Chapter Text
The chandeliers glittered like a constellation above the ballroom, their warm glow softened by the flicker of cameras flashing from every corner. Mel leaned back in her chair, legs elegantly crossed, and let her eyes wander over the venue. It was the kind of event she would have attended in another life—except back then, she would have been seated at the front row as a political daughter, smiling politely for sponsors. Tonight was different.
Tonight, she was here for Sevika.
The ballroom itself was dazzling. A wide stage stretched across the front, flanked by two massive screens where highlight reels looped on repeat—knockouts, staredowns, raised belts, blood and sweat turned into spectacle. At the center of the stage, bathed in white light, stood the Muhammad Ali Trophy. Gold and flawless, it gleamed like a relic of legend. Every fighter in the room wanted it. Every eye returned to it again and again.
The air buzzed with energy. Reporters whispered to each other, photographers jockeyed for position, sponsors and executives sipped wine at their reserved tables. Celebrities dotted the front rows—athletes, actors, music stars, all trying to look casual as if they weren’t also here to gape at the fighters. Above it all, Mel caught sight of the red light of broadcast cameras. Somewhere, thousands—no, millions—of viewers were watching live.
The music swelled, dramatic and commanding, as the master of ceremonies stepped into the spotlight. A familiar sports commentator with a booming voice, he carried himself like he was introducing gladiators to an arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome… to the World Boxing Super Series Draft Gala!”
Applause roared through the room.
Names scrolled across the screens. Clips of fighters knocking opponents down, faces glistening with sweat, titles flashing in bold lettering. When Sevika’s name appeared, Mel’s breath caught. The footage showed her stepping into the ring, shoulders squared, mechanical arm glinting under the lights as though forged for war. A knockout replay drew a collective gasp from the crowd.
Mel smiled despite herself. She knew that version of Sevika—the intimidating one, the fighter who turned fear into power. But the memory of that same woman sneaking berries from her hand in Shoola’s kitchen flashed in her mind, softening the edge. The contrast left her stomach fluttering.
One by one, the fighters were called on stage. Each descended the side staircase with music, greeted by applause, and stood under the lights like chess pieces being lined up for play. Vi strutted onto the stage in a sharp crimson suit, hands in her pockets, chin tipped high with arrogance that earned scattered cheers. Jayce followed in tailored perfection, giving the cameras that polished smile of his. Others filled in—representatives from Noxus, Ixtal, Shurima, Ionia, Targon—each carrying their own swagger.
Then came Sevika.
The spotlight swept across the ballroom, landing on her as she stepped out from behind the curtains. Dressed in black with subtle metallic accents that gleamed under the lights, she walked with unhurried confidence. The crowd erupted, voices rising above the music. Mel felt something tighten in her chest. Gods, she looked magnificent—solid, grounded, unshakable. The kind of presence that silenced doubt the second she entered a room.
Sevika’s gaze swept the hall once, sharp and cool, before she joined the others under the glare of the stage lights. Mel knew her well enough to see the flicker of tension in her jaw, but she doubted anyone else noticed. To the rest of the world, Sevika was carved out of stone.
The commentator’s voice carried again: “Eight warriors. One bracket. Only one will lift the Muhammad Ali Trophy. Tonight, the journey begins with the Draft. The top-seeded fighters will choose their opponents for the quarterfinals, right here, live on stage.”
The trophy gleamed brighter as the spotlight caught it, throwing shards of gold across the faces of the fighters.
Mel folded her hands in her lap, forcing herself to stay composed even as excitement and nerves churned low in her stomach. This was it—the stage was set, the cameras were rolling, and Sevika was no longer just hers in kitchens and quiet bedrooms. Tonight, the whole world was watching.
The fighters were ushered into place like living chess pieces, seated in two neat rows on stage. The spotlight lingered long enough for the cameras to sweep over each of them—sharp suits, cold glares, smirks for the crowd.
On the left side: the unseeded fighters, six hungry challengers whose names buzzed through the air—unknowns to casual fans, but killers to anyone in the business. Each leaned forward slightly, their eyes locked on the opposite row, eager for the chance to prove they weren’t just filler.
On the right: the seeds. The top four, the ones with leverage tonight. Mel’s eyes flicked down the line—Vi, lounging with that dangerous grin; Jayce, pristine, already smiling for the cameras; Darius, the Noxian powerhouse with a reputation for ruthlessness; and Sevika, who looked like she was carved straight into her chair, unreadable, mechanical arm gleaming under the stage lights.
The commentator’s voice boomed again, carrying easily over the restless hum of the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, the rules of the Draft are simple. Tonight, our four seeded fighters have earned the right to choose their opponents for the quarterfinal stage of the World Boxing Super Series. One by one, starting with Seed Number One, they will step forward and announce their pick. The chosen fighter will rise, join them at the front of the stage, and face their opponent. Handshake, stare-down, or whatever else they have in mind…”
The crowd chuckled at the not-so-subtle hint. Everyone knew these events sometimes ended in a shove or a storm of trash talk. The tension was part of the show.
“The quarterfinals will be set by the end of this night. Eight warriors. Four matches. Four winners advancing one step closer… to the Muhammad Ali Trophy.”
The spotlight swung to the far end of the row. “And now—Seed Number One… Vi.”
The applause was immediate, mixed with whistles and cheers. Vi rose to her feet with that cocky swagger that made half the room adore her and the other half roll their eyes. She didn’t even glance at the other seeds, striding right up to the microphone in the center of the stage.
“Well,” she said, leaning in slightly, voice dripping with amusement. “I told you all when I signed up—I didn’t come here to wait around. I came here to break faces. So…” Her gaze slid down the row of unseeded fighters. The camera followed, lingering on each expression: tension, nerves, narrowed eyes.
She pointed suddenly, sharp and deliberate. “You.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by scattered cheers. The Ionian representative rose smoothly, not flinching. Calm, composed, she stepped forward to face Vi under the hot lights. They stood a breath apart, exchanging a firm stare. No handshake—only silence.
The commentator’s voice rang out: “Our first quarterfinal—Seed Number One, Vi… versus Akali!”
The audience roared.
Mel’s pulse kicked up. She found herself clapping politely with the rest of the room, though her mind was already jumping ahead. Three seeds left. Sevika’s turn was coming closer. She sneaked a glance at her from the crowd. The big woman hadn’t moved, her jaw resting in her hand, eyes locked on the stage. She looked steady, but Mel knew her well enough to notice the subtle flex of her fingers against her knee.
The spotlight swung again. “And now… Seed Number Two, Jayce Talis.”
Jayce rose smoothly, buttoning his suit jacket like this was a boardroom pitch instead of a gladiator’s draw. He smiled, waved at the cameras, then leaned on the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is about honor. This is about showing the best fight possible. And for that reason…” He paused, letting the anticipation build. His eyes cut sideways, sharp. “I’ll take you.”
The Shuriman fighter, Akshan, stood, tall and broad-shouldered, rolling his neck as he came forward. Their handshake was firm, camera bulbs flashing like gunfire as they held it too long, each trying to crush the other’s grip first.
The crowd ate it up.
Back at the seeds’ row, Darius chuckled to himself, already rising before his name was called. The Noxian loved the spotlight. He slapped his chest with one hand, striding to the mic. “Cut the theatrics. I don’t care who it is. Just give me Pantheon. I’ll smash through whoever’s in front of me.”
Boos and cheers collided, the room splitting in reaction. The Targon fighter stood, expression unreadable, and joined him at the front with a stiff nod.
The commentator let the noise wash before lifting his hand for silence. “Which leaves… our fourth and final seed. Sevika.”
The room hushed, eager.
Mel’s heart skipped.
Sevika rose slowly, stretching her shoulders as though she hadn’t been sitting under blinding lights this whole time. She took her time crossing to the microphone, boots solid on the stage floor. She didn’t smile. She didn’t pander. She just looked down the row of unseeded fighters—the last two waiting, tense and twitching in their seats.
The cameras zoomed close. The crowd leaned forward.
Mel held her breath.
Sevika’s boots echoed as she stepped up to the podium, every spotlight dragging across the steel of her arm, the scar lines on her face. She adjusted the mic with a short scrape of metal on metal—no speech, no drama.
“…Nidalee.”
Her voice was steady, flat, final.
The Ixtali fighter stood, face unreadable, and walked to the center of the stage. She stopped in front of Sevika, eyes darting quickly to her prosthetic before meeting her stare. A tight-lipped smile.
Sevika didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t say a word. Just tilted her head slightly, like she was already imagining how to break the other apart in the ring.
The MC’s voice filled the silence before it could stretch too long.
“Ladies and gentlemen—the final quarterfinal matchup is set! Seed Number Four, Sevika… versus Nidalee!”
Cheers and whistles rose up, flashes from cameras exploding across the room. The giant screen behind them updated:
Quarterfinals
Vi vs. Akali
Jayce vs. Akshan
Darius vs. Pantheon
Sevika vs. Nidalee
The bracket was complete.
Sevika walked back to her seat without a backward glance, as if the choice hadn’t been worth a second thought. But Mel caught the glimmer in her eye as she sat—an edge of satisfaction, dangerous and quiet.
The fight was set.
By the time the bracket was sealed, the screens above the stage lit up with the full WBSS path laid bare. Eight names, eight flags, four brutal quarterfinals. The audience roared in approval, the tension of the draw spilling into cheers and chatter. Everywhere Mel looked, people were on their feet, talking, speculating, debating.
Already, the matchups were being picked apart. Vi vs. Akali had the crowd split down the middle—brawler vs. slick southpaw. Jayce vs. Akshan was the “power fight,” two heavy-handed punchers destined to throw bombs. Noxus vs. Pantheon had the pundits muttering about clash of styles. And then there was Sevika vs. Nidalee—the one no one had expected, the one everyone was suddenly talking about.
By the time Sevika had returned to her seat, Mel’s phone was already buzzing. Notifications lit her screen with highlight reels clipped straight from the broadcast: Sevika’s no-nonsense voice naming her opponent. The camera catching the sharp look she’d given the Ixtali fighter. A still shot of her prosthetic arm catching the light as she walked away.
Mel scrolled with one hand, lips curving faintly. Hashtags were trending already—
#SevikaVsNidalee
#DarkHorsePick
#ColdAsSteel
Commentators were calling it “the quietest, coldest callout of the night.” Fans were split: some saying Sevika was ducking a bigger name, others praising her for choosing a tricky, dangerous matchup that showed she wasn’t chasing easy headlines.
Mel only felt satisfied. From a promoter’s standpoint, it was perfect. Calculated without looking like calculation. A decision that stirred conversation, that made people lean forward. Exactly what the WBSS was built for.
Up on stage, the Muhammad Ali Trophy gleamed beneath the spotlights, a silent promise of what was to come. The gala wrapped up with final speeches, flashes from every camera in the room, and the buzz of a hundred different accents asking the same question—who would be left standing at the end?
Mel slipped her phone back into her clutch, eyes flicking once to Sevika, stone-faced under the lights. She couldn’t help the private thought that curled warm in her chest: Good choice.
The draft gala ended in the same glamorous swirl it had begun with—flashing bulbs, quick handshakes, lingering stares. Fighters and promoters trickled out of the theater in small groups, voices overlapping in the echoing lobby, and the after party buzzed like a beacon down the street. The organizers had spared no expense: limousines lined the curb, velvet ropes glimmered under spotlights, and music already pulsed faintly from the next venue.
Mel should have been swept into it. She usually was. The after parties were where deals were whispered, reputations polished, alliances quietly brokered over champagne flutes. But her eyes had strayed again and again toward Sevika, and it was clear the fighter was running on fumes.
Slouched in her chair after the cameras cut away, Sevika had withdrawn into herself. She had sat through introductions, endured questions, even stood on stage under the floodlights to make her choice. And though her delivery had been confident—classic Sevika, blunt and sharp as a blade—every second afterward had drained her further. Her expression was shuttered, her shoulders tense under her jacket, and when another sponsor tried to strike up conversation, she grumbled a non-answer until the man awkwardly drifted off.
Mel approached, sliding neatly into the space at her side. “That was a solid pick,” she said, tone smooth, professional—the promoter praising her fighter. But her eyes were softer, searching Sevika’s.
“Mm,” Sevika grunted. “Glad someone’s happy.” Then, quieter, “I’m done with this circus. Loud music, louder people. Screw the after party.”
Mel’s lips curved, a private smile. She’d been expecting as much. “You’d rather be alone, hm?”
Sevika huffed, almost a laugh but too dry to count. “Better than pretending to care about small talk.”
Mel tilted her head toward the exit, golden earrings catching the light. “Come on, then. I’ll drive you home.”
For the first time all evening, Sevika’s expression shifted—a flicker of something like relief, quickly buried. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and followed without another word.
The car was quiet as they pulled away from the glowing theater. City lights spilled across the windshield in flashes of neon and gold, reflections sliding over Sevika’s profile as she leaned back against the seat. She rolled her shoulders once, exhaling slowly, as if shedding the last layers of tension from the event.
Mel glanced at her from the driver’s side, one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely in her lap. The silence was comfortable, though. It didn’t need filling. The hum of the engine was steady, the tires whispering against the asphalt as they merged into the stream of traffic.
“You looked like you wanted to strangle someone back there,” Mel murmured finally, her tone teasing but low.
Sevika cracked an eye open, her lips tugging into the faintest smirk. “Only about three different people.”
Mel chuckled under her breath, stealing another glance. “You managed to look professional. At least from a distance.”
“That’s what matters, isn’t it?” Sevika replied. Her voice was flat, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward again.
Mel let the silence linger again, this time smiling to herself. She liked this—liked the rare moments when Sevika’s armor slipped and she was simply… here. Not for the crowd, not for the cameras, not even for the fight. Just Sevika, weary and real, sitting in her passenger seat with her hair a little mussed and her patience worn thin.
At a red light, Mel’s eyes lingered on her profile longer than they should have. The line of her jaw, the scar she traced sometimes with her thumb, the strength beneath the exhaustion. She looked beautiful like this, though Mel didn’t dare say it aloud.
Sevika shifted in her seat, catching her. “What?”
Mel smiled faintly, eyes back on the road as the light turned green. “Nothing.”
Sevika grunted, but she didn’t press.
The rest of the ride stretched out in that same quiet—easy, steady. Comfortable in a way few silences ever were.
The drive ended in the quieter part of the city, the glowing marquees and roaring traffic giving way to stiller streets. Mel eased the car into a spot outside Sevika’s apartment complex, cutting the engine. The sudden quiet felt almost heavy, wrapping around them as the headlights faded.
Sevika unbuckled her seatbelt with a sharp click and pushed the door open, stepping out into the cool night air. She stood there for a moment, stretching her back, shoulders rolling as if to shake off the last remnants of the evening’s weight. When she turned back, Mel was still in the driver’s seat, hands loosely around the wheel, hesitating.
One brow arched. “You’re not coming up?”
Mel blinked, taken aback. “I thought…” she trailed off, careful with her words. “I thought you wanted to be alone tonight. Aren’t you tired?”
Sevika leaned down against the car frame, the faintest shadow of amusement tugging at her scarred mouth. “I am. Of people.” A pause. Her voice softened, almost grudgingly honest. “You don’t count.”
The words landed like a punch in Mel’s chest—unexpected, heavy, and impossibly warm. For a beat, she simply looked at Sevika, her carefully constructed composure threatening to crack under the rush of feeling. Then, slowly, she pushed the door open and stepped out.
The night was still around them, the air carrying only the faint hum of a streetlamp. Mel took a single step closer, searching Sevika’s eyes as though confirming what she’d just heard. When she found no hint of insincerity, only tired honesty, she let her lips curve into a small, almost helpless smile.
She leaned in and kissed her. Soft. Unhurried. Nothing like the gala’s spotlight or the fire of a brawl—this was something quieter, sweeter, carrying all the weight of what hadn’t yet been said.
Sevika’s hand found her waist, steadying her, pulling her in for just a fraction longer than Mel expected. When they broke apart, there was no smirk, no teasing remark—just Sevika looking at her with a steady kind of openness that made Mel’s chest ache.
Without a word, Sevika straightened and offered her hand. Mel slipped her fingers into hers, letting herself be guided toward the building’s entrance.
Hand in hand, they disappeared into the stairwell’s shadowed quiet, leaving behind the noise and spectacle of the night.