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Chapter Text

The cold bit through Caitlyn's coat as she pressed herself against the rusted shipping container, binoculars trained on the Sea Nymph. The trawler rocked gently in its berth, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the dock lights. Two hours of watching dockworkers move legitimate cargo. Two hours of nothing.

She adjusted her grip on the custom rifle propped beside her, its familiar weight a small comfort even as frustration gnawed at her patience. This was the third stakeout this week: three nights freezing her ass off on these docks, three nights coming up empty.

Her walkie-talkie crackled to life.

"Still nothing on the aft section." Steb's voice was flat, professional, but Caitlyn could hear the fatigue beneath it. "Just the same two dockworkers smoking. They've burned through half a pack each."

Caitlyn pressed the transmit button. "Copy that. Maddie, what's your position showing?"

A pause, then the young recruit's voice came through, breathless with cold, the lilt of her Scottish accent more pronounced than usual. "N-nothing suspicious, Officer Kiramman. There's a worker doing inventory near the gangway, but everything looks routine."

"Maintain observation," Caitlyn said, trying to inject confidence she didn't entirely feel. "And Maddie? Try to stay warm."

"Yes, ma'am."

Caitlyn lowered the radio and raised her binoculars again, sweeping the Sea Nymph from bow to stern. The informant had been explicit: this vessel, this dock, shipments arriving after dark. But where the hell was it? Where was the shimmer?

The radio crackled again. This time Steb didn't bother hiding his irritation.

"I'm telling you, this is pointless. I'm frozen, my knees are staging a mutiny, and we've got nothing but seagulls for company."

Caitlyn smiled faintly despite herself. She hated to admit it, but the man had a certain sardonic charm. She lowered the binoculars, her knuckles stiff and white around the barrel, and flexed her fingers, coaxing life back into them.

"Patience," she said, her voice tighter than she meant.

"Third night. Third stakeout. Ten years on the job, and I know when we're chasing shadows." There was no anger in his tone, only worn-out pragmatism. "Your informant gave us a ship name and a vague schedule. We don't even know what we're looking for. And we're doing this in violation of direct orders."

"We're looking for shimmer," Caitlyn said, forcing her voice to stay steady. "A smuggling ring that's poisoning the Undercity and creeping into Piltover. You've read the reports."

"I've read them, yes. What I haven't seen is tangible evidence. Not here. Not tonight." He paused. "Without proof, your mother won't allocate resources. You know that. I know that. We can't keep running this on our own time." Another pause, heavier this time. "Sheriff Marcus ordered us to stand down. Said it was too dangerous without tactical backup. So I have to ask, Kiramman—how long are you planning to keep this up?"

Caitlyn's jaw tightened. He was right on every practical level. Councilor Cassandra Kiramman had made it crystal clear: no evidence, no officers, no investigation. And Sheriff Marcus had been even blunter. Stand down. Too dangerous. Not worth the risk. Just her instincts and an anonymous tip weren't enough to justify defying command. But she had anyway, and Steb had followed her lead against his better judgment.

"I know what I'm asking," Caitlyn said quietly into the radio. She crunched up her face in annoyance and tried not to sound like she was unraveling. "I know you're risking yourself for this. But if we stop now—"

"Then we regroup," he cut in. "We find better intel. We don't freeze our asses off watching dockhands move legal cargo and risk our badges." His voice softened. "You're a damn good officer, Kiramman. Sharp instincts. But even instincts need a foundation. And I need to know this doesn't go on forever."

Before Caitlyn could respond, Maddie's voice broke in, too bright, too hopeful. "Maybe tomorrow night? The informant said shipments were irregular, right? Maybe we just misjudged the timing?"

Caitlyn swept the binoculars across the Sea Nymph one last time. A dockworker emerged from below deck carrying a crate stamped with standard fish-processing marks. Another checked something on a clipboard. Everything looked normal. Everything legal.

She exhaled slowly, her breath curling into pale clouds in the freezing air.

"Maddie, you shouldn't have come out here," Caitlyn said, gentler now. "The cold, the late hours... you're still in training."

"I wanted to help," Maddie said quickly. "And I'm learning a lot! Even if it's just... observation techniques."

Despite everything, Caitlyn felt a flicker of warmth at the recruit's determination. She'd been like that once: eager to prove herself, desperate to make a difference.

"Kiramman?" Steb prompted.

Caitlyn lowered the binoculars and picked up her rifle, checking the safety out of habit. The Sea Nymph rocked innocently in the harbor. No shimmer. No smugglers. Just another quiet night on the docks.

"Another twenty minutes," she said, the words clipped and final.

Silence hummed over the channel, followed by Steb's resigned grumble. "I'm holding you to that."

Maddie's voice came next, soft but steady. A thread of solidarity in the cold. "I'm with you, Caitlyn."

The words should have been a comfort. Instead, they only sharpened Caitlyn's guilt. She was dragging them through this on faith alone.

Twenty minutes stretched into a hollow, frigid eternity. The only movement came from dockworkers hauling legitimate cargo, the occasional sailor weaving toward a berth, drunk on cheap ale. The cold had sunk deep now, turning every shift of position into an act of will. Yet Caitlyn kept the binoculars raised, scanning the same deck, the same lawful bustle, willing something—anything—to break the pattern.

Steb's voice crackled through the radio, weary and final. "That's time. Rally point. Now."

A moment later came Maddie's reply, tinged with disappointed relief. "Copy. En route."

Caitlyn exhaled a sharp, clouded breath before keying her mic. "Copy."

She pushed away from her cover, her muscles stiff and cold, joints protesting every movement after hours of stillness. The rifle felt heavier than usual as she slung it over her shoulder, the strap biting into tense muscles. She made her way to the rendezvous: a deep alcove behind a disused gantry crane, cloaked in shadow but with a clear view of the street for their exit.

Steb was already there, his broad frame a silhouette against the faint glow of distant streetlamps. Even in the dim light, frost clung to his collar and fatigue bowed his posture. Yet his expression was steady, unflappable, the kind of calm that came from years of seeing worse nights than this one. Maddie appeared moments later, hugging herself against the cold, breath rising in quick white bursts. Her nose was red, her boots scuffing the cobblestones as she stamped for circulation.

"Nothing but ghosts and frozen joints," Steb grumbled, his breath misting. He peeled off one glove to blow on his fingers before jamming it back on. "Three nights, Kiramman. Three nights of jack shit."

Maddie nodded, sighing. "I know we needed a break in the case, but I was hoping for more action." Her voice was small now, enthusiasm beaten down by the cold. "Steb's right. There's just nothing here."

The rookie's admission sealed it. Caitlyn gave a perfunctory nod, jaw tight, refusing to show the frustration burning in her gut. She couldn't meet their eyes. "Let's go."

They moved as a unit toward the glow of the city streets, their footsteps falling into an unconscious rhythm. The docks felt emptier now, hollowed by defeat. Caitlyn's thoughts raced ahead: how to explain this to her mother, whether to try again tomorrow, whether her informant had played her for a fool.

Their boots whispered over damp cobblestones slick with mist. Maddie yawned, and Steb rolled his shoulders, already mentally checking out. The tension that had kept them sharp for hours began to drain away, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion.

Caitlyn was running through explanations in her head when she saw it—movement, a flicker of shadow too deliberate to be the wind. Her head snapped toward the central warehouse, a structure she'd dismissed as background noise. Her hand shot up, fist closed.

A figure emerged from a narrow side door, hidden from the main thoroughfare and, crucially, from their vantage over the Sea Nymph. The man moved with cautious precision, scanning the docks before signaling over his shoulder.

"Down," Caitlyn hissed, grabbing Maddie's sleeve and dragging her behind a container stack. The metal was ice-cold through her glove. Steb crouched beside them instantly, veteran instincts kicking in, his hand already on his sidearm.

Two more figures followed, carrying a small, unmarked crate between them. Their movements were taut and deliberate, too careful. Even from this distance, Caitlyn saw the tension in their shoulders, the reverence in their grip. Something valuable. Or volatile.

In seconds, the crate vanished under a dark tarp on a handcart, and the men slipped back into the warehouse like smoke. The whole exchange lasted less than thirty seconds. Polished. Professional. Practiced.

"Holy shit," Maddie breathed, notebook already out, pen trembling. "It was the warehouse the whole time."

Caitlyn's pulse thundered in her ears, vindication and self-reproach colliding. "The trawler was a decoy. We watched the stage while the act happened next door."

"I'm sorry for doubting you," Maddie whispered, awe and apology tangled together.

Caitlyn's hand found Maddie's shoulder briefly, a wordless acknowledgment. But her eyes stayed locked on the warehouse, pulse hammering in her ears. Three nights of freezing, of doubt, of nothing. Now the proof was fifty yards away behind an unlocked door.

"That's our window," Caitlyn said, adrenaline flaring. "We can't afford to wait around. If we infiltrate now, we can—"

Steb's hand clamped on her forearm, firm but not harsh. "Kiramman, wait." His voice was low and steady. "We can't storm in there."

She turned on him, eyes burning. "You saw how they handled that crate."

"I saw." He pulled his worn field notebook, pencil scratching quick lines. "We document what we witnessed. That's as far as we go tonight."

Caitlyn's fingers flexed toward the warehouse. "But—"

"No authorization, no entry." His gaze held hers, almost gentle. "Anything we find now is inadmissible. You know that."

"We're this close—"

"You want evidence for the Councilor?" He kept his voice measured. "Then we do this right. Entering without a warrant kills the case before it starts." He tapped his notebook. "Ten years, Kiramman. I've watched good cases die on technicalities. Don't make this one of them."

Caitlyn's jaw locked. The warehouse loomed in her peripheral vision, so close she could almost taste the proof inside. Every instinct screamed to act, but he was right. Cross that line and she'd lose everything: her mother's trust, the Council's backing, the case itself.

She inhaled slowly, forcing discipline over impulse. "Fine. We document it."

But even as she said it, the consequences unfurled in her mind. She'd have to present this to her mother, meaning she'd have to admit this wasn't standard patrol—that she'd been conducting unauthorized surveillance in direct violation of Marcus's orders. She didn't relish that conversation. Cassandra Kiramman didn't forgive recklessness easily. And if Marcus learned she'd involved two officers? Steb and Maddie's careers could be collateral.

She looked at them—Steb sketching, Maddie scribbling through frozen fingers—and something twisted inside her. They'd followed her here on conviction alone. They didn't deserve the fallout.

"Wait." Her voice cut through the quiet scratch of pencils. Both officers looked up. "Neither of you were here tonight."

Maddie blinked. "What?"

"This was my investigation. My tip. I came here alone, off-duty." Her tone left no room for debate.

Steb's expression darkened. "You're going to lie to the Sheriff. To your mother?"

"Yes," Caitlyn said simply.

He studied her, then sighed. "You don't have to do this. We came of our own accord."

"I won't let this blow back on you," she replied, voice calm but iron-hard. "If Marcus learns I dragged two officers into this, he'll use it to bury everything. He'd love an excuse to discredit the case."

"But we can corroborate—" Maddie began.

"You can't corroborate what you didn't witness," Caitlyn said softly. "When I report to my mother tomorrow, I'll say I followed a lead alone. Off-duty. Just me and my rifle. You two were home."

Steb watched her for a long moment, then closed his notebook. "You're sure?"

"Completely." Caitlyn turned back toward the warehouse, etching every detail into memory. "My decision. My risk."

"It won't go sideways," Maddie said, voice small but resolute. "You were right."

"Sometimes being right doesn't feel like winning," Caitlyn murmured, eyes fixed on the warehouse. "But at least now I have something my mother can't dismiss."

"Get your details straight before morning," Steb said, gruff but respectful. "You'll need every one of them." He hesitated, then added, "Dark tarp. Wooden crate, about two feet square. No markings. They handled it like glass."

"Or like poison," Caitlyn said quietly. "If it's shimmer in concentrated form, that would make sense."

"Three men, east-side access, 10:47 PM," Maddie murmured, despite the fiction they'd agreed on.

Caitlyn nodded, committing it all to memory. The shimmer was here. She'd been right all along. Tomorrow, she'd prove it, alone if she had to.

It was better this way. Cleaner.

She just hoped her mother would see it that way too.

Chapter Text

The Kiramman estate stood silent and imposing on the manicured outskirts of Piltover, its tall windows dark against the night sky. As Caitlyn trudged up the circular drive, her thoughts raced. The stakeout at the docks had finally yielded some unexpected results. It wasn't much, but at least it was something. Two men moving crates into an unmarked warehouse, their movements deliberate and furtive. It wasn't the smoking gun she'd hoped for, but it was progress.

Would it be enough for her mother though? Enough to justify the risk, the breach of protocol? After nearly freezing to death crouched among shipping crates and fog for three nights straight, it had to be.

She pushed through the heavy front doors, her boots reverberating across the marble entryway. The house was so quiet she'd almost forgotten how late it was. Her intention now was to have a hot shower and then go straight to bed.

She’d barely taken three steps when the grandfather clock suddenly chimed midnight. Caitlyn jumped, her breath catching as her hand instinctively flew to her chest. 

"Shit," she cursed under her breath, her heart hammering. Each deep note rang through the silent house, marking the end of a long but finally productive evening. As the last chime faded and she started toward the staircase, a soft rhythmic sound from the drawing room gave her pause.

Caitlyn approached the door, already slightly ajar, and pushed it open a fraction further. In his favorite leather wingback chair near the fireplace sat her father, or rather, slouched her father. Tobias Kiramman was fast asleep, head tilted at an angle that was sure to guarantee a sore neck by morning. Dark blue hair, nearly matching her own but threaded with gray at the temples, stuck out in all directions, giving him an almost boyish look despite the years. The neatly trimmed beard, showing more salt than pepper these days, only added to the disheveled picture. Striped pajamas peeked from beneath a plaid robe, and she smiled at the slipper dangling from one foot while the other lay abandoned on the rug. A crystal tumbler sagged in his loose fingers, threatening to spill on the upholstery, and a leather-bound book was splayed open on his chest, rising and falling with his gentle breaths.

"Oh, honestly," she murmured, fatigue momentarily forgotten. She eased the glass from his hand, set it safely on the side table, and caught a faint whiff of whiskey. His nightly ritual. The book, she noticed with a wry grin, was a medical journal he'd been reading upside down. She closed it and placed it beside the glass, then touched his shoulder.

"Father. Wake up."

Tobias stirred, his brow furrowing before his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he was disoriented, blinking up at the tall, blurred figure above him. Then recognition dawned. "Caitlyn?"

"Yes, Father, it's me."

A slow smile crept across his face, reserved only for her. "What happened to 'Dad'?" he asked, voice rough with sleep and gentle reproach.

Caitlyn winced. "Sorry. Habit."

She'd spent so many years being expected to call Cassandra "Mother" with all the requisite formality of their station. Proper titles, measured tones. The stiffness had permeated how she addressed her father too. He'd never asked it of her. He was warmer, simpler, human.

"A terrible habit," Tobias said good-naturedly, taking her hand as she helped him up. He swayed slightly, and she steadied him with a hand on his elbow. "I've been 'Dad' for twenty-three years. I'd like to remain so for however many I've got left."

"Noted." She smiled. Their bond had always been easy, comfortable in a way her relationship with her mother never quite managed. "Why are you still up, anyway? You have early rounds tomorrow."

"I was waiting for you," Tobias admitted, rubbing his face. "Couldn't sleep. You know I never can when you're out on late night patrol. I keep imagining what could go wrong."

Caitlyn's expression softened. "You're worrying over nothing. I can take care of myself. I'm a trained enforcer, not a child."

"I'm your father. Worrying's part of the job." He squeezed her shoulder. "Doesn't matter if you're five or fifty."

She couldn't argue with that, so she decided to change the subject. "Where's Mother?"

"Retired early," Tobias said, lowering his voice as if Cassandra might materialize to scold them. "Headache from the council meeting. That Councilor Salo was being difficult again, something about trade regulations." He grimaced. "Best not to disturb her when she's like this."

A laugh escaped Caitlyn, the first genuine one of the night. "I've never been particularly fond of that man either. All that smugness wrapped in expensive robes. I don't doubt he could give anyone a headache just by opening his mouth."

"Don't let your mother hear you say that," Tobias warned, though his eyes crinkled with amusement. "She has to work with him, and political niceties demand she pretend he's tolerable."

"All the more reason she should agree with me. In private, of course." Caitlyn retrieved the stray slipper near the fireplace and handed it to him, then guided him toward the door. "Come on, before you fall asleep standing up."

As they climbed the stairs, the marble cool beneath their feet, Tobias studied her face with a physician's practiced eye. The kind that saw the fatigue she tried to hide.

"What about you?" he asked quietly. "You look exhausted. How long were you out there tonight?"

"Shower first," Caitlyn said, deflecting as always. "Then bed. Promise."

Tobias nodded, though she knew he saw through her evasion. In the corridor lined with stern-faced Kiramman ancestors, he gave her hand a squeeze. A small gesture, but it reminded her that despite the uphill battle she faced and the resistance she'd likely encounter, she had this. She had him. In a world of obligation and legacy, her father was the one person who loved her simply for being herself.

When they reached his chamber door, she placed a soft kiss on his weathered cheek. "Goodnight, fath... I mean, Dad."

"Goodnight, my dear girl. Sleep well."

Caitlyn nodded, then waited until he disappeared inside before heading to her own chambers. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, finally feeling the weight of her fatigue.

She stripped off her damp uniform, the fabric clinging and redolent of brine and fog. Tossing it into the hamper, she pulled soft cotton nightwear from the dresser. A small luxury after the coarse enforcer gear. She stepped into the en suite bathroom.

Steam filled the air the moment she turned on the shower. She stepped under the spray and exhaled as hot water sluiced away the grime and tension of the night. It cleansed the docks' detritus from her skin. The salt, oil stains, and acrid smell of rotting wood. The water soothed muscles tight from crouching for hours behind crates in the frigid air.

She stayed under the water for fifteen minutes, longer than necessary but shorter than she wanted, letting the heat unknot her body. Finally she shut off the faucet and reached for a plush towel from the heated rack.

Still drying her dark hair, Caitlyn padded back into the bedroom. Droplets slid down her neck and soaked into her collar as she stopped before the large wall opposite her bed. The one she'd turned into a command center of sorts.

Three months ago, Caitlyn was assigned to a routine customs audit at the docks. It should've been simple. Verify manifests, check cargo tags, sign off. But she noticed inconsistencies.

Manifests from several guild-backed trading companies didn't match the physical cargo. The same unregistered trawler appeared multiple times in logs under slightly different IDs.

When she reported it, Marcus brushed it off as "clerical error."

But then one of the dockhands she'd questioned turned up dead. "An accident," they called it.

That's when she knew something deeper was going on.

With quiet intensity, she added the notes from tonight's surveillance, her handwriting precise and clinical despite her exhaustion. She filed the sketches Steb had made of suspicious individuals and Maddie's timestamps of unusual activity, arranging them neatly alongside the rest of the evidence. It was all there, a compelling narrative of suspicion now pointing directly at the warehouse on pier seven. It was finally something tangible, something she could present.

She stared at the documents for a long moment, her eyes tracing the connections she'd drawn, doubt creeping in at the edges of her determination. Was it enough? Would the evidence convince her mother to authorize a raid, or would she dismiss it as circumstantial at best?

She hoped it was worth it. She hoped she wasn't wrong.

Sunlight streamed through the gap in her curtains, far more brilliant than it should have been. Caitlyn's eyes snapped open and she cursed herself, the words colorful and unbecoming of a Kiramman. She'd overslept, and she was going to be late.

She scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over her discarded boots from the night before, grabbing the evidence from her desk and rushing through a cursory wash. Minutes later, still tucking her shirt in and fastening her belt, she hurried downstairs to the dining room, her hair still damp and hastily pinned back.

Her father sat at the long mahogany table, the morning newspaper spread before him (The Piltover Gazette, as always) with a cup of coffee steaming at his elbow. He looked significantly more composed than he had a few hours ago, dressed in a crisp white shirt and charcoal pants, his hair combed and his reading glasses perched on his nose as he worked his way through toast and eggs with the unhurried manner of someone who'd actually gotten adequate sleep.

"Morning, Fath..." Caitlyn caught herself mid-word, remembering his gentle reproach from last night. "I mean, Dad."

Tobias glanced up with a smile, though there was a slight cloudiness in his eyes that suggested his sleep hadn't been entirely restorative. "Good morning, darling. Did you sleep well?" He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "I'm not sure if I heard you come home last night. Or maybe I did. I'm afraid it's all a bit hazy. Blaming it on my age, I suppose."

"You're only forty-nine," Caitlyn said, clutching her folder of notes against her chest like a shield.

"Exactly. Ancient." He set down his newspaper with exaggerated care, folding it precisely along its creases, a habit that had always amused her. His expression turned more grave, concern flickering in his eyes. "So, how was the patrol last night?"

Caitlyn shifted her weight, choosing her words carefully, knowing he could read her like one of his medical texts. "Same as always. Quiet. Cold. Tedious, really."

He glanced at her then, penetrating eyes that saw more than they let on, the same eyes that could diagnose a patient with a single look. "Anything I should know about? Anything perilous?"

She hesitated, just a beat too long to be entirely convincing. "Just some reports of illicit contraband out near the south docks. Nothing too serious. Standard smuggling, probably just circumventing tariffs." Caitlyn deliberately omitted any mention of the drug smuggling, the organized crime element, the danger she'd potentially be walking into. Her father worried enough as it was.

Tobias studied her face for a moment, clearly wanting to press further, his physician's instinct to probe and diagnose warring with his respect for her autonomy. But he relented with a small sigh. "I still don't like you out there, so just be careful. Promise me that much."

"Always am." Caitlyn glanced toward the hallway, where she could hear the distant sounds of the household staff commencing their morning routines. "Has Mother already left?"

"Early council meeting, I'm afraid. Departed about an hour ago in rather a hurry." He gestured firmly to the empty chair beside him, the one that had been her seat since childhood. "Sit. Eat breakfast. We can have a proper father-to-daughter chat."

"Dad, I really should..."

"Caitlyn." His tone was gentle but brooking no argument, the same one he used with recalcitrant patients who insisted they were fine when they clearly weren't. "Twenty minutes. Whatever you need to tell your mother can wait that long, and you need to eat. You're running yourself ragged."

She hesitated, torn between her urgency to present her evidence and the undeniable appeal of a hot meal. Her stomach had been gnawing at itself for the past hour, and she realized how famished she actually was. Grudgingly, she set her folder carefully on the sideboard where it wouldn't get damaged, and slid into the chair. A servant materialized almost immediately, as if summoned by magic, with a plate of food. Scrambled eggs, toast with butter and jam, fresh fruit, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

As she ate, she watched her father return to his newspaper, his eyes scanning the headlines with practiced efficiency. Tobias Kiramman was one of Piltover's preeminent physicians, working at the largest private hospital in the city, the Piltover Medical Institute. His reputation was impeccable, his skill unquestioned. Parents paid premium prices to have him treat their children, affluent families requested him specifically for consultations. But what Caitlyn admired most about him had nothing to do with his prestigious position or the accolades that lined his office walls.

Once a week, without fail, he worked at a small clinic in the undercity. A cramped, poorly lit space with antiquated equipment and a perpetual shortage of supplies. He provided medical care to Zaunites who couldn't afford proper healthcare. Most of Piltover's elite would never dream of setting foot in Zaun, let alone devoting their valuable time helping its people. They saw the undercity as something to be ignored, a necessary evil sustaining Piltover's prosperity. But her father did more than acknowledge it. He helped. Every week, without fanfare or recognition.

She'd always thought it noble of him to care when so few others did, to see people rather than merely class distinctions.

Tobias set down his coffee cup with a soft clink against the saucer and fixed her with that particular look, the one that signaled he was about to broach a familiar topic, one they'd danced around for years. "You know, it's not too late to reconsider medicine. Follow in your old man's footsteps."

Caitlyn suppressed a sigh, setting down her fork with perhaps more force than necessary. "Dad..."

"I know, I know." He held up a hand in surrender, but there was a wistfulness in his voice that tugged at her heart. "But it's professional, respectable, and far safer than pursuing criminals in the middle of the night." He paused, his expression softening, becoming more vulnerable. "Of course, I realize the Kiramman family is matriarchal. You're the heir. One day you'll be expected to succeed your mother on the council, and I suppose I should be more than grateful for that. Most men would kill for their daughter to have that kind of power, that kind of legacy."

Caitlyn set down her fork, the familiar weight of expectation settling over her shoulders like a heavy cloak. She would rather not contemplate any of that. Not the succession, not the council seat waiting for her like an inevitable fate, not the future her mother had mapped out before Caitlyn was even born. It all felt like a predetermined path she was traversing, with no room to deviate or choose her own direction.

She finished the last of her orange juice and set the glass down carefully, then wiped her mouth with the linen napkin. Her father watched her with that same gentle worry he always had—not disappointment, never that. Just love, and fear for what her choices might cost her.

She stood, walked around the table with deliberate steps, and pressed a kiss to her father's cheek. "I love you, Dad."

Tobias caught her hand as she pulled away, his grip warm and firm, squeezing gently in that way that conveyed everything words couldn't. "I love you too. More than you know." His voice dropped, becoming almost pleading. "Just be careful out there. That's all I ask."

"Always." She retrieved her folder from the sideboard, holding it close. The weight of last night's evidence in her arms felt substantial, tangible, but the weight of her future pressed down on her shoulders with far more gravity. "But I really do need to go see Mother now. This can't wait."

He released her hand with a resigned nod, understanding flickering in his eyes even as worry remained etched in the lines of his face. As Caitlyn headed for the door, she glanced back once. Her father had returned to his newspaper, but she could discern the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the paper just a little too tightly.

She wished she could promise him she'd always be safe. She wished she could divulge the truth about what she was pursuing. But some burdens, she thought, were hers alone to carry.

At least until she had proof.

Chapter Text

The council chamber was quieting as Caitlyn arrived. The morning meeting had just concluded; councilors were filing out through the tall arched doors, voices low, papers in hand. As they passed, Councilor Mel Medarda caught Caitlyn's eye and offered her a small, fond smile. Warm, if a little amused.

Her mother, however, remained, standing near the grand windows overlooking Piltover, while Councilor Salo lingered beside her, murmuring something in his familiar sardonic tone. The one Caitlyn had loathed since childhood.

She paused in the doorway, clutching her folder. Cassandra's posture was rigid and professional, though Caitlyn noticed the faint tension in her shoulders. That headache from last night still lingering, perhaps.

Protocol dictated she should wait. That she shouldn't interrupt while her mother was with another councilor. It was ill-mannered, disrespectful, and Salo was notoriously sensitive.

But this couldn't wait.

Caitlyn straightened, gathered her resolve, and with as much confidence as she could summon, crossed the chamber. Her boots clacked crisply on the polished marble floor beneath the glimmering gold and bronze patterns of the domed ceiling, cutting through the silence.

Cassandra turned at the sound, an eyebrow quirked, surprise flickering across her composed features. "Caitlyn. I wasn't expecting you."

Salo turned as well, regarding her like an unwanted distraction. His expression soured as he looked between mother and daughter. He had always considered Caitlyn childish and impulsive. The idea that she was the Kiramman heir clearly irritated him.

"Ah, the fledgling," he said smoothly, leaning forward and interlocking his fingers. "To what do we owe this... interruption?"

Caitlyn did not bother to suppress an eye roll, nor did she dignify that with a response. Cassandra's eyes narrowed slightly at the term, but she kept her attention solely on her daughter.

"What brings you here?" she asked.

"I needed to speak with you, Mother. It's urgent."

"'Urgent' is a relative term," Salo drawled, a thin smile never reaching his eyes. "For children, a broken toy is urgent. For us, it's trade disputes and infrastructure. Which category does your crisis fall under?"

"Councilor Salo," Cassandra said coolly. "My daughter is an enforcer, not a child. If she says it's urgent, I'll at least hear her out."

Salo inclined his head with exaggerated deference, though his smirk remained.

"It's about the illegal shimmer trade," Caitlyn said. "I believe I've found a lead on the smuggling operation."

Salo let out a derisive chuckle. "Ah yes, the elusive shimmer ring. I thought we'd consigned that particular fairy tale to the archives."

"It's not a fairy tale," Caitlyn said curtly. "For the past three nights, I've been conducting surveillance at the southern docks. An unregistered trawler, the Sea Nymph, has been docking after curfew. I hadn't seen anything suspicious until last night, when I saw men moving crates into a warehouse that isn't listed on any trade registry. I believe that's where the shipments are being moved through."

Cassandra's composure cracked. "Surveillance? You weren't assigned to the docks. Who authorized this?"

Caitlyn couldn't hide the flinch. "No one," she admitted. "I was following up on a lead."

"Against orders?" Cassandra's voice dropped to a dangerous quiet.

"The lead was time-sensitive," Caitlyn said quickly, her confidence faltering under her mother's glare.

"So time-sensitive that you put yourself at risk without backup or oversight?" Cassandra demanded. "You did this knowing that both I and Sheriff Marcus agreed there wasn't enough evidence to proceed."

"Because waiting for permission means waiting forever," Caitlyn snapped.

A tense silence followed. Cassandra's jaw tightened, and when she spoke again her voice trembled with restrained anger. "I thought better of you. I thought you understood the difference between dedication and recklessness."

Salo had been surveying Caitlyn with a critical eye. "If I may," he interjected, his tone light and condescending, "this is exactly what worries us about the younger enforcers. So much passion, so little process. They mistake defiance for virtue." He turned toward Cassandra with mock sympathy. "How embarrassing this must be for you, Councilor Kiramman."

"My daughter's dedication to her duty is hardly embarrassing," Cassandra said, though her voice was strained. "Even if her methods are... questionable."

Caitlyn's hands clenched around her folder. "I have evidence."

"Evidence?" Cassandra's tone cut through the air. "Show me."

Caitlyn stepped forward and spread the contents of the folder across the table: reports, annotated manifests, grainy photographs, and sketches of the dock layout. Three months of quiet work laid bare.

Cassandra flipped through the pages, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Drawings. Handwritten notes."

"I recorded everything I could," Caitlyn explained, struggling to keep her voice steady.

Salo sauntered closer, glancing down as if examining a stain. "Hmm? And these are what exactly? Doodles? Truly compelling." He tapped one of the papers dismissively. "This is what you risked your position for?"

Caitlyn clenched her fists, no longer able to hold her tongue. "It's more than anyone else has done! While the council debates permit fees, shimmer is flooding the Undercity!"

"Oh, a revolutionary," Salo said with a soft clap. "Tell me, when you single-handedly topple this vast criminal network with your stick-figure sketches, where shall we place your statue?"

Cassandra began to speak, but before she could even get a word out, Caitlyn's control finally broke. She surged forward, and it took every ounce of strength she possessed not to punch the man. Instead, she slammed her fists down hard on the table. The sound reverberated through the chamber. Her icy blue eyes narrowed into slits as she glared at him.

The corner of his mouth tilted up crookedly. "Easy, now," he murmured, as if she were an ill-tempered, unbroken filly. "That little outburst is not very dignified... and that passion is precisely what concerns me. You see a conspiracy in every shadow, but you lack the discipline to see the bigger picture."

"The bigger picture is that people are being poisoned while you do nothing!" Caitlyn's voice rose, sharp with fury.

"We operate on evidence, not the hysterics of a junior officer who thinks the rules don't apply to her," Salo countered smoothly, his eyes glinting with amusement at her anger.

"Councilor Salo," Cassandra growled, her voice frigid. "That's quite enough. Your mockery is neither constructive nor welcome in this chamber."

Salo raised his hands in mock surrender. "My apologies, Councilor Kiramman. I merely thought we were having an honest discussion about professional standards."

"Then discuss them professionally," Cassandra said. She turned her focus back to Caitlyn, and though her expression was controlled, there was a flicker of something softer beneath the disappointment. "Is this why you've been lying about your patrol hours? I asked you directly."

Caitlyn shifted uneasily. "I omitted," she exclaimed quickly. "I didn't lie."

"A distinction without a difference!" Salo interjected cheerfully. "The foundation of trust, shattered on the technicality of semantics. You see, this is the problem with your generation. You believe your conviction is a substitute for experience. You think passion trumps process."

"Councilor," Cassandra warned, not looking at him. "Not another word."

Salo fell silent, though the smirk never left his face.

Cassandra looked down again at the papers, flipping through them in silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was cool and measured. "This doesn't prove anything. Suspicion isn't evidence, Caitlyn. Not enough to justify an investigation."

The words landed like a blow. Her mother hadn't taken anything into consideration. "If you'd just authorize..."

"On what grounds?" Cassandra gestured to the documents. "A late trawler? Unlisted crates? Suspicious activity? None of it is illegal." Her tone softened slightly, though it stayed firm. "Without concrete proof, witnesses, seized shipments, or physical shimmer, we can't justify a raid."

Heat crept into Caitlyn's face. Frustration, disbelief, and humiliation tangled in her chest.

Salo observed her reaction with thinly veiled satisfaction before speaking again. "Perhaps stick to routine patrols for a while, Officer Kiramman. Leave the complex investigations to those with more... experience."

Caitlyn met his gaze, defiant and unwavering. "If you think I'll stop, you're very much mistaken," she said, her voice tight with control.

"Oh, I don't doubt you'll keep chasing," Salo replied smoothly. "It's in your blood. Kiramman stubbornness. Noble, misguided, and terribly inconvenient."

"I think," Cassandra said, her voice sharp, "that you've contributed enough to this conversation, Councilor. Perhaps you have other matters to attend to."

It wasn't a suggestion.

Salo's smile thinned, but he inclined his head. "Of course. I can see this is a family matter now." He moved toward the door, pausing only to add, "When you tire of playing detective, Miss Kiramman, the archives could use someone with your enthusiasm for paperwork."

Once he had exited the room and his footsteps faded down the corridor, the silence that followed was heavier than before. Cassandra stood perfectly still, staring at the documents on the table. When she finally looked up, her expression was unreadable.

"Maybe order's the problem," Caitlyn said quietly.

"Caitlyn," Cassandra said, her voice brittle as glass.

Caitlyn looked at her, the woman she admired most, and saw only disappointment. The weight of it struck harder than any insult.

She gathered her notes, her voice quieter but steady. "You told me once the council exists to protect people. All I see are excuses not to."

Cassandra flinched. "You think I don't want to act? You think I haven't pushed for stronger measures? The council operates on consensus, not conviction. I can't simply order a raid because my daughter has a hunch."

"It's not a hunch. It's three months of work."

"It's not enough," Cassandra said, and there was genuine regret in her voice. "Not legally. Not politically. And sending enforcers into a potential ambush on insufficient evidence would be criminally negligent." She paused. "I'm sorry. But my hands are tied."

Caitlyn shoved the papers back into her folder, her hands trembling.

Cassandra straightened, her posture shifting from mother to councilor in the space of a breath. "You will cease all surveillance activities immediately," she instructed, her tone brooking no argument. "That is not a suggestion from your mother. That is an order from the council. Am I understood?"

"Yes."

"And you will report to Sheriff Marcus and inform him of your unauthorized operations. And you will accept whatever consequences he deems appropriate."

"Mother..."

"I understand your dedication," Cassandra said more softly. "I even admire it. But dedication without discipline is recklessness. And recklessness gets people killed." She hesitated, then added quietly, "I won't lose you to your own stubbornness."

Caitlyn didn't respond. She just tightened her grip on the folder, nodded dutifully, and marched toward the doors. She would take her leave, but she wasn't done.

"Caitlyn," Cassandra called after her.

She stopped but didn't turn.

"You're so much like I was at your age. That terrifies me."

Caitlyn stood there for a moment, then kept walking. The doors closed behind her with a hollow thud that echoed down the corridor.

Cassandra remained alone in the chamber, staring at the closed doors. She picked up one of Caitlyn's sketches, detailed and meticulous, and her expression softened with something close to pride.

Then she set it down and pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling the headache return in full force. The pounding against her skull was tenfold and she had to fight back the rising nausea.

"Stubborn girl," she murmured.

There was no anger in her voice. Only worry, and a reluctant respect she couldn't quite hide.

As Caitlyn navigated her way back home, humiliation and fury churned inside her. The condescending smirk on Salo's face and the disappointed resignation in her mother's eyes were seared into her mind. Her hands clenched around the folder until the edges bit into her palms. Three months. Three months of evidence, and her mother hadn't even proposed a deliberation. Hadn't even tried to bring it before the full council. She'd just shut it down, let Salo mock it, and ordered Caitlyn to stop like she was a child caught breaking curfew.

There had been no resolution. No plan of action. Not even an acknowledgment that the problem existed. Just more bureaucratic inertia while shimmer flooded the streets.

Her mind began to race. She couldn't... wouldn't give up. She was brilliant and headstrong. Her mother used to call that a deadly combination. Well she wasn't wrong. Sketches could be dismissed. Handwritten notes could be questioned. Timestamps and observations were circumstantial at best.

But photographs? Video evidence? Actual footage of smugglers moving shimmer through that warehouse?

That couldn't be ignored.

In order to gain the irrefutable proof though, she would have to catch them in the act, document everything with a camera. No more relying on memory and hastily scribbled notes. Real evidence. The kind even the council couldn't wave away with talk of "insufficient grounds" and legal technicalities.

Her mind was made up. She would go back to the docks. Tonight.

And this time, she'd go alone.

No Steb. No Maddie. She couldn't risk dragging them deeper into this, not after her mother's ultimatum. If she was caught, if this went wrong, the consequences would be hers alone to bear. She'd already chosen to take responsibility for the unauthorized surveillance. Better to keep that promise by not involving them again.

Her mother had ordered her to cease all surveillance, report to Sheriff Marcus, and accept the consequences. But accepting the consequences would mean a disciplinary hearing, maybe a demotion, possibly even suspension.

Caitlyn had no intention of reporting. Not yet. Not until she had proof that mattered.

She knew the docks were dangerous after curfew, especially alone. But she'd been trained for this. She knew how to move quietly, how to stay out of sight. And the risk was worth it if it meant finally getting evidence the council couldn't dismiss.

Upon arriving home, she anxiously scanned the living room, drawing room, parlor and library. Lastly, she entered the kitchen. Apart from one of their servants, Mila who was bustling about, dusting and cleaning, it was empty, just as she suspected. Her father, she knew would be at the hospital until late; her mother was still at the council building, dealing with whatever fallout followed the morning session.

Good. It gave her time.

She went straight to her room, tossing the folder onto her desk with more force than necessary. For a moment she just stood there, staring at the wall covered in notes and sketches. Three months of work, dismissed like nothing.

She crossed to her closet with purpose and pulled out her camera, the good one her father had given her for her last birthday. Compact, silent shutter, capable of clear shots in low light. She slotted in a spare memory card and put the battery on charge.

Next, she rifled through her dresser drawers: black pants, a dark blue sweater, her most worn boots (the ones that didn't squeak on wet wood). Nothing with reflective buttons. Nothing with enforcer insignia. Nothing that would mark her as official.

She laid everything out on her bed with military precision, her mind already working through the logistics.

She'd need to reach the docks before the trawler arrived. Based on previous nights, that meant leaving around ten. She needed a better vantage point than the crates she'd used before, somewhere with a clear line of sight to the warehouse but enough cover to stay hidden. Wait until they started moving the cargo. Document everything.

Photographs. Clear, undeniable images of shimmer being moved through that warehouse.

Evidence even the council couldn't ignore.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text message.

Maddie: Need to talk. Urgent. Can you meet?

Caitlyn frowned. She and Maddie were friendly, sure, but not close. They didn't usually meet off-duty, especially not with "urgent" messages. Something must have happened.

She typed back: What's going on?

Maddie: Not over text. Can you meet me at that café near the bookshop? The one off the central plaza?

The location was deliberate. Quiet, out of the way, and far from headquarters. Whatever Maddie wanted to talk about, she didn't want anyone overhearing.

Caitlyn glanced at her camera, at the clothes laid out on the bed. She needed to prepare. Tonight was everything. But if something had happened, if Marcus was already making moves...

She sighed.

Caitlyn: Give me 30 minutes.

Maddie: Thank you. See you there.

Caitlyn set the phone down and looked again at her preparations. Tonight would change everything. She'd get her proof. She'd walk back into that council chamber and force them to act.

She just had to make sure nothing got in her way first.

Caitlyn spotted Maddie at a table tucked away in the corner of the quaint little café. Two cups already waited: tea for Maddie, dark roast coffee for Caitlyn.

Maddie looked up as Caitlyn approached, her expression tight with worry. She'd been absently stirring her tea long after the sugar had dissolved, the spoon clinking against the porcelain.

Without any preamble, Caitlyn sat down. "What's going on? Your text said it was urgent."

"First, tell me what happened. Did you present your evidence to your mom?"

"I did." Caitlyn's voice was flat. "She shut me down. Said it wasn't enough to justify an investigation. And Councilor Salo was there too, making everything worse with his comments about stick-figure sketches and youthful passion."

"That pompous..." Maddie caught herself, glancing around before lowering her voice. "So she knows about the unauthorized surveillance?"

Caitlyn took a sip of her coffee; it was bitter and strong. "She knows everything. And she ordered me to cease all activities immediately and report to Marcus. In hindsight, it was a stupid decision going in without hard proof, without a plan. I thought if I just showed them what I'd found, they'd listen."

Maddie's expression darkened with concern. "That explains it then. Marcus came by the station about an hour ago. He was asking everyone if they'd seen you. Steb and I both said we hadn't, which is the truth, because we hadn't." Maddie kept her voice low. "He also wanted to know your schedule. He was pulling files, checking patrol logs, going through everything." She paused, her fingers tapping restlessly against her teacup. "Then he made it clear that if you don't report for duty, he'll bring you in himself for insubordination. I've never seen him so riled up, Cait. He was furious."

Caitlyn's jaw tightened. "That means someone must have contacted him right after I left."

"Probably." Maddie leaned forward, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Look, I need you to know something. If this goes sideways, if Marcus corners me or Steb and really pushes... I'll tell him the truth. That I was there too. That I saw those men at the warehouse."

"Maddie, no..."

"I mean it." Maddie's expression was resolute. Her fingers stilled, the faint tremor in her hands betraying nerves she wouldn't voice. "You're not taking the fall for this alone. We went willingly. We believed in what you were doing. If it comes down to it, I'll back you up."

For a heartbeat, Caitlyn's anger ebbed, replaced by something quieter. "Thank you. But it won't come to that."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I have a plan." Caitlyn's voice was steady, determined. "I just need to avoid Marcus until then."

"And how exactly do you plan to avoid the Sheriff when he's actively hunting you down?"

"I'll stay off the grid. No headquarters, no official patrols. He can't bring me in if he can't find me." Caitlyn's eyes held a stubborn glint. "I just need one more night, that's all."

Maddie's eyes widened. Her teacup rattled as she set it down. "Oh no. No. Caitlyn, tell me you're not going back there."

"I'm doing what has to be done. It's the only way to get the evidence," Caitlyn said, keeping her voice low. "Real proof. The kind the council can't dismiss."

Maddie's expression twisted with frustration and worry. "When?"

"Maddie..."

"When, Caitlyn?"

Caitlyn exhaled slowly. So much for keeping her out of it. "Tonight. After curfew. I'll have my camera this time. If I can get photographs of them moving the shimmer, actual evidence of the operation..."

"Alone?" Maddie cut in. "You're planning to go alone?"

"I can't ask you to..."

"That's not what I asked." Maddie's voice was sharp enough to draw a glance from the barista behind the counter. She lowered it quickly. "Are you seriously going back to the docks, at night, alone, to photograph what's probably an organized crime operation?"

"It's the only way to get the proof the council needs."

"Or it's the fastest way to get yourself killed."

Caitlyn was quite insistent. "I'll be fine, trust me."

Maddie shook her head. "Caitlyn, this is insane."

"What's insane is shimmer flooding the Undercity while we do nothing about it." Caitlyn's voice hardened. "I can't accept that. Not when I'm this close."

"Close to what? A solid investigation or a disciplinary hearing? Because right now, it could go either way."

"It'll be worth it if I get the evidence."

"And if you don't?" Maddie challenged. "If they catch you? If something goes wrong and there's no backup, no one who even knows you're there?"

Caitlyn had no good answer for that.

Maddie rubbed her face, clearly wrestling with conflicting impulses. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, almost pleading. "At least let me come with you. Or Steb. Someone."

"No." Caitlyn's tone was firm. "This is my investigation. My choice. If it goes wrong, it's on me alone."

"That's a brave plan, Cait, but it's a terrible one." Maddie's voice was thick with concern. "You're walking into a trap alone."

"Maybe. But it's my decision to make."

Maddie stared at her for a long moment, jaw clenched. Then she sighed, defeat and frustration bleeding into her expression. "I can't stop you, can I?"

"No."

"Fine." Maddie's voice was clipped. "But if you're going to be reckless, at least be smart about it. Stay hidden. Get your photos. And get out. No confrontations. No heroics."

"No heroics," Caitlyn agreed.

"And if you're not back by dawn..." Maddie hesitated, then set her jaw. "If you're not back, Steb and I will come find you. And I don't care what Marcus or your mother or anyone else has to say about it."

Gratitude washed over Caitlyn, momentarily displacing her fear. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. If your mother finds out I knew and didn't stop you, we'll both end up in whatever dungeon they keep for disobedient officers." Maddie managed a weak smile. "Probably filing reports for Salo.

"Now that would be a fate worse than death." Caitlyn tried for levity, but her voice came out flat. The joke felt hollow when her career, her investigation, possibly her freedom hung in the balance. Still, Maddie's attempt at humor loosened something tight in her chest.

"Exactly." Maddie's smile faded. "Seriously, Caitlyn. Be careful. Please."

"I will." Caitlyn finished up the rest of her coffee. "I should go. I need to prepare."

"Cait. I mean what I said. If anything feels wrong, anything at all, you get out. The evidence isn't worth your life."

"I'll be alright Maddie," she reassured her, reaching over to grasp her hand and giving it a squeeze.

Maddie kept her steely gaze focused on Caitlyn. "Promise?"

Caitlyn then stood, giving her a firm nod. "Promise."

As she stepped outside, Caitlyn realized that although she had a firm purpose in mind, she still felt her skin prickle, especially as tonight would either prove her right or end her career.

Possibly both.

Chapter Text

As soon as the coast was clear, Caitlyn slipped down from her vantage point. She moved silently, her boots barely whispering on the damp concrete. The Sea Nymph loomed ahead, its hull creaking softly against the dock. She paused, listening. The distant rumble of the city, the lap of water against the pilings, the muffled voices from the warehouse—nothing seemed out of place. But she knew better.

Caitlyn hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to call for backup. But she'd come this far. If she left now, the evidence she'd collected so far would no doubt be dismissed. She had to keep going.

She inched closer, her camera lens pointed downward. That's when she saw it: tiny, glistening droplets scattered across the concrete, catching the faint light like liquid stars. Shimmer. There was no mistaking the iridescent sheen, the way it seemed to pulse with a faint, internal light. Her pulse kicked into a higher gear.

She snapped several more photos, the camera's shutter the only sound in the suffocating quiet. Then, pulling an evidence bag from her pocket, she crouched and carefully scooped a sample of the pinkish liquid into the bag. She sealed it tightly and tucked it into her backpack. This was proof—real, tangible evidence. But where was it coming from?

The droplets formed a trail, leading away from the main activity and toward the trawler's lowered ramp. Caitlyn hesitated for only a second. Curiosity burned in her chest, hotter than caution. She adjusted her backpack, her fingers brushing the outline of her handgun, and followed the trail onto the ramp.

She paused at the top, her breath shallow, her senses on high alert.

The deck was eerily ordinary: nets coiled neatly, crates stacked and secured, the usual detritus of a working vessel. Caitlyn recorded everything, her camera lens lingering on the shimmer droplets that led to a rusted hatch near the stern. The metal was cold under her fingers as she lifted it, the hinges groaning in protest. She froze, listening. Still nothing.

With a final glance around the empty deck, she swung her legs over the side and descended into the belly of the ship. The air grew thick and heavy, the scent of salt and rust giving way to something sharper—chemical, almost electric. She flicked on her flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness like a blade.

Caitlyn reached for her camera again, its lens her guide. Whatever was down there, she was about to find it.

The lower deck was a maze of pipes and storage lockers, the walls slick with condensation. Her light swept across the space, illuminating stacks of supplies, coiled ropes, and then—the barrels.

Dozens of them lined the hold, stacked with military precision, each stamped with the clean, official crest of a Piltover trade guild. Legitimate on paper. Perfectly ordinary.

Except they weren't.

Caitlyn snapped a few photos: the markings, the serial numbers. Something about their perfection felt off. Too uniform. Too careful. She zoomed the camera lens in, the image stabilizing as she focused. There it was, unmistakable—a thin, glistening streak of Shimmer smeared along the rim, catching the flashlight's beam like a slash of neon. This is it. The evidence Mother can't ignore. Her finger hovered over the record button, her breath quickening as she panned over the barrels, capturing every detail.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. Above her.

Her head snapped up. Voices followed, muffled but unmistakable, drifting down from the deck. Caitlyn's heart hammered against her ribs. She killed the flashlight, plunging herself into absolute darkness just as the footsteps stopped directly over the hatch.

The ladder creaked.

Someone was coming down.

She ducked between the barrels, pressing her back against the cold metal, her pulse roaring in her ears. The space was tight, the edges digging into her shoulders. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the ragged edge of her breath. The camera was still running, tucked against her chest, its lens pointed at the narrow gap between the barrels.

A shadow blocked the dim light from the hatch. A boot touched the top rung.

Caitlyn didn't dare move.

She waited, muscles locked as the figure paused halfway down the ladder, the old metal groaning under their weight. She held her breath, her fingers digging into the cold barrel behind her. Don't look. Don't turn around.

Then, a voice from above. Rough, impatient. "Boss needs us back. Now."

The figure hesitated, then grunted in response. "Yeah, yeah." The ladder creaked again as they ascended, their boots thudding against the rungs. The voices faded, and the hatch above clanged shut with a final, echoing thud.

Caitlyn exhaled slowly, her breath shaky. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart slam against her ribs. Too close. But she was still alive, still hidden, and now she had even more undeniable proof.

She waited, counting the seconds in her head. Thirty. Forty. Sixty. The ship remained still, the silence heavy once more. Only then did she dare to move, shifting carefully between the barrels. She checked her camera—still recording. The footage was clear: the Shimmer, the barrels, the voices. It was enough.

Caitlyn eased herself out of the trawler's hold, the close call still ringing in her ears. She had the sample, the footage, the proof. The warehouse could wait for a full Enforcer raid. Her job was to get the evidence back safely.

As she turned to retreat into the shadows, her gaze flicked one last time toward the warehouse—a final check before disengaging.

That was when she saw him. A lone figure emerged from the deeper darkness and approached the warehouse door. She only caught a glimpse, but she recognized the uniform instantly. The cut of the jacket, the hint of a badge on the sleeve... it was an Enforcer's uniform.

Before he could knock, the door opened just a crack. A tall, thin silhouette appeared in the gloom. The Enforcer cast a quick, suspicious glance over his shoulder as a faint murmur of greeting was snatched away by the wind. The silhouetted man stepped aside, and the Enforcer slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

Caitlyn stared, her blue eyes wide and unblinking. She was completely dumbfounded.

The sight was so incongruous it felt like a physical blow. After all, this was a Shimmer smuggling operation, the territory of gangs and thugs. Her mind reeled.

But you're an Enforcer here, too, a small, logical voice whispered. The parallel was undeniable, and for a moment, it gave her pause. Could he be like her? An undercover operative, or another officer working a lead off the books?

She immediately dissected the idea. No. Her solitary investigation was a last resort, a pursuit of justice when official channels had stalled. It was built on evidence-gathering, not secret meetings. This man’s furtive glance, the quiet, familiar way he was admitted. It didn't feel like an investigation. It felt like a conversation. A transaction.

Protocol was being broken, one way or another, but the intent behind it was what mattered. The distinction was everything. The high probability of a corrupt officer protecting the very criminals she was hunting made the situation infinitely more dangerous than a simple smuggling bust.

The realization was a cold splash of reality. Every sensible instinct screamed at her to retreat. This was no longer a solo reconnaissance mission; it was a potential confrontation with a trained, armed, and compromised colleague. To call it in and let a properly equipped, vetted team handle it was the only professional choice. Pushing her luck further wasn't bravery; it was suicidal.

She took a half-step back, her hand already moving toward the spare phone in her pocket. But the gnawing questions pulled her forward.

"Damn it," she muttered, the curse a surrender.

The decision was made. Her boots made no sound on the damp cobblestones as she flitted from shadow to shadow, closing the distance to the warehouse, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.

The door, she now saw, was slightly ajar. Intentional or not, she couldn't be sure. A sliver of jaundiced yellow light spilled out. Caitlyn pressed herself against the cold, corrugated metal wall, holding her breath. The low murmur of voices from within was barely audible. Slowly, carefully, she edged the door open a fraction more, just enough to peer inside.

Three men stood in the center, all with the hardened look of professional criminals. The first was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and intimidating, his face a roadmap of old scars. The second was lanky, with unkempt brown hair, thick-rimmed glasses, and hollowed-out cheeks. The third was equally burly, with a shaved head and a nose that looked as though it had been broken one too many times.

But there was no sign of the Enforcer. Had she been mistaken?

The mystery would have to wait. She raised her camera, her finger trembling as she pressed the record button. 

The scarred one drove a crowbar into the lid of a crate. With a final grunt of effort, the wood splintered and the lid came loose. He reached into the straw packing and hefted a glass vial. The liquid inside swirled, a viscous, iridescent substance that seemed to capture and warp the dim light, pulsing with a faint, internal energy. Shimmer. It cast eerie, shifting reflections on his scarred cheeks, turning his sneer into something monstrous.

Caitlyn pulled her hood tighter. Her hands were clammy around the camera, her heart hammering so loud she was sure it would betray her. But the lens didn't lie. It captured everything: the crate, the men, the damning evidence.

He nearly fumbled the vial, his scarred, clumsy fingers struggling to get a proper grip, and he had to clutch it to his chest to keep it from falling.

"Turk, you fucking idiot!" the lanky one cursed, his voice a venomous hiss. "Spill that, and the boss will peel your skin off."

"Screw off, Huck. You know I've got butterfingers," Turk grumbled, carefully setting the vial back with the others.

Huck smirked, a cold, lifeless expression. "You spill a drop, you'll be lucky to have fingers left to lose."

The third stepped forward. "Shut up, both of you, and count 'em. We ain't got all night."

Caitlyn's stomach twisted. This was it. The proof was undeniable. Her pulse raced—a frantic rhythm of adrenaline and triumph. She kept recording until the camera's memory icon flashed—full. It didn't matter. She had what she needed. It was time to go.

The mystery of the Enforcer was a bitter pill to swallow. She had failed to identify him, and the not-knowing grated on her. But the evidence in her camera was concrete; the conspiracy could be unraveled back at the precinct with a real team. The thought was cold comfort, but it was logic. And right now, logic was all that stood between her and a suicidal mistake.

An echo of Maddie's voice from that morning cut through the adrenaline: "If anything feels wrong, anything at all, you get out. The evidence isn't worth your life.   

For once, she was right. It wasn’t.

She lowered the camera, tucking it securely into her backpack, and began to shift backward, one slow, deliberate step at a time into the welcoming darkness. For a single, heart-pounding moment, she believed she would make it.

Then, the soft, definitive crunch of a boot heel came from directly behind her.

It wasn't her. She was frozen, her own boots silent on the filth-strewn ground.

The sound came from a shifting weight, a careless step from the shadows at her back. It was the only warning she got.

Her heart seized. Her hand flew to her gun, but it was too late. A massive, calloused hand clamped over her mouth, smelling of salt and sweat, crushing her lips against her teeth and stifling her gasp. Another arm, thick as a cable, wrapped around her torso, yanking her off her feet and back against a solid, unyielding wall of a man.

"Got you, you sneaking rat," the gruff voice growled, assuming he'd caught a spy from a rival crew. But then a muffled cry, distinctly higher-pitched than expected, escaped her throat, and a few stray strands of soft hair brushed against his forearm. He stopped. With his free hand, he roughly tugged back her hood. The man gave a short, confused grunt as he looked at the young woman in his grasp. The hot, moist breath of his voice, now laced with surprise, rumbled in her ear:

"Well, well. Look what the tide dragged in."

Chapter Text

The pressure of Silas's boot was a constant, painful reminder of her helplessness. The worn leather pressed into her spine, grinding her cheek against the splintered warehouse floor. Turk grunted, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the rotting floorboards. "Who is she, Deckard? A cop? Some kind of enforcer?"

"That's a very good question."

From her position on the floor, Caitlyn managed to twist her head just enough to glare up at him. "I was just out for a stroll," she spat, the words tasting of blood and copper. "Thought I'd take in the lovely dockside ambiance."

Deckard let out a soft, humorless snicker, the sound dry as dead leaves. "A stroll. With this?" He held up her gun, his calloused fingers tracing the grip with the practiced familiarity of a man who had used such weapons many times before.

Part of her knew she had been careless. Reckless, even. She should have left when she had the chance. If only my mother could see me now, she thought, pinned to a filthy floor by a thug's boot. She would be so disappointed. No, worse. She would be terrified.

She met his gaze, forcing her voice to remain steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "These docks aren't safe at night. A girl's gotta protect herself." The forced colloquialism felt alien on her tongue, a weak attempt to sound like she belonged.

Deckard didn't smile, but something shifted in his expression—amusement, or maybe a flicker of grudging respect for a bad hand being played with false confidence. He tossed her gun onto an unopened crate with a metallic clink that echoed through the cavernous space.

"We're past the 'stroll,'" he said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. He gestured at the gun with a tilt of his head. "Tourists don't usually carry guns. And they sure as hell don't wander into restricted docks after dark." His eyes narrowed. "So let's try again. What are you really doing here? Who do you work for?"

Caitlyn pressed her lips together, tasting blood. Her silence was a brittle shield, and they both knew it.

Deckard sighed as if disappointed by a stubborn child. "Huck, check her backpack. Silas, keep holding her down. Jax, empty her pockets."

Jax leered, a nasty grin spreading across his pockmarked face. "With pleasure, boss."

"Oh, and Jax?" Deckard's voice was dangerously soft.

"Yeah, boss?"

"I'd better not find out those hands have been wandering places they shouldn't." He paused, letting the words hang in the stale air. "You know what'll happen if I do." The warning was absolute and without appeal.

Jax's grin tightened, the leer replaced by a flicker of genuine fear. "Sure thing, boss."

The boot lifted from her back, and for one precious second, Caitlyn could breathe fully again. But before she could take advantage of it, Silas's rough hands were on her, hauling her up with bruising force. She fought with a burst of frantic energy, kicking and twisting like a trapped animal, but he was too strong—easily 250 pounds of solid muscle hardened by years of dock work and street violence. He forced her arms behind her back, his grip like iron manacles, and she felt something in her shoulder wrench painfully.

"Get off me!" she snarled, her struggle futile.

Jax stepped in, his hands patting her down with a brutal, grating efficiency that stayed, just barely, within the lines of Deckard's warning. His thick fingers dug into her pockets, finding nothing. Then he discovered the inside pocket of her jacket. His fingers closed around her cell phone, and he ripped it free with a triumphant grunt. "Look what we have here."

Deckard's icy composure didn't break, but his eyes narrowed with sharp interest. He took the phone, turning it over in his hands. It was basic, cheap—a burner. He powered it on, scrolling through it with practiced efficiency. No contacts. No call history. No messages. His jaw tightened. Either she was smart enough to keep it clean, or she hadn't had time to use it yet. He tossed it to the floor and crushed it under his boot. Plastic crunched and the screen spiderwebbed beneath his heel. "You won't be needing this."

Huck, however, had better luck. "Hey, boss. You might want to take a look at this."

The contents of Caitlyn's backpack were laid out on a crate like evidence. A tactical flashlight, spare batteries, and two damning objects: a clear evidence bag containing shimmer droplets, their violet luminescence unmistakable, and a professional-grade digital camera. Deckard picked up the evidence bag first, his grin ugly and knowing. "Looks like someone's been collecting souvenirs."

Caitlyn feigned ignorance. "I have no idea what that is. I just saw it on the dock and thought it looked pretty."

Turk growled, taking a threatening step forward. "She's full of shit, boss."

Deckard then picked up the camera. He clicked it on, the screen glowing to life and illuminating his face in a pale blue light. He navigated the menu with chilling ease. The first photo was a perfectly framed shot of the Sea Nymph. He swiped through more: the warehouse exterior, shimmer residue on the dock, close-ups of crates with visible shipping labels, the interior of this very warehouse, and the final, damning image of Turk himself, holding up a vial of shimmer like a trophy.

He looked from the screen to Caitlyn, his expression transforming from curiosity to something cold and final. The violence in his eyes wasn't theatrical; it was workmanlike. This was a catastrophic security breach. If his employer found out, his own head would be on the block alongside hers.

"Well, well," he whispered, the words dripping with venomous quiet. "It seems our uninvited guest is a keen photographer, as well as a liar and a sneak." He held the camera screen up, forcing her to look. "Nobody takes these kinds of pictures unless they're on a job."

"I'm just a nobody," Caitlyn gritted out, a last, desperate bluff.

Deckard's laugh was an ugly snort. "You're not a nobody. This," he said, holding up the camera, its screen still glowing with the evidence, "makes you a liability. And my employer has a very simple policy for liabilities." He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "They go to the bottom of the harbor with the rest of the filth."

The words hung in the air, heavy and immovable as stone. Silas grinned with vacant eagerness. This wasn't a threat. It was standard operating procedure.

Deckard pried the memory card out with a practiced twist of his fingers, pocketing the small rectangle of plastic that held all her evidence. Then he snatched a crowbar from a nearby crate.

He didn't just smash the camera. He brought the crowbar down on it with focused fury, grinding the lens and circuitry into the splintered floorboards. The destruction was absolute. Shards of glass and twisted metal scattered across the floor like shrapnel.

When he was satisfied, he held up the salvaged memory card, a smug, victorious smile playing on his lips before he slipped it into his own pocket. All her risk now belonged to him.

He looked at her with detached contempt. "Was it worth it? A few photos for your life?"

Before Caitlyn could answer, Huck shifted his weight nervously. "Boss... this is big. Maybe we should... you know, call it in. Ask the big man how he wants her handled."

Jax gave a curt nod. "I agree."

The air went out of the room. Deckard's head snapped toward Huck and Jax, his eyes blazing with a silent warning. But the damage was done.

A slow, understanding dawned on Caitlyn's face. Her eyes widened, not in terror, but in revelation. A sharp, incredulous laugh escaped her bruised lips.

"You're not the boss," she said, her voice gaining strength. "You don't get to make this call, do you? You're just... middle management. A glorified foreman taking orders." She looked him up and down, her gaze scathing. "All this posturing, and you still have to phone home for instructions."

Deckard's composure shattered. The mockery, the public stripping of his authority, was a wound far deeper than any physical blow.

"Shut your fucking mouth," he snarled, the words vibrating with pure rage.

"Or what?" Caitlyn pressed, driving the wedge deeper. "You'll have to get permission to hurt me?"

That was the final straw. With a roar of pure fury, Deckard closed the distance between them. The back of his hand cracked against her cheek, snapping her head to the side. The pain was blinding, but the victory was hers.

"Nobody makes a call!" he bellowed, spinning to face his stunned crew. "This is my operation! My decision!" His wild eyes landed back on Caitlyn, now bleeding from a fresh split in her lip. "And I've decided to show you exactly who's boss. The only question is how you die—fast, or slow."

"Then stop talking and prove it," Caitlyn rasped, spitting blood onto the floor between them. "But ask yourself one thing first. You think I'm just some stupid girl with a camera? That I came down here alone?" A cold, knowing smile touched her lips. "You have no idea who I am. If I don't walk out of here, the fire that rains down on this operation will make your boss's displeasure look like a friendly warning. You're not just killing me. You're signing your own death warrants."

For a heartbeat, the warehouse was silent. Jax and Huck exchanged an uncertain glance. The seed of doubt was planted.

Which was why Deckard had to crush it immediately.

He withdrew a blade from his belt. "Pretty speech," he snarled, the point hovering inches from her eye, "but it isn't going to save you. Silas. Stand her up."

Rough hands yanked Caitlyn upright. Her legs trembled violently, but Silas held her fast.

Deckard stepped close. He pressed the flat of the blade against her throat. The metal was cold against her skin, and she could feel her pulse hammering against it.

"Quick would be efficient," he said. "A slice here"—the blade traced slowly across her throat—"The carotid artery. You'd bleed out in under a minute."

The blade traced down to her collarbone. "Here? Slower. The subclavian artery. Maybe five minutes of choking on your own blood. Not pleasant."

The knife moved lower, hovering over her heart. He tapped the point lightly against her chest. "Or here. Right through the ribs. Thirty seconds, give or take." He smiled, cold and mirthless. "Depends on if I get it on the first try."

Caitlyn's breathing remained controlled, but she couldn't stop a slight tremor. Deckard noticed.

"Oh, now we're getting somewhere." He moved the knife down to her stomach. "But these quick deaths lack... artistry."

The blade traced a slow path down her abdomen. "The gut, though. That's a slow bleed. Painful. Gives you time to think about every choice that led you here."

He shifted the knife to her side. "The liver is interesting too. A deep enough cut here, and you'll bleed out eventually. Could take minutes. Could take hours."

Caitlyn lifted her chin. "You think I'm scared of you."

Deckard's expression hardened. "You should be."

"I'm the one who found you," Caitlyn said. "If I could do it, others will too."

The knife stopped at her wrist, and Deckard pressed the edge against the vulnerable blue lines there. "So many possibilities." He didn't cut, just rested the blade there. "The wrists are poetic too. That's how the desperate ones do it, isn't it? But that's not quite right for you." He moved the blade back up to her face, using the flat of it to tilt her chin from side to side, examining her like a piece of meat. "You're not desperate. You're defiant."

He traced the blade down her cheek, the edge catching slightly on her skin but not breaking it. "I could mark that face. Make sure everyone knows what happens to tourists who overstep." The knife moved to her other cheek. "If you survived, that is."

Caitlyn shot him a glare. "You know what your problem is?"

"Oh, do enlighten me."

"You talk too much," Caitlyn said, the words flat and final.

Deckard's face went perfectly still. A vein throbbed in his temple. His grip on the knife tightened. Then something shifted. His eyes held no more reason, only killing fury. "Then we're done talking."

He straightened up, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. He flipped the knife, catching it by the blade, and extended the handle toward Silas, who took it with an eager grin.

"Turk, Silas. Do the honors. Make it hurt, but don't take all night. We have work to do."

"With pleasure, boss," Turk growled.

Caitlyn chuckled. "Too scared to do it yourself. Fucking coward!"

"Get that bitch out of here."

They dragged her toward the rear door, her boots scraping against the concrete. The cool night air hit her face as they hauled her onto the rickety pier, the wood groaning under their weight. The dark water lapped below, smelling of oil and decay.

Turk leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. "Let me tell you what's going to happen, darlin'. I'm going to put this knife in you. Not quick. Not clean. Somewhere that'll hurt for every second of the life you have left. Then we're gonna throw you to the deep, dark water, and you will sink. And by the time the harbormaster fishes your bloated corpse from the bay, you will be just another cautionary tale. A lesson in the cost of curiosity."

"Bet you wished you stayed at home now, don't ya, sweetheart?" Silas sneered in her ear.

A ghost of a smile touched Caitlyn's bloodied lips. "Maybe. But seeing your so-called boss rattled like that? Made it all worth it."

"Hold her still," Turk snarled, taking the knife from Silas.

Silas pinned her arms in a viselike grip, forcing her to arch forward. She saw the blade in Turk's hand, saw the anticipation in his shimmer-bright eyes.

"This is for all the trouble you caused," Turk said, and drove the knife into her stomach.

The pain was white-hot, instant, stealing her breath. Caitlyn gasped, a wet, strangled sound, her body convulsing. She felt the blade twist before Turk yanked it out, followed by the immediate, warm gush of blood flooding her clothes.

"No..." she choked out, her vision swimming.

The hands released her, and she collapsed forward onto the rough wood. Her fingers clutched at the wound, trying futilely to hold her life inside.

"Not so talkative now, are we?" Turk observed, wiping his blade clean. "You have a few minutes. Use them wisely."

Caitlyn's vision tunneled. Only a bloody bubble escaped her lips. The pool beneath her widened.

With business concluded, Silas piped up. "Let's toss her in. Let the fish pick her clean."

But survival instinct kicked in through the agony. As Silas's grip loosened, Caitlyn threw her weight sideways. She wrenched one arm free and drove her elbow back into his face. He grunted, stumbling.

She lunged for the edge of the dock, trying to run back toward the dockside, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. The wound was too severe. She stumbled, her boots slipping on the wet, blood-slicked wood.

Turk caught her, gripping her hair and wrenching it back. "Where do you think you're going?"

As he dragged her backward, her heel caught on a warped plank. A sharp tug, and one of her boots was ripped away, skittering across the dock to rest near a stack of moldy crates. Neither thug noticed.

They hauled her back to the pier's end, leaving a trail of blood smeared on the weathered planks. Silas grabbed her shoulders, Turk her legs. They swung her once, twice, and launched her into the waiting darkness.

The cold was a second, shocking violence. It stole the scream she didn't have the air to voice. The impact sent a devastating shockwave through her body. Icy darkness swallowed her. Water flooded her mouth, her lungs burning.

Instinct took over. Move.

Caitlyn forced her leaden arms to push, her legs to kick weakly. Every movement was fire. Every heartbeat pumped more of her life out into the chilling brine.

Her head broke the surface and she gasped, a ragged, choking inhalation. The dock was already receding, Turk and Silas turning their backs as they walked away. The current had her, pulling her relentlessly into the greater darkness.

She tried to swim, but her body was failing. One arm curled protectively around the searing hole in her side, the other flailed weakly, fighting to keep her head above the choppy surface. The cold was leaching her strength, the blood loss making her thoughts thick and syrupy. The edges of her vision began to dim.

Keep moving. Stay awake.

It was a mantra against the void. The blood on the dock—someone would find it. Someone would come.

She had to survive long enough to prove him wrong.

She had to survive.

But the cold and the blood loss were making her eyes heavy. Her kicks became feeble twitches. Her arm felt like a dead weight. Her head dipped below the surface.

She fought her way back up, choking, a desperate effort that burned through the last of her energy. The water felt thicker now, like oil, pulling her down. The distant lights of Piltover smeared into wavering streaks of gold.

No. Not like this.

The thought was a final, dim spark. Her muscles simply stopped responding. Her head lolled back, and the dark water closed over her face for the last time.

There was no more fight left. The cold was a deep, penetrating numbness. The world narrowed to the burning in her lungs and the distant, fading drum of her own heartbeat.

She sank.

The chaotic surface world vanished, replaced by a silent, pressing gloom. Bubbles of her last breath escaped in a silvery trail.

This is it, then.

The realization was strangely calm. A final, clear thought in the dissolving haze of her mind.

Her mother's face appeared, not in terror, but with that rare, bright smile from a happier time. I love you, Mother.

Then, her father's voice, warm and steady, a sound that had always meant safety. She could almost feel the ghost of his hand on her shoulder. I love you, Father— no, Dad. I love you both so much. I'm so sorry.