Viktor leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. “Does the little menace know?”

You let out a short laugh at Viktor’s pet name for Jinx. “Oh, she knows. She figured it out before I did. She hasn’t stopped tormenting me since.”

Viktor chuckled. “Of course, she would.”

There was a beat of silence. Then he said, softer now, “Just… be careful, alright?”

You met his eyes. “I will. I promise.”

From across the room, Jayce cleared his throat loudly. “If you two are done whispering like teenagers, I need feedback on whether ‘glorious dawn of progress’ sounds too dramatic.”

“It does,” you and Viktor said in unison.

Chapter Text

Progress Day arrived with a burst of color and music.

Piltover thrummed with life, the streets teeming with laughter, performances, and confetti that danced on the wind. But you didn’t stay long to admire it—you had somewhere else to be.

The morning sun shimmered across Piltover’s copper skyline, casting long golden rays over the bridge as you hurried down into the Undercity. Despite the excitement that thrummed through your veins, the tightness in your chest didn’t ease until you reached Chross’s familiar compound.

You found him exactly where you expected—already awake, sleeves rolled up, poring over ledgers in his office. The dim lamp on his desk cast shadows across his tired face, but the instant he looked up and saw you, breathless and glowing with adrenaline, his brow knit in alarm.

“What happened?”

“I did it,” you blurted, barely containing the grin threatening to take over your face. “The project I’ve been telling you about. The air filtration system for the Undercity—I finally got it working.”

Chross blinked, his gaze sharpening with focus as he absorbed your words. “You’re serious?”

You nodded, eyes gleaming. You told him everything—from the earlier parts of your research up to when you tested it in the sump pits yesterday. “Jayce and Viktor were blown away. Jayce is even including it in his Progress Day speech—except for the Shimmer part, of course. But that’s why I’m here—I want you to come Topside with me. Just for a few hours. I want you to be there, hear it for yourself.”

For a moment, Chross didn’t say anything. He simply looked at you, eyes lingering on your flushed face, your hands animated with enthusiasm, your whole self glowing with purpose. Pride flickered behind his weathered features.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “As much as I want to see that moment, I can’t. There’s something wrong with the latest shipment routes—timing, weights, some discrepancies I don’t like the feel of. I need to stay and check it myself.”

Your smile faltered. “Can’t it wait? Just a few hours?”

He gave you a rueful smile. “You know I’d drop everything for you. But if someone’s skimming or rerouting cargo, we might have a bigger problem than missing crates. Especially with things as tense as they are right now.”

Your excitement dimmed just a little, but before you could say anything else, he stood and approached you, laying a strong hand on your shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” he said softly. “I mean it. You’ve built something remarkable with your own hands. You did this. And no matter where you go—Topside, Council, or beyond—I’ll always be proud of you.”

You tried to contain it, tried to meet his words with your usual wry grin, but it didn’t hold. The emotion surged before you could stop it. You stepped forward and hugged him tightly, arms wrapping around him as fiercely as your heart could manage.

“Thank you… for everything. For taking me in. For giving me a chance.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. You felt his chest rise and fall unevenly, his breath catching. When he finally spoke, his voice was gruff, thick with feeling. “Ah, hell… you always know how to knock the wind outta me, kiddo.”

He gave your back a few quick pats—too quick, like he was trying to pretend it was nothing. That he wasn’t blinking more than usual.

You leaned back just enough to look at him and smirked. “You crying on me, old man?”

He grumbled, snatching a handkerchief from his desk and pretending to clean his glasses. “Not a damn chance. Now go. Go let the world see what you’ve done. And save me a copy of the speech, will you?”

You laughed as you stepped away, warmth blooming in your chest. “I will. And I’ll bring you back one of those ridiculous toffee apples you love so much.”

“Make it three,” he said. “They go fast.”

Your feet were already taking you Topside, but a spark of excitement bubbled up in your chest, too loud to ignore. Before you even realized it, your steps veered. You made a sudden detour, drawn toward the winding path that led back down to The Last Drop. You needed to tell them—Silco, Jinx, Sevika, maybe even Ran and the others. This was worth celebrating with them. After all, you were doing this for them.

For just a while, the questions you had for Silco—about the periwinkle, about Finn, about everything—could wait. Right now, you wanted to share the win.

But as soon as you reached the familiar building and the low hum of the neon sign above, your momentum faltered. A large figure stood in the doorway. You knew him—one of Silco’s men. Broad shoulders, a scar down the left cheek, always the first to clear a path when things got too rowdy.

He stepped forward and blocked your way with a stiff arm.

“The bar’s closed,” he said gruffly.

You blinked. “Closed? Since when does The Last Drop close?”

He didn’t move, didn’t blink. “Orders.”

That one word sat heavily between you.

You furrowed your brow, glancing past him toward the darkened windows. No sound. No laughter. No music. It felt wrong, unnerving.

Your fingers twitched at your side, an instinct to push forward, to demand answers. But something in his eyes stopped you. Like he wouldn’t hesitate to grab you and hurl you into the toxic river the moment you took another step.

“…Is Silco inside?” you asked, quieter now.

The man’s expression didn’t change, but he shook his head. “Boss ain’t around.”

Your brow furrowed. “What about Jinx? Or Sevika?”

“None of 'em,” he said, voice flat. “Whole place is shut down for now.”

That didn’t sit right. The Last Drop never closed its doors—not for weather, not for business, not for grief. You searched his face for any hint, any flicker of explanation, but he gave you nothing. Just the same impassive stare and immovable stance.

“…Did something happen?” you tried again, carefully.

He looked past you, then back. “If you need answers, you’ll have to wait.”

A quiet beat passed between you, thick with questions you didn’t voice. Eventually, you gave a short nod, jaw tight, and stepped back. The door remained shut behind him like a wall.

You headed back Topside, confusion gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. The steady hum of Progress Day festivities surrounded you—laughter, music, the clamor of merchant stalls—but it all felt strangely distant. You wandered aimlessly through the bustling plaza, your mind stuck somewhere between the Undercity and the unanswered questions you left behind at The Last Drop.

It wasn’t until a flash of familiar gold caught your eye that you paused. There, weaving his way through the crowd with a bright, curious expression, was Professor Heimerdinger.

You exhaled a little, relief threading through your chest. If anyone could anchor you back to solid ground for a moment, it would be him.

Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you made your way toward him, calling out, “Professor!”

Heimerdinger’s enormous ears perked up at the sound of your voice. He turned, beaming warmly as he recognized you.

“Ah, my dear assistant!” he said, his eyes twinkling. “What a marvelous surprise! Come, come—have you seen the automaton parade yet? Quite the engineering feat! This year’s Progress Day is full of promises!”

You smiled despite yourself and fell into step beside Professor Heimerdinger as he led you through the colorful maze of the plaza. Everywhere you looked, there were mechanical marvels on display—whirring gadgets, levitating lights, clockwork creatures dancing on invisible strings. Children darted past, chasing each other with streamers trailing from their hands.

“So, tell me,” Heimerdinger said, glancing up at you with a knowing smile. “How fares your project? Any progress worth celebrating on this most momentous day?”

You bit your lip, feeling a twinge of nerves. “Actually… it's finished. I completed the prototype just yesterday. Jayce plans on including it in his speech later.”

Heimerdinger stopped short, his fluffy eyebrows lifting high with excitement. “Marvelous! Simply marvelous, my dear! I knew you would succeed.” He chuckled, tapping his feet lightly against the cobblestone. “When all this ruckus settles down, you must show me. I insist!”

You laughed a little, but the sound was tight. “Of course, Professor. After Progress Day... I'll show you everything.”

Internally, a weight pressed down on your chest. As thrilled as you were about completing your work, the thought of unveiling it to Heimerdinger filled you with dread. You would have to explain everything—including Shimmer. And you knew how the professor felt about questionable, volatile substances.

Would he see it as a betrayal of trust? Would you face a tribunal, the same way Jayce had when his experiments crossed the Council’s lines?

The thought made your stomach churn.

Still, you forced yourself to enjoy the moment, pushing the unease aside for now. After all, it was Progress Day—the day of breakthroughs, of hope. And as the bells chimed, signaling the official start of the program, you and Professor Heimerdinger eventually parted ways. He gave you an encouraging pat on the arm before shuffling toward the grand seating area reserved for council members and esteemed guests.

You lingered near the back of the plaza, blending in with the bustling crowd. From your vantage point, you spotted Councilor Salo deep in conversation with Councilor Hoskel, both men laughing politely over some joke you couldn’t hear. Salo looked perfectly at ease among the polished elite, as though he belonged to a world you had only ever brushed the edges of.

Trumpets blared, drawing your attention back to the stage. One by one, members of Piltover’s highest circle took to the podium, giving lofty speeches about innovation, prosperity, and the city’s shining future. You shifted on your feet, only half-listening, your mind drifting again and again to Silco’s unexplained absence.

Finally, Councilor Kiramman rose, her voice strong and clear. “Today, we celebrate the triumphs of our brilliant minds. It is my honor to introduce you to one such mind—an inventor who has forever changed the course of Piltover’s destiny. Please welcome, Jayce Talis.”

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Jayce strode confidently onto the stage, but you noticed a flicker of nerves as he scanned the audience, searching for something or someone.

When his eyes finally landed on you, he visibly relaxed, flashing you a brilliant, boyish smile that made your chest ache with secondhand pride.

You smiled back warmly, mouthing a silent “good luck” just as he turned toward the podium.

Jayce began, predictably, with his usual grand declarations about the spirit of Progress Day. “Today,” he said, voice strong and clear over the plaza, “we celebrate the future. A future built by dreamers and makers. By those unafraid to imagine a better world and work tirelessly to create it.”

The crowd ate it up. Cheers and applause punctuated his speech every few sentences. He talked about Hextech next—how it had transformed Piltover into a beacon of hope, how it had made the impossible possible. Every mention of Hextech brought an extra glint of pride to his voice, and you couldn't help but smile at how deeply he believed in it.

But then Jayce’s tone shifted, softening slightly. “Yet, innovation means nothing if it doesn’t reach everyone,” he said, and the noise of the plaza died down into a curious hush. “The Undercity—our neighbors, our kin—still suffer from the shadows we have ignored for too long.”

The silence was heavier now, the air taut with discomfort. You felt your heart beat a little faster.

Jayce continued, undeterred, his eyes flicking back to you. “One of our own—an inventor whose work deserves as much recognition as any Hextech breakthrough—has developed a technology that could bring clean air to the Undercity. A chance for health. A chance for dignity.”

He didn’t say your name, but you felt every pair of eyes in the crowd shift and settle around you. Your project was no secret to your peers, but to feel their scrutiny on you was suffocating.

Jayce ended his speech with a rallying cry, one meant to stitch the two worlds closer together. “Progress is only real if it’s shared. And it’s time we bring the light of innovation not just to Piltover, but to every soul beneath it!”

For a breathless moment, there was only silence.

Then, as if a dam had broken, a wave of applause burst through the plaza. Cheers, whistles, claps—fierce and genuine.

You stood there, frozen in place, feeling exposed and strangely humbled all at once.

For a fleeting moment, as the cheers rained down around you, you allowed yourself to dream.

You imagined an Undercity where children didn’t have to cough through their first steps, where mothers didn’t have to weigh the price of clean water against food. Where invention didn’t have to come at the cost of blood or bargains.

You wished, almost achingly, that Silco, Jinx, Sevika—and even Chross—were here to hear Jayce’s words. Maybe then they'd believe that hope was more than just a fool’s luxury. Maybe then they'd see the world you were trying to build.

Your reverie was interrupted by a familiar, smooth voice.

“Well, well. Seems I’ve been usurped,” came Councilor Salo’s familiar, teasing tone.

You turned to find him weaving through the dispersing crowd, his cloak pristine even among the chaos of applause. He stopped in front of you with an easy smile, one eyebrow arched in mock injury.

“I thought I was your patron,” he said, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. “And yet, here you are, revealing your great triumph to all of Piltover before even telling me.”

You laughed lightly, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “I was planning to tell you later at the gala, I swear,” you said. “Jayce... well, he insisted on including it in his speech. It wasn't exactly something I could stop.”

Salo chuckled, the teasing light in his eyes softening. “I suppose I’ll have to forgive you, then. Given the circumstances.”

His eyes sharpened just slightly, the playful note never quite leaving his voice. “But you’ll have to make it up to me later at the gala. I expect the honor of your company for at least a dance—or two.”

He smiled, half in jest, half in something more deliberate, and you could tell he wasn’t really asking.

You offered him a playful but cautious smile. “Alright, Councilor. But only if you don’t mind me stepping all over your toes.”

Salo laughed, a warm, genuine sound that drew a few curious glances from nearby guests. “For you, my dear, I’ll endure a few bruises.”

You chuckled softly, though a flicker of wariness remained in your chest.

The gala was held on the very top floor of one of Piltover’s most prestigious towers. A place you’d only seen in passing, never daring to imagine you might one day step inside. Yet here you were.

The grand glass-paneled hall glittered like a jewel against the night, the soaring ceilings strung with delicate, floating lights that gave the whole place a dreamlike glow. Despite all your years in Piltover, the sheer extravagance of it all still managed to steal your breath away.

You smoothed the folds of your dress—a deep viridian green that shimmered like polished ivy under the lights. The backless, halter neckline left your shoulders bare to the cool air, while your hair, pinned in a simple yet elegant updo, felt unfamiliar without its usual weight on your neck.

Clutching your mask, an intricate piece of silver filigree, in one hand, you approached the marble entrance where a stern-looking guard awaited. You handed over your invitation with a steady hand, your heart hammering from a mix of nerves and anticipation.

The guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing you to pass.

You hadn't taken more than a few steps inside when you felt a familiar presence.

Across the shimmering sea of masked figures, Councilor Salo’s eyes, sharp even behind his elaborate golden mask, found you almost immediately. A slow, wolfish smile curved his lips as he excused himself from a cluster of other councilors and began making his way toward you, cutting through the crowd like a man who already knew exactly what he wanted.

He stopped before you with a slight bow, his smile softening. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaned in and pressed a light, courteous kiss to your cheek, the action felt practiced and far too intimate for the setting.

“You look absolutely stunning tonight,” he said with a charming smile, his voice low and smooth, carrying just the right amount of admiration.

You tilted your head slightly, offering him a polite smile in return. “Thank you, Councilor. You’re not so bad yourself.” It was a diplomatic response, though you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of unease as his eyes lingered on you for a fraction too long.

He chuckled, the sound light but laced with something almost too knowing. “Oh, please,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Call me Allira. No need for titles between us. We’re... past that now, aren’t we?”

His words sent a slight shiver down your spine, though you did your best not to let it show. You nodded, though the knot of unease twisting in your stomach heightened.

As the chatter around you swirled, you found yourself suddenly keenly aware of how out of place you felt among the wealthier, more polished faces of Piltover’s elite. You were used to being in labs, back alleys, or the underbelly of the city, but not here, in the heart of high society. The perfectly crafted words, the knowing smiles, the effortless poise of everyone around you; it felt like they could all see through you.

Salo noticed your discomfort immediately. He raised a brow, his gaze softening with a trace of what might have been sympathy... or perhaps something more patronizing.

“You’ll have to get used to this,” he remarked, his tone unbothered. “These kinds of events will be a regular part of your future. You’ll be attending many more like it from now on.”

Your brow furrowed slightly in confusion, but before you could ask him what he meant by that, his words lingering like an unsolved puzzle in your mind, he extended his arm toward you, his gesture warm yet authoritative.

"Come, let me introduce you to a few of my colleagues. It would be a shame not to share your accomplishments with those who could benefit from them."

You slipped your mask on, feeling strangely grateful for the barrier it gave you. The moment it settled on your face, it was as if you could breathe easier, even if only slightly.

Salo led you into the throng with practiced ease, offering polite greetings and small talk to the figures that passed by. You kept your smile in place, nodding and exchanging pleasantries, all while letting your eyes wander through the crowd.

Almost immediately, you spotted Jayce, his tall frame unmistakable even among the glamorous masses. He stood near Councilor Medarda, the two of them deep in conversation, laughter dancing at the corners of Mel’s mouth as she said something that made Jayce grin sheepishly. You felt a brief surge of warmth at the sight. Jayce always did have a way of putting people at ease, even in settings like this.

You half-expected to see Viktor hovering nearby, perhaps with a drink awkwardly in hand, but when you scanned the room, there was no sign of him. A small thread of disappointment tugged at you. Maybe he was still working... or maybe he had decided to skip the festivities altogether.

Your gaze moved on. By one of the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, Councilors Hoskel and Shoola were engaged in animated conversation with a few elegantly dressed strangers—investors, you guessed. Their gestures were grand, their laughter too sharp to be truly joyful.

Further to the side, Councilor Kiramman and her husband stood together, speaking to another group. Unlike the others, they seemed more reserved, their movements calm and composed. Mrs. Kiramman offered the occasional tight smile, but her husband’s gaze flicked around the room now and then, wary, calculating.

Salo steered you toward a small group gathered near one of the ornate fountains at the edge of the room. He exchanged greetings easily, as if he belonged among them, and introduced you with a casual confidence that made your skin prickle.

“This,” he said with a smile, “is the brilliant young woman responsible for one of Piltover’s newest innovations.”

There were polite nods, murmurs of approval, the clinking of champagne glasses. You did your best to accept their praise gracefully, though you could feel the weight of their scrutiny behind every cordial word.

An elder lady, dressed in layers of deep violet silk and adorned with an extravagant feathered mask, leaned in slightly, peering at you with a twinkle of amusement in her sharp eyes. “Such a lovely pair,” she said, her voice loud enough for the nearby guests to hear. “It’s always lovely to see young love flourishing alongside ambition.”

You felt the heat rise to your face immediately, your mouth parting as you scrambled for a polite correction. “Oh—”

But Salo beat you to it.

He let out a low chuckle, oozing charm, and bowed his head slightly toward the woman. “You honor us, madam. I couldn’t agree more.”

You blinked, heart skipping, a flush creeping up your neck despite yourself. That's not true! you wanted to blurt out, but under the weight of so many watching eyes, under the sharp glint of the ballroom chandeliers, the words caught and died in your throat.

You forced a polite smile and sipped from the champagne glass a server had pressed into your hand moments earlier, wondering if you could politely strangle a councilor in the middle of a gala without causing a scandal.

As the chatter around you softened and the music shifted into a slower, lilting melody, the energy in the grand room seemed to change. Couples drifted naturally onto the dance floor, masks glinting under the chandelier lights. You sensed the inevitable before it even happened.

Salo extended his hand to you with a charming bow. “May I have this dance?”

You hesitated for half a second before slipping your hand into his, telling yourself this was your opportunity, not just to play the polite guest, but to confront him about earlier. As he led you onto the floor, the crowd faded into a colorful blur.

You moved in step with him, the silk of your dress brushing against his tailored suit, the scent of expensive cologne clinging to the space between you. You waited until you were out of earshot of the other guests before finally speaking, voice low but firm.

“About earlier,” you said, keeping your gaze steady on his masked face. “You didn’t correct her.”

Salo smiled slightly, almost lazily. “No, I didn’t,” he agreed, unbothered. “Because I didn’t see the need to.”

You stared at him, your steps faltering for the briefest moment before he guided you smoothly back into rhythm.

“I'm not blind,” he murmured. “Nor am I subtle when I find someone worth my time.” His hand pressed slightly firmer against the small of your back. “You have remarkable potential. A brilliant mind, a sharp wit... and you are breathtaking. Together, you and I could achieve more than you ever dreamed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but as he spun you again, something—no, someone caught the corner of your eye. Across the room, standing partially obscured by a marble pillar, you thought you saw a familiar figure: a man with raven hair, a half-shadowed expression, and an unmistakable air of coiled authority.

Silco?

You craned your neck slightly, your heart lurching, trying to catch a better look, but Salo spun you around again, pulling your focus back to him. When you turned toward where you’d seen the figure, the space was empty. Like a mirage swallowed by the crowd.

Your pulse stuttered. Had it really been him? Or were your thoughts, your worries, conjuring phantoms?

“Think about it,” Salo, oblivious to your sudden distraction, pressed on, his voice smooth like honey. “If you were with me, doors would open for you. Connections. Influence. Security beyond anything Piltover or the Undercity alone could offer. We would be a force that even the Council couldn’t ignore.”

His hand tightened just slightly on your waist. “You wouldn't have to struggle for scraps of respect anymore. You’d have power, real power, by my side.”

The room seemed to spin slightly—whether from the champagne, the heavy air of the ballroom, or the weight of Salo’s words, you couldn’t tell. Or maybe it was the unsettling glimpse of Silco that had knocked the breath out of you.

Fortunately, the stars seemed to align with you tonight. As the final notes of the waltz faded into the air, a man in an elaborate golden mask approached Salo, tapping him lightly on the shoulder.

“Councilor Salo,” the man said with a polished accent, “I hope I’m not intruding, but I’ve been meaning to discuss a matter of business with you. It’s rather time-sensitive.”

You felt the tension ripple through Salo’s frame—the subtle clench of his jaw, the way his hand lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary. He clearly didn’t want to be pulled away without sealing the conversation you’d started.

Still, with a bright, apologetic smile, you seized the moment.

“I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from important business, Councilor,” you said, emphasizing his title deliberately, slipping your hand from his grasp. “I think I’ll get some air.”

He opened his mouth, perhaps to insist, perhaps to protest, but the other man was already steering his attention away, and you took the chance to step back into the crowd, your heart pounding.

You wove through the mass of glittering masks and champagne glasses, desperate for a moment to yourself. The heavy perfume of the ballroom clung to you, cloying and thick. You needed space, needed to breathe.

Finding a small terrace tucked off to the side, you slipped through the open doors and into the cool night air. You pulled your mask off, letting the distant hum of the city settle your frayed nerves.

You leaned against the cool stone of the balcony, staring into the night, but your thoughts were far from the stars above you. Salo’s offer echoed in your mind, a tantalizing prospect of everything you’d dreamed of since you first set foot in Piltover.

A partnership, power, opportunity, the chance to truly influence the world. A life free from the constant balancing act of being pulled between two cities. The Undercity, its suffering, and its potential, all within your grasp if you simply accepted his terms. It sounded so simple, so perfect in theory. And it had everything you'd ever wanted.

You thought of the life you could lead: no more struggling for recognition, no more feeling like a pawn in someone else’s game. With Salo’s backing, you could rise, truly rise. You could improve things for the Undercity—you could change it all. You could open doors that would remain closed for anyone born down there. A necessary sacrifice, perhaps... but a sacrifice you could live with.

But then, Sevika’s words from that night at The Last Drop crept back into your mind. Power built on debt’s not power, it’s a leash.

You gripped the railing harder, trying to hold onto something solid as your thoughts threatened to spiral further. Would accepting Salo’s offer truly free you? Or would you be shackled to a man who had his own designs, his own plans, with no regard for what you really wanted?

But then, your thoughts turned to Silco. He was the man who had caught you off guard, and you knew he would never let you walk away once you entered his orbit. You thought of his ruthlessness, his ambitions, and yet... you thought of the quiet moments, the strange tenderness that flickered in his gaze when it was just the two of you. Could you really live with the weight of knowing you walked away from that? The reality of your feelings for him sank in deeper than you had been willing to admit.

And then there was your father. The weight of Chross’s words, his request for you to return and take over his business, lingered like a silent pull in your chest. Could you abandon him—abandon the very life he’d fought to give you? Would he understand if you chose this path, or would he see it as a betrayal?

Viktor and Jayce were the next faces to invade your mind. Their loyalty, their kindness. You could see their eyes, their hopes in you. The people who had supported you when no one else did. And the idea of walking away from that—from them—felt like a betrayal too.

The question swirled in your mind, a tangled mess of conflicting thoughts and emotions, each one pulling you in different directions.

What do I really want?

You bowed your head, breathing in the night air like it could somehow steady the storm raging inside you.

You didn’t know how much longer you could stand at the crossroads without choosing a path — and you were starting to fear that no matter what you chose, a part of you would be lost along the way.

“A coin for your thoughts?” Jayce’s voice broke through the haze of your thoughts.

You turned, trying to muster your usual teasing charm. “You offering bribes now, Mr. Talis? I thought the Council frowned upon such things.”

Jayce chuckled, but his sharp gaze didn’t waver. He saw past your deflections too easily tonight. His expression softened. “You’re not fooling anyone. Are you okay? I saw you leave so suddenly earlier. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

You felt a slight pang of guilt for brushing him off earlier, but you quickly masked it with a playful grin. “Oh, you know, just needed a breather. That speech of yours really knocked me out. It was so poetic, I thought I’d faint right there in the crowd.” You raised an eyebrow, the teasing edge still present but weak.

Jayce chuckled, though there was no mistaking the way he was still watching you closely. His concern didn’t fade. He knew you better than you realized. He could tell when you were hiding something, even if you did a decent job of masking it.

“Come on,” he said, his smile softening as he took a step closer to you, “I know when you're deflecting. If something's bothering you, you can talk to me, you know.”

You stared at him for a moment, a sense of hesitation washing over you. Could you tell him everything? Would he understand? Your mind was a tangled mess of emotions, and you didn’t know where to start.

Rather than lay your messy heart bare, you tilted your head and decided to wrap it in a safer package. “Hypothetically,” you began, your voice careful, “what would you do if you were offered everything you’d ever dreamed of—security, power, a future where everything you’ve worked for becomes a reality... but at a cost? What if the price was a part of who you are, something that could change everything you’ve fought for?”

Jayce’s brow furrowed, his easy confidence giving way to thoughtful seriousness as he considered your words.

“That's... a heavy hypothetical,” he said after a moment, his voice low enough that it almost got swallowed by the swell of music from inside the ballroom. He frowned slightly, then met your gaze, steady and sincere. “I guess I'd ask myself a few things first. Is the dream still worth chasing if it costs you who you are? And if you have to owe someone for it, was it ever really yours to begin with?”

You swallowed, the truth of his words settling heavily in your gut.

Jayce gave a small, wry smile. “Piltover talks a lot about progress, about building a future. But real progress—the kind that actually matters—has to be yours. Otherwise, you’re just... dressing up someone else’s dream in your colors.”

You looked down at your hands, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your mask.

Jayce's voice softened. “Whatever it is you're thinking about, just... don't sell yourself short. You're too brilliant for that. You don’t need anyone to hand you your future—you’ll build it yourself. You already are.”

You blinked fast, your throat tightening at his earnestness.

Before you could find words to respond, Jayce bumped your shoulder lightly with his. “Besides, you’ve got a lot of people who believe in you. Myself included.”

Before you could respond, your conversation was interrupted by the soft click of heels against stone. Councilor Medarda approached with her usual effortless poise, a slight, knowing smile on her lips.

“Jayce,” she called lightly. “There you are.”

Jayce straightened a little, visibly shifting into his more polished public persona. “Mel,” he greeted, then turned to you with a small grin. “Actually, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

You managed a polite smile as Jayce introduced you personally to Councilor Medarda. She offered her hand, and you shook it, exchanging a few lines of brief, courteous small talk. There was a sharpness behind her polished charm, an analytical way she regarded you that made you feel like she could read every secret tucked behind your mask.

Before long, she gently but firmly sequestered Jayce away, murmuring something about an important meeting he couldn’t afford to miss. As Jayce was pulled along, he turned back, inviting you to come with them.

You declined with a soft laugh, waving him off. “I’ll catch up later. I’m enjoying the view,” you said.

Jayce gave you a quick, understanding nod before disappearing into the crowd with Medarda.

You let out a breath, grateful for the brief moment of quiet. You leaned your hands lightly against the stone railing, drinking in the glittering lights of Piltover below, the hum of the city softened by the height and distance.

The minutes stretched out, peaceful and weightless—until you heard footsteps approaching behind you again.

You smiled to yourself, assuming Jayce had forgotten something. “Back so soon?” you teased over your shoulder.

But it wasn’t Jayce’s voice that answered.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You froze, your heart lurching violently in your chest.

Turning slowly, you came face-to-face with the last person you ever expected to see here, of all places.

Silco.

Chapter Text

“Silco.”

The sound of his name carried a weight, equal parts fear and reverence. As if speaking it too loudly might shatter the moment or make him vanish altogether. The world around you—the soft music, the gilded laughter from the ballroom, the distant clinking of champagne glasses—all of it seemed to fade into a blur as your eyes traced over him.

You stared at him, drinking in every detail as though trying to commit him to memory. He wore a dark, tailored suit with subtle burgundy accents, cut in a fashion that mirrored the very elites who floated through the gala behind you. It fit him too well—far too well for someone who despised everything this place stood for.

The scarred half of his face was hidden beneath a plain white mask, featureless save for the shape it took against his skin. But you would know him anywhere. Even veiled, Silco looked like something carved out of contradiction—rage and restraint, ruin and regality. Under the moonlight, he looked almost divine. Or perhaps condemned. A fallen angel dressed for war, not worship.

You moved before you even thought to.

You rushed toward him, hands reaching out, trembling as they landed on his arms — grounding yourself, needing to feel him, to be sure this wasn’t some cruel illusion brought on by exhaustion and champagne.

“Are you—” your voice cracked, half a laugh, half a sob. “Have you lost your mind?” You looked around, heart thundering in your chest. “If anyone finds out who you are, they’ll throw you in Stillwater before you can even blink!”

Silco’s lips curled into a slow, maddening smirk. “Then I hope you’ll come visit me. Bring me flowers, perhaps. I hear the cells are terribly plain.”

You glared at him, your hands still gripping his sleeves. “This isn’t funny.”

“No,” he said, his voice gentling. “It isn’t.”

You stared at him for another beat before the question spilled out: “Why are you here?”

The humor in his expression faded, his gaze sharpening as he lifted a hand and carefully, deliberately brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.

“I came to see you,” he said. “That’s all.”

Your breath caught.

“I made a promise, didn’t I?” he continued, voice low and sure. “That I would be with you, whatever path you choose. I meant it. I always mean what I say.”

The sincerity in his tone was disarming, almost too much. You felt your heart pounding so hard, you wondered if he could hear it.

Then your hands slowly slid down from his arms, fingers lingering at his wrists as you tried to steady yourself—and failed.

“Silco…” you breathed, the weight of the evening, of the last few weeks, pressing heavily on your chest. “You’re out of your mind. You know that, right?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at you, calmly, resolutely, as if to say, yes, and I’d do it again.

You let out a shaky laugh, full of disbelief and something dangerously close to affection. “You really wore a mask and snuck into a Piltover gala—this gala—just to see me?”

“You make it sound absurd,” he said dryly.

“It is absurd,” you said, unable to stop yourself from smiling now. “Brilliantly, ridiculously absurd.”

Silco’s mouth curved into a knowing smirk. “Is it any more absurd than you sneaking into a Chem-baron meeting dressed like one of my men?”

You let out a laugh, half exasperated, half endeared. “That was different.”

He arched a brow, clearly enjoying himself. “Different how?”

“I had a plan.”

“So did I.”

“You wore a mask and hoped for the best.”

“And you wore a wig and bluffed your way past Sevika.”

You rolled your eyes, the smile tugging at your lips refusing to fade. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

You and Silco locked eyes for a long moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. The air felt thick with something unsaid, and you found yourself trying to steady your breathing. Your thoughts, still tangled from everything that had happened tonight, eventually spilled out.

“I finished my project,” you finally said, your voice a little quieter now. “The air filtration system. It works. I went to The Last Drop to tell you, and the others... but no one was there.”

Silco's gaze softened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. He nodded slowly. “I know.”

The words sent a chill down your spine, an odd sense of unease creeping into your chest. “You know? How?”

He didn’t falter. “I was the one who told the guards to keep you out.”

Your stomach dropped at his admission, and a tinge of suspicion flared in your chest. Why would he do that?

You opened your mouth to ask him, but before you could, the bell rang midnight, cutting your words off.

“There’s something I’d like to show you.” Silco turned slightly, gesturing toward the balcony railing. “Look down below.”

You followed his hand, your curiosity piqued. Something in his voice made your skin prickle, the air around you thick with tension. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

“Just wait,” he said, his tone low, almost ominous. “You’ll find out soon.”

You kept your gaze fixed on the city below, waiting for something to happen, but nothing seemed to change. The night air around you felt heavy with anticipation, and for a moment, you thought you might’ve misunderstood him. You looked back at Silco, but he didn’t speak; he only gave you a subtle nod, urging you to keep watching.

Confused but willing to trust him, you turned your eyes back to the city below, your heart quickening with each passing second. The silence stretched on until—

Pop.

The sound was faint at first, but it quickly grew louder, echoing through the streets, like distant fireworks. Then, in a burst of color, the city was suddenly bathed in vibrant clouds of smoke. Pink, blue, and purple swirled together, rising high into the air. The colors shifted and danced in a way that made the city look otherworldly, almost dreamlike. It was like nothing you had ever seen before.

A gasp left your lips, and you found yourself captivated by the beauty of it. But then, the realization hit you—this had to be Jinx’s doing. The explosion of colors, the chaotic yet artistic flare—it was something only she could pull off.

The commotion inside the gala grew louder. You could hear a few shocked murmurs and the rapid movement of feet on the marble floors. People were likely trying to figure out what was going on, but you couldn’t tear your focus away from Silco. He had to know what this was. And yet, despite the madness unfolding around you, he remained calm, almost eerily so.

Your eyes locked with his, and for a moment, time seemed to slow. You felt a mixture of wonder and uncertainty in your chest, unsure whether to be awed by the spectacle below or worried about what it meant for the future. Silco’s expression was unreadable, his gaze unwavering.

“What... is this?” you finally whispered, unable to keep the question from escaping your lips.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer to you, his voice low and steady. “A reminder,” he said, his eyes flicking briefly to the smoke swirling outside. “Of what happens when the people who have been forgotten finally have their voices heard.”

You were about to speak again when you heard it—another series of popping noises from the distance. The smoke, however, seemed to only grow more intense, obscuring the city’s skyline, yet amplifying the colorful spectacle.

You couldn’t help yourself. The moment you realized the weight of what Silco had just shown you—the intensity of the message, the raw emotion behind his actions—it all suddenly overwhelmed you.  Without thinking, your left hand reached up, fingers trembling slightly, and cupped his cheek. The warmth of his skin under your touch was electric, sending a jolt of realization through your body.

You didn’t stop there. Your right hand, almost as if guided by some force beyond your control, moved to the side of his mask. You hesitated for only a brief moment, the weight of the gesture hanging in the air, before you gently slid it off his face.

The mask came away easily, revealing the familiar, scarred features you had seen so many times both in your dreams and waking moments. But this time, there was no harshness, no cruelty in his gaze. There was just... intensity. You stared into his eyes, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You felt the tension radiating from his body. His posture was rigid, like he was trying to keep some invisible distance between you both, but his breath betrayed him—shallow, quick. He didn’t flinch at your touch, like you expected, and there was something raw in his expression, something vulnerable you had never seen before.

The realization hit you all at once—he wasn’t pushing you away. He wasn’t afraid of this moment. He was holding back. Desperately.

Your fingers lingered at his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin, and you could sense how he was struggling to maintain control, fighting the urge to touch you in return. But still, he didn’t move. It was almost like he was waiting for you to make the first move, like he was afraid of crossing a line.

“You can touch me, you know,” you whispered, your voice softer than you expected. Your fingers gently brushed against his jawline, urging him to move closer. “I’m not some fragile thing that breaks at the first touch.”

His eyes widened, his jaw tightening. Then came the sound—a laugh, low and bitter, tumbling from his lips like something torn loose.

“It’s not you I’m worried about breaking,” he said, shaking his head, eyes dropping to the space between you. “It’s me.”

The honesty in his voice stripped away the bravado he wore like armor. There was no king of the Undercity here. No calculating revolutionary. Just a man—broken in too many places, terrified of what it would mean to let someone in and not survive it.

And yet, he was here.

So were you.

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him he was wrong—that he was stronger than he thought, that he wasn’t broken, just bruised—but the words never made it past your lips.

Silco leaned in.

One hand came up, resting against the side of your neck with surprising gentleness, while the other hovered near your waist, uncertain, almost hesitant. And then he kissed you.

It was not tentative. It was not careful.

It was the kind of kiss that unraveled things.

Deep and consuming, it poured from him like something he’d kept locked away too long—desire, fear, devotion, longing. All of it. It overwhelmed every nerve in your body, stole your breath, and twisted your heart in a way that made your knees falter. The world fell quiet—no more fireworks, no more music from the gala, no footsteps or voices behind you. Just the pounding of your heart and the feeling of his lips claiming yours like a man starved for salvation.

And gods, you kissed him back.

As if you were the one starving.

As if this moment was the answer to a question you hadn’t dared ask until now.

Silco finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice low and frayed. “And I will.”

You didn’t tell him to stop.

Instead, your hands slid from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair as you leaned in again—deliberately this time. No urgency, no chaos. Just you, and him, and the quiet gravity between your hearts.

You kissed him.

Softly.

Like a secret unfurling in the dark. Like something precious and warm you’d kept hidden even from yourself. It wasn’t a kiss born of desperation or stolen time—it was one shaped by certainty. A slow, steady revelation of everything you had never dared to say aloud.

And Silco… he stilled under your touch at first, as though in disbelief. Then he melted into you with a tenderness so at odds with his nature that it nearly broke you. His hands finally found your waist, drawing you closer—not to possess, but to anchor.

All the books in the Academy’s library, all the philosophy you’d devoured under Heimerdinger’s watchful eye—none of it ever came close to defining this. This feeling. This reckless, breathless, terrifying thing blooming in your chest.

Here, in his arms, under the fractured moonlight and the quiet riot of Jinx’s fireworks painting the sky in wild color, nothing else existed. Not Piltover. Not the Undercity. Not expectations, or debts, or the uncertain dawn waiting to gut you both.

Just him.

Just you.

You could die tomorrow, and you would die a happy woman.

When you pulled back this time, it was with the air of someone who had finally found their place. No more words were needed, because you both knew—this, right here, was everything. The future didn’t matter. Not anymore. You had this.

Silco rested his forehead against yours for the second time, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. The two of you stood there, still lost in the echo of that kiss, smiles tugging at your lips as if neither of you could quite believe what just happened.

You closed your eyes, savoring the closeness. “You know,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing, “for someone so stiff and brooding all the time, you're a surprisingly good kisser.”

A short, breathy laugh escaped him. “Is that so?”

You nodded, a grin curling at the edges of your mouth. “Where’d you learn to do that? Some poor merchant’s daughter I don’t know about?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, but there was something raw underneath it. His smile softened as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “No,” he said, voice rough but honest. “There’s never been anyone.”

You blinked, your teasing fading into something gentler.

“I was too busy staying alive,” Silco continued, his tone more reflective than regretful. “Building, fighting, keeping the Undercity from tearing itself apart. This… didn’t exactly fit into the equation.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb lightly over the scarred side of his face. “That’s a shame,” you whispered. “Because I would’ve kissed you a lot sooner.”

Silco let out a slow breath, eyes fluttering closed for a beat like he was committing this to memory—the rooftop, the smoke-colored sky, your hand in his, your mouth against his. “It wouldn’t have mattered when,” he said. “It always would’ve been you.”

Silco took a slow step back, though his fingers remained laced with yours, reluctant to let go. The warmth of his hand anchored you, even as you felt the shift in him—duty settling back into his bones like an old coat.

“I have to go,” he said quietly, his voice brushing against the hush of the wind. “The enforcers will be crawling all over the Undercity after this.” He tilted his head slightly toward the horizon, where smoke still bloomed in whimsical colors. “I need to make sure Jinx doesn’t turn mischief into a war.”

You squeezed his hand instinctively, not ready to let the moment slip away. “Will she be alright?”

He gave a faint smile, wearied but fond. “She’s my daughter. She’ll be more than alright. The one I’m worried about is Piltover’s star who’s caught between too many worlds.”

You didn’t answer right away—didn’t have to. The way your thumb traced over his knuckles said enough.

Silco lifted your joined hands to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your fingers. “I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, a quiet promise stitched into every word.

And with one last look—so full of everything he hadn’t yet said—he turned and melted into the throng of people inside. Just like a ghost, only now you knew he was real.

You slipped back inside the grand hall not long after, the warmth and noise of the party crashing into you like a wave. The air was thick with murmurs and speculation—everyone buzzing about the colorful explosion that had lit up the sky moments ago. No one seemed to know who was responsible, though you had a feeling the more astute minds in the room were already forming dangerous suspicions.

Your gaze darted across the crowd until you spotted Jayce, shoulders tense, deep in conversation with Councilor Medarda. Her brow was furrowed, her expression sharp and calculating. You began making your way toward them, your mind already racing with how to steer the narrative—or at the very least, gather what they knew.

But you didn’t get far.

A firm but not unkind hand closed around your arm, stopping you in your tracks. You turned—and there was Councilor Salo.

He looked composed as ever, though his eyes searched yours with an intensity that unsettled you.

“Where have you been?” he asked, his voice low and measured. “I looked everywhere after the—” he gestured vaguely toward the balcony, “—explosions.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words didn’t come as easily now. Not after Silco. Not with Salo’s hand still wrapped around your arm.

He noticed your hesitation. His fingers loosened, but they didn’t fall away. “Are you alright?” he asked, tone shifting just slightly—still concerned, still charming, but threaded now with something sharper.

Possessiveness. Suspicion. Or maybe something else entirely.

You offered Salo a soft smile, tilting your head slightly in feigned apology. “I just needed some air,” you said smoothly. “The crowd was starting to feel a bit much, and I thought I’d take a moment for myself on the balcony.”

His gaze searched your face, clearly not fully convinced—but not yet ready to call your bluff either.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” you added, your voice light, almost teasing. “I wasn’t trying to make a dramatic exit. Just wanted to watch the fireworks somewhere quiet.”

Salo let out a breath, his expression softening just enough. “You have impeccable timing, then,” he said, releasing your arm. “They went off right after you disappeared.”

You shrugged delicately, playing into the mystery with a half-smile. “Maybe the universe just wanted to entertain me.”

Salo chuckled at that, though the edge in his eyes remained. “Well, I’m glad you’re alright,” he said. “But next time you vanish in the middle of a party, at least leave me a clue.”

You nodded, the tension easing a little. “Noted, Councilor.”

He gave you a look. “Allira,” he corrected softly, reminding you again of what he wanted to be to you. “Come. I think Jayce and Medarda would want your take on what just happened.”

You followed, the sound of your heels drowned by the rising hum of the crowd. But inside, your mind still lingered on another name. One you didn’t dare say aloud—not here. Not now.

The cool night air kissed your skin as you stepped out into the quiet streets of Piltover, your heels clicking softly against the polished stone. Jayce, ever the gentleman, had offered to walk you home. You hadn't objected. Part of you still needed the grounding presence, the normalcy of familiar company. You barely noticed the remnants of Jinx’s smoke bomb still scattered across the streets—faint streaks of pink and blue in the air, like forgotten remnants of a dream.

The gala had ended in a haze of speculation and tension. Whispers of the colorful smoke clouds still lingered in every conversation. Fortunately, Councilor Salo had been pulled into an emergency meeting before he could press you further. You hadn't missed the way his eyes lingered on you as he left, reluctant, calculating, and just a touch of pleading. But he'd gone—and now, it was just you and Jayce walking through the now sleeping city, bathed in lamplight and moon glow.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, glancing sideways at your companion. Jayce had undone the top button of his collar, his mask tucked under one arm, his other hand in his pocket.

“You really think it was just kids messing around?” he asked, his voice thoughtful but still laced with a light-hearted tone. “I don’t know… that kind of spectacle seems a bit beyond what most would consider a harmless prank.”

You shrugged, trying to sound as casual as possible despite the uneasy twist in your stomach. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Just a little chaotic fun, nothing more.” You hoped that would be enough to appease Jayce and Mel—after all, it wasn’t like you could admit what had truly happened, and you didn’t want them digging any deeper into it.

Jayce seemed to accept that explanation for the moment. His smile softened, but his eyes held a curiosity you couldn’t quite place. “You’re different tonight,” he noted with a glance toward you. “Happier, maybe?”

You stiffened slightly, the question catching you off guard. “Happier?” you echoed, trying to keep your voice neutral, but something in your expression must have given you away because Jayce raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Well, yeah,” he continued, clearly teasing. “I mean, you’ve been in a lot of… interesting situations lately. Maybe Councilor Salo finally wore you down with all his charm?” His grin was playful, but you could see the glimmer of genuine curiosity in his eyes.

You couldn’t help but scrunch your face in disgust at the mere mention of Salo. “Ugh, absolutely not.” You shook your head vehemently. “I don’t know how you could even think that. You know I’d never—” You trailed off, shaking your head again, feeling a blush rise in your cheeks at how hard you were protesting.

Jayce laughed, clearly enjoying the banter. “Alright, alright. I was just asking.” He gave you a teasing nudge with his shoulder. “But, seriously, if not him, then who? Someone else catch your eye at the gala?”

You shot him a vague and teasing smile. “Maybe,” you replied with a playful shrug, leaving the answer up to his imagination. It was a subtle response, but one that would leave him wondering, and you secretly liked the idea of keeping him guessing. “But that's a story for another time.”

The two of you continued walking in silence for a moment, the soft crunch of your footsteps echoing in the empty street as you let the night air clear your thoughts. It was strange—standing here, in this fleeting moment, it almost felt like nothing could go wrong.

As you turned the final corner toward your home, still basking in the strange serenity of the night, your steps slowed.

There was someone sitting on your doorstep.

A solitary figure, hunched slightly, as if weighed down by exhaustion or worry. At first, you thought it might just be a loiterer, perhaps a drunk reveler who lost their way after the Progress Day festivities. But as you drew closer, the shape sharpened into familiarity—broad shoulders, the signature tilt of the head, and the unmistakable glint of metal catching the moonlight.

Your heart dropped.

“Elm?” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

He looked up at you slowly, and though his face was mostly expressionless, the tightness in his jaw and the sheen of sweat on his brow betrayed something—urgency, maybe. Fear. Or both.

You reached him in a few quick steps, Jayce calling your name in concern from behind as he noticed your sudden change in pace.

“Elm, what are you doing here?” you asked, voice low, careful. Your eyes darted across the street, checking for anyone watching.

He looked up at you, and only then did you see him properly—his usually neat clothes were rumpled, darkened in places with dirt and... something else. It took a heartbeat longer to realize it was blood. Smeared along his forearms, soaked into the edges of his sleeves, dried into the fine lines between his mechanical fingers. Some of it was his, maybe. But not all.

“Something’s happened,” Elm said, voice rough and low, as though each word cost him effort.

Your breath hitched. “What do you mean?”

Elm’s jaw tightened. “It’s Chross.”

You stared at him, uncomprehending, the weight of his words refusing to land.

Then he said it. Final. Flat. Like a guillotine.

“He’s dead.”

You blinked.

“No,” you said automatically, a breath, not a word. “That’s—no.”

Elm didn’t repeat himself.

Your ears started to ring, the distant buzz growing louder, drowning out everything else. You barely registered Jayce calling your name behind you, or his hurried footsteps as he reached your side. The street, the lights, the warmth of the evening—it all blurred as your mind flashed back to this morning. Chross had been sitting at his desk, as always, poring over paperwork. You’d told him about your breakthrough, and he’d looked at you with that rare spark of pride in his eyes. You’d promised to bring him a copy of Jayce’s speech and those toffee apples he loved so much.

You’d forgotten. You hadn’t gotten the apple.

And now—

You swayed where you stood. Elm moved instinctively, gripping your elbow, grounding you with his firm hold. You couldn’t speak. You weren’t sure you could breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Elm said, and it sounded like he meant it. “We didn’t see it coming.”

Jayce was saying something beside you—your name again, asking what was wrong—but his voice felt miles away.

Everything felt miles away. Everything except the sickening truth settling in your chest like stone: he was gone.

Chapter Text

The rain fell in a gentle drizzle, more mist than storm, but persistent enough to cling to everything—coating the grass in silver, soaking the stones until they glistened like fresh ink. The scent of damp earth and wet metal lingered in the air, carried on the wind that tugged faintly at your coat. You stood still before the headstone, your eyes locked on the carved letters as if they might shift, might spell something else if you stared long enough.

But they didn’t change.

CHROSS
Beloved Father. Respected Friend.
Gone, but not forgotten.

Gone. You repeated the word in your mind, turning it over like a stone in your palm. Gone. Gone. Gone.

You had read those words at least a hundred times now, and yet they meant nothing and everything. They stared back at you like a cruel joke—hollow and too final. “Chross,” they had written. Just Chross. No surname. No past. No legacy beyond what he had built in the underbelly of a city that never wanted him.

And you realized with startling clarity: you never even knew his real name.

You knew he had once lived in Piltover, that he left for reasons he never spoke of, but you never asked more. He had always been Chross to you—strong, stern, infuriatingly secretive—and you thought there would be time to learn the rest later. Time to ask him about his childhood, his scars, his dreams before they hardened into business deals and battlefield alliances.

But later never came.

A quiet sigh escaped you, curling into the mist. You didn’t bother to brush away the droplets clinging to your lashes—it wasn’t tears, after all. You hadn’t cried. Not when Elm arrived covered in blood. Not when Jayce tried to hold you upright when your knees buckled. Not during the sleepless nights that followed, where silence became your only companion.

You shoved the grief down, again and again, stuffing it into some unreachable part of you like a child hiding broken glass beneath the floorboards. Because there was no time. Not now. Grief was a luxury you couldn’t afford—not with the business in flux, not with enemies likely circling, not with the pressure already mounting to decide what kind of Chem-baron’s daughter you were going to be. Or if you were going to be a Chem-baron at all.

Because the world did not pause for a grieving daughter. Not in Piltover, not in the Undercity. Not for you.

You hadn’t even had time to buy flowers.

Behind you, you could hear the faint murmurs of Chross’s men—your men now. Jin lingered closest, her eyes cautious but quiet. Elm stood at your side, tall and steady, an umbrella angled carefully over your head, though his own shoulder was getting soaked. He hadn’t said much, just stood with you through it all, as if he knew words would only scrape against raw wounds.

“I was supposed to bring him toffee apples,” you said absently, staring at the headstone. “From Progress Day. He always liked the ones with the hard caramel shell. I told him I would.” You laughed—short, bitter. “I forgot. I forgot the damn apples.”

Elm didn’t speak, and you were grateful. There was nothing to say to that.

The rain fell heavier now, a chill settling into your bones, but you didn’t move. Your jaw clenched as the silence stretched on, and something inside you—something raw and wounded—twisted into something harder. Grief wasn’t clean or poetic. It was fractured and cruel.

“I want to know who did this,” you said, voice low but iron in its edge. “I want names, Elm. I don’t care how deep we have to dig, or who we have to bleed for it. I want every name. Every rat who had a hand in this.”

Elm shifted slightly, his grip tightening around the umbrella handle. “You’ll have them.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into the callused skin of your palms.

“I swear it,” you said, more to yourself than anyone else. “Whoever took him from me will pay.”

The world didn’t stop for grieving daughters. But maybe it would tremble—for a furious one.

The sound of footsteps crunching against wet gravel drew your attention.

You turned slowly, eyes narrowing as silhouettes emerged through the haze of rain and sorrow. Silco led the small procession, his dark coat dusted with droplets, a subtle sheen of water clinging to the fabric like smoke. Sevika walked just a pace behind him, silent and stone-faced, holding an umbrella above his head with the ease of someone used to shielding power from the weather.

A few more figures trailed them—Ran among them, their eyes flicking around the perimeter, ever watchful. The rest of Silco’s men remained further back, respectful or cautious—you couldn’t be sure. This was still your father’s territory. Yours now.

You remembered seeing Silco at the wake—just a brief glimpse while you spoke your eulogy with a voice that didn’t sound like your own. He hadn’t stayed. He hadn’t said a word. By the time you looked for him again, he was already gone. You had almost convinced yourself it was your imagination.

But now he was here.

And as he approached, your heart nearly broke with the urge to collapse into him, to let his arms wrap around you and silence the storm howling inside your chest. But you didn’t move. You stood your ground, shoulders squared, spine rigid.

You couldn't afford softness now—not in front of your men. Not while your father’s body was barely cold.

Silco seemed to understand. His eyes—cool, perceptive—met yours, and something in them shifted. The sharpness softened, dulled by something quieter. Something only meant for you.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. His voice was low and even, but there was weight behind it, sincerity that didn’t require flourish.

You nodded once. Without needing a word from you, Elm seemed to understand. He lingered for only a moment before quietly stepping back, passing you the umbrella. Sevika gave you a nod as well—stiff, uncomfortable, but honest.

“Sorry about the old man,” she muttered gruffly. “He was a bastard, but one of ours.”

You managed a faint smile. “He’d be proud to hear that.”

And then it was just you and Silco, standing in the rain before the stone that marked the end of a life far too complex to be summed up in carved words.

You broke the silence first. “How’s Jinx?”

Silco turned his head, a little surprised at the question. You could see it in the flick of his brow, the small crease between his eyes. You knew it was a deflection. He knew it too. But he answered anyway. “She misses you,” he said after a moment. “She asked if she could come today, but… I didn’t think this would be the right place for her.”

It wasn’t. Jinx and grief did not mix well. “I miss her too.”

“She’s been quiet,” he added. “Since Progress Day. She’s been making things, trying to keep herself occupied. But I can tell she feels it, too. The shift.”

You didn’t ask what he meant by shift. You already knew. Your father’s death had cracked something open, and the aftershocks were only just beginning.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t heavy—not with him. Then, softly, Silco spoke again.

“Chross threatened me before.”

You blinked, startled. “He did?”

Silco gave a short nod. “It was when I paid him a visit after that Chem-baron meeting you snuck into. Told me if anything happened to you—anything—he’d burn both Piltover and the Undercity to the ground. He said it like a promise, not a threat. Like he’d already decided it was worth the cost.”

Your hand tightened around the umbrella’s handle, breath caught in your throat. You could see it. You could see your father saying exactly that, in the calm, matter-of-fact tone he used when threatening someone’s entire lineage.

Silco let out a slow breath. “At the time, I thought it was arrogance. Or sentimentality. I didn’t understand it. You were a complication. A dangerous one—a storm I couldn’t quite chart. You were curious about too many things. Too unpredictable. I didn’t trust you, not yet.”

He turned his head slightly, looking at you. You hadn’t realized how close he’d drawn until you felt the weight of his gaze, hot and unflinching, burning through every barrier you’d carefully kept up.

“But things change,” he said. “And now I find myself thinking about that conversation more than I care to admit.”

You looked up at him, brows furrowed, lips parting to speak—but the words never came. Because what you saw in his eyes rooted you to the spot: conviction, fierce and unyielding.

“I understand him now,” his gaze hardened, and for a fleeting moment, you could see the ruthless resolve that had made him the force he was. “I would do the same for anyone I hold dear. For Jinx. For you.”

His words hung in the air between you like a storm cloud—heavy, certain, and powerful.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, processing the weight of what he said. It wasn’t a threat. It was an understanding—one born of the same fire that had driven both him and your father to sacrifice everything for the people they loved.

Your breath caught in your throat, and though your mind screamed to keep your composure, you felt the weight of his conviction settle deep in your chest.

Silco took a step closer, eyes never leaving yours. “If anyone threatens you—harms you—I won’t burn the world.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“I’ll unmake it.”

And just like that, you understood.

That was his confession. Not dressed in sweet words or declarations—but in conviction. In the promise of destruction for anyone foolish enough to hurt you. And somehow, it was more intimate, more real, than anything you’d ever heard whispered between lovers.

Your heart swelled in your chest, painful in its intensity.

It was his way of saying he loved you.

And you knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he meant every word.

Silco’s hand shifted slightly, just enough to brush against yours. The touch was tentative at first—almost unsure—but then his fingers curled around yours in a gentle, grounding squeeze. You held your breath, the rain muffling the rest of the world as that quiet moment bloomed between you.

It was fleeting, barely a second long before he released you and stepped back, the mask of the feared man of Zaun sliding seamlessly back into place. But you felt it—the warmth of his palm still lingering against your skin, a silent promise nestled in the spaces between your fingers.

It was all he could give you now. And it was enough.

“When you’re ready,” he said, his voice low and sure, “you know where to find me.”

You gave a small nod, unable to trust your voice.

Then he turned, coat catching the breeze, and walked away. Sevika fell in beside him, offering only a brief, gruff nod in your direction before they disappeared through the veil of mist and marble, with Ran and the others trailing silently behind.

You exhaled, long and slow, before turning back to the headstone once more. The stone looked even paler beneath the gray sky, the carved name still unfamiliar and stark. You traced it with your eyes, not your hands—still unsure if touching it would make it too real.

“I’ll bring you flowers next time,” you murmured softly. “And those toffee apples, too. The sticky ones you always said were too sweet but still finished anyway.” Your lips quirked upward, faintly, briefly. “Just… wait a little longer. I’ll come back when it’s quiet.”

The ache in your chest throbbed, but you kept it deep, buried beneath the steel you’d had to wear every day since Elm brought you the news. There would be time for breaking later. But not now.

Not yet.

You gave the headstone one last look, then turned to rejoin Elm, Jin, and the rest of your men. Elm met your eyes, silent as ever, and handed the umbrella back without a word.

You walked forward together, your heels crunching on the gravel, your coat fluttering behind you in the breeze. Whatever came next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

And when the time came to burn down the world, you’d make damn sure everyone who took from you would know what it meant to grieve the way you did.

Silco closed the door to his office with a soft click, the quiet hum of The Last Drop muffled behind the heavy wood. The rain still whispered against the windows, casting streaks of citylight across the floor. He rolled his shoulders slowly, the lingering tension of the graveyard still stiff in his bones.

“Finally,” came Jinx’s voice, sharp and too loud, breaking the stillness. She was perched on the edge of his desk like a brightly colored gargoyle—arms crossed, one leg kicking the air, the other tapping erratically against the side of the drawer.

“You took your sweet time,” she added, head cocked. “Did you cry? You cried, didn’t you?” She grinned, but the sharpness in her teeth didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Silco gave her a look and said nothing at first, shrugging off his coat and hanging it with deliberate care. He always gave her time to walk back her own words. She rarely did.

“She okay?” Jinx asked, more quietly now, voice losing its edge. “Y’know… her.”

Silco crossed the room, boots thudding softly on the worn floorboards, and leaned against the corner of the desk opposite her. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he watched her.

Her hair was messier than usual. A smudge of smoke-streaked soot dusted her cheek. Her hands were idle—but not still. Fingers twitched over the fabric of her shorts, pressing at the stitching, nails worrying the fray at the hem. The way her knee bounced was too irregular to be boredom. Too restless to be anything but emotion she didn’t want to name.

“She’s holding herself together,” he said finally. “But just barely.”

Jinx glanced away.

Silco tilted his head, voice soft but steady. “She asked about you.”

That got her attention. Her eyes snapped back to his, wide and blinking fast. “She did?”

He nodded.

A flash of something—hope, grief, maybe guilt—passed over Jinx’s face like stormlight. She turned her body just slightly, no longer swinging her legs. Instead, her heels curled against the desk’s edge.

“I didn’t mean to…” she started, then stopped. “I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I just… thought it’d be pretty. Y’know? For Progress Day. All those boring Piltover people looking up for once.”

“I know,” Silco said, quietly.

“She always liked the colors.” Her voice cracked a little, but she masked it with a shrug. “Told me once that the Undercity needed more color. Guess I got carried away.”

Silco didn’t correct her. He didn’t say that no one had been hurt, that you hadn’t been angry—only worried. He didn’t say that you’d looked up at that sky and smiled, and he hadn’t seen a trace of blame in your expression.

Instead, he reached out and placed a firm hand on her knee to still its shaking.

“She misses you,” he said simply.

Jinx went very still. Her eyes dropped to his hand, then to the worn floor between them. “I miss her too.”

“She’ll come back,” he added. “When it’s time. When she can.”

Just as the last words left Silco's mouth, the office door creaked open without warning, and Sevika stepped inside, her usual confident gait momentarily stilled by the tension in the room. The moment she entered, Silco knew something was wrong—her expression was all business, no traces of the usual dry humor or stoic indifference that often accompanied her.

“We need to talk,” Sevika began, her voice low and urgent.

Silco gave Jinx one last look, his eyes steady, before he nodded and straightened. “Go get some rest, Jinx.”

Jinx’s lip curled, her foot tapping furiously against the desk again. “You’re treating me like a damn child,” she huffed, hands on her hips.

Silco didn’t flinch at her outburst. He lowered his voice, the tone soft but firm. “You are a child.”

Jinx’s eyes narrowed, but the usual sharpness was gone, replaced by something faintly vulnerable. She pulled her legs from the desk and swung them to the floor, standing up slowly. “Whatever,” she muttered, shooting a defiant glance at Sevika. She threw Silco a last look, a mixture of annoyance and something softer underneath, as she grumbled about how you wouldn’t treat her like this before walking out.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Silco exhaled deeply, turning his full attention to Sevika, who was already awaiting his reaction. He could feel the weight of whatever news she carried in her stance alone. Whatever it was, it had to be dealt with immediately. The city never slowed.

“What’s going on, Sevika?” he asked, his voice low, expectant.

Sevika stepped closer, the low light from the desk lamp casting sharp angles across her scarred face. She crossed her arms, the metal of her prosthetic creaking faintly.

“It’s Finn,” she said. “I’ve been hearing things. He’s been moving quiet—too quiet. Talking to people, trying to turn them. Promising them power, coin, a seat at the table if they walk away from you.”

Silco leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Finn’s always been ambitious,” he murmured. “But ambition without the nerve to back it up is just noise. He doesn’t have the stomach to get his hands dirty.”

“Maybe,” Sevika replied. “But people get stupid when they think they can take your place without having to bleed for it.”

Silco’s eyes narrowed. He was quiet for a moment, his mind already moving ten steps ahead. “Let him talk. Let them listen. It’s easier to expose a traitor when he thinks he’s safe to plot. Don’t interfere yet. Just watch. Listen. When the time comes, I want to be ready.”

Sevika gave a grunt of approval. “Got it.”

But she didn’t move to leave.

Silco tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked on her. “There’s more.”

Sevika hesitated. She rarely did. That was what made the pause so telling. Her gaze flicked to the side, jaw tightening like she was chewing on glass.

“What is it?” he asked, voice soft but sharp at the edges.

Sevika’s eyes flicked toward the door, then back to him. “I’ve been thinking about Chross’s death.”

Silco’s gaze sharpened, but he said nothing. He let her speak.

“Doesn’t sit right with me,” she continued. “They said it was a deal gone wrong, but that old man has always been careful. He never bit more than he could chew. And people are whispering, saying it felt too clean. Too sudden. Like someone wanted him out of the way fast.”

Silco’s fingers stilled against the desk.

“I think Finn might’ve had a hand in it.”

That earned her a long, steady look. Silco's voice dropped, almost a growl. “You’d better have more than whispers for a claim like that.”

Sevika nodded once. “Someone saw him. Few days before Progress Day, over at Bridgewaltz. He approached her while she was eating alone. Looked like it didn’t go well. Whatever was said between them, it shook her up. Finn walked away like he’d swallowed a handful of glass.”

Silco leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “And you think that was more than just Finn being his usual, smug self?”

“I think he tested the waters. Gave her an offer and she refused,” Sevika said. “And I think he didn't take that refusal lightly. Chross was the only thing standing between her and the top seat of his operation. Take him out, and suddenly she's exposed. Vulnerable.”

Silco’s jaw tensed. “Finn doesn’t make moves without someone whispering in his ear.”

“Which means he’s not alone in this.”

Silco leaned back slowly, his mind already beginning to stitch the pieces together. The pattern was starting to show through the fog. Finn had always been a nuisance—arrogant, slippery—but this? This was something else entirely.

“If he's responsible,” Silco said quietly, “I’ll make him wish he’d never slithered out of his mother.”

Sevika didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of grim satisfaction in her eyes. “Good. Because if he did have something to do with Chross’s death, he won’t stop there.”

Silco glanced at the far wall, where the flickering light caught on a faded map of the Undercity. His voice was cold steel when he spoke again.

“Then let’s make sure he never gets the chance.”

Sevika left without another word, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Silco remained still for a long moment, the only sound in the room the faint patter of rain against the old glass panes and the dull hum of neon bleeding through the slats of the shutters. His desk felt distant beneath his fingertips, as if the world itself had tilted ever so slightly off balance.

Why hadn’t you told him about Finn?

He replayed Sevika’s words over and over, matching them with what he’d seen and what he hadn’t. If you had met with Finn days before Progress Day, why had you kept it to herself? Pride? Fear? A sense of self-reliance Chross had likely hammered into your bones?

Or maybe you had planned to tell him and just… never got the chance.

I went to The Last Drop to tell you, and the others... but no one was there.

Silco’s hand curled around the edge of the desk, jaw tense.

He thought back to Progress Day—the music, the lights, the gilded rot of Piltover’s highest halls.

The night had been a blur of calculated risks and layered masks. He should’ve been focused on the politics, on the message Jinx painted across the skyline—but his mind kept circling back to you. The image of you in that dress, caught in the councilor’s arm, laughing politely as though the world hadn’t begun to fray at its edges.

He hated how it made him feel. The jealousy had curled in his stomach like acid, hot and unforgiving. It wasn’t rational, and he knew it. You weren’t his to claim, not truly—not with the life he led, not with all the blood on his hands—but gods, how he wanted you to be.

And yet… all of that rage had evaporated when your lips touched his.

That kiss. That second kiss.

It hadn’t been as desperate as the first. No, this one had undone him.

Silco dragged in a breath, rough with memory. That kiss had wrecked him. Your touch had been patient, reverent, as though you already knew he would shatter if you gave him anything less.

And he had.

You had touched him like he wasn’t a monster, hadn’t looked away from his ruined face, hadn’t hesitated to cup it like it was precious—as if he were more than the sum of his sins. Silco had felt something come apart in him, something scarred and long dormant. It bloomed under your fingertips like warmth spreading into long-frozen skin. He would’ve sworn off everything—power, ambition, even Zaun—just to feel that again. The way his soul ignited beneath your fingers, the way everything else fell quiet.

Something that no dose of Shimmer could ever replicate. Pure. Real.

He leaned back in his chair now, tilting his head to the ceiling, letting out a breath that trembled more than he liked.

You were a salvation he didn’t think he deserved—not in the clean, sainted way of storybooks. No. His salvation wouldn’t come wrapped in purity—it would come through blood, and grit, and a woman who dared to look at him like he was still human.

He gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles whitening. And yet, even in the high of your affection, a bitter truth gnawed at him.

He hadn’t been there when the news broke. That it had been someone else who held you when the world cracked beneath your feet.

He hated himself for it. Hated the hollow echo in your voice when you spoke at the funeral. He still remembered the look in your eyes at the grave site—eyes that would never leave him: wide, glassy, struggling not to drown in disbelief. You hadn't cried. Not once. You’d been too composed, too quiet. That was the part that chilled him. Your grief had gone inward, buried deep where it could fester. Silco knew the feeling. He had worn it for years.

But you were not him.

He would have given anything to take the pain away, to put himself between you and the hurt. But he hadn’t. Instead, he stood beside you, silent, watching your shoulders tremble with the effort it took not to fall apart.

He couldn’t bring Chross back. Couldn’t unmake the hand that dealt that fatal blow.

But he could protect what the old man had left behind.

He would.

As long as he breathed, you would not be alone.

Whether you hadn’t told him about Finn because you were protecting him… or protecting yourself… he couldn’t say. All he knew was that from this moment forward, your war was his.

He’d find the truth behind Chross’s death. He’d deal with Finn and anyone else whispering rebellion into hungry ears.

And above all, he would keep you safe.

Anyone who tried to harm you would learn what kind of monster the Undercity had created.

And they would bleed for it.

Chapter Text

The marble clock on the wall ticked with its usual precision, though the seconds felt heavy now, weighted by the quiet. Your office in Piltover looked the same as it always had: a modest, sunlit space filled with tools, journals, and scattered sketches of half-finished designs. But it felt different. Perhaps because you were different.

You had stepped back into the city of progress only three days after burying your father. Elm had looked at you like you’d lost your mind. Maybe you had. But there was only so much grief you could choke down before it turned into something volatile, something you needed to do something with. Heimerdinger, in his boundless kindness, had offered you time. Weeks, if you needed them. You had thanked him, but in the end, declined. The quiet was louder in Chross’s office. Every drawer still smelled like him. His coat still hung behind the door. You couldn't breathe in that space anymore, not without choking on ghosts.

So you came back here to your work, to the one place where your thoughts could be shaped into something tangible.

The office was empty when you arrived, save for a folded parchment on your desk in Heimerdinger’s spindly scrawl:

Gone to Ionia for a sabbatical. Research, of course! Back in a few weeks. Do not burn down the lab. Try to eat something, yes? And rest. That’s an order, my dear assistant.

– H.

Your fingers brushed over the paper once more before setting it aside. The silence in the room didn’t feel peaceful; it felt like pressure, like the expectation of normalcy.

You considered heading over to Viktor and Jayce’s lab. You’d been avoiding them, not intentionally, but grief was a selfish thing, turning hours into days without meaning. You owed them at least an explanation, if not a proper apology.

But... not yet.

It was still too early, and your emotions still sat too close to the surface, raw and trembling. You’d speak to them over lunch, maybe. With sunlight in your eyes and some distance between the past and the present.

For now, you busied yourself.

You rolled up your sleeves and set to work, sifting through the backlog on your desk—schematics left unfinished, supply orders, correspondence from the Council, a few letters from patrons and colleagues who’d only just heard of your breakthrough. Your fingers moved automatically, ticking boxes, scribbling notes, and annotating diagrams. The rhythm of work steadied your hands.

But in the quiet moments between distractions, your thoughts wandered. You thought about the way your father used to lean over your shoulder when you were a child, watching you sketch your inventions. The way he used to bring you food when you were staying up late at night studying, scolding and proud all at once.

You never asked for much. Never thought to demand more of his history. And now, all of it—the man, the past, the questions—were gone. Swallowed up by silence and smoke and blood.

Still, you kept going. Kept moving.

Because if you stopped for even a second, you feared everything would come crashing down.

The bell echoed through the hallways. Clear, punctual, and oddly grounding.

Lunch.

You blinked down at the half-finished sketches sprawled on your desk, fingers smudged with graphite and ink. You hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. A part of you almost wanted to stay—bury yourself in work a little longer. But you owed them this. Jayce and Viktor had been patient, far more than you probably deserved.

You gathered your things slowly, brushing off the flecks of graphite from your sleeves. On the way out, you stopped by the market stalls clustered around the Academy’s courtyard, selecting their usual favorites from memory. You bought Viktor’s preferred noodle bowl from the cart he liked best—no spicy sauce, extra broth—and Jayce’s favorite flaky meat pies from the bakery with the burnt orange awning. The warmth of the paper bags bled through your hands, comforting you more than you'd like to admit.

You made your way toward the lab, the familiar corridors and warm brass tones of the Hextech wing welcoming you like a well-worn coat. When you reached the door, you paused, steadying your breath. Then you nudged it open.

Inside, it was quiet. An unusual thing for Jayce and Viktor’s workspace. Tools rested in idle trays, a couple of crystals hummed faintly under glass, and scattered papers dotted the central table. Both of them were at their stations, focused but… distracted, somehow. Moving through the motions.

Jayce looked up first.

“I come bearing gifts,” you said, lifting the bags slightly.

He froze, eyes wide, then practically launched himself across the lab in three long strides.

“You’re here,” he breathed, his voice cracked with disbelief and relief. Before you could offer a greeting, he was already pulling you into a hug, mindful not to crush the bags you held, though the force of it still managed to squeeze the air from your lungs. “I was starting to think we’d have to storm the Undercity to get you back.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh—shaky but genuine. “I brought lunch.”

Jayce finally pulled back, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a moment longer. His eyes scanned your face as if trying to assess just how badly the past few days had worn on you. He didn’t ask anything, but the concern was etched in every line of his expression.

You barely had a chance to catch your breath before you realized Viktor was already there. He stood quietly just behind Jayce, cane in one hand, a soft expression in his tired eyes.

Your gaze locked with his.

“I’m sorry,” he said, simply.

No platitudes. No empty condolences. Just those two words, heavy and sincere. There was no pity in his voice—only understanding, quiet and steady like a lighthouse cutting through fog.

You swallowed against the knot in your throat and nodded.

And then he hugged you.

It was different from Jayce’s—gentler, slower. His arms wrapped around you like you were made of glass, and somehow, that undid you more than anything else. He didn’t squeeze or shake or speak. He just held you, as if telling you that it was okay not to be okay.

You felt yourself sag slightly in his arms, finally allowing the smallest piece of your exhaustion to show.

“I’ve missed you guys,” you whispered.

Viktor’s breath caught against your hair. “We missed you, too.”

You didn’t cry.

But gods, you almost did.

It was well past midnight, though the sky in the Undercity hardly changed. The faint hum of lamps and generators buzzed in the background, a low, constant reminder that this world never truly slept. You sat hunched over the desk, your father’s—no, your ledgers spread out before you like a battlefield. Ink stained your fingers, and your writing hand ached, but you kept going, poring over trade agreements, payment schedules, and patrol rotations for the next few weeks.

You had asked Elm earlier to convert one of the old vacant rooms into an office for you. Something neutral. Something safe. You couldn’t step foot into your father’s office without being swallowed whole by memories: the way he paced while thinking, the faint scent of his cigars, the chair that still had an imprint of his weight.

This new room was bare but functional. A sturdy desk. Some shelving. A small lamp whose light flickered now and then. It was enough.

Your pen scratched out a note about inventory distribution when a soft knock pulled your attention.

You didn’t look up right away. You were half-expecting it to be one of the runners with another message, another request, another delay. But then the door creaked open, and you finally looked up.

Elm stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a stern look on his face. The scar on his cheek caught the lamp’s light as he stepped inside, eyes immediately narrowing at the ledgers scattered across the desk.

“You need to rest,” he said, voice flat and firm.

You exhaled, sitting back in your chair. “There’s still too much to do. If we don’t sort out the northern shipment by—”

“—It can wait until morning,” Elm cut in, stepping closer. “You haven’t slept in two days. Your hands are shaking. Your mind’s fogged. Keep going like this and you’ll burn yourself out. Then what?”

You bristled. “People are looking to me now. I can’t afford to fall apart.”

“You already are,” Elm said, his tone unusually sharp. He sighed, then softened, his voice dipping. “No one expects you to rebuild the world overnight.”

Your gaze dropped to the papers. You hated that he was right. The weight of leadership felt heavier than you’d ever imagined. And under it all, your grief still simmered—unprocessed, untamed.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t know how to be him.”

Elm didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, gently, “Good. Because you’re not him. You’re you. You don’t have to fill his shoes. You just have to stand your ground.”

You blinked, your throat tight.

He stepped forward and began gathering the papers on your desk without waiting for your permission.

“Hey—”

“Sleep,” he repeated, more gently this time. “Please.”

You looked at him, then at the dwindling lamplight, then at the ache slowly spreading behind your eyes. You relented with a tired sigh.

“Fine. But only for a few hours.”

Elm gave a small, satisfied grunt, taking that as a victory. As he turned to leave, he paused in the doorway and added, “Your father would’ve said the same thing. Just… with more yelling and probably a threat.”

You huffed a tired laugh despite yourself. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

You eventually left the office, not long after Elm did—your footsteps slow, reluctant, as you made your way down the dimly lit corridor toward your quarters. The low hum of the generators still thrummed through the walls, steady as a heartbeat, and somewhere distant, a pipe hissed like an exhale.

You pushed open the door to your room, newly furnished but cold in its unfamiliarity. The bed looked too neat. The walls too bare. Still, you crawled under the sheets, fully clothed, too exhausted to care. But rest, it seemed, had no intention of finding you tonight.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling. Watching shadows move with each flicker of light from the street outside. The more you tried to will your body into sleep, the more your mind resisted, racing from one errant thought to the next—until, eventually, they all seemed to drift toward him.

Silco.

You wondered if he was awake at this hour, too. If he was standing by the window in his office, fingers steepled, that thoughtful frown on his face. You wondered if he was alone, or if Sevika was with him, briefing him, perhaps arguing about something, or maybe watching the city quietly as it breathed beneath them.

You wondered if he was thinking about you. If the memory of your last conversation lingered in him the way it clung to you. If the ghost of that kiss—the first, the second—still burned beneath his skin as it did under yours.

You turned over, huffing a breath, restless. The sheets tangled around your legs like vines. You pushed them aside and sat up, heart pounding in your chest.

You shouldn't. You shouldn’t.

But your feet were already moving, bare soles meeting the cool stone floor.

By the time you threw on your coat and boots, your body had already made the decision your mind was still trying to talk you out of.

Just as your hand brushed the gate latch, a voice called out behind you.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

You flinched and turned, caught like a thief. Jin was jogging down the steps, braid swinging behind her, her sharp eyes squinting at you through the low light. She had a jacket thrown hastily over her shoulders, clearly having followed you in a rush.

“I’m just…” You hesitated for a beat, then decided there was no point in lying to her. “I’m going to The Last Drop.”

Jin narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. And is this business-related? Or are you just heading there to see your boyfriend?”

Your face heated instantly. “He is not—he’s not my boyfriend, Jin.” The word felt too juvenile, too small for whatever you and Silco were entangled in. “Don’t call him that.”

Jin arched a brow at your reaction, clearly amused. “You didn’t deny that’s who you’re going to see.”

You groaned and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Please don’t tell Elm. I’ll be back before he even notices I’m gone.”

Jin looked you up and down, then cast a glance back toward the compound as if weighing her options. You thought she might lecture you—or worse, shout for Elm—but instead, she let out a long sigh and turned back toward the steps.

“Wait here,” she said.

Your stomach dropped. “Wait—Jin, no—”

But she was already gone.

You stood there frozen, every worst-case scenario flashing through your head. But then, not a minute later, Jin returned, now fully geared up, her weapon strapped to her back.

“If you’re going, then I’m coming with you,” she said firmly, tightening the buckle across her chest.

You blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh, I absolutely do. If Elm finds out you snuck out and I let you go alone, he’ll chew off both our heads.” She gestured down the path. “Besides, if your… not-boyfriend gives you trouble, I want to be there to see you kick his ass.”

You snorted despite yourself, the tension easing from your shoulders. “He won’t.”

“Still. Better safe than sorry.”

You nodded. The two of you fell into step. The walk to The Last Drop had been quiet, but not tense. Jin respected your silence, only speaking up once to mutter something about how you owed her a drink for playing babysitter. Now, as you stood outside the iron door once again, you found yourself bracing for the same flat refusal you received the last time you came unannounced.

The same guard stood at his post, arms crossed, eyes like slits beneath the brim of his cap. His gaze flicked over you and Jin, and for a moment, you expected the usual, “He’s not here.”

But instead, he inclined his head in a respectful nod. “He’s by the bar,” he said, stepping aside and pulling the door open for you. “Go on in.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. Jin made a low whistle behind you.

“Guess having the Eye of Zaun as your not-boyfriend has its perks,” she muttered with a smirk, nudging your side as you stepped inside.

The Last Drop was unusually quiet. The clamor and chaos that normally filled its smoke-stained walls had given way to a low hum of murmuring voices and the occasional clink of glass. You wondered if they had closed early tonight or if Silco had ordered the floor cleared for the sake of his own brooding peace.

It didn’t take long to find him.

Silco sat at the bar, hunched forward with one arm resting on an open ledger, the other curled loosely around a tumbler of whiskey. His jacket hung off his shoulders, his tie undone. The lamplight above cast long shadows beneath his eyes, and even from across the room, he looked weary in a way you rarely saw. Worn thin.

You took a step forward, but before you could make it far, a low whistle cut through the air.

“Look who finally crawled out of her tower,” Sevika drawled from the other side of the room. She was leaning back in her chair, a few cards fanned in one hand, a cigar in the other. A lazy grin curled on her lips as her companions glanced toward you.

You glanced her way, amused despite yourself. “I was grieving, Sevika.”

“Uh-huh. And now you’re here. Middle of the night. Looking for him,” she nodded toward the bar, “in that getup?”

You glanced down at your clothes—nothing fancy, just a coat thrown over a simple shirt and slacks—but Sevika’s smirk told you everything you needed to know. Your flush deepened.

“I didn’t come for commentary,” you shot back.

“Then you came to the wrong place.” Sevika flicked her eyes toward Silco, then back to you. “Go on. He’s been in that same seat since I left him hours ago. Haven’t seen him move but to refill that glass. Maybe you’ll knock him out of whatever spiral he’s in.”

Jin, standing beside you with arms crossed, muttered under her breath, “I’m starting to think I should’ve brought popcorn.”

You ignored them both and returned your gaze to Silco. For a moment, you just watched him—so immersed in his work, unaware of your presence. Something about the sight of him, so quietly present and unguarded, made the tightness in your chest loosen just a bit.

Then, slowly, you crossed the room.

You approached quietly, your footsteps soft against the old floorboards. Silco didn’t notice your presence until you were already beside him, and with no preamble, you reached out and plucked the tumbler from his hand.

He blinked, startled. “What—”

But the protest died in his throat the second he looked up and saw you.

You almost laughed. The way his eyes widened, mouth hanging open slightly, like he’d just seen a ghost—or worse, an angel. “You always look this shocked when a woman steals your drink, or am I special?”

A slow, stunned smile curved his lips, the kind that wasn’t sharp or wry or practiced—just soft. Genuine. “You’re always special,” he said without thinking.

You flushed and quickly looked away, though you felt the warmth blooming in your chest. “Careful,” you warned, taking a sip from the tumbler. “If you keep saying things like that, I might start getting ideas.”

Silco chuckled, low and warm. “Gods help us, then.”

You leaned against the bar, setting the glass down and watching him. “You going to ask why I’m here?”

“I was just about to,” he said. “It’s well past midnight.”

You looked down at your hands, then back at him, and decided not to dance around it. “I missed you,” you said plainly, softly. “Terribly, if I’m being honest.”

Silco stilled. His fingers, which had been fidgeting with the rim of his glass, paused. A long breath escaped him before he replied, “That makes two of us.”

You gave him a small smile. “Jinx?”

“Asleep. Sevika tried playing cards with her earlier, but I think she let her win too many times. It bored her.”

You chuckled. “Amateur mistake.”

And just like that, the weight in the air began to lift.

What followed was hours of gentle, easy conversation. The kind of talk only two people who had found comfort in one another could share. You told him how you don’t like tea but was forced to drink it because you didn’t want to hurt Viktor’s feelings, and Silco told you how he hates the sound of someone chewing gum and that Jinx often did it to annoy him.

You told him of your early fascination with gears and how you once tried to make a mechanical squirrel that terrorized the university gardens. Silco, in turn, told you of his brief obsession with carving driftwood as a boy before it was burned to keep warm.

You swapped odd stories, childhood regrets, and little quirks you’d never told anyone. Little things. Mundane things. The sort of things that build a life.

You leaned forward, chin resting on your hand as you listened to him speak. The amber glow of the bar lights played gently across his face, highlighting the amused lines near his eyes as he recalled something reluctantly.

“There was a time,” he began, swirling what little remained in his glass, “when Sevika—upon first meeting me—mistook me for a woman.”

You blinked, then laughed. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were.”

“Why?”

He sighed, half exasperated, half resigned. “Because my hair was longer then. Nearly to my ribs. And I was thinner—too thin for someone who used to work in the mines. She came up to me with that ridiculous smirk of hers, asked for my name, then offered to buy me a drink.”

You covered your mouth, trying and failing to muffle your laughter. “Sevika tried to flirt with you?”

“She was drunk,” Silco added hastily. “And I didn’t exactly correct her right away. I wanted to see where it was going.”

Your laughter spilled out freely now, full-bodied and bright. “You mean you let her think—?”

“Only for a few minutes,” he muttered. “Long enough to watch her face implode when she realized I wasn’t a woman. She didn’t speak to me for three weeks afterward. Nearly stabbed me when we did.”

You were practically doubled over now, imagining a younger, sharper-edged Silco—sullen and too clever for his own good—with long hair and hollow cheeks, letting Sevika dig her own grave in a drunken haze.

“Oh, I wish I could’ve seen that,” you said, wiping a tear from your eye.

You turned your gaze to him, more curious than ever, and caught a strange shift in his expression—an almost imperceptible flicker of regret and something… cautious.

“You’re telling me this,” you said slowly, “and I can’t help but think… there are photos.”

His stare was deadpan, but his fingers tensed around his glass, confirming everything. “Don’t.”

“So, there are photos.” You grinned.

“I burned most of them.”

“Most?”

He looked away, suddenly fascinated with the wood grain of the bar.

You leaned in closer. “Silco. If there are any pictures of you with long hair, I need to see them.”

“You need to forget this conversation.”

“Absolutely not. This is my new life’s purpose now.”

A tiny, exhausted sigh left him—but there was a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You sat back, content with your discovery and the image of a long-haired, younger-looking Silco locked forever in your imagination. The thought warmed you, strangely, the idea that he’d lived a whole life before this version of himself. A version still capable of being embarrassed. Of being human.

And yet, looking at him now, even through your teasing, you felt the affection blooming again in your chest—stronger this time, steadier.

This wasn’t just a man with ghosts and scars. He was also the boy behind them.

You were still grinning when Silco finally turned to face you more fully, one brow arched with pointed expectation.

“All right,” he said, voice low and smooth. “You’ve had your fun at my expense. Now it’s your turn.”

You blinked. “My turn?”

He leaned slightly closer, eyes sharp with amusement. “An embarrassing story. Preferably one involving public humiliation. Or falling. Or flames.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why flames?”

“I just think it would be a nice thematic touch.”

You groaned dramatically and leaned back against your chair. “Gods, where do I even start?”

“Ah,” he said with mock solemnity, “so there are multiple.”

You shot him a withering look. “Fine. But if you ever repeat this to anyone—especially Sevika—I will switch out your entire liquor supply with flavored water.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

You exhaled slowly, staring at the low-lit ceiling as you reached deep into the vault of your personal history for a story ridiculous enough to satisfy him.

“All right,” you said finally. “I was seventeen then and it was during one of Professor Heimerdinger’s class. He had just let me assist with this small combustion experiment in one of the academy’s demo labs—nothing serious, just a tiny containment test. Except I miscalculated the pressure formula.”

Silco’s brow quirked. “Uh-oh.”

“Boom.” You gestured dramatically with your hands. “It blew up. Not the lab, thank the skies—just the canister. Right in my face. Singed my eyebrows clean off. And parts of my hair.”

Silco coughed on a laugh, turning it into something like a dignified grunt. “You burned off your own eyebrows?”

“I walked around for three weeks looking like a surprised egg. Heimerdinger tried to cover for me by saying it was a rare molting phase in human adolescence. Molting, Silco.”

He let out an honest, low laugh now—deep and quiet and real. The sound of it made your cheeks flush more than the memory ever had.

“I was mortified,” you said, laughing along now despite yourself. “Jayce wouldn’t look me in the eye. Viktor gave me soot-resistant goggles as a joke. I almost changed my name and moved to Demacia or Ionia.”

Silco wiped a finger beneath one eye, still smiling. “You… in goggles. No eyebrows.”

You held up a finger. “Not. A. Word.”

“I’d never dare,” he said solemnly, but the mirth was plain on his face.

There was a beat of silence after that. A soft, comfortable hush. The bar felt warmer now, the shadows gentler, the walls less heavy.

“So,” he drawled, voice deceptively casual, “are there any pictures of this… molting phase of yours?”

You blinked, your smile faltering.

“Absolutely not.”

He smirked. “No surviving evidence at all?”

“They were destroyed,” you said quickly. “Incinerated. Buried. Possibly thrown into the ocean.”

Silco hummed thoughtfully, clearly not convinced. “Shame. I’d pay good coin to see you eyebrowless and soot-streaked in safety goggles.”

You pointed at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“And you enjoyed the story about Sevika mistaking me for a woman a little too much. I’m merely restoring balance.”

You snorted. “Restoring balance, huh? You sound like Heimerdinger.”

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “If this Heimerdinger wore sharp suits and plotted industrial coups, perhaps.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth blooming in your chest was impossible to ignore. You let yourself lean a little closer, elbows brushing, and asked, “Why do you want a photo so badly anyway?”

Silco looked at you then, really looked, and for a fleeting second, his expression softened into something almost reverent. “Because I’d like to see the version of you who came through all of that. The one who keeps coming through everything.”

You swallowed hard, caught off guard by the sincerity buried in the tease.

And then, with a wicked glint in his eye, he added, “Eyebrowless or not.”

You shook your head, unable to fight the smile tugging at your lips, your chest light with laughter, your heart heavier with everything unspoken.

And still, even as you bantered, you couldn’t help but think: you hadn’t laughed like this in days—maybe weeks. And somehow, Silco always knew exactly what you needed—even when you didn’t.

It was sometime past midnight when the quiet buzz of The Last Drop melted into a soft, low hum. The conversations had dwindled into whispers, the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows over the scuffed floors and stained wood. You’d long since stopped talking—just sitting beside Silco, your thigh brushing his, the silence between you no longer awkward, but warm and grounding.

Your eyes grew heavier with every passing minute.

You didn’t mean to drift closer, not consciously, but the warmth of his presence, the low sound of his breathing, the way he never once pushed you away—it pulled you in. Slowly, instinctively, you leaned sideways, resting your head against his shoulder.

He stilled for a heartbeat, as though caught off guard, before his arm slid around you, anchoring you against him. His palm settled lightly against your side, calloused and sure.

“You’re making it very difficult for your bodyguard to drag you home,” he murmured, voice low and dry with amusement.

Your lips curved into a drowsy smile, eyes fluttering but not opening. “Jin’s stronger than she looks.”

“Clearly,” Silco said, the weight of his gaze heavy on your face, “she’ll have to be… to pry you away from me.”

You didn’t have the strength to answer that. A warm, sleepy chuckle slipped from your throat instead, and your body sank further into his. The scent of smoke, whiskey, and something uniquely him filled your senses.

The last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under was the gentle press of Silco’s lips against your forehead—soft, reverent, a silent vow whispered through touch.

And then, for the first time since your father’s death, you felt nothing but warmth and peace.