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[defmxl]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 26/?)

"Mother" A title that was never yours to claim — yet now you cling to it with everything you have, even as it splinters you from the inside out.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 10,1K

Warnings: death, threats, death threats, hallucinations, suffocation, threats with weapons, Jinx POV Song suggestion: Bout it by JMSN (the instrumental part)

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 25

 Jinx's Pov  ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Three days later

There were two things in Silco's training that Jinx couldn't stand. Absolutely hated, actually.

The first was helping him with his Shimmer dose. It wasn't the needle, needles didn't scare her, she wasn't some squeamish little kid. She could handle blood, metal, explosions, but this was different. 

Watching Silco inject that glowing purple thing into the ruined side of his face— into the broken part of him— did something weird to her. She'd seen him do it a hundred times by now, always quiet, always trying to act like it didn't hurt. But she could see it. The twitch in his jaw, the flinch in his eye, the way his whole body tensed for just a second before relaxing like nothing happened.

He never said a word about the pain. Never winced or complained. But it was there and Jinx hated how it made her feel helpless. All she could do was stand there, holding the empty vial or handing him a cloth, watching as the Shimmer did its job. She hated that he needed it, hated that it hurt him. Hated that she couldn't fix it.

The second thing she hated was acting as his bodyguard during meetings in the office. She didn't understand why he kept assigning that job to her. There were others—stronger, older people. But no. It was always her, crouched up in the rafters like some weird spider, Silco's gun in her hands, peering down at a bunch of old people in suits arguing over stuff she didn't care about. Trade routes, alliances, weapons deals, territory disputes—blah blah blah. Their voices all blurred together into this adult noise she couldn't stand.

And Silco would just say, "Watch for anything suspicious."

What was she supposed to do if something was suspicious? Shoot them? She hadn't even shot a real person before. Not really. She wasn't sure if she could. The thought twisted in her stomach and made her chest feel tight, like her ribs were too small to hold everything inside.

And it was boring. So boring. Sitting still, staying quiet, pretending like she was just another shadow in the ceiling while grown-ups talked about things that didn't matter to her. She wanted to be building something, blowing something up, moving. Not sitting like a statue with her finger near the trigger of a gun that felt way too big in her hands.

But the worst part—the part that really crawled under her skin—was that no matter how much she hated it, she still did it. She still helped him with the Shimmer. She still climbed up into the rafters. Because Silco said it mattered and if it mattered to him, then... it had to matter to her too. 

Right?

Even though she was still angry at him, she still obeyed. Not because she wanted to, but because... maybe if she did everything right, he'd finally do what he promised. He'd bring her mom back and things would feel like home again.

Mom.

It was a strange word for Jinx to think—stranger still to try and attach it to her. That woman. The one who wasn't her real mother, not by blood or name, but... what else could she call her? Nothing else seemed right. Nothing else fit. Because if Silco was allowed to be her father—if he'd taken up that space in her heart, messy and complicated as it was—then she figured it was okay to call the woman her mother. 

Wasn't it?

Would her real mother be upset about that? Or be mad if she knew? If she was watching from wherever people go when they're gone?

Jinx wasn't sure. The memories she had of her birth mother were fading fast, like smoke in the air after a blast. Sometimes she thought she remembered her face—soft, kind, maybe tired—but most days, all she could recall was a smell. Axis grace. She remembered the feeling of being held too, but that was it. No voice, no words, no face that she could trust was real anymore. Just that scent. And the loss.

But she remembered this woman—her—with so much more clarity it almost hurt.

Jinx remembered her smell too, something cool and clean and safe. She remembered her voice, light and teasing, like a song made just for her. How she'd call her with a smile, how she'd laugh when Jinx told her about some new invention she was working on, even if it wasn't working yet. Even if it exploded in her face.

Jinx remembered the way her arms felt, warm, strong, always open. Never pushing her away. She didn't get mad when things got loud—when Jinx got loud—She just held her, whispered to her, smoothed down her hair and told her she was okay, that the voices would fade, that she was enough.

And somehow, it did fade. She made it fade.

She didn't yell. She didn't scold when Jinx broke things or got distracted or started pacing because her thoughts were moving too fast again. She just understood, like she could see straight through all the cracks and chaos and still choose to stay.

And that made everything feel... quiet. Safe. 

Home.

She missed the way that woman made Silco softer too. More human. He never said it, but Jinx could tell—when she was around, he was less rigid, less sharp around the edges. He breathed differently.

Jinx missed her. So much it made her chest ache. So much it made her angry, angry at Silco for not bringing her back, angry at the world for taking her away, angry at herself for not doing something—anything—to stop it.

Because Jinx hadn't said goodbye. 

Because she hadn't said thank you to her.

Because somewhere deep down, in the place where the noise never quite stopped, Jinx had started to believe that maybe—just maybe—this woman had loved her. That she hadn't just been a project or a burden or a thing to fix. That she was a daughter. 

Her daughter.

Jinx swallowed hard and wiped away a tear that had somehow slipped down her cheek before she even realized it was there. She didn't mean to cry—not now, not during training. This was supposed to be serious. Important. She had a job to do, one Silco actually trusted her with. That thought alone should've been enough to snap her out of it. But her eyes still burned.

She blinked fast and shifted slightly on the beam she was perched on. Her legs were starting to fall asleep. Her back hurt. And the dull hum of grown-up voices droning on was doing nothing to keep her alert. She was supposed to be focused—watching, listening, being ready for anything. But the only thing this job required so far was not falling asleep.

Silco had told her that morning, in his usual calm voice, that she'd be on guard for an afternoon meeting. She already knew what that meant. Another wasted day, sitting in the shadows like a ghost while he talked politics or science or whatever boring adult garbage he thought was so important. She tried to act like it didn't bother her, tried to nod like it made her feel important. But inside, she'd groaned. 

Loudly.

Now, about ten minutes into the meeting—though it felt like ten hours—her attention drifted away from the conversation entirely. Something about an experiment. Something about a doctor. Apparently, the man Silco was talking to was going to help with it. Viktor, that was his name. She remembered Silco saying it like she was supposed to care.

She didn't.

The guy looked like he hadn't slept since he was born—thin, pale, kind of hunched, with those dark circles under his eyes like he carried the weight of an entire city on his face. His voice was dry and flat, and when he spoke, he barely moved. Like even talking cost him energy. He seemed smart. Too smart. Which probably meant dangerous. But Jinx wasn't really thinking about that.

Her eyes had settled on his cane.

Which he had suspiciously propped up on the corner of Silco's desk, right under where she was standing. She hadn't noticed it at first, but now it was the only thing she could look at. Not because it was flashy—actually, it was pretty plain—but because it looked... expensive. Well-made. Clean. It didn't have the grime or scratches she was used to seeing on things in Zaun. It almost looked like something from Piltover. Something shiny and out of place down here in the dark.

Was Viktor not from Zaun? Or maybe he was, but one of those people—the ones with money. Jinx had seen a few of them before, when Silco brought her along to meet with the higher-ups, the chem-barons and their smug bodyguards. People who wore nice coats and smelled like soap instead of smoke. But if Viktor was rich, why hadn't she seen him before? Silco usually made a point to introduce her to people he thought were important.

And yet, here he was, talking like he'd known Silco forever. Talking about experiments and partnerships and progress. Words that meant nothing to Jinx. Words that felt like they belonged to a different world.

Still, her gaze didn't leave the cane. She found herself imagining what it would feel like to hold it—was it heavy? Did it make a sound when it hit the floor? Did he ever use it as a weapon? That'd be cool. Maybe it had some secret gadget in it, like a hidden blade or a gas release. Her fingers itched to sneak down and grab it, just to look. But Silco would kill her. Or worse, give her that disappointed silence he used when she did something wrong.

Then, suddenly, she saw it. A small detail that you would easily miss if you hadn't paid close attention to the handle of the cane.

At first glance, it was just polished wood or metal or whatever fancy material rich people used. But were a few stickers glued to the handle, which would curiously be hidden from view when Viktor used the cane. Not the kind of stickers you'd buy in a neat pack from a Piltover shop. These were hand-cut, drawings, messy, asymmetrical, crude. But painfully, unmistakably familiar.

One of them was a monkey. A crooked, wide-eyed monkey drawn with shaky lines, limbs all wrong, head too big. It looked like a bad joke. But Jinx didn't laugh. Because she knew that drawing. She knew that monkey.

Her stomach dropped, and a wave of cold spread across her skin. Her fingers gripped the edge of the beam as her heart started to race, too loud in her chest, too loud for the quiet room below.

That wasn't her drawing — for logical reasons, it would be impossible to have a drawing of the monkeys that she used to draw on a sticker attached to the handle of a cane that belonged to a wannabe scientist from Piltover.

It was hers.

Her mother.

She was the only person who had ever drawn like that—trying to imitate Jinx's drawings, always adding weird little creatures to random surfaces during meetings at the bar. She used to draw them on Jinx's boots, her backpack, her broken tools. "To keep you company." she'd said once, while sketching a lopsided cat onto the side of Jinx's goggles. "So they're always watching your back."

Jinx stared down at the cane like it had just burst into flames.

What the hell was her mother's draws doing on that man's cane? A cold, sharp thought stabbed through her mind: Did he steal it? Had he taken her? Was that why she was still gone? Was this Viktor some kind of silent traitor? Had he hurt her? Was that why Silco couldn't bring her back?

Oh, no... She wasn't going to let this slide.

Her expression shifted. The sadness was gone, wiped away like chalk in the rain. In its place was a storm. That familiar fire rising behind her eyes. The kind that made her fingers twitch, that made her chest feel too full, too hot. She could feel the thoughts starting to spiral, colliding, building into something dangerous.

He had her mother's draws.

And Jinx was going to find out why.

Another ten agonizing minutes crawled by before those two finally stopped talking. Jinx thought they'd never shut up. But at last, the meeting came to an end. Silco and Viktor exchanged some final, grown-up words—just more boring promises about future experiments and partnerships and blah blah blah. But Jinx wasn't listening anymore. Because she had business to handle now. Very serious business.

She had an interrogation to conduct.

The second Viktor stepped out of the office, Jinx dropped from the ceiling beams with the grace of a bowling ball. Her boots hit Silco's desk with a bang that echoed through the room, sending papers flying and knocking over an inkwell and a half-empty glass. Silco flinched—actually flinched—and that alone made the whole day worth it.

He didn't try to stop her, though. Not really. Just let out this long, tired sigh like he'd already given up on controlling her. She didn't care. She was already on the move, springing off the desk, long legs sprinting toward the door with his gun still slung across her hand.

She heard him call her name, that low, sharp tone he used when he was doing his "dad voice." The kind that usually meant, "You're in trouble." But she didn't look back. Didn't even slow down. She slammed the office door behind her and shut out his voice—and all the anger that came with it.

That was a problem for later. Right now, she had a target to follow.

She spotted Viktor moving slowly through the lower level of the Last Drop, his uneven steps tapping rhythmically against the metal flooring. That limp of his was painfully slow—snail-level slow—which was lucky, because it made tailing him way easier. Not that she needed the help. She was being stealthy. She was great at this.

Or at least she thought she was.

From shadow to pillar to staircase, she moved like a ghost. Or, well, like a ghost that occasionally knocked over a bottle or scraped her boot across the ground a little too loud. But in her head? She was a silent assassin. A spy. An agent on a top-secret operation. Her blue braids bounced behind her like they had a mind of their own, and she made sure to duck anytime Viktor even hinted at turning his head.

Of course, it was impossible to know if he actually noticed her. He didn't say anything. Didn't change his pace. Didn't even glance over his shoulder. Which, honestly, annoyed her a little. She was tailing him! That should count for something, right? A guy like him—quiet, serious, probably too smart for his own good—he had to know. Or maybe he was just pretending not to. That was worse. That was way worse.

But still, she kept following him, as they both walked further and further away from the bar.

When Viktor turned the corner, Jinx finally decided it was the right time to begin the interrogation. She moved with a strange kind of calm—almost too calm. Then, without warning, she raised Silco's gun, released the safety, and aimed it directly at the back of his head.

"Where is she?"

Her voice came out steady, but something was already bubbling beneath the surface. Her finger hovered on the trigger.

Viktor didn't flinch. Didn't stop in his tracks like she expected. Instead, he merely turned his head over his shoulder, that strange golden eye of his glinting under the low light. He didn't even blink. Just looked at her. And then, slowly, he turned the rest of the way around to face her. He didn't look scared. Not even a little.

That made her furious.

People were supposed to be afraid when there was a gun to their head. That's how it worked. That's how Silco did it—he'd pull out a weapon and everyone would shut up. They'd beg. They'd cry. But not this guy. He just looked at her. Like she was nothing. Like she was just a kid.

"Answer me, you... you limping freak!" Jinx shouted, lifting the barrel higher, trying to steady her hands and deepen her voice like Silco did when he was serious. She squared her shoulders, widened her stance. Tried to be intimidating. Tried to make him see that she wasn't joking. "Don't make me shoot you."

Her breath hitched a little on the last word.

That was when he said it.

"Powder?"

Just one word. Soft. Confused. Recognizing.

But it wasn't just his voice.

The moment the name left his lips, it echoed through her head—twisting, warping into other voices. That name. That cursed name. Powder. Powder. Powder.

And suddenly it wasn't Viktor speaking anymore. It was Vander, rough and disappointed. It was Mylo, sharp and cruel. Claggor, hesitant and hurt. Then Vi—Vi screaming at her, spitting her name like it was poison.

All of them, all at once, crowding her mind with that sound, that word. Like they were still here. Like they never left. Her hands trembled now, gun still raised but no longer steady. Her heart pounded loud and fast, like a ticking bomb under her ribs. Her eyes burned again.

She hated that name. Powder. That name was a curse, a scar, a reminder of everything she had lost. Of the people who abandoned her. Of the person she couldn't be anymore. Powder was soft. Powder was weak. Powder was dead. 

Jinx had killed her.

She sucked in a breath through her teeth, voice cracking as she snapped, "MY NAME IS JINX!"

A pause.

"Jinx." Viktor corrected himself quietly, his voice almost too calm, too steady. He let out a short sigh, glanced at the gun still pointed at him, then brought his eyes back to hers. "Your mother is worried about you."

Those words hit harder than any bullet could've. For a split second, the world around Jinx seemed to pause—like someone had pressed a button and muted everything else. Her stance faltered. Her hands didn't drop the weapon, but the pressure behind her grip loosened just enough to give her away.

He'd seen her. That meant she was alive. That meant... that woman—her—was still out there. Still thinking about her. Still searching.

But the feeling only lasted a second. Relief turned to suspicion, sharp and quick like shattered glass. Her face twisted, the edge coming back into her expression.

"And how do I know you're not lying?" her voice was cracking at the end despite her effort to sound confident. Jinx had heard her share of lies. Sweet ones. Ugly ones. Promises wrapped in poison. She wasn't about to fall for another.

Viktor's expression didn't change, not much. He just gave a slow nod, as if he had expected this. "She told me you'd be skeptical."

His free hand moved toward his coat pocket.

Jinx's body went rigid.

Her blue eyes narrowed, tracking every single centimeter of the motion. Her finger twitched closer to the trigger. If Silco had been watching, he might have said it was the most focused he'd ever seen her. She looked through Viktor, bracing for whatever came out of that pocket—chemical, blade, bomb.

But it wasn't a weapon. It was a necklace.

A pendant on a thin chain, with a translucent lilac stone that caught the light just right. Jinx's breath caught in her throat. There was no mistaking it. She knew that stone like she knew the inside of her own room. her mom had worn it every single day. It had been a part of her, like her voice, her scent, the way her arms felt when she hugged her close.

And now it was here. In Viktor's hand.

Jinx lowered the gun.

Slowly. Hesitantly. Her fingers still hovered near the trigger as if unsure whether to follow through, but the barrel dipped toward the floor. She reached out with her free hand and took the necklace, her small fingers curling tightly around the cool stone.

It was real.

She didn't say anything right away. Her throat had gone dry. She didn't hand it back—didn't even consider handing it back. Instead, she stared at it in her palm, thumb brushing across the smooth surface, like it might burn away if she didn't keep touching it.

Her heartbeat was loud again. Not the dangerous kind—this time it was messy and complicated and painful in a different way.

She looked up at Viktor. Eyes wide now, not furious but demanding. She wasn't going to thank him. Wasn't going to cry, even if it felt like something was swelling behind her eyes again. She was just giving him a chance. A rare one.

But Viktor didn't say anything else.

Instead, he pulled something else from his coat pocket—a folded piece of paper. Plain, but carefully creased. He held it out without a word, letting her take it.

"Don't let Silco or anyone else get their hands on this."

Viktor's voice was firm, but not unkind, as Jinx took the folded letter from his hand. Her fingers clutched it tightly, the edges creasing further from the pressure. He glanced once over his shoulder, and then back at her.

"Your mother is alright." his voice was softer now. "She misses you. A lot. But she's safe. So you don't have to worry about her." He gave a small nod, almost as if to assure her again that he was telling the truth, then added, "She explains more in the letter. I think you should go now... I believe I heard footsteps coming this way."

Jinx didn't need to be told twice.

She nodded quickly, her braid swinging behind her as she turned and darted away without another word, her boots barely making a sound as she slipped into the shadows of a nearby alley. Within seconds, she had disappeared completely, vanishing into the underbelly of Zaun like smoke in a storm.

She didn't stop running until the world was quiet again—until she was far away from the possibility of eyes, ears, or worse, Silco.

Her lungs burned, her legs ached, but she didn't care. She had one destination in mind: her lab. Her messy, cluttered, explosion-scarred haven. It was the only place in the world where she felt like she could breathe. The only place she knew would keep her secrets.

She pushed through the door, slammed it shut behind her, and locked it tight. Her hands were still shaking—less from fear and more from adrenaline, from the weight of what had just happened. She leaned back against the wall and exhaled hard, staring at the letter in her hands like it was some kind of artifact. Like it might vanish if she blinked.

Weeks.

Weeks of silence. Of nothing. Of pretending she didn't care. Of telling herself over and over again that maybe her mother wasn't coming back. That maybe she had been left behind again. Just like before.

She hadn't cried. Not once.

Not when Silco avoided the subject. Not when his promises got colder, shorter. Not even when she heard him whisper things late at night that he thought she couldn't hear. She stayed strong. Or at least, she tried. Because crying didn't fix anything. Crying was for Powder. And Powder was gone.

But now, clutching that necklace and this letter like they were pieces of a puzzle she thought had been thrown away... something inside her cracked.

And it wasn't pain. Not this time.

It was warmth. Soft. Quiet. The kind of warmth that started in your chest and climbed all the way up to your eyes before you could stop it. Her heart ached, but it wasn't the usual kind of ache. It was... hope.

Her mom hadn't left her. She hadn't been forgotten.

She sank to the floor of her lab, criss-crossing her legs beneath her, the necklace still wrapped around her wrist like a ribbon. The letter rested in her lap, unopened, but already precious. Her fingers hovered over the seal.

For the first time in weeks, her heart wasn't screaming. It was humming. Crying—but with joy.

Jinx had something to hold onto again. And that was more dangerous—and more comforting—than any weapon in her hands.

Hey, little one. I'm sorry I disappeared these past few days. I really tried to get to you, truly. Every day I looked for a way. But only now, finally, was I able to reach out, thanks to a very kind man named Viktor. Have you seen his cane? I think it's very cool. I was thinking... we could totally hide a tiny sword inside it, don't you think? I just need you to know something, and I want you to really hear me, okay? I didn't abandon you. I never would. You're my little bombshell and I couldn't live without you. So please, I need you to trust me. Can you do that for me, sweetheart? Please... don't tell anyone you got this letter. Especially not your father. Can you do that for me? Remember that small warehouse near the docks, the one you use when you want to train without anyone scolding you? Meet me there. In four days, at dawn. Slip out before Silco notices you're gone. You're smart, you always were the best at sneaking around.  I'll be there. I promise. I miss you, more than I can ever put into words. I love you.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

You sat slumped against the cold metal door of Violet's cell, arms wrapped tightly around your knees, your forehead resting against the steel. The silence of the prison at night was suffocating, broken only by the distant dripping of water and the quiet, steady sound of Violet's breathing on the other side—slow, rhythmic, with the occasional dry cough that echoed faintly through the wall.

There were no guards walking the corridor now. No footsteps. Just the hum of dim overhead lights and the musty scent of stone and rust. It was the kind of silence that made you feel like you were the only person left in the world. And maybe, in this moment, you were.

But that morning—that morning—you had received Viktor's letter. You had read it so many times the paper had started to soften at the edges. He did it. He actually did it. Powder had the letter. Powder had the necklace. The plan, so fragile and stitched together with desperation and late-night strategy, had worked. Somehow.

You closed your eyes, pressing your fingers hard against your temples as if that would make it all feel more real. Against every impossible odd, your message had reached her.

You remembered the look on Viktor's face when you first told him about the hiding spot—above the beams, high in the ceiling. Powder had told you once, in passing, about how Silco made her stay up there during meetings. How he didn't want her to be seen. That had been your opening.

And then there were the stickers. Viktor's idea. A breadcrumb trail, subtle and strange. She'd follow them. You were sure of it. And Viktor —quiet, brilliant Viktor— had trusted you enough to make it happen.

You'd known Silco would grow suspicious. Of course he would. So when Viktor was summoned for that "conversation," you both prepared for it like it was war. You told him everything—every detail Powder had ever let slip, every map you had memorized, every escape route marked in your head like scripture. You knew what he was walking into. And you hated it.

But he walked in anyway. And he walked out.

Now, sitting in the dark with the chill of the floor seeping into your skin, you let out a shaky breath, listening to Violet breathe. The necklace was with Powder. Your words were with her. Maybe she hadn't read the letter yet. Maybe she had. Maybe she didn't believe it was from you. Maybe she cried. You'd never know for sure.

But it didn't matter. Because for the first time in a long time, something had worked. Something had gone right.

You leaned your head back against the door again, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling above. There was no telling what would happen next, no promise that this fragile thread of hope wouldn't snap.

Now, all that was left was to wait for the day of the meeting.

But waiting didn't mean peace.

There was still Violet. Still the heavy silence between you two—thick, bitter, unrelenting. She hadn't spoken a single word to you since the last fight. Since you told her the truth. Since everything fractured. She was still punishing you with her quiet, and it was killing you.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself as if that could hold your crumbling pieces together. You were so tired. Not just physically—though the ache in your bones was almost unbearable—but mentally, emotionally. The constant weight of survival, of planning, of pretending you were okay... it was catching up to you fast. Every step felt heavier. Every breath felt like a fight.

But rest wasn't an option.

You couldn't afford to falter now. Not when everything hung on such a delicate thread. Not when Powder needed you. Not when Violet still looked at you like a stranger.

So you stayed alert. Hyper-aware. Always watching corners, listening for footsteps, reading every shift in energy. Even inside your own head, you had to stay vigilant—against doubt, against grief, against the part of you that just wanted to collapse and never get up again.

Your eyes dropped to the floor, blurry and unfocused, and that's when you saw him.

Vander.

Kneeling in front of you like he used to, big hands resting on his knees, that ever-familiar look of quiet strength in his eyes. He didn't say anything. He never did, not in these moments. But his expression was soft—sorrowful, proud, something in between. You just looked at him, and he looked back. Then, like smoke in the wind, he vanished.

"I loved your father."

The words slipped from your lips in a whisper, low and rough, more for yourself than for the person on the other side of the door. Your voice cracked halfway through, like something rusted and unused for too long. You weren't even sure Violet could hear you. But maybe that didn't matter.

"It wasn't just the kind of love that makes you kill or die for someone. It was more than that, it was the kind of love that makes you live for that person."

Your throat tightened, and you had to pause. The silence from the other side of the cell remained unbroken. Violet didn't move. Didn't speak. Still giving you nothing but the sound of her breathing—steady, distant, untouchable.

"He was the first person who ever gave a damn about me. The first who really saw that there was still something good in me. Not as some burden. Not as a tool. He didn't flinch at what I'd done. He didn't look away when I was at my worst." You shook your head, your voice lowering into something raw. "He tried to save me."

You swallowed hard.

"I'd already given up on myself. I thought my existence was some kind of mistake. And the day I tried to erase it all, when I made peace with the idea of disappearing... that bastard showed up. Your father. Just... walked into my mess and refused to leave. Said he wouldn't let me go. Said I had to live."

A bitter laugh slipped out—barely a sound, more like an exhale full of pain.

"So I did. I lived. For him." Your fingers curled into the fabric of your pants as the weight of memory settled heavy in your chest. "Every breath I took after that day was for him. Every time I stood back up, it was because he asked me to. Not with words, he never needed many. Just that look in his eyes. Like I mattered."

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. It didn't help much.

"And then... when he died, I think part of me died with him."

Still, silence.

"I tried to follow his teachings, you know." your question faded into Violet's silence. "All that nonsense about not using your fists. About choosing another way."

 You weren't even sure why the words were spilling out now—maybe because the quiet was finally too loud to bear. Maybe because you were done carrying it alone.

"I tried to be the person he saw when he looked at me. Gods, I really tried." Your throat tightened and you stared down at the floor, willing the tears not to fall. "But maybe that's exactly why I fell for Silco."

You could feel the weight of your own confession sinking into your chest like iron.

"That bastard never saw the 'good' version of me. He didn't care about it. Silco saw me. The broken, violent, angry thing I tried so hard to hide. And he... he loved that version. Or said he did." You wiped your eyes quickly before the tears could fall, pressing the heel of your hand into your cheekbones. "He seemed to know exactly how I felt. What I was. Like he could look straight through me and not flinch."

The silence after that felt endless. Heavy. As if the entire prison held its breath with you.

"I know you once told me I looked like an guardian angel, but the truth is... I'm the worst kind of person you could ever imagine. I've stopped pretending that I'm not. They made me this way. And I'm done acting like this part of me isn't real."

For a while, there was nothing but the creak of old pipes, the distant clatter of dripping water.

And then—

"Who's they?"

Violet.

Her voice was quiet, cautious. But it was the first thing she had said to you in days. And it hit you like a bolt of lightning—shocking, real, undeniable. Your breath caught.

You didn't answer right away.

"The Institute... where I grew up. They... they weren't good people."

"And your parents?" she asked after a long pause.

You swallowed hard, feeling the old bitterness rise up in your throat.

"I was ten when my father... gave me to them. Or sold me. I don't know. I guess it doesn't really matter." you trying to keep your voice steady but hearing the crack that slipped through anyway. "From that day on, he stopped being my father."

You forced yourself to breathe, to stay grounded, though the memory felt like it was dragging you backward, into a place you had long tried to forget.

"As for my mother... I don't really remember her. Just flashes. A voice, maybe. A hand brushing my hair back once." You closed your eyes briefly, feeling the ache of it, the void that time had only made deeper. "That's why I left Zaun at that time. I thought maybe... maybe I could find her." 

You laughed under your breath, but there was no humor in it. 

"I found a lead that took me to Noxus. Spent years chasing ghosts. All I lost was time."

You let the words hang in the air, heavy and raw. Violet was quiet for a long moment, the kind of silence that usually made you want to run—but you stayed. 

"What did this Institute do to you?"

The question hit harder than you expected. You blinked a few times, looking down at your hands. You hadn't planned to tell this part. But you owed her the truth

"They trained me." your voice was hollow. "Conditioned me. I was not a child to them, but a weapon to be created. They stripped away anything soft, anything human, until there was nothing left but obedience and skill. Pain was normal. Fear was a tool. Everything was necessary for Piltover's progress."

Your hand trembled slightly as you dragged your fingers through your hair, trying to ground yourself in the present, in this moment.

"They made sure I forgot who I was, they broke me down until there was nothing to rebuild except what they wanted." You laughed once, a sharp, broken sound. "But I managed to escape and now I'm here, although I don't think I'll be free anyway. They'll keep hunting me... and maybe the only chance for freedom is when I die."

The silence was deafening.

A thick, crushing thing that pressed against your chest, making it harder and harder to breathe. Sitting there, your back still against the cold cell door, you felt the weight of regret creeping in. Maybe you had said too much.

Maybe it wasn't fair—dumping all of your grief, your anger, your tangled, broken past onto Violet's shoulders. She was still so young. Just a teenager caught in a storm she didn't create. She didn't deserve to carry the burden of your pain, your mistakes, your guilt.

You opened your mouth, ready to say it—ready to apologize, ready to beg her to forget everything you had said that night. But before you could get the words out, her voice cut through the stillness.

"I'm sorry."

Your heart stopped for a moment. You lifted your head, almost afraid you had imagined it. But no—her voice, rough and quiet, was real.

"No! Don't be sorry. You have every right to be angry with me because of Silco... I know what it must look like to you. Like a betrayal."

You closed your eyes tightly, feeling the sting behind them. You didn't blame her. How could you?

"But I just..." You exhaled slowly, gathering yourself, willing your words to come out right. "I need you to know... Even though I care about him, even though I love him..." your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed through— "I am still loyal to your father."

The cell was so quiet you could hear every shaky breath you took.

"If I followed Silco's way... if I truly believed in everything he stands for..." You shook your head slowly. "I would have burned Piltover to the ground a long time ago. I would have embraced vengeance like he wanted me to. But that's not what I want." Your voice cracked with the truth of it. "All I want is to get you and Powder out of this godforsaken city."

You had expected her to say something else—to ask another question or to make a sharp comment. But instead, there were just a few soft taps against the metal bars. You scrambled to your feet immediately and found Violet's face just on the other side, shadowed by the dim light but close enough to see the seriousness in her eyes.

"Can you really get Powder away from Silco?" 

"Of course!" you blurted out before you could even think, tripping over your own words in your urgency. "And I'm going to heal you too, Vi. I'm going to get you both out of here. You'll be together, you'll be a family again. I promise."

Your words hung heavy between you, desperate and raw.

For a long, agonizing second, Violet didn't say anything. She just looked at you — really looked at you — like she was peeling you open layer by layer, hunting for any shred of a lie you might be hiding. Her eyes, sharp as broken glass, seemed to cut straight into your soul. You fought the instinct to look away. You held her gaze, willing her to see the truth in you.

Her gaze really reminded you of Vander's.

"Don't break that promise." 

Her voice was rough, but not unkind. It wasn't a threat. It was a plea. A hope she barely dared to have. She turned to head back toward the bed but just as she reached it, she stopped. She didn't look back at you—but you could feel her hesitation in the air, like something fragile balanced on the edge of a knife.

"Sing for me?" 

The words were so soft you almost missed them.

You smiled sadly, the ache in your chest blooming into something warmer. "You don't even have to ask." Your fingers brushed against the lock. "Can I come in?"

She nodded faintly as she sat up on the narrow cot, the movement small, almost uncertain. It was all the permission you needed. Your hands fumbled slightly with the heavy ring of keys Marcus had slipped you, their metallic clinking loud in the otherwise silent hall. You found the right one by feel more than sight, and the door groaned softly as you pushed it open.

You stepped inside, quiet, cautious, feeling like a trespasser in her fragile trust. Vi lay down with her back to you, staring at the blank wall. She didn't turn. She didn't speak. But she didn't stop you either.

A small evolution.

You knelt beside the bed, resting on the cold concrete floor, close enough to reach her but careful not to. You stayed there, grounded, still, waiting. Your heart ached at the distance she kept between you, even now—but you understood it. You deserved it. Trust was a mountain, and you were barely at the foothills.

You watched her for a long moment, the way her muscles slowly relaxed, the way her breathing evened out in the quiet between you. She was trying. In her own way, she was trying to let you in.

So you began to sing.

Softly, barely above a whisper, your voice filled the small cell. You old lullaby. Words blurred by memory, but the melody was true. You sang for her, for the girl who had been forced to grow up too fast, who had carried the weight of a family on her small shoulders and was still carrying it, even here, even now.

Her body remained tense for a long time, but eventually, you saw it—the slow sag of her frame, the heavy drop of her head as exhaustion finally overcame her. She fell asleep like that, curled toward the wall, turned away but no longer pushing you out.

You stayed.

You didn't dare touch her. It felt wrong to disturb her peace, even with something as simple as a hand on her shoulder. Instead, you sat there on the floor, watching her chest rise and fall, memorizing every detail of her sleeping face—the furrow still present between her brows, the faint tremble of a nightmare she didn't yet have the strength to fight.

You lowered your head, letting the tears finally find their way out of your eyes until all that was left in your retinas was burning, you stayed there until the cold floor made your knees ache and the dark pressed heavy around you. You stayed, because you had promised you would. You stayed, because she needed someone to be there, even if she didn't know how to ask for it.

You stayed because you accepted that you would rather die than give up on this little girl.

[...]

Four days later

One of the perks of having Piltover's chief wrapped around your little finger was the freedom to come and go from Stillwater without raising too many eyebrows. All it took was the excuse that Marcus had "personally requested your presence" elsewhere, and no one dared to question it. That's how, early that weekend—before the first light had even touched the horizon—you slipped out of Stillwater, disappearing in the dawn.

Zaun was waiting for you.

You knew how to blend in here—the winding alleys, the broken streets, the flickering neon signs casting their sickly glow. You melted into the shadows like you belonged to them, and for the most part, they accepted you. A few people got too curious, of course—drunks, thieves, desperate souls. You had to knock a couple of them out cold, fast and silent, but nothing that would blow your cover or slow you down. It was just another part of surviving down here.

Your destination was a small, half-abandoned warehouse near the docks— the one you forced Marcus to discover the location of after more threats to his pathetic life. Because it was one thing for Sevika to tell you about it, it was another to find the right place.

But you didn't go straight there. You knew better than to be predictable. Instead, you posted yourself a few blocks away, tucked deep into a reeking alley where the stench of rot and rust was so thick it made your eyes water. The kind of place where no one with any sense would linger. Perfect.

You waited, every muscle tight with a tension you wouldn't let yourself acknowledge. You kept to the shadows, your breath low, ears tuned to the faint noises of the city waking up—hissing pipes, distant shouting, the scuttle of vermin.

And then, finally, you heard it: the quick, uneven pounding of footsteps against cracked pavement. You leaned out just enough to see.

There she was.

A flash of blue hair, wild and unmistakable, flying behind her like a flag. Powder was tearing through the street like a living storm, barreling through anyone stupid enough to stand in her way. You watched her crash into a group of older Zaunites who cursed loudly as she shoved past, barely sparing them a glance. She was faster than you remembered, more reckless. Her boots slapped hard against the stone, her jacket flaring behind her like wings.

You watched her dart toward the warehouse entrance, exactly like you had planned. She skidded to a stop, breathing hard, glancing over her shoulder before slipping into the building.

You didn't move to follow Powder. You didn't even glance after her once she was safe. Your attention snapped elsewhere—someone else.

Someone stupid enough to think they could trail her unnoticed. Not close enough to trip an alarm, no. Whoever it was had been careful, quiet. Maybe too careful. You wouldn't have caught them if you hadn't been watching the shadows as fiercely as you had Powder.

The moment the figure slipped past the narrow alley you were, you moved. You grabbed the collar of their jacket and slammed them back against the brick wall with enough force to rattle the old stones, clamping your palm over their mouth before they could even think to scream.

"Silco sent you?" 

It was a girl. You realized that immediately—small, wiry. She flinched, eyes wide and terrified, shaking her head desperately in denial. Maybe she recognized you. Maybe she knew exactly whose hands she was in now. But you didn't know her. And you always remembered the faces of people you killed—or beat bloody.

"Then who?" you hissed, tightening your grip slightly, your fingers digging into the rough fabric of her jacket. But she didn't answer. Just stared at you, frozen, stupid, like a cornered animal.

Fine.

You didn't have time for games.

Without warning, you shifted your hand from her mouth to her throat, fingers curling like iron around her neck. You slammed her harder into the wall, lifting her clean off the ground with ease, boots scraping against the brick as she kicked and struggled uselessly.

"If you value your miserable little life, you better start talking."

You squeezed, just enough to cut off her air, just enough to watch the panic bloom fully in her face. Her hands clawed at your arm, desperate.

You felt it then—that familiar burn under your skin, your veins lighting up like molten fire. The Shimmer was waking up inside you, faster and harder than usual, and you knew what that meant. Your vision sharpened, colors bending at the edges. You were sure your irises were shifting too, a violet glow bleeding into the whites of your eyes.

The girl saw it and it broke her.

She choked out a single, gasping word:

"Finn."

"The Chem-Baron?" your hand tightening around the girl's throat before loosening just slightly—just enough for her to gasp in air and answer. "Why?"

"I don't know! I'm just following orders!" she babbled, the words tumbling from her mouth too fast, too rehearsed for your liking. "Watch the girl. Just... just watch her."

The girl's panic only made you grip tighter, fingers digging in until you felt her pulse hammering frantically beneath your palm. If she was lying, no loyalty to some Chem-Baron would be enough to save her. You expected her to beg. To cry. To start spitting out names, locations, anything to save herself.

But she didn't.

She just started to choke, clawing weakly at your wrist, her face turning a sickly shade of red. No screaming. No last desperate bargaining. Just the dull panic of someone too terrified—or too stupid—to know what was happening to her.

You hated this part. Hated dealing with underlings who didn't even understand what they were a part of. Lost souls doing someone else's dirty work. Like you, once. A fleeting thought crossed your mind—you could let her go. She wasn't the real threat. She was just a pawn.

But then you remembered: She was following Powder. And that? That was something you couldn't forgive. You had sworn—sworn—you would keep that child safe, no matter how much blood it took.

When her body finally stopped twitching, you released her with a careless shove. She crumpled into the trash heap nearby, landing with a hollow thud among rusted metal and rotting food. You wiped your hands on your coat. Her death meant nothing to you.

One more obstacle removed.

Without another glance, you turned and headed for the warehouse. The cold was biting harder now, a wet fog rolling off the docks, wrapping around the broken skeletons of old cranes and forgotten cargo.

You reached the door—massive, iron, and slightly ajar. Slipping your fingers into the gap, you pulled it open with a low screech of metal against stone. The instant the door creaked wide enough for you to step through, you were greeted by the unmistakable click of a gun cocking.

You froze the moment you saw her.

Powder—your Powder—stood just a few feet away, hands trembling, a gun aimed squarely at your head. Not just any gun—you knew that weapon. 

Silco's gun. 

For a heartbeat, time stopped. You didn't breathe. You didn't dare move. The world shrank down to the tiny figure in front of you—her pale blue hair messy, cheeks stained with dirt, eyes wide and brimming with fear and fury and something desperate underneath it all. She looked so small. So breakable.

And then, before you could even speak, the gun clattered to the ground with a harsh, metallic thud. A moment later, her small body slammed into yours with enough force to knock you off balance. You stumbled backward, falling hard against the rough concrete, but the pain barely registered.

Because Powder was clutching you.

She was pressing herself against you with a ferocity that shattered every piece of you at once. Her tiny arms wrapped around your torso, fingers digging into your clothes as if she was terrified you might disappear if she loosened her grip even for a second. Her face was buried against your stomach, her whole frame trembling like a leaf in a storm.

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around her in return—tighter, tighter still—one hand cradling the back of her head, the other curling around her shoulders. You pressed her close to your chest, curling over her protectively, as if you could shield her from all the pain in the world just by holding her hard enough.

You breathed in the scent of her—dust, sweat, the faintest hint of smoke—and closed your eyes, fighting the tears that pricked at the corners of them. You wouldn't cry. Not now. Not when she needed you to be strong. Not when this fragile, precious moment was all you had. She whimpered something so quietly you almost missed it, a broken sound muffled against your clothes.

"Mom..."

The word hung in the air like a prayer, like a wound, like something too sacred to ever be ordinary. It wasn't just a sound—no, it was an entire lifetime packed into a single breath from a child who had lost too much and held on to too little.

Mother.

A synonym for protection. For a safe haven carved out of chaos. For arms that would never let go, no matter how brutally the world tried to tear them away. 

It meant empathy: feeling every one of her tears, every one of her wounds, every shattered dream as if they were stitched into your own skin. It meant unconditional love: wild and stubborn, love that survived betrayal, blood, fear — love that asked for nothing and gave everything.

Mother meant home. Not a place. A person.

You.

You had never thought of yourself as one. Not really. Sure, you spoke about Powder and Violet to Viktor and Marcus like they were your daughters, but you had never truly let yourself believe that you were anything more than a guardian, a bystander, someone who loved from the sidelines.

Until now.

Now, with Powder clutching you like a lifeline, with her voice cracked and raw and calling you Mom, it all made sense. She was yours. She and her sister—they were the daughters you would never have by blood but had claimed with every beat of your broken, stubborn heart.

And you held her like she was your own heart, bare and trembling and so achingly alive, cradled in your hands. You rocked her gently, the way you might soothe a frightened child in the dead of night, your hand stroking the tangled strands of her hair with slow, steady movements.

"It's okay, baby. It's okay." You kissed the crown of her head. "Mommy's here."

You heard Powder sniffle before she lifted her tearful eyes to you. They were red, the corners trembling as she tried to keep herself together. Without even thinking, you reached out and gently wiped her cheeks with the pads of your fingers.

"I thought you left for good." she whispered, her voice cracking and breaking apart, like a brittle thing barely held together. Her beautiful blue eyes darted around, unable to stay on you for more than a second, like looking at you hurt. "Silco... he tried to find you. But he had a lot of stuff to deal with, and... and he's kinda stingy. He doesn't like admitting when he's wrong."

A soft laugh escaped you as you ruffled her tangled hair gently.

"You know how your father is." 

your voice was warm, trying to lift the weight pressing down on her tiny shoulders. Powder nodded slowly, finally steadying her gaze on you. Her lip wobbled a little before she spoke again.

"Why'd you run away again?" her voice was smaller than before, almost afraid to know the answer. "Did my dad... did he do something bad?"

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest. How could you tell her the truth without shattering the delicate world she still tried so hard to believe in? You cupped her cheek, feeling her lean slightly into your touch like a lost, lonely thing desperate for any scrap of comfort.

"Your dad... he did something wrong." you admitted softly, choosing each word carefully, gently, like stepping across thin ice. "Something he shouldn't have done. And I got really, really mad at him."

"But... you're coming back home, right?"

Oh, God. The way she looked at you—those wide, watery blue eyes filled with so much hope, so much desperate belief—it made your stomach churn with guilt so fierce it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

"We're a family." her voice was trembling but determined, like she could somehow will you to stay if she just believed hard enough. "We're supposed to stay together. If you want, I can throw one of my monkeys at his head... then you'll be even."

You almost laughed, a broken sound caught somewhere deep in your chest. She was trying to fix it in the only way she knew how—through childish pranks and loyalty far too pure for the world you lived in.

"I..." You closed your eyes, trying to steady yourself, feeling the weight of what you had to say crushing you from the inside out. "I don't think I'm coming back, my little one."

You felt the shift immediately. Powder tensed, her small frame going rigid, the tiny hands that had clutched at your sleeves now tightening into desperate fists.

"Why not?" panic creeping into her voice. "He misses you too! I know he does! He just... he doesn't know how to say it right. He just sits alone in his office, drinking by himself, muttering to himself. Sometimes he just stares at the couch... like, for minutes and minutes... I think he's remembering you there."

Her words drove into you like knives, each one cutting deeper than the last. You could see it so clearly—Silco, alone, broken in his own quiet way. And despite everything, despite the anger, the betrayal—you felt a sharp, aching pull inside your chest.

"He loves you! And you love him, right?"

"I do." you said softly, the words breaking out of you in a whisper so fragile it could barely hold itself together. "I love him."

"Then why?" Powder cried, her voice shattering, full of a confusion so raw it nearly brought you to your knees. "Why can't you be with the person you love? It doesn't make sense! You're supposed to stay with the people you love!"

"Powder." you whispered, your thumbs brushing gently over her cheeks. "Sometimes... sometimes even love isn't enough to fix everything."

She frowned, confusion flickering across her face, her lips parting as if to protest—but you kept going before she could speak.

"Sometimes people make mistakes that love can't erase. Sometimes... people hurt each other so badly that even if you love them with all your heart, you can't just pretend it never happened." your voice was soft but steady, willing her to understand. "Maybe... maybe someday, I'll be able to forgive him. Maybe I'll have the strength to go back. But not now. I'm not ready. My heart... it's too broken right now."

You watched as her brows furrowed deeper, the beginnings of a stubborn argument lighting in her blue eyes—but you leaned in, pressing your forehead gently against hers, stopping her before she could speak.

"And even though I still love Silco, you are my priority. Always. You, Powder. Not him. You're my little girl. My family. Nothing will ever be more important to me than you."

For a long, long moment, she said nothing. Her small hands fisted in the fabric of your shirt, trembling slightly. You could feel her breathing, short and ragged, as she struggled to process everything you were telling her.

Finally, with a small, reluctant nod, she leaned back into you, wrapping her arms tightly around your waist and burying her face against you again. You rocked her gently, humming a tuneless, soothing sound under your breath, feeling the bond between you solidify into something even deeper, even more unbreakable.

After a while, her muffled voice rose against your chest, small and uncertain.

"I was thinking about something..." she whispered. "I was thinking... maybe I could call you 'Mom'... but I didn't know if it would make my real mom sad. 'Cause she's... y'know... she's gone. And I don't wanna make her sad if I put someone else in her place."

You froze for a heartbeat, heart squeezing so tight it hurt. Slowly, you eased her back enough to look into her eyes again, brushing a lock of messy hair from her forehead.

"Do you want to call me 'Mom'?"

She sniffled, her lower lip trembling, but she nodded—eager, shy, a spark of hope flickering in her.

"Yeah... I do."

A soft, overwhelmed laugh broke free from you, and you pressed a kiss to her forehead, tears stinging your eyes now too.

"Then you can.” you whispered, your lips brushing softly against her skin. “You can call me Mom, sweet girl.”

The words lingered in the air, hesitant but real—delicate like glass, fragile like hope.

You felt her freeze for the briefest second, like her breath had caught in her throat, like her heart had skipped to catch up to yours. And then, just as quickly, she melted into you, small arms tightening around your waist, clinging to you like you were the only solid thing in a world that had been crumbling around her for far too long.

You held her there, gently but firmly, your arms wrapping around her tiny frame like a promise—because that’s what it was. A promise she desperately needed to hear. One no one had given her and meant.

“Just like your real dad and Vander never got mad when you called Silco ‘Dad’...” you continued softly, fingers running gently through her tangled blue hair, “your mom wouldn't be upset either. She would be happy. So proud of you. So relieved that you had someone.”

You felt her nod against you, barely perceptible, like she was afraid if she moved too much, the moment might break.

“She would be so, so grateful that someone was here to take care of her little treasure.”

The word felt right. Treasure. Because that’s what Powder was. Precious. Raw and misunderstood and so loved, even if the world had done everything to convince her otherwise. Even if she hadn’t heard those words in so long, they now seemed foreign on her skin.

“And I would be honored to call you my daughter.”

That was when she really held on. Like she believed it. Like something deep inside her had finally unclenched. Her fingers gripped the fabric of your shirt as if it were lifeline. Maybe it was.

You closed your eyes and held her tighter, letting her soak in every ounce of comfort you could offer, letting her know—without needing to say it again—that you weren’t going anywhere. That she wasn’t alone. That you weren’t just someone passing through the wreckage of her life.

No. You would stay.

You would be the arms that held her when the nightmares came. The voice that soothed the chaos. The hand that reached into the dark, again and again, until she was ready to step into the light.

You would be her anchor.

Her weapon.

Her home.

Her mother.

Part 27

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I cried writing this.

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Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 24/?)

Waiting can be a silent sentence — and yet, you would wait. For as long as it takes. Even if everything around you falls apart... you would still be there, waiting.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 10,1K

Warnings: threats, death threats, betrayal and all the feelings that come with it, suicidal thoughts, disease descriptions

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 23

Vander set a glass down in front of you with a heavy thunk. Alcohol, instead of your usual juice. A silent acknowledgment of the night you'd had. You made a low sound in your throat—half thanks, half exhaustion—as you finished tending to the wound on your stomach.

A deep cut. Not fatal, but unpleasant. If you had used Instinct during the fight, the wound would have sealed itself before the blade had even left your skin. But you hadn't. You let yourself take the hit, let the pain bloom beneath your ribs like fire. You could use it now—force the wound closed, erase the evidence of your carelessness—but you didn't. The sensation of bleeding, of pain seeping into your bones, was grounding. Proof that you were still human. That you weren't just something created by the Institute.

You exhaled through your nose, fingers tightening around the bloodstained cloth. The memory of the fight played over in your mind.

Three men. They had been following Powder and Violet that day while you watched over them from a distance. The girls had snuck up to the surface for a graffiti run, leaving their mark on some upper city building. Maylon and Claygor had left earlier, heading back down to Zaun, but the sisters lingered. Too long. When the sun dipped low and the streets turned empty, three men started trailing them.

Violet noticed first—smart girl. Vander had trained her well over those years. The tension in her shoulders, the way she subtly picked up her pace, told you she was already thinking of escape routes. But when one of the men closed in, too close, you didn't wait.

You fired.

The gunshot shattered the quiet. The girls froze, their heads snapping toward the source. You moved. Stepping out of the shadows, positioning yourself between them and the remaining threats. It was the first time in two years of serving Vander that anyone besides him had laid eyes on you.

Violet hesitated. Powder's wide, frightened eyes flicked between you and the bodies. You barked a single order—run. Violet didn't want to. She wanted to fight, but she listened.

The fight had been easy. Even without instinct, your body knew how to move, how to kill. The problem was you weren't used to not using it. That's why you took the knife to the stomach—sloppy. But in the end, they were dead. And the girls were safe.

That was all that mattered.

Vander circled the bar, moving with the slow, steady steps of a man who had already seen too much blood for one lifetime. When he finally stopped in front of you, he didn't say anything at first—just reached down and took the bloodied cloth from your hands. You let him.

It wasn't the first time Vander had patched you up, and it wouldn't be the last. You had learned to tolerate his care, even if it still felt... strange. Like something you weren't meant to have.

The sting of alcohol burned in your throat as you took a sip of the drink he gave you, grimacing at the taste. Strong. Unapologetic. Just like the man standing in front of you. You swallowed hard, setting the glass down, and studied him.

Two years. Two years of working for him, keeping his people safe. And still, you couldn't quite figure out what went through his head when it came to you.

And maybe that's why you did it.

The idea struck like lightning—sudden, instinctive. You had seen people do this before. A gesture meant to close distance, to test something unspoken. You leaned in, pressing your lips to his. A brief touch. Just a second.

Vander went completely still.

You pulled back just as quickly as you had moved in, but the silence that followed was unbearable. He just... stared at you. His expression unreadable. You weren't sure what you expected—maybe confusion, maybe surprise. But what you didn't expect was the sudden, rolling wave of nausea that surged through you, twisting your stomach into knots.

Your breath hitched. Your hand flew to your mouth as you fought back whatever the hell your body was trying to do. Vander's expression shifted—shock melting into something sharper, edged with irritation.

"Oh, come on." His voice was gruff, heavy with disbelief. "You kiss me, then look like you're about to vomit? Don't you think that's a little dramatic?" He crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing deep. "If you were gonna regret it, you could've at least waited five damn seconds before making that face."

Your stomach twisted again, but you swallowed down the nausea, forcing yourself to breathe through it. Vander was still watching you, arms crossed, looking equal parts irritated and bewildered.

"You can't blame my body for this." you muttered, voice slightly strained. "It's not like I can control nausea."

Vander let out a short, humorless huff. "Oh, sure. So your body just.. what?Rebelled against the idea of kissing me?" He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. "Why the hell did you do it in the first place?"

You frowned, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, as if that would somehow erase the lingering sensation. "I saw people doing it at the brothel." you explained, matter-of-fact. "It seemed... common. Something people do when they like each other."

Vander blinked. "At the brothel."

"Yes."

"Where people pay for sex."

You shrugged. "Yes, but I saw them kissing each other all the time. It looked like..." You hesitated, trying to find the right word. "A way to show care?"

Vander let out a long, slow sigh. The kind that spoke of deep, aching exhaustion. "Shit..." He ran a hand down his beard before settling both palms on his hips. "Alright. Listen to me. There are different kinds of ways people show care. What you saw? That's something you do with people you have a... specific kind of interest in."

You tilted your head. "Specific how?"

Vander exhaled through his nose. "Interest of the carnal kind. Kissing, at least the way you just did it, is usually something you do with someone you're attracted to."

Your stomach churned again at the implication. Vander noticed, raising an eyebrow. 

"Do you ever imagine me in your bed?"

You frowned, feeling strangely uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Vander, of all people, had always been a stable presence. Reliable. Solid. You had never thought of him in that way, not even remotely. He was a handsome man for sure. He had that warm, protective aura about him, as well as his pleasing physical appearance. A gentle giant in you conception. But you couldn't imagine him and you having sex.

He must've caught something in your expression, the grimace of disgust, because he gave a dry chuckle and shook his head.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering just a fraction, like he needed to make sure you understood. "You don't have that kind of interest in me. Just like I don't have in you."

Vander let out another sigh, heavier this time, and turned to step away. But before he could move too far, your hand shot out, grabbing onto his wrist. He stopped. His gaze dropped to where your fingers curled around his skin. His pulse was steady beneath your touch, warm, grounding. For some reason, the thought of letting go didn't sit right with you.

"Kiss me."

Vander stiffened. His eyes snapped to yours, narrowing slightly, his brows pulling together in something like disbelief. 

"What?"

"Kiss me."

"What did I just say?" Vander was a little irritated now, but then he took a deep breath before continuing. "Look, little one, you are a very beautiful woman, but—"

"I know you don't see me that way." you cut in before he could start. "I know. I just... I want to know what it feels like. It seems important."

"It is important."

"Then let me try with someone I trust." Your grip on his wrist tightened, just slightly. "I trust you, Vander. More than I've ever trusted anyone."

Vander's mouth pressed into a firm line. His gaze searched yours, as if trying to figure out just how much of this was reckless impulse and how much was something deeper. 

"You should do this with someone you love."

Your throat felt tight, but you swallowed past it, meeting his eyes with unwavering certainty. 

"I love you."

You didn't even realize the weight of that sentence. It was the first time you had said it out loud, and it came out as if you had said it a thousand times before. Because it was easy to say that to Vander, it was easy to love him.

For a moment, he just stared at you. Perhaps absorbing that sentence as his face showed how surprised he was, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. So, against your expectation, Vander laughed. A short, breathy chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest.

"There's a hell of a lot of different kinds of love."

Despite his words, there was no mockery in his tone. No dismissal. Just understanding. He reached out then, large, calloused hands cupping your face with a gentleness that felt almost unnatural coming from a man like him. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, rough but warm. His gaze softened. "You gonna throw up again?"

A surprised laugh escaped you, breathy and light. "No." you promised. "Not this time."

You were still learning how to exist among people—how to move through the world without feeling like an outsider wearing a borrowed face. You had no practice in these things, no natural instinct for the ebb and flow of human connection. The only interactions you had ever known were... well, the ones where you were taking a life. That was the language you understood: the weight of a blade in your hand, the silence that followed a final breath, the unspoken certainty that only one of you would walk away.

So how could you be expected to understand something as simple as friendship? As intimacy? As the quiet, burning hunger for something you couldn't name?

You were almost incapable of socializing when Vander took you under his wing. A feral thing, raw and unpolished, shaped more by instinct than by experience. But he had helped you. Slowly, patiently, he had given you the tools to navigate a world that you hadn't known how to belong to. And in doing so, he had become something to you. Something irreplaceable.

So it was natural—inevitable, even—that you would choose him to be your first kiss. Because you loved him. In the way that only someone like you could love. Without limits, without hesitation, without sanity. You would kill for Vander and you would die for him.

You took a slow, steady breath and closed your eyes.

Tilting your chin up ever so slightly, you waited—expecting the touch of his lips against yours, the unfamiliar sensation you had been curious about. There was a quiet moment, just long enough for your heartbeat to pick up, for anticipation to settle in your chest like a held breath.

And then—Warmth. 

But not where you thought it would be.

Instead of your lips, Vander pressed a firm, steady kiss to the top of your head. A gesture so simple, so gentle, that it sent a different kind of warmth flooding through you. Not the sharp, unfamiliar kind you had braced yourself for—but something softer, something that settled deep in your ribs and made your chest ache in a way you couldn't quite name.

A different kind of love.

"I love you too." Vander murmured against your hair, his voice quieter than before. "You're family."

Your eyes fluttered open. Vander was watching you, his face lined with something deep and unshakable. The kind of expression that made you feel anchored, seen. He hadn't given you the kiss you asked for, but somehow, you didn't feel like he had denied you anything.

The moment of quiet camaraderie between you and Vander didn't last long because a second later, a noise shattered it. 

A sharp clatter rang through the bar, the unmistakable sound of glass bottles being knocked over. Instinctively, your head snapped toward the source of the disturbance—just behind the counter, near the entrance to the basement. The place where the kids were supposed to be safe.

Your breath caught for a second as your eyes barely registered a blur of pink hair disappearing down the stairs. Violet. But as soon as you turned your head to share with Vander who the little mouse spying on you had been, it wasn't Vander's friendly face there anymore. It was Marcus's.

You didn't even notice that you were lost in your memories as you followed Marcus through that damn prison. Your body going on automatic while your mind was far away. You quickly situated yourself in your surroundings

Stillwater was everything you'd imagined it to be—dead, hollow, a husk of a place where hope had long since been strangled. The air was thick with a damp, metallic stench that clung to the walls like rot, and even though the corridor was silent save for the distant hum of old machinery, it felt like the place itself was groaning beneath the weight of what it held. You had seen despair before—at the Institute—but this was different. This was despair institutionalized. This was where people came not to be forgotten, but to be erased.

Marcus walked ahead of you with that ever-familiar rigid posture, back straight, shoulders squared, his coat swaying slightly with each purposeful step. His presence cut through the darkness like a blade, stern and authoritative, yet something about him seemed heavier than usual—like this place had clawed into even him. You watched the way his hand hovered near his sidearm, not in fear, but in caution. Even he knew Stillwater demanded a different kind of respect.

The corridor stretched on, narrow and suffocating, lined with cells that whispered with the ghosts of their inhabitants. You didn't look into the cells—most were empty, or worse, not. A few eyes followed you, sunken and dull, the life behind them long since extinguished. Some faces had turned to the wall, motionless. Others murmured things under their breath, fractured prayers or curses, you couldn't tell which.

You pulled the Enforcer uniform tighter around you, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar, the symbol on the sleeve like a brand on your skin. It felt like a betrayal just wearing it, like you were complicit in everything this place stood for. But it was necessary—for now. Marcus had vouched for you, spun some lie about his new "protégé," and the guards hadn't questioned him. No one ever did. He was still sheriff, after all. But the way he glanced at you when you first stepped inside—it was a silent warning: whatever ideals you held, leave them at the door. Stillwater didn't care who you were. It only took.

Your footsteps echoed behind his, each one a drumbeat of tension, until finally, he stopped.

The last cell.

The lights here were dimmer, flickering occasionally as if reluctant to reveal what was locked behind that thick door of reinforced steel. You could feel it before you even saw her—the presence. Like the air had dropped a few degrees. It wasn't fear. It was pressure. Something you couldn't name, but felt deep in your bones.

"This is her." Marcus said, voice low, rough like gravel. He didn't look at you as he spoke, eyes locked on the door. "Solitary confinement. No interaction. No daylight. She's considered extremely dangerous."

You removed the mask slowly, the cold air of the corridor brushing against your skin like a slap, grounding you in the moment. The silence inside the solitary wing was suffocating, but it was nothing compared to what you saw inside the cell.

She was lying on a thin cot pushed against the far wall, barely more than a slab of metal with some tattered bedding. 

The child—no, the a young girl—was taller than you remembered, her body curled in on itself like she was trying to disappear into the mattress. Her hair, once vibrant and full of life, was now a choppy, uneven mess of pink, as if someone had hacked away at it with a dull blade. There was ink on her skin too—tattoos on the back of her arms that seemed to go all the way down her back, you weren't sure. But it wasn't the hair, or the tattoo, or the bruises shadowing her skin that broke something inside you.

It was her expression.

That look—raw, agonized, like she was drowning in her own body. Her breathing was shallow, strained, every inhale a battle. Her lips parted slightly, as if she'd been whispering something for herself. She looked so... lost. Like someone who hadn't just been locked away, but discarded. Forgotten.

"She's hurt." The words left your mouth low, brittle, burning in your throat. You turned to Marcus slowly, your eyes sharp enough to cut through steel. "She's not just hurt. She's—" You couldn't even finish it. Rage swallowed your voice.

Marcus barely flinched. "Many prisoners hurt themselves." his voice was cool, indifferent. "Not all of them are easy to manage."

"And yet." you stepping closer to him, fists clenched at your sides, "You still thought it made sense to throw a child into this hellhole?" The words were venom. Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it held more weight than a shout. "What was the plan, Marcus? Let Stillwater break her, then pretend you did your job?"

There was a flicker in his eyes—guilt, maybe. Or regret buried so deep it had long since turned to stone. But before you could push further, you heard it. Barely a sound. Just the faintest hitch of breath, a deeper inhale than the rest.

You turned back to her—Violet. She hadn't spoken. She hadn't moved. But something in her breathing had shifted. She was still in there. Still fighting, even if only barely. And that was all it took.

"Open the damn door!" you growled, voice cracking with fury. "Now!"

Marcus did as he was ordered.

You heard the metallic jangle of keys against the lock before the deafening screech of steel grinding open broke through the heavy silence. The sound tore through the corridor, and you flinched despite yourself. From inside the cell, she stirred—only slightly. Vi turned her head toward the door with sluggish resistance, her eyes barely open, dull and unfocused beneath a tangle of sweat-drenched hair that clung to her face like cobwebs. She didn't speak. She didn't scream. There was no rage, no defiance. Only the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

You didn't think. You couldn't.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up—rushing forward, crossing the threshold into the suffocating confines of the solitary cell. The stench of sickness and rust hit you all at once, but you didn't stop. You dropped to your knees beside her cot, the harsh concrete biting into your legs through the thick fabric of your uniform. Your hands, trembling, reached for her, gently brushing the strands of hair from her face, hoping—praying—that she would see you. That she would remember.

Vi flinched at the touch.

A weak, involuntary noise left her throat as she tried to turn her head away, a pained grimace tugging at her features. Her skin was hot—too hot—burning with fever, and her breathing was shallow, ragged. You felt your heart drop. This wasn't the Vi you remembered. This wasn't the girl who once cracked her knuckles before every fight, who had fire in her veins and fists like wrecking balls. This was someone fading.

"Who the fuck are you?" she rasped, her voice barely more than a whisper, raw and broken. But still with the strength that only Violet could have.

For a moment, you forgot how to speak.

You had imagined this moment over and over—what you would say, how you would say it. How you'd finally look her in the eyes and remind her she wasn't alone. But now, with her lying there, small and shivering and so far from the girl you once knew, every word you'd rehearsed slipped through your fingers like ash. You were just a stranger in an Enforcer uniform, kneeling beside a ghost.

"I'm..." your voice cracked. You cleared your throat, softened your tone, tried again, like someone speaking to a wounded animal. "I'm a friend of Vander's."

That caught something. Her brows knit slightly, confusion—or maybe suspicion. Maybe recognition. You leaned in closer, your hand still brushing back her hair, slow and gentle.

"You... you know me." you said softly, almost pleading. "I was the ghost friend, remember? You used to joke about it. You said I was like a shadow."

You searched her face for any flicker of memory, any sign that she was still in there, buried beneath the fever and the isolation. Your heart ached in your chest as you whispered, "Please, Violet. Please remember me."

Vi stared at you in silence for what felt like forever.

Her eyes, bloodshot and dulled by fever, locked onto yours with a weight you couldn't bear. Not yet anger. Not quite trust. Just... searching. Her face was unreadable, a fractured mask of someone who had seen too much and been left with too little. She didn't blink. Didn't look away. And in that silence, you felt yourself slowly unraveling.

You held your breath, trying to stay still, trying to stay composed, but your fingers twitched where they rested on the edge of the cot. Your chest ached with the effort of keeping it all in.

Please... just remember.

You didn't dare speak again, didn't trust your voice not to tremble. You could feel the sting of tears clawing their way to the surface, your throat tightening with the weight of everything you'd buried for years. You clenched your jaw, trying to hold it back. Not here. Not now. Not in front of her.

Vi blinked slowly, and then finally—finally—she spoke.

"Where were you?"

Her voice wasn't angry. It wasn't cold. It was tired. So tired it made your bones ache. The question didn't come like an accusation—it came like something far worse. Like a wound that had never healed, only festered.

You broke.

The dam shattered before you even knew it was cracking. A sob hitched in your chest, and then another, and suddenly you were sinking forward, pressing your forehead against the thin mattress beside her, your fingers curling tightly into the fabric as your whole body shook. You tried to stay quiet, to hold the sound in your throat, but it slipped out in soft, broken sniffles, the kind of crying that had been waiting for years to be let out.

"Vander needed you." Vi murmured, quieter this time. "We needed you."

You nodded against the mattress, even though she couldn't see it. You had rehearsed every possible version of this reunion—ones where she hugged you, ones where she hit you, ones where she said nothing at all—but never this.

"I know." your voice was cracking like glass. "I know. I should've been there. I should've... God, I should've... I'm so sorry."

You weren't the ghost anymore. You were just a woman, broken and begging for forgiveness at the edge of a too-small bed in the darkest place in Piltover. And still, somehow, you hoped that would be enough.

Behind you, Marcus remained silent. A looming presence, unmoving. He hadn't spoken since unlocking the cell, hadn't made a move to stop you. Maybe he understood. Maybe he pitied you. Maybe it didn't matter.

All that mattered was her.

Above you, you heard it—a soft, pained groan, followed by the faint rustle of the thin mattress as it shifted under her weight. Your breath hitched. You looked up just in time to see Vi attempting to sit up, her arms trembling as she struggled against her own weakness.

She was still burning with fever, and her movements were sluggish, like she was fighting through water. You reached out instinctively, gently sliding your arm behind her shoulders and helping her sit upright, careful not to move too quickly. She didn't resist—not really. She was too tired to.

Once she was settled against the cold concrete wall, you moved back to your place on the floor, still kneeling beside her bed, tears clinging to your lashes. Your face was streaked with the wet trails they'd left, cooling against your skin. You didn't care. You couldn't. All you could do was look at her—really look at her—and try to make sense of the storm inside your chest.

You were a mess of emotions: relief, grief, rage... overwhelming guilt. She had always been here. Locked away, starved, sick. Close to your reach, but you would never know. And Marcus... Marcus had let it happen. The thought made your stomach twist, made your fingers curl against your knees as your gaze flicked toward the door for a thousandth of a second, imagining tearing through him with your bare hands for ever thinking she belonged in a place like this.

And still, there she was.

Even weak, even fevered, she had his eyes.

Not biologically, of course—Vander wasn't her blood—but gods, it was uncanny. That same hardened look, that same intensity. And now, sitting here in front of her, you could almost feel him staring through her. That cold, stern expression he used to wear when something didn't sit right with him—the one that said he didn't need to say a damn word for you to know you were in trouble.

"You looked different in my memories."

It stopped your heart. You hadn't expected her to remember. You thought you'd been a shadow in her past—a whisper, a vague feeling. But her words pulled the air from your lungs. She remembered you.

"I never could put a face to you." she continued, her brow furrowing slightly like she was trying to focus through the haze of sickness. "But now I can."

You opened your mouth, stunned into silence, a dozen questions lining up on your tongue, but only one made it out.

"When did you know? That I was there?"

Vi tilted her head slightly, eyes drifting toward the far wall as if the answer was etched into the concrete. She was quiet for a long time. A minute passed. Maybe more. You waited, holding your breath without realizing it.

And then she groaned, a sound of recognition, of reluctant memory.

"When I saw you kiss Vander." she said, and the corner of her mouth twitched into something that might've been a smirk if she wasn't so sick. "That shit was traumatic."

You blinked. Stared. And then let out a disbelieving huff that might've been a laugh if your throat hadn't been so tight. Of course she remembered that. Of all the moments... You covered your face with your hand for a second, shaking your head, torn between embarrassment and something dangerously close to joy.

"That was one time."

Vi's eyes fluttered half-shut again, but the smirk lingered just barely on her lips.

"Still counts."

And just like that, for the briefest second, it felt like the world outside this cell didn't exist.

"You must have a thousand questions for me, huh?" You murmured, your voice soft and steady, though your chest felt like it might crack open at any moment. 

Your eyes studied her face—sharp angles made harsher by exhaustion and malnutrition, the bruises and scars that littered her skin like stories no one had been allowed to hear, the small tattoo on his face that says "VI" — which should have given her a more intimidating aura, but for you it just made her even more adorable. You looked at her like a mother might look at a daughter after too many years apart. Like someone trying to memorize what had changed.

"You've changed so much."

Vi let out a low breath, not quite a laugh—more like a sound made out of disbelief and bitter acceptance. "That's what happens when you spend three years locked in a cage."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. There was no venom in her tone, but something far worse: resignation. Like she'd stopped fighting a long time ago. Like this place had peeled her open, stripped her down, and left nothing but the bones of who she used to be. The fire was still there—it always had been—but it was buried under ash.

Your eyes flicked immediately to Marcus, who stood still at the threshold, arms folded behind his back, his expression unreadable, but you saw the fear quickly passing in his eyes. "He's the one who put you in here, isn't he?"

Vi's gaze followed yours, landing on him with all the warmth of a blade pressed to the throat. She didn't speak right away, just gave a slow nod. Her eyes narrowed with disdain—not the kind that burned hot, but the kind that had frozen over long ago. A quiet hate that didn't need screaming to be real.

And something inside you snapped.

"Want me to kill him?" The question left your mouth before you could filter it, raw and sharp and terrifyingly sincere. Your tone didn't rise. You didn't flinch. You meant it.

Vi didn't answer right away. She blinked at you, like she wasn't sure she'd heard you right—or maybe wasn't sure if you knew what you were saying. Her expression tightened as she considered it, her lips parting slightly in thought. The fact that she did consider it sent a shiver down your spine—and not because you were afraid of what she'd say. But because you realized... you wanted her to say yes.

Eventually, she shook her head. "No." she said, voice low and hoarse. "He's not worth the noise. Killing him would just bring more Enforcers crawling in here like rats."

"I could deal with them." this time there was a deadly clarity in your voice. "Every last one of them. If you told me to, I'd paint these walls with their blood. For you."

You weren't exaggerating. You meant every word. For everything she'd endured, for what had been stolen from her, for the years buried in this concrete tomb. You would burn Stillwater to the ground if she asked you to. You wanted to.

Vi stared at you, her expression unreadable. A flicker of something crossed her face—disbelief, maybe, or doubt. But also something softer beneath it. Not quite trust, not yet. But something close. Something fragile.

"You're serious?"

 "I am."

Vi looked away, her jaw clenching. There was a long silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was distant, but sure. "A massacre like that... Vander wouldn't have wanted it."

Your chest tightened at the sound of his name. Of course it wasn't. Vander believed in justice, in restraint, in mercy—even when the world didn't deserve it. Even when you didn't believe in it.

"I know but he's not here. You are. And I'd do anything for you."

Vi shook her head again, slowly this time, like she was trying to push the thought of vengeance from her body with sheer will alone. You could see the effort it took her—not just to refuse, but to hold on to whatever pieces of herself Stillwater hadn't shattered. But before she could say anything more, a brutal sound tore from her chest.

The cough came fast and violent—deep, guttural, wrong—and it doubled her over where she sit. It sounded like it ripped something out of her lungs, like her body had been holding it in for too long. Her arms wrapped weakly around her middle as she trembled through it, pain etched into every line of her face. You moved without thinking.

"Hey, hey... Vi!" you gasped, scrambling to her side.

Your arms sliding behind her back, pulling her into your chest. She was burning up, slick with sweat and shaking like a leaf in a storm. You held her tightly against you, your body being the cocoon of protection and security she needed, one hand rubbing firm, soothing circles along her back in a desperate attempt to ease her pain. Each cough stabbed through you like a knife. She sounded like she was drowning.

You snapped your eyes toward Marcus, fury blooming hot behind them.

"Get a medic!"

He didn't move.

Your rage surged. "Now, Marcus, or I swear I'll rip your fucking throat out before the next breath leaves your lungs."

You didn't even recognize your own voice—it was animal, trembling with something primal. Your skin buzzed, and for a split second you felt it again—that familiar burn just behind your eyes, just beneath your skin. The edges of your vision pulsed, colors sharper, breath heavier, muscles coiling like they remembered how to kill. You could feel the Instinct stirring inside you.

But it didn't last.

Still, it was enough.

Marcus flinched, just barely, and then he turned and bolted down the corridor, the sound of his boots echoing against the cold stone like a starting gun. You didn't even watch him go. You were already looking back to her, to the broken thing in your arms who once stood like she could hold the world on her shoulders.

You glanced around the cell, frantic, looking for anything—anything—to help her. A blanket, a cup of water, a rag, something. But there was nothing. Not even a goddamn bucket. This place wasn't just a prison, it was a death sentence. And Vi had been rotting in it.

So all you could do was hold her.

You pulled her tighter against you, her back pressed to your chest, arms circling her body like you could keep the pain out just by being there. You rocked slightly, whispering soft, meaningless comforts—nonsense words and half-formed memories of better days. You brushed the damp hair from her forehead, pressed your cheek gently to her temple.

Eventually, the coughing stopped. Or maybe she was just too weak to continue. You held her like that for a moment longer, your breath shaky, your hands never leaving her.

"How long have you been like this?"

Vi didn't answer right away. Her head lolled slightly back against your shoulder, and when she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse and cracked around the edges.

"I don't know... days? Weeks? Months?" She gave a bitter laugh that sounded more like another cough. "Time doesn't mean shit in solitary. It just... bleeds together."

Your heart shattered.

You tightened your hold around her, pressing your forehead gently against hers, like maybe you could shield her from the weight of everything—even if just for a little while.

You held her tighter, as if you could protect her from the sickness, from the years of pain, from the world that had let her rot in the dark and forgotten. Her body was small against yours now—too light, too fragile—and it broke something deep in you. You weren't sure when the promise formed, but it burned inside your chest with the weight of something sacred.

"I'll make you better." you swore silently in your head. "No matter what it takes."

You would see her strong again. You'd see her fists raised and her head held high. You'd watch that fire return to her eyes—the same one that used to make her feel like she could take on the whole world and win. You didn't care how far you had to go, or who you had to hurt along the way. She was going to get out of this hell. And she was going to live.

In the silence of the cell, your voice broke through, low and hollow. "I thought you were dead."

Vi didn't respond right away. The words seemed to hang in the air between you, fragile and sharp like shattered glass.

"When I found out what happened that night..." you continued, staring ahead at the dark stone wall, "I couldn't breathe. I couldn't function. Everyone I loved... gone." Your throat tightened. "I lost everyone. Everything... I didn't see the point in living."

Vi shifted slightly in your arms, slow and stiff like every movement cost her. She leaned her head against your shoulder, eyes half-lidded. Her voice was rasped and low, full of things she hadn't had the strength to say to anyone in years.

"I didn't even have time to grieve." she murmured. "They locked me in here so fast I didn't get to cry, didn't get to scream. It all just... froze. Like it got stuck in my chest and never left."

You swallowed hard, your fingers brushing gently along her shoulder, tracing the ridges of her tattoos.

"I spent so long in this place." Vi went on, "Alone. No voices. No light. Just silence and these damn walls. I really thought I was gonna lose my mind." Her laugh was dry, humorless. "And I probably did, for a while." She shifted again, enough to glance at you out of the corner of her eye. "I got into trouble. A lot of it. Guess I spent most of my time in the anger part of grief. It was easier. Anger gives you something to hit. Something to break."

You didn't interrupt. You just listened, letting her words pour over you like acid and rain all at once. Every syllable cracked something open inside you. And as she spoke, all you could think about was that little girl—fiery, reckless, brave—trapped in the body of someone who had been brutalized by years of isolation and silence.

God, if you could've gone back... you would've. You would've given your life without hesitation if it meant saving them—Vi, Powder, Mylo, Claggor and Vander. If it meant letting them grow up whole in the only way Zaun ever allowed—scarred, maybe, but together. You would've burned Piltover to the ground if that was the cost of keeping their innocence intact just a little longer.

Vi's voice pulled you from the spiral, soft and steady, the edge of her usual sarcasm curling into something more reflective.

"When I found out you were real..." she began, her gaze flickering down to the floor like she was trying to piece the memory together, "I started paying more attention. Took me forever, of course, 'cause I'm apparently slow as hell when it comes to ghost-stalkers." she added with a lopsided grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But after a year of catching shadows that weren't there, of feeling watched in the middle of a fight, I started to realize, you were always around. Watching. Keeping distance, but... there."

You felt the warmth of something bittersweet unfurl in your chest, even as your throat tightened.

"I think that's why I was never really scared to throw a punch." she added with a dry laugh, voice raspy. "I always figured I'd win, obviously but also... I think I just knew that if it all went to shit, you'd show up. Pull me out. Patch me up. Like some invisible guardian angel who couldn't mind their own business."

You huffed softly through your nose, the closest thing you could manage to a laugh. You remembered watching her brawl, bruised knuckles and blood on her face, grinning like a maniac while you stayed hidden in the shadows—useless and invisible. But not to her. Never to her.

Vi shifted suddenly, breaking from your grip, and for a moment you thought she was going to push you away entirely. But then she reached for your arm, her fingers surprisingly steady as she pulled herself upright, groaning softly from the effort. You moved to help, guiding her back against the wall. When you moved to kneel again beside her bed, as you had been before, she stopped you.

Her hand fell on your shoulder—gentle but firm—and she patted her knee. So you sat beside her instead. Side by side. The air between you a little less heavy.

"And then one day, you were just gone. Vanished. No trace. Nothing." She looked ahead, not at you, her eyes distant. "And I thought..."

Her voice cracked then. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just a quiet fracture, a tremor in a dam that had been under pressure for too long. She blinked fast, like she was trying to fight it, to hold back the flood—but it still crept in.

"I thought maybe you'd finally left us or worse... that maybe you were dead."

You couldn't speak. Your throat burned with everything you wanted to say but couldn't—how sorry you were, how many nights you'd dreamed of being there again, of finding her. So instead, you reached for her hand and squeezed it—tight. Desperate. As if, by gripping her hard enough, you could somehow pull all the lost time back into place. Make it right. Undo the years.

"I'm here now," the words trembling as they left you. You turned to her, eyes burning, breath shallow. "I'm not leaving you again. I swear it, Violet. Not this time."

And she looked at you like she was trying to believe it. Like she wanted to. And maybe—for the first time in years—she almost did.

"You better keep that damn promise."

Vi fell silent.

Her eyes drifted away from yours, unfocused, as if something far off—some old, buried thought—had clawed its way back to the surface. You recognized that look. The kind that only came when someone was bracing for pain. She inhaled deeply through her nose, jaw tight, and then she said it all at once—quick and sharp, like ripping off a bandage before she could change her mind.

"Did you get the bodies?" she asked, her voice lower than before, but steadier. "Did you find them?"

You nodded, and you didn't sugarcoat it. "I buried them." your voice was gentle but unwavering. "Side by side. Mylo, Claggor, and Vander... they're together now. I made sure of it."

That hit her like a punch to the gut.

Vi flinched—not physically, but emotionally. You saw it in the way her shoulders tensed, in the sharp intake of breath she tried to disguise as a swallow. For a moment, she didn't blink. She just stared at the floor like she was watching a memory she couldn't escape.

Then, suddenly—urgently—she looked at you again. "And Powder?" she asked, too fast, too loud. There was a crack in her voice now, real and raw. "You didn't find her body?"

Oh...

"There was no body to find, Violet. Your sister is alive."

Vi's eyes widened slowly, disbelief flickering through her features. She opened her mouth but didn't speak, as if the question couldn't even form, like her brain was trying to wrap itself around the impossible. Vi stared at you like you'd just told her the world had flipped upside down.

"She's alive?" she said finally, voice cracking. "Powder's... alive?"

You nodded, more firmly this time. "She is. She's alive. She's... different, but she's there. She's safe. Physically, at least."

Vi's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, 'different'?"

You hesitated, words getting stuck in your throat. How could you explain what Powder had become without breaking Vi in half?

"She's... healthy." you began gently. "She's eating, sleeping, she's not sick or hurt. But mentally? She's... been through a lot, Vi. She's still Powder, but... not like you remember. There's trauma. Deep, hardwired stuff. She doesn't trust easily anymore. She's skittish, volatile sometimes. But it's not her fault."

Vi didn't respond immediately. Her jaw tensed, muscles twitching like she was grinding her teeth. "Where is she?"

The question came out like a challenge. You looked away. That was the moment you realized this was the real minefield. Everything else had just been smoke around it.

"She's with someone." you said slowly, carefully. "Someone who's... been taking care of her."

"Who?"

You didn't answer right away. You couldn't. Even saying his name in her presence felt like igniting a match in a room filled with gas.

"Who?" she repeated, sharper this time.

You met her eyes, your heart pounding. "Silco."

Silence.

Like the world stopped turning. Vi's expression didn't change right away. She didn't shout. Didn't lash out. But her eyes went flat—cold, dangerous. Something behind them snapped tight like a drawn wire.

"You're telling me." she said slowly, venom laced beneath the calm, "That Silco, Silco of all people, has my sister?"

"Yes, she's with him and to her, he's... like a father."

Vi was quiet for a long time.

Too long.

Her hand still rested in yours, but you could feel the subtle change in her posture—shoulders tensing, fingers twitching just slightly, like a current had passed through her. Her gaze wasn't on you anymore. It was somewhere else—searching, dissecting, doubting.

"How do you know all that?" she finally asked, voice slow, guarded. Suspicious. "How could you possibly know those things unless you were there?"

You froze.

The question wasn't unexpected. But the moment it came out, it felt like the air had been sucked out of the cell. Cold crept under your skin. You had imagined this moment a thousand times—the confrontation, the truth, the fallout. You had tried to rehearse it, prepare yourself. But nothing could've readied you for the way Vi was looking at you now. Like she was bracing for betrayal. Like she already knew.

And you couldn't lie.

Not to her. Not after everything. Because Vi... she wasn't just a face from your past. She was where your path had been leading. She was where your soul had planted its flag and said, this is where I stay. Even if she ended up hating you for it. You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper when it came out.

"Because I was with Powder. All this months... I watched her, took care of her, tried to, anyway." You felt her shift beside you, her breath catching. You couldn't meet her eyes. "I stayed..." you continued, your voice breaking as you pushed the final words out, "Because I was with Silco."

Silence.

A black hole of soundless weight collapsed between you, and you knew in your bones that everything had just changed. The stillness was worse. It was like watching a fuse burn down in slow motion, knowing the explosion was coming and still being powerless to stop it.

At first, she didn't say anything. Not a single sound. She just blinked at you, once, twice, like her brain couldn't fully compute what she was hearing. Then she stood abruptly, too fast for how weak she was, and the motion nearly toppled her. You moved to steady her instinctively, but she shoved your hand away.

"Don't!" she hissed, eyes wide and wild now, her voice shaking with rage. "Don't touch me!"

"Vi—"

"No!" she shouted, eyes wide, jaw clenched. "Don't you dare say my name right now. You don't get to say it."

She was shaking now—not just from the illness but from the explosion of everything she'd buried for years. Her breath was ragged, her voice unsteady with rage.

"You were with him? Sleeping with him?" Her voice was rising, cracking, filling the cell with raw, furious disbelief. "You're telling me you were with that bastard?!"

Each word was like glass shattering between you.

"Do you even hear yourself?!" she roared, pacing a half-step before stopping, teeth bared like a feral animal. "Do you know what the hell you're saying?! He kidnapped Vander! That's why we went after him. That's why we stormed that damn building. It was supposed to be a rescue, and everything went to hell. Powder—" She choked, blinking rapidly. "Powder was just a kid, and she... she didn't know what she was doing. And it all went to shit."

Her fists clenched at her sides, shaking.

"Because of him. Because of Silco, we lost everything! He's the reason we're even in this nightmare!" 

Vi broke off, her voice catching again. She didn't finish the sentence. Couldn't. Her chest heaved with fury and something deeper—something that felt like grief set on fire.

"And you... you stood by him? Slept in his bed? Watched him breathe while Vander was dead? How could you? How could you not drive a blade into his fucking throat while he slept?!"

You couldn't answer. You weren't even sure you deserved to.

All you could do was sit there, beneath the weight of everything she'd lost, everything that you had failed to protect. Your mouth opened, but nothing came. No defense would matter. No explanation could rewrite the past. You looked at her with nothing but remorse in your eyes, your voice a breathless rasp.

"I loved him." It wasn't an excuse. It was a confession. A curse. And Vi stared at you like she didn't know who you were anymore. "I still love him."

The words shattered something inside you as soon as they left your mouth, and suddenly you couldn't hold it together anymore. The tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you didn't fight them. You couldn't—not this time. You looked up at her, that same fire raging in her eyes, and for a moment you hated yourself for what you were about to say. But she deserved the truth. All of it.

"I don't know how it happened." you said, voice cracking. "I swear to God, I don't know when it started. It wasn't supposed to be like that. It was never about him. It was always about Powder, about watching her, keeping her safe. That's why I stayed close. That's why I let myself get close to him."

Your breath hitched as you spoke, throat tightening with shame. You could barely look at her, barely say the words aloud.

"But something... shifted. Somewhere along the way, my heart just... just lost control. And I didn't see it until it was too late. Until I was already his." You laughed, a humorless, broken sound. "I hate it. God, I hate it so much. The love I feel for him, it's a sin. A poison I can't cut out of me, no matter how hard I try."

You stared at your own hands, trembling, clenched into fists in your lap. "If I could tear my own heart out just to make it stop, I would. I've thought about it. Dreamed about it. Because as much as I love him, I hate him just as deeply." 

You looked at her now, finally, forcing your gaze to meet hers even though it felt like knives.

"I don't expect you to understand. And I damn well don't expect you to forgive me. I wouldn't, if I were you." You took a shaky breath, your voice growing steadier, stronger—not because you felt strong, but because you had to be. For her. "But I'm not going to walk away. I won't. Not even if you scream at me, not even if you throw every punch you've got left in you."

You reached forward, gently, not to touch her, but just to show her—you were still here.

"I made a promise to Vander. A real one. On his tombstone I promised that I would take care of his daughters as if they were mine" Your voice cracked again, but you kept going. "So that's what I'm going to do. Whether you want me here or not. I will protect you. Both of you."

You swallowed hard, your chest aching.

"I failed you once. I won't do it again, Vi. Even if you hate me. Even if you never look at me the same way. I'm not leaving you. I can't."

Vi turned her back to you.

It was like the air in the room dropped ten degrees, a chill settling deep into your bones—not because of the temperature, but because of the wall she'd just slammed between you. She closed herself off with such brutal finality that it stole the breath from your lungs. No more vulnerability, no flicker of the girl you'd seen moments ago. She was steel now. Cold. Locked down. And she refused to let you see her break again.

She didn't even look at you. And that hurt more than her shouting ever could've.

"Get out." she said flatly, her voice low and rough.

You didn't move. Couldn't. Every instinct in your body screamed to stay—to fix this, to say more, to just be there. But your feet felt nailed to the floor, heart still cracked open and bleeding at her feet.

"I said GET OUT!" 

She shouted this time, her voice rising into something hoarse and agonized, and for a moment you thought it was just anger—until you saw the way her body jerked, how she stumbled back against the wall with a choked gasp. Her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, her face contorting in pain, and the sound that escaped her throat was more a growl than a scream.

You surged forward without thinking, your hands reaching for her. "Vi—!"

"Don't touch me!" she barked, eyes blazing with panic and fury, her voice breaking around the words.

But even as she tried to push you back with her voice, her body betrayed her—folding inward, legs buckling slightly. Her hand clawed at her ribs like she was trying to hold herself together by force. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

And then everything moved too fast.

The cell door burst open behind you with a loud clang. Heavy footsteps, echoing in the hall just outside, growing louder by the second. Marcus stormed in first, followed closely by a grim-looking medic and two massive men who looked more like enforcers than any kind of medical staff.

"You better leave." You barely turned before you felt Marcus's hands on your shoulders, firm and cold, dragging you back. "Don't make this harder than it has to be." he hissed in your ear, low enough for only you to hear.

"No... no, wait!" you cried, twisting in his grip as you tried to reach for Vi again. "She's in pain! Let me just—!"

Marcus didn't wait for your cooperation. He yanked you bodily away from her, and your boots skidded across the stone floor. You caught one last glimpse of Vi through the blur of motion—her arms still wrapped around herself, her eyes squeezed shut, face pale with strain, sweat beading on her brow.

And she didn't look at you. Not even once.

The door slammed shut behind you with a heavy metallic clang, and it echoed inside your chest like a final verdict The moment Marcus let you go, your sorrow was still raw—still sitting heavy on your chest like a dying star—but it was no longer the emotion in control.

Grief burned out, and rage took its place.

You pivoted fast, driven by the storm inside you, and your hand shot out, gripping Marcus by the collar of his pristine uniform. Before he could even register the shift in you, you slammed him back—hard—against the reinforced glass of the hallway window. The frame groaned under the impact, the pane trembling in its casing with a sound that warned of how close it was to shattering.

Marcus choked on the surprise, his body going rigid. The way his eyes blew wide, the startled little gasp he let out—it would've almost been funny if you weren't so consumed by fury.

"Don't play dumb with me." you growled, voice low and venomous, face inches from his. "Whatever the hell is wrong with her, whatever's eating her from the inside out, you fix it. You treat her. Or I swear to every god, I will burn this place to the fucking ground with every last one of you inside."

His mouth parted in a shaky breath, but you didn't give him a chance to respond. You shoved him harder against the glass, letting it creak ominously behind his back as your eyes bore into his.

"I've been patient. Civil, even, considering the fact that you locked her away like some rabid dog. I let you breathe after what you did to her. But make no mistake, if she dies in that cell, if you let her rot in there without doing something, then there won't be a door, a badge, or a wall in Piltover that'll keep me from ending you."

A silence stretched thick and taut between you. Your breath came in harsh bursts, your fingers still clenched around the fabric of his collar, your heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your skull.

Some part of you knew you'd been too aggressive with him since this whole thing started—storming into his home, making threats, dragging him through this plan like he was nothing more than a pawn. But you didn't care. Not anymore. You didn't feel guilt. You didn't feel shame.

All that mattered was Violet.

Only Violet.

Marcus swallowed hard, his jaw tight. And to his credit, he didn't try to throw you off. Maybe it was the fury in your voice. Maybe it was the unspoken truth that you meant every single word.

"She'll be treated." he said eventually, tone quiet but resolute." She won't die on my watch."

You didn't loosen your grip right away. You let the threat hang there between you, heavy and sharp, until you were satisfied that he meant it. Only then did you shove him back, releasing him roughly. He staggered a step, breath caught in his throat, but didn't retaliate.

He looked at you, eyes steady but cautious. "If you want to stay." he said after a moment, adjusting the collar you'd nearly ripped, "I can make that happen. I'll pull strings. You'll have clearance to remain with her."

This caught you attention.

[...]

Three weeks had passed since Marcus made the announcement.

Prisoner 516—Violet—would now have a personal escort, on account of her mysterious illness. You.

The doctors at Stillwater had tried everything. Blood tests, scans, even experimental serums they whispered about behind closed doors. But nothing had worked. No fever had broken. No color had returned to her face. Vi was still wasting away, still burning from the inside out with something no one could name. Something no one wanted to understand.

And you remained.

Every day, without fail, you stood outside her cell in that damn Enforcer uniform—silent, stiff, pretending to be part of the system you hated, all for the chance to be close to her. You didn't speak much. Not anymore. She hadn't answered you since that first night. She hadn't said your name. She hadn't even looked at you.

She simply lay there, motionless on the cot, staring at the ceiling like the cracks in the concrete were more worthy of her attention than you were.

And gods, how that silence hurt more than anything else could have. More than if she'd screamed at you. More than if she'd spat curses, called you a traitor, told you to burn. You wanted her rage. You deserved it. But she gave you nothing. Just that damn silence—cold, immovable, heavy.

So you began to sing.

"Waiting... waiting..."

It started softly, one night, as her breathing rasped through the metal bars and you sat with your back against the cold wall, hugging your knees. The words were barely audible, a lullaby long buried in memory—something your mother used to hum when she thought no one was listening, one of the only memories you have of her, although you only remember the sound.

You used to sing this when you were in your room at the Institute, on the nights when you didn't pass out from exhaustion or have nightmares. It helped you, because the thought of your mother still being out there somewhere, maybe looking for you, made things more bearable. Because your father never told you that your mother had abandoned you, so you clung to that.

You didn't know if Vi's mother had ever sung to her. But in your mind, mothers were supposed to do that. Mothers were supposed to comfort, to soothe, to offer something gentle in the dark.

She never told you to stop.

So night after night, you sang.

Sometimes it was broken, off-key, your voice cracking from exhaustion or grief or both. But you sang anyway, like each note was a lifeline you were throwing to her through the bars, hoping she'd take it. Hoping she'd come back.

And now, here you were. 

For the first time since you had taken on that new role, you couldn't stand to stay in Stillwater any longer. So you fled, just for a few hours, just to be able to breathe without feeling like you were suffocating.

Alone on the bridge, leaning against rusted railings that groaned under your weight, the icy night air biting into your cheeks. The river below churned slowly, uncaring, the faint lap of waves brushing against the concrete embankments like the world's most indifferent lullaby. The moon above cast a dull silver sheen over the water, fractured by movement, rippling like smoke.

You exhaled slowly, letting the tension slip out of your body in the form of a trembling sigh. There were no Enforcers here at this hour. No patrols. No reports. Just quiet. Blessed, bitter quiet. And for the first time all day, you reached up and peeled the mask from your face, the false identity sliding off with a soft hiss of fabric.

The mask had become a part of you—heavy and suffocating—but here, in this liminal hour before dawn, you could breathe. You could be you.

You stared at the water, letting the cold seep into your bones. The quiet was deafening now that there was no cell, no hallway, no humming fluorescents overhead. Just your thoughts.

Is she ever going to speak to you again?

You hated how weak that question sounded even in your head. But it was honest. That was the truth of it, stripped down to the rawest edge. You missed her voice. Missed her wildness, her fury, her stupid, stubborn loyalty. Now she was just still. Like she'd locked herself inside a different kind of cell—one you couldn't break her out of, no matter how many times you offered the key.

You looked back down at the river, imagining how easy it would be to just fall in. Let the water swallow you, carry you far from this place, far from prisons and lies and fevered silences.

You didn't even realize how far forward you had leaned.

And then... a voice. Calm. Soft, even. It drifted into your ears like silk and static all at once, carrying a quiet weight that made you straighten before you'd even registered the words. There was a strange elegance to it—gently accented, measured, like every syllable had been chosen with careful thought. No harshness, no demand. Just a curious observation spoken in a tone that didn't belong Piltover, although it looked like it.

"Am I interrupting?"

Part 25

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I am the enemy of happiness, but let's face it, Vi's reaction makes sense (please don't kill me). By the way, the song that Reader sings to Vi is the song "Underworld" from Epic the Musical (more precisely Odysseus's mom scene), Reader sings the mother's part. This song will break your heart, so I advise you to listen to it. Click here By the way, who will that person be in the end, huh?

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[defmxl]

What’s your Silco’s headcannons? :3

I don’t know why I didn’t see this until now, sorry! I have so many, but I’ll list the headcanons I can remember off the top of my head!

Singed found Silco after the betrayal and was his first semi-willing test subject, although it’s only because Silco was desperate and could have died otherwise

Maybe the young Zauntrio were among the miners who convinced Kiramann's to build the vent system and that's when the people first started to view them as advocates. That transitioned them from only miners to community leaders, giving them support to build The Lanes in Zaun.

He was an orphan in Zaun, maybe his father died in a mining accident.

He’s a physical touch guy, but in a way that he’d touch your lower back while walking past you or rub your shoulder, or keep his hand on your thigh. Also words of affirmation, but both ways. He likes hearing how proud you are of him, or that he’s doing well, but he plays it off very nonchalantly.

He falls asleep easier when you’re reading or doing something on the couch and he just wants to “lie down for a moment” in your lap, but otherwise he has insomnia and finds it really difficult to fall asleep

He’s extremely sentimental and nostalgic, especially considering he saved a lot of memorabilia from the past

He has poor temperature regulation

He would be startled by sudden touches, like if you touched his hand without him expecting it, but he would try not to show that to you

He’s the type to bring you coffee in the morning, just the way you like it, and set it by the bedside table. He never mentions it and you never asked him to do this.

@lullabyes22-blog post on his uh… lower anatomy is correct to me haha

His post timeskip suit is made up of pieces from his old one.

I have a lot more but these are what’s easy to recall for now! So I’m happy to mention more sometime :)

[defmxl]

I've been absent for a while due to work , more Silco's are on the way but for now I'leave this small sketch for you guys .

[defmxl]

SILCO IN ACT 2- EPISODE 5

+ BONUS - THE COACH SHOT WITH A VIEW OF THE PAINTING

the dirty little smirks and cuntiness aughhhhh

[defmxl]

SILCO in ARCANE Season 1 Ep. 8: 'Oil and Water'

[defmxl]

Penance

Priest!Silco x Fem!Reader AU (sfw for now)

First installment in a nsfw multichapter little fic, dedicated to @purpurniymstitel​​ simp queen extraordinaire, the absolute horniest on main, and incredibly kind friend.   Thank you for this deliciously evil prompt.  

The dress was too tight.  Old and uncomfortable, dug out of the back of your closet for lack of any other ‘appropriate’ garment as Virginia had put it.  When was the last time you put a dress on?  But Virginia refused to take you to Mass in anything less.  She’d even made you find stockings, scandalized, glowering at your bare legs like their very existence was an affront.  She was your stepmom and not even all that close, always called her Ginny, mostly because you knew it got in her nerves.

Keep reading

[defmxl]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 23/?)

Bargaining is a game of power — some are born to make demands, others to obey. But power is fickle. And sometimes, the one who once dictated the terms finds themselves with no choice but to accept whatever is offered… no matter how bitter the price.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 10,5K

Warnings: blood and violence, graphic violence, "death", emotional manipulation, allusion to human experiments, threats with weapons, canon-typical Silco violence, home invasion, reader and Silco are two peas in a pod, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence, proceed at your own risk.

Part 22

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

The shift in power dynamics was almost amusing—if one could strip away the heavy weight of context behind it. In any other scenario, with any other person, Silco would have crushed such audacity without hesitation.

To sit in his chair, to assume even the illusion of control within his domain, to look at him with such blatant contempt—it was the kind of insolence he did not tolerate. He would have made them regret it. Made them understand, in no uncertain terms, that no one stole authority from him. Not in his own office. Not in his own city.

But not her.

She could sit there, in that leather-bound throne that served as a hollow symbol of his rule, and he would do nothing. She could pierce him with that gaze, laced with disappointment, resentment, and still, he would not look away. She could demand anything of him—his resources, his influence, his loyalty—and Silco could not summon the strength to deny her.

He had always been weak when it came to the few things he allowed himself to love. The only things that mattered in the grand scheme of his existence: Jinx, the nation of Zaun, and her.

Silco moved with deliberate slowness, lowering himself into the chair across from his desk—her desk now, if the shift in positioning meant anything. It was a seat he had never taken before. It was unnatural, sitting on this side of the desk, looking at her where he should have been. And yet, he did not correct it.

She watched him through the mask, impassive, unreadable. He masked his own reaction just as well, though the urge clawed at the edges of his restraint—to reach across the desk and tear that damn thing from her face, to finally see her after weeks of absence.

Silco would not apologize. He did not believe in apologies, nor did he feel guilt. But he could admit—to himself, if nothing else—that he had felt her absence in a way that was wholly inconvenient.

"How did you get in?" His voice carried its usual weight, the authority that was his by right, even though the very nature of this interaction threatened to undermine it.

"Your men are incompetent, but you already know that." She leaned back in the chair as if it had always belonged to her, as if she belonged there. "I didn't kill them, if that's what you're wondering. Their deaths would have been unnecessary."

Silco tilted his head slightly, studying her. Unnecessary. The word implied a level of calculation he could appreciate, though it was hardly reassuring. Especially coming from her. That was weird.

"And what exactly would you consider a necessary death in this context?" His voice remained cold, polished, as if her sudden reappearance did not rattle something deep inside him. It was a well-crafted illusion, the pretense of indifference, but she had always been irritatingly adept at seeing through him. "Mine? Is that why you came back? To finish what you started?"

"If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have made it through that door." She exhaled loudly, exaggerated, as if the very suggestion bored her. "Your death doesn't interest me."

Silco let out a dry, humorless laugh, more a breath of air escaping his throat than anything else. "Says the one who tried to kill me."

"And can you blame me?" Her voice held no hesitation, no regret—only the quiet, razor-sharp edge of conviction. "After everything you did, I had the right to take revenge on you."

There was a bitterness on Silco's tongue, sharp and acrid, as the irony of the situation settled over him like a cruel joke. He had been the one to teach her how to see vengeance with different eyes—to look beyond blind fury and understand its true purpose, its true power. And now, here she was, using that very understanding against him. A perfectly executed twist of fate.

"Then why are you here?"

She held his gaze for a few lingering moments before turning her face away, as if searching for the answer somewhere beyond the walls of his office. Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding, as he watched the gears in her mind turn, watched the conflict play out in the slightest shifts of her expression. And then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the sharp, murderous tension in the room—in her—dissolved into nothing.

"I spent a long time thinking about this. About what I would do... if I ever saw you again." She went on, slower now, choosing each phrase with the care of someone picking through glass. "I ran through every version of it. Barging into your office. Screaming at you. Putting a knife to your throat. Just to see if you'd flinch." Her lip curled into the faintest, bitter smile.

Silco let out a slow breath, but didn't break eye contact. He could almost taste the storm still swirling in her—anger, grief, betrayal, all weathered now, matured into something quieter but no less potent.

"But I didn't come here to hurt you." she shaking her head slightly, as if that realization still baffled her. "That would've been easy. Too easy. Just another cycle of blood and pain and—"

"Then what you want?"

"I want clarity, closure, maybe. I don't know." Her brow furrowed, and for a brief moment, he saw the weight of her journey—emotional, mental, everything in between. "I came to a conclusion, that if I confronted you, it wouldn't be with fists or fury. It would be on my terms. Calm. Measured. Just... words." Her voice faltered for a second, and she inhaled slowly, grounding herself. "I told myself I would be better than you."

He tilted his head slightly, searching her face. "And here you are. Not screaming. Not armed. Just standing there."

Her eyes met his again, and this time, there was something fragile behind them. Wounded, but not broken.

"Yeah, that was the plan."

A pause. She exhaled, and her shoulders sank—just enough to signal the collapse of all that hard-won control.

"Until I saw you... It's realizing how much I missed you."

When she moved to stand, Silco's body reacted on instinct, mirroring her, rising before he could think better of it. He met her in the middle, stopping just short of closing the distance between them. Now, they stood face to face, and the silence between them was no longer empty—it was heavy, brimming with everything unsaid. Words neither of them had the courage nor the willingness to speak aloud.

"I still love you, Silco."

The words struck something deep inside him, something buried beneath layers of hardened resolve and carefully cultivated detachment. He had expected accusations, anger, maybe even another attempt at retribution—but not this. Not love.

Her gaze softened, and then, slowly, her hand rose to his face. The tips of her fingers, unnervingly cold, traced over the ruined side of his cheek with a gentleness that should have felt familiar. That used to feel familiar. But something was wrong.

Silco remained utterly still, his breath shallow as her fingers ghosted over his scarred skin. The touch should have grounded him, should have felt like her. And yet, it didn't. It was too cold, too distant. There was no warmth in it.

Wait... Cold? No—his dove had never been cold.

She had always been warmth, his warmth—the only thing in this forsaken city that had ever felt alive against the endless chill of Zaun. She had always been the comfortable heat that clung to him, defying the cold that ran through his veins, defying the ruthless world that had tried to strip them both of their softness. That was who she was.

This woman? This woman was a ghost, wearing her face, speaking in her voice. But she was not his.

His dove had not returned to him.

Whatever had crawled back into his office tonight was something else entirely.

Silco moved before he could think—before hesitation could sink its claws into his mind and convince him to stop. In an instant, he had her pinned against the desk, the force of it making papers and trinkets scatter onto the floor. His grip was iron-clad, one hand pressing her down, the other drawing his dagger with practiced ease. The cold edge of the blade met the delicate skin of her throat, just firm enough to warn, just sharp enough to threaten.

Her hands shot up to his wrist, fingers curling around it—but she didn't push him away.

"What was the name of your friend? The one I killed?"

"What?!" She frowned, confusion flashing across her face. "You're seriously questioning if I'm me right now?"

Silco didn't blink. Didn't waver. "Say her name."

A flicker of something—anger, disbelief—passed through her expression. "Alright, that's enough." She began to push against him, movements shifting from restrained patience to genuine force. "Let me go, Silco."

"Answer me."

Her fingers tightened on his wrist. "Don't make me hurt you."

The way she said it—so casual, so offhanded, as if it were merely an inconvenience—only made the dread coil tighter in his stomach. That wasn't right. She wasn't right. She struggled harder, enough that he had to readjust his grip to keep her in place. The moment she tried to break free, Silco shifted the dagger downward, the tip now hovering just above her heart.

"One name." he ground out, his patience fraying by the second. "Give me one damn name and I'll stop."

He wasn't asking for much. Just proof. Just something to hold onto, something to tell him he was wrong, that the creeping, suffocating certainty in his gut was misplaced. He needed to be wrong. Because if he wasn't—

"Say the name!"

"Enough!"

Silco didn't give her the chance to strike first.

In one swift motion, he drove the dagger forward, the blade piercing through fabric, through flesh, through the fragile thing that beat beneath her ribs. For a second—just one agonizing second—nothing happened.

Then, he felt it. The subtle resistance of muscle and bone giving way, the faint shudder of her body beneath him. The warmth of blood seeping over his fingers, staining the hilt, pooling between them. Her lips parted, and at first, there was only a shallow, breathless gasp. Then, a sickening, wet cough, crimson spilling past her lips like a promise of death.

Silco exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath without realizing it. He withdrew the blade just as quickly as he had plunged it in, the motion smooth, practiced—too practiced. As if he had done this a hundred times before. As if it were no different from all the other lives he had taken without hesitation.

But this was different.

He didn't even think before his hands moved, reaching for her, ripping away the damned mask that had separated them. He needed to see. Needed to know. The moment the mask fell, he almost wished he hadn't looked.

Pain twisted her features, raw and unfiltered. Her mouth trembled, bloodied, a ragged breath catching in her throat as if she were struggling to pull air into lungs that had already betrayed her. And her eyes—fuck—her eyes weren't defiant or cold or vengeful. They were wide. Shocked. Searching. Something inside Silco twisted, something primal and gut-wrenching, something he had not felt in a long, long time.

Regret.

The taste of it was bitter, acrid, suffocating. He watched, helpless, as the life bled out of her, as the weight of her body sagged, limbs going slack, breath stuttering into silence. And then—nothing. Her body was still. Her eyes, once filled with something fiery and alive, were now empty, fixed on a meaningless point beyond him.

Dead.

Oh God... what had he done?

His breath came shallow. His grip loosened, fingers hovering uselessly near her as if there was still something left to save. But there wasn't. He had made sure of that. But before the weight of what he had done could fully settle, before he could feel it—

She moved.

Silco's blood ran cold. The body beneath him, the corpse, shifted. Her head tilted, slow, unnatural, and then her eyes—wrong, impossibly wrong—golden, inhuman—snapped to meet his.

"Didn't think you had it in you..." Her voice was still hers. But it wasn't. The cadence, the weight, the very presence behind it was someone—something—else entirely. A mocking, amused lilt twisted through her words, stretching them into something sickly sweet and dripping with satisfaction. "You people never cease to surprise me."

Silco didn't move. Couldn't breathe. Then she smiled. A small, knowing, cruel thing.

"So, tell me, Silco... How does it feel?" Her voice dipped lower, almost intimate, as if sharing a secret meant only for him. " How does it feel to kill the love of your life?"

Silco did not answer.

He didn't react the way she wanted him to. There was no sharp breath of regret, no whispered admission of horror, no desperate attempt to deny the truth she dangled before him like a rotten fruit waiting to be plucked.

The fear that had gripped him, cold and insidious, burned away in an instant—consumed by something far older, far uglier. A rage that had been carved into his bones, that had been refined through years of blood and betrayal. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her arms, forcing her body down against the desk with such brutal force that it had to be painful. The wood groaned under the pressure, but he didn't care. Let it splinter. Let her splinter.

"What did you do to her?"

The imposter—because that's all she was now, an imposter wearing a face she had no right to wear—tilted her head, utterly unfazed despite the weight bearing down on her. If anything, there was amusement in the golden glow of her gaze, as if she were savoring his reaction like a well-aged wine. Silco pressed harder. A sick part of him wanted to hear her wince.

"What. Did. You. Do."

"I didn't hurt her, unlike you. I simply helped her see the truth." She exhaled, almost playfully, the air brushing against his scarred cheek. "She had to learn sooner or later, didn't she?"

His patience snapped. His hand moved, fingers wrapping around her throat—not to crush, not to kill, but to control. To wipe the damnable smirk from her face and force her to give him the answers he needed.

"What you gain from this." His grip flexed, his thumb pressing into the hollow of her throat, the pressure just enough to steal her breath. "What the hell do you want?"

She grinned—actually grinned—as if all of this was playing out exactly as she had hoped.

"The noble satisfaction of watching a soul freed from its captor." She spoke as if it were a divine revelation, as if she had done something good. "It's a beautiful thing, really."

Silco's jaw locked. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything but her words.

"You think yourself her savior?"

"No, but what makes you so different from her old master?"

The air between them turned sharp, suffocating. Silco knew what she was trying to do. He knew the game she was playing, the way she wove her words like a blade meant to cut at his weakest points. But it didn't stop the wound from bleeding.

Silco released her as though burned, his fingers recoiling, as if merely touching her had seared through flesh and bone. He took several slow steps back, distancing himself—not out of fear, but as if space alone could provide him some level of understanding, some way to discern what exactly was standing before him.

Because whatever this was, it was not her.

The realization settled into his gut like a stone. He had always been a man who prided himself on his ability to see through deception, to cut past the layers of pretense people draped themselves in. Yet here he was, fooled, for even a second, by this thing that had taken her form. Something powerful enough to twist minds, to coerce, to force people into submission with nothing but its will—and now, it seemed, something capable of wearing another's face, stepping into their skin like an actor slipping into a role.

Violence would not solve this. No blade, no bullet, no well-placed knife between the ribs could fix what stood before him. His dove had likely reached that same conclusion at the masquerade. She had chosen a different approach—negotiation.

Then negotiation it would be.

With a slow inhale, Silco smoothed his expression, allowing the previous flicker of rage to be wiped from his face, replaced instead with something cold, calculating. The anger was still there, burning low beneath the surface, but he would not allow it to rule him. He slipped into the role he knew best—the careful, composed manipulator.

"You must be the one she mentioned at the ball." His voice carried an even, almost conversational tone, as if this were nothing more than an ordinary business exchange. "She said you'd be interested in negotiating."

The imposter—no, the thing—settled itself atop his desk, utterly unbothered by the blood soaking its clothes from his earlier attack. The crimson stained the fine wood beneath her, pooling, dripping, a grotesque contrast to her composed posture. She crossed her legs, lifted her chin in a show of effortless arrogance.

"You and I agree on one thing." Her voice was smooth, lilting, almost indulgent. "Her former master was a fool. A shortsighted man who squandered her potential, reducing her to nothing more than a mindless weapon, an unleashed beast of war. But you...you made the same mistake. You thought you could control something that does not require control."

Silco did not react—not visibly. But the words dug their way beneath his skin, their intent obvious. A provocation. A test.

He did not rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped forward, closing part of the distance he had placed between them, though not enough to be within reach.

"Spare me the poetry." his voice was calm, even, but razor-sharp beneath the surface. "You mock me for trying to control her, yet what is it your little organization wants, if not the very same? Or is it only a mistake when I do it?"

 A dry smirk flickered across his lips, though it did not reach his eye. 

"If she were truly beyond your grasp, if she were as free as you claim she ought to be, would we even be having this conversation? Or would you already have taken what you wanted and left my city to rot?"

She regarded him in silence, her expression unreadable. Then, a quiet chuckle slipped from her lips—soft, almost melodic, the kind of laugh that could be mistaken for something pleasant if one didn't know better.

"If we wanted control, Silco, there would be no need for words." She tilted her head slightly, the movement almost fond, as if she were entertaining a child's flawed reasoning. "Zaun and Piltover alike would already be beneath Noxian rule. There would be no struggle, no rebellion, no delusions of autonomy. Just silence. Obedience. And yet, here we are, speaking as equals. Now, what does that tell you?"

Silco clenched his jaw, but he did not speak. Her lips curled in something akin to satisfaction.

"We do not want this land." she continued, her tone dismissive, as if Zaun and Piltover were mere insignificant blights on the map. "There is nothing here that interests us. No armies, no riches worth the trouble of conquest. But the technology, more precisely what scientists can achieve with the right incentive... ah, now that is another matter entirely."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking onto his, and for the first time, Silco felt the weight of something far older, far more dangerous than mere politics pressing down on him. 

"There is a thin line between magic and technology, Silco. One that your little dove managed to cross thanks to the technological advances of this city's scientists." A slow smile stretched across her lips, and it was the kind of smile that belonged to someone who already knew the ending of the story. "That is what interests me. Not your city, not your petty power struggles. Only her. And the question you should be asking yourself is... Does she even understand what she's become?"

Silco felt something cold curl at the base of his spine. Because for all his careful planning, for all his ruthless control—he wasn't sure he knew the answer to that question either.

Her smirk remained as she studied him, watching every flicker of thought pass behind his one good eye. She was enjoying this—enjoying the weight of her words settling over him like an iron noose. But Silco was not a man who reacted without purpose. He did not flinch. Did not scowl. He simply listened.

"Immortality comes at a cost. A price must always be paid." her voice was smooth, almost gentle, as if explaining something inevitable. "Sometimes it is longevity, like the Yordles, creatures who outlive empires, watching generations rise and fall. Other times, it manifests differently... an inability to die by natural means, or even by the hand of another. But each version has its own burden. Its own sacrifice."

She let that sit between them for a moment, then tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting with something dangerous. "And your little dove? Her price is one that can be controlled. And you know it. You knew it the moment you started scheming to bend it in your favor."

Silco remained silent, but his hand clenched into a tightly clenched fist, as if to contain his dissatisfaction. A small tell—one she surely caught.

"She cannot die, not by natural causes, not by another's hand." she exhaled, almost wistfully, as if the very concept fascinated her. "The only thing that can end her is herself."

Hearing those same words from Singed was a completely different thing than hearing them coming out of the mouth of the being sitting at the desk. A being who knew more than he let on, who understood her more than Silco could possibly understand. Who was now declaring loud and clear that there was magic involved—which was problematic because his dove probably didn't even know that detail.

But if aquele ser thought that this knowledge would rattle him, she was sorely mistaken. He had never been one to flinch from unpleasant truths. If anything, it only made him more determined.

He placed both hands behind his back, and straightened his posture. More erect, more indifferent, more imposing. "You went through all the trouble of taking her from me, and now you sit here, giving me the answers I've been searching for. Why reveal all of this?"

There was no amusement in her smirk this time. Instead, there was something far more unsettling—satisfaction. It was uncomfortable to see her acting in a way that didn't look like her at all. It was almost sinful in fact, an affront to her image.

"Because, Silco..." She brought her hand to her chest, the tips of her hands tracing the now-dry blood, as if she wanted to remind him of his actions. As if the image of her dying in his arms wasn't traumatic enough. "You are not my enemy. Never have been. And more importantly—" she looked up at him "I know exactly what kind of man you are."

Silco tried not to look like this was ringing all the alarm bells in his mind. It wasn't pleasant to have someone watching every aspect of his life, much less someone saying they knew him.

"You will break every rule. Shatter every alliance. Tear down everything you built with your own hands if it means keeping what you love protected. and in the end, when the weight of that price comes crashing down..."

A slow, knowing smile.

"You will still pay it."

This damn woman...

He squeezed the wrist he held behind his back. She seemed like a woman who played with tongue like an artist played with paint, weaving meaning between the lines, dressing threats as wisdom, shaping deception into something dangerously alluring.

"She is like fire. Uncontrollably beautiful, untamed in its destruction. But fire, can be directed. It can be pointed toward what must burn."

She raised a finger at him, half accusatory, half demonstrative.

"You were mistaken in thinking you could control her." She tilted her head slightly, her gaze never wavering from his. "That was never your role. You do not have to hold the leash, you simply have to be the one who guides her."

She then leaned back, her hands bracing themselves on the table, her body in all its morbid glory. Silco would have enjoyed the sight if it had been his real dove there and not some unfortunate cheap imitation. All he could feel when he looked at her was anger, disgust, and distrust.

"But for that to happen, she must understand herself first. She must stop molding herself to the expectations of others, yours, her old master's, anyone's. Only when she accepts what she truly is, when she stops denying the inevitable, will she allow herself to be led."

Silco inhaled slowly through his nose, carefully measured. The weight of her words pressed against him, the implications curling around his thoughts like a vice. He didn't really trust her, but that didn't mean her words didn't make him think. Because, despite everything, she seemed to know very well what was going on.

He did understand what she was saying. His dove had clung to remnants of an identity she no longer fit into, as if afraid to step fully into the reality of what she had become.

And he—he had wanted to shape that reality for her. To make it something manageable, something that fit within the vision he had for Zaun, for himself, for her. But that damned woman—thing—was right about one thing. She would never be controlled. Not by him, not by anyone.

Silco's lips pressed into a thin line. He had never been a man who liked to admit when he was wrong. But he wasn't so arrogant as to deny a truth when it was staring him in the face.

She seemed to see the shift in his expression, because she let out a soft hum of amusement. "You understand the implications of what I'm telling you, don't you?"

Silco exhaled slowly, his voice a quiet murmur. "I do."

"Good." her posture still impossibly composed, impossibly self-assured. "That's why I want an alliance with you, Silco. Not to keep you on a leash, not to subdue you." A smirk played at the corner of her lips. "Because, once again, if we wanted Piltover or Zaun under our rule, nothing could stop us."

Every time she spoke about this Noxian grandeur capable of subduing both cities, he felt compelled to stab her again even though he knew it wouldn't kill her.

"I want an alliance because I know the value of having someone like you in my ranks. You are not a man who bends. but rather the one who understands the game. And in the right circumstances, with the right leverage, you are a man who is willing to burn the world down if it means getting what you want."

A pause.

"And that, Silco, is precisely the kind of man I like to keep close." Silco felt his muscles tense the moment she continued. "For your information, she is not in Zaun anymore."

The words cut through the air like the edge of a blade, sharper than anything she had said before. He masked his reaction well, years of control keeping his expression impassive, but inside snapped into place. His grip tightened.

"Where?"

She smiled, slow and knowing, as if she had been waiting for that exact reaction "She is safe. That is all you need to concern yourself with. She is following her own path now, as she was always meant to."

Silco's eye narrowed. "And you expect me to simply accept that?"

"Yes."

A quiet rage burned beneath his ribs, simmering beneath the surface like a slow-moving poison. He did not like being played. Did not like having the rug pulled from beneath him by someone who wielded words like a weapon. But she was no fool. She knew exactly where to press, exactly how to lay her traps without ever needing to get her hands dirty.

"You should let her complete this journey on her own. Only then will she truly understand what she is. What she was always meant to be."

Silco exhaled slowly through his nose, his patience a taut string on the verge of snapping. He wanted—needed—to see her for himself, to know that she was safe, that she was still the woman he had fought to keep at his side. But that damn thing in front of him was making it clear that this was not his choice to make. Not anymore.

"And what guarantee do I have, that she will remain alive long enough to reach that understanding?"

She chuckled, shaking her head slightly, as if the question itself amused her. 

"Oh, Silco... Do you truly believe that it was fate or luck that kept her alive every time she reached the limit?" Her eyes gleamed with something dark and unreadable. "She will live. That, I can promise you. But in return, I ask something of you."

Silco remained silent, waiting.

"Consider my offer." she said smoothly. "Consider what it would mean to stand at my side rather than fight a battle you cannot win. I do not ask for your chains, nor do I seek to shackle you. I only ask for your loyalty, a rare and valuable thing in a world of liars and thieves."

Silco studied her, weighing her words with care. She was a master manipulator, a woman who saw the world as a chessboard, every piece carefully placed to serve her will. He did not trust her—would likely never trust her—but trust was never a prerequisite for negotiation.

And the truth was, she had him trapped. She had what he valued most. And she knew it. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Silco closed his eye, inhaling deeply, before finally exhaling through his nose.

This negotiation was never in his favor from the beginning.

"Fine." he murmured. A single word, but one that sealed the deal. "I will consider this alliance."

She smiled like a cat that had caught a particularly troublesome mouse.

"A wise choice."

But he wasn't finished yet.

"But I still fail to see what you gain from this. If all you wanted was someone to guide her, you wouldn't need me in the equation. So why?"

Her smile did not fade. If anything, it grew wider. "That doesn't concern you."

She rose from the desk with an effortless grace. Silco watched her as she moved, carrying the weight of someone who knew the exact effect they had on the room. She made her way to the large window of his office, her hands clasped behind her back as she gazed out over the neon-lit sprawl of Zaun. The city flickered below, alive and restless, but she looked upon it with the disinterest of a woman who had seen a thousand cities rise and fall before.

"A small warning, Silco." her voice was thoughtful, almost amused. "Consider it a kindness... a gesture of goodwill for what I foresee as a most promising alliance."

"Say it."

"Love will be the cause of your death."

The statement was simple, matter-of-fact. Not a threat. Not a taunt. A prophecy spoken with the certainty of someone who had already seen it unfold.

Silco felt a slow coil of tension tighten in his gut, something dark and insidious curling at the edges of his mind. It was not the first time someone had weaponized the notion against him—love, after all, was a vulnerability, a weakness, something he had long since learned to wield against others but had never quite managed to keep from infecting himself.

His eye met hers in the reflection of the glass when she turned her head slightly, just enough for him to catch the knowing glint in her gaze. They held the stare for a breath, a moment suspended in time, before—

"Boss." Sevika's voice cut through the tension, Sevika's voice cut through the tension, steady, grounding and muffled. "Can I come in?"

Silco's eye flicked toward the door for the briefest moment. When he turned back—

She was gone.

On his desk, as if placed with the utmost care, lay a single black rose. Its petals were impossibly dark, absorbing the dim light of the room rather than reflecting it. And beside it, the mask she had worn. A symbol of the illusion, now discarded, unnecessary.

"Boss?" Sevika's voice came again, more insistent this time.

Silco exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. "Enter."

The door creaked open behind him, the heavy sound of Sevika's boots stepping inside filling the space. But Silco did not turn. He remained as he was, her words echoed in his mind.

"Love will be the cause of your death." 

How quaint.

Sevika took in the room with a quick, assessing glance—always vigilant, always reading the atmosphere, though she was wise enough to know when to keep her observations to herself. If she noticed the strange tension that still clung to the air, the lingering weight of something other, she made no mention of it.

Good.

Silco preferred it that way.

The last thing he needed was questions. Questions led to speculation. Speculation led to doubt. And doubt, in their world, was a dangerous thing. Sevika was smart enough to let it lie. She had learned long ago that some things weren't meant to be spoken aloud. If Silco wasn't bringing it up, then it wasn't important—at least, not to anyone but himself.

And that suited him just fine.

"Marcus sent this," she said, her tone neutral, her posture loose but still carrying that ever-present edge of readiness. She held out an envelope, thick and folded neatly, the paper bearing the subtle creases of careful handling. "Thought you'd like to read it."

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

Marcus's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

A few hours before.

Marcus hated the night shift. Not just because of the exhaustion that clawed at his bones every morning, leaving him a useless wreck for the rest of the day, but because it meant missing the quiet moments with Ren. He told himself she was strong, that she could sleep without him tucking her in, that she didn't need a bedtime story or the comfort of his presence. 

But that didn't make it any easier. Especially when every hour spent out there, obeying Silco's goddamn orders, felt like another crack forming in the fragile wall he had built to keep his home—his real life—separate from the filth of his work.

It was hard enough finding a trustworthy babysitter. Not just someone reliable, but someone incorruptible. Silco's reach was long, and Marcus couldn't afford the slightest risk of that bastard slithering his way into his sanctuary. His house was the only place left untouched, the only thing still pure. And now, as if things weren't bad enough, he had to deal with her. 

The first encounter had already been a nightmare, and he had barely managed to keep himself from snapping under the weight of it. He couldn't afford another encounter.

For his daughter's sake, for his own, he had to keep playing the part. Keep the mask on. Keep being the obedient dog. If only he could go back, undo that first mistake, refuse that first deal—maybe, just maybe, things would be different.

Marcus sighed heavily, running a hand down his face before stepping inside. He moved on autopilot, unhooking his badge and setting his weapon down as he approached Ren's room. The exhaustion was bone-deep, but the familiar sight of her small, peaceful form always made it worthwhile. A faint, tired smile tugged at his lips. No matter how much filth he waded through, this—she—was his reason to keep going.

But the moment he pushed the door open, the warmth in his chest turned to ice. The smile died, contorting into raw horror as his eyes locked onto the scene before him. There, sitting on the edge of the bed, was her. His personal ghost. His worst fucking nightmare.

And in her arms—Ren. Unconscious. Limp.

His world lurched, his breath catching in his throat. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to move, to do something, but for one agonizing second, he was frozen, staring at the impossible. His hand instinctively twitched toward the holster at his hip—empty. His gun was back at the door.

His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, his blood roaring in his ears as a thousand thoughts clashed and tangled in his mind. How? How did she get in? How did she find Ren? What the fuck was she doing here?

And, most terrifying of all—what had she done to his daughter?

Marcus's breath came fast and shallow, his chest tightening with something primal—fear, rage, the desperate urge to act. But he forced himself to stay still. To think. If he moved too fast, if he let the panic take over, he could make this worse. And he couldn't afford that. Not with her sitting there. Not with Ren still cradled in those hands.

Those hands.

The same hands that had ended lives without hesitation, that had bathed in blood and left ruin in their wake, now touching something as pure as his daughter. It was obscene. A twisted mockery of tenderness. The way she ran her fingers through Ren's hair, slow and deliberate, rocking her ever so slightly—it looked gentle. Protective, even. If he hadn't known better, if it had been anyone else, maybe it would've been a picture of comfort.

But it wasn't anyone else. It was her.

Marcus swallowed, forcing his voice to remain steady. It barely came out as more than a breath.

"Put her down."

She didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge the words, not really. Her gaze remained on Ren, studying the sleeping child like some strange puzzle she was trying to solve. A quiet moment passed before she finally spoke, her voice calm. Almost amused.

"She has no survival instinct."

Marcus stiffened.

"She didn't even hesitate." she continued, fingers still combing through Ren's hair. "Didn't question why a stranger was in her home. Didn't scream. Just let me in like it was the most natural thing in the world." She let out a slow breath, shaking her head slightly. "You'd think a child raised by you would know better."

Marcus clenched his fists. His body screamed at him to do something, but he knew better than to let emotion drive him. Not now. Not with her.

"She's just a kid." he said, firmer this time. "She doesn't—she shouldn't have to think like that."

That earned him something. A reaction, finally. She let out a quiet laugh, low and humorless, and it sent something cold curling in his gut.

"She shouldn't have to." she echoed, her voice almost mocking. "But the world doesn't give a damn about what children should or shouldn't have to do." Finally, she turned to him. Her gaze pinned him in place, sharp and unreadable. "It's almost impressive, really. That something so... innocent came from something as corrupt as you."

Marcus swallowed the retort that burned in his throat. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction. He wouldn't let her goad him into a fight, not when Ren was still within her reach. Instead, he took a slow step forward, hands open, careful, measured.

"Please..." The word tasted foreign in his mouth, bitter, but he forced it out anyway. "Just let her go. She's—she's just a child."

The laughter that followed was soft, almost delicate. And absolutely devoid of warmth. Her grip on Ren didn't tighten. Didn't shift, but something in the air between them did.

"I was too."

Marcus didn't move. Couldn't. Not until she finally shifted, finally stood from the bed and—thank god—placed Ren back down onto the mattress. The moment her hands left his daughter, his lungs seemed to remember how to work again, and he took in his first real breath since stepping into the room. He exhaled shakily, eyes locked on Ren's small form, watching—waiting—for any sign of distress. But she didn't stir. Didn't even react. Just curled into the blankets, breathing steady, undisturbed.

For a split second, Marcus considered waking her up, just to see those bright eyes, just to know she was alright. But he forced himself to stay still. The last thing he needed was to drag Ren into this nightmare. She'd had enough ghosts creeping into her world already.

And then, finally, he looked at her. Really looked at her.

His stomach twisted.

Maybe it was the weight of the moment, the sheer force of dread that had gripped him when he first stepped into the room, but somehow, somehow, he hadn't noticed the mask. A simple thing, almost unremarkable. A second skin over her features, concealing everything but the sharp glint of her eyes beneath the dim light.

Marcus wasn't sure if it made her presence better or worse.

She moved toward the door, her steps slow and deliberate, the soft sound of her boots against the wooden floor suddenly the loudest thing in the house. He didn't trust it. Didn't trust her. The fact that she was walking away without a fight, without some final cruel remark—what the hell did it mean? Was this over? Was it ever that simple?

His muscles tensed, but he forced himself to move. Marcus turned, trailing a few steps behind her, his eyes flicking to where he had left his gun. If he could just get to it, if he could just—

His stomach dropped.

She was already there.

His blood ran cold as he watched her effortlessly dismantle the weapon, fingers moving with an ease that sent ice straight through his veins. The bullets clattered softly against the wooden surface, discarded like useless trinkets, the empty gun left behind just as quickly.

She had done it without even looking. Like she had done it a thousand times before.

Marcus clenched his jaw.

"How did you find out my address?" his voice was low, controlled. But before she could answer, he was already demanding more. "How the fuck did you get into Piltover without an Enforcer catching you?"

She didn't hesitate. Didn't stop, didn't fumble, didn't waver.

"Well..." She tilted her head slightly, voice calm, almost thoughtful. "First of all, if you threaten someone enough, they'll even tell you their mother's address. Secondly, unconscious enforcers aren't much use to anyone."

Marcus felt something hot coil in his chest—rage, fear, dread. But before he could react, before he could push further, she set the empty gun down with a quiet thud and added, almost as an afterthought—

"I didn't kill anyone, if that's what you're worried about."

Marcus felt his body tighten at her words. I didn't kill anyone. He should have been relieved. He should have felt something close to relief. But the fact that she even needed to clarify it, the fact that an unconscious Enforcer somewhere in Piltover was proof of just how easily she had walked right past every security measure, past him, into his goddamn house—

No. Relief was the last thing he felt.

His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, itching for a weapon that was now nothing more than a useless hunk of metal on the table. He shifted his weight forward, watching her closely as she adjusted the mask on her face, her posture unnervingly relaxed, as if she belonged here, as if this was just another room, just another night.

"Did Silco send you?"

He expected an immediate response. Some bored quip, maybe a sneer, or even a carefully measured lie. What he didn't expect was the reaction he actually got. Her entire body tensed—not with hesitation, not with fear, but something else. Something deeper. Something Marcus couldn't quite name.

A crack in the mask.

It was barely there, a fleeting moment, but Marcus was trained to notice details. And for that fraction of a second, her hands tightened ever so slightly at her sides, her shoulders going rigid. The weight of the name alone was enough to drag something out of her, something she hadn't meant to show.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

"Silco and I no longer have any business."

Marcus raised a brow, masking his own unease with dry skepticism. "I thought you were his Baroness."

The corner of his mouth curled slightly, just the smallest trace of sarcasm bleeding into his words. He was baiting her, testing, pushing—because whatever that reaction had been, it meant something. And if there was anything Marcus had learned in his years as an Enforcer, it was that knowing why someone flinched could be just as important as knowing when they'd strike.

But she didn't take the bait.

"I renounced that title." Simple. Cold. Her head turned slightly, and though he couldn't see her expression beneath the mask, Marcus felt the weight of her gaze. "Silco is no longer my concern."

That set off about a dozen alarms in his head.

Silco didn't just lose people. He owned them. And the ones who tried to walk away? They didn't stay breathing for long. If she was still alive, still standing here in his goddamn house, it meant one of two things—either Silco had let her go, or she had made it so he couldn't stop her. And Marcus wasn't sure which option was worse.

His fingers twitched at his side, itching to reach for a gun that wasn't loaded anymore. "Then why are you here?" he asked, voice tight. "Why risk coming back to Piltover when you know you're being hunted?"

A pause. Just a beat.

Then—

"I need you to find someone for me."

For a long moment, Marcus just stared at her, his mind trying to piece together the implication behind her words.

"You're still going on about that? I told you, I haven't found the man yet. It's not exactly easy to track down someone who doesn't have so much as a single public record under the name of this so-called founder of the old Institute—"

"I'm not talking about him."

Her voice cut through his words with a sharp finality that made Marcus stop short. His brow furrowed, confusion creeping in.

"Then who—"

She hesitated. And that alone sent a fresh wave of unease crawling up his spine. Because she never hesitated.

Whatever she wanted, whatever she came for, she always seemed to know exactly how to say it. Every word, every movement was calculated. But now—standing here, in his home—now, she was hesitating? Her fingers flexed slightly at her sides, a small, almost imperceptible motion. Like she was questioning something. Or maybe, questioning herself.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"I'm looking for my daughter."

Marcus felt the words land like a physical blow, knocking the breath from his lungs. Of all the things she could have said—of all the possibilities he had tried to brace himself for—that sure as hell wasn't one of them. His mind stalled, struggling to process it.

"Your daughter?"

She nodded once, short and firm. "Yes."

His first instinct was to call bullshit. Because what she was saying—it didn't fit. It didn't make sense. He had known her, had seen the blood she left in her wake, had watched her tear through anyone in her way like they were nothing but obstacles to be removed. She was the embodiment of death, of cold, merciless efficiency. She didn't hesitate. She didn't doubt.

She wasn't a mother.

And yet—

"She should be around seventeen or eighteen by now," she continued, her voice steady, but there was something beneath it. A weight. A hesitation she was trying to bury. "I don't know for sure."

Marcus forced himself to blink, to breathe, to think. She didn't know for sure? His stomach twisted. The way she said it—it wasn't just uncertainty. It was something else. Something deeper. Something Marcus had heard before, in the voices of people who had lost things they never expected to get back.

And for the first time since she had stepped into his house, Marcus didn't know what to say. His instincts screamed at him to be careful. To keep his guard up, to measure every word, every movement. But curiosity—it was a dangerous thing. And right now, it was gnawing at the edges of his mind, urging him to let her speak. To listen.

She stepped closer, the dim light catching against the mask that still obscured her face. When she spoke, her voice was steady, deliberate.

"She has pink hair. Messy, always looks like she's been in a fight. Because she usually has. A mouth that gets her into trouble, a temper to match, and an attitude that makes people want to either strangle her or drag her into a fight. She's stubborn. Too damn stubborn for her own good." She paused, tilting her head slightly. "You must've come across a kid like that before."

Marcus felt his stomach drop.

He knew exactly who she was talking about. How the hell could he not?

Pink hair. Fights too much. Always mouthing off. A walking storm, too much fire in her for a kid that young. He had seen that fire firsthand, had watched it burn too brightly in her eyes when he dragged her kicking and screaming into Stillwater.

Vi.

The name hovered on the edge of his tongue, but he didn't say it. Not yet. Instead, he let her talk, waiting, watching, trying to fit the pieces together.

"She was one of Vander's." her voice was quieter now. There was something in the way she said it—something careful. "One of his kids."

Vander.

That name alone was enough to make Marcus tense. The man had been a problem—one that the previous Sheriff had known how to handle, how to keep in check. Vander had his own kind of power in Zaun, a quiet influence that had managed to keep the Undercity from tearing itself apart. And for a long time, there had been a balance. A deal. One that had died along with the old Sheriff.

Marcus frowned. He wasn't sure which part was stranger—the fact that she was talking about Vander like this, or the fact that she was calling that pink-haired girl hers.

He let the silence stretch just a little longer before he finally spoke.

"You and Vander..." he said slowly, testing the words, "You were their parents?"

Because the math wasn't adding up. It didn't make sense. She and Vander? The timelines didn't match. The ages didn't match. And yet, she didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. But she didn't answer, either.

"Yes."

There it was. The reason she was here. The reason she had dared to step back into Piltover, despite knowing that the second the wrong person spotted her, it would be a death sentence. But it wasn't the words themselves that unsettled him—it was the way she said them. Steady. Unshaken. Like she had already made up her mind that this was happening, whether he agreed or not.

He forced himself to keep his expression blank, to not let anything slip. Not anger. Not hesitation. Not fear. Anything that could be used against him, anything that could be twisted into another weakness—he had to shut it down before it even surfaced. He needed to control this conversation, or at least pretend that he could.

"Find someone..." he repeated slowly. "So, what? I get you a name, a location, and then we're done? You stop haunting me?"

He didn't miss the way her head tilted ever so slightly at that, the faintest flicker of amusement—or maybe pity—crossing behind the mask.

"No." she said simply. The answer came fast, almost too fast, as if she had already predicted the question before he even asked it. "But I won't harm your daughter. That's the only bargain you're getting, so save your breath."

The words stung in a way he hadn't expected. Not because of the threat—there wasn't one, not explicitly—but because of what they meant.

She had the power here.

No matter how much he wanted to pretend otherwise, no matter how much he wanted to push back, to fight, the reality was simple: he didn't have a choice. He never had a choice. And she knew it. Marcus clenched his jaw, swallowing back the retort that threatened to rise, the bitterness pooling at the back of his throat.

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her to go to hell, to take her goddamn games somewhere else. But he wasn't an idiot. He knew when he was backed into a corner. And if this was the only way to make sure Ren stayed safe—to really make sure—then fine. She would make another deal with the devil for this.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing the words out like broken glass. "Fine."

Marcus barely kept his voice steady. He didn't need to be convincing—he just needed to be convincing enough. Enough for her to walk out that door, enough for her to leave, enough for him to shut it behind her and pretend, for just one fucking moment, that none of this had happened.

"I'll start looking immediately and I contact you when I find any clues." The words came out smooth, professional. Distant. As if this was just another case, another request, another goddamn errand in the long list of compromises he had made to survive.

She didn't move.

Didn't take a single step toward the door. Instead, she took a step toward him.

Marcus fought the instinct to recoil, to pull back, to put even the smallest amount of space between them. But it wouldn't matter. She was like a storm pressing in, suffocating, drowning him beneath something unseen but felt.

Her voice was quiet, measured. Almost casual.

"Have you seen the girl?"

"No."

It was quick, clipped, automatic. A good answer. If it had been anyone else, it might have worked. But it wasn't just anyone. It was her.

And she was still staring.

That goddamn stare.

Marcus had faced criminals, traitors, Silco himself, and yet there was something about her that made all of them seem lightweight in comparison. She had that look, that presence, like she could peel back skin and muscle and bone and see the worst parts of a man just by standing there, breathing the same air.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a puzzle with too many missing pieces. "Are you sure?"

The question was sharper this time. A dangerous edge beneath the surface. Marcus forced himself to hold her gaze.

"I haven't seen her."

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew it was useless. She wasn't just listening to him—she was measuring him. The tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, the way he had answered just a little too quickly. She wasn't like the officers under his command, the ones he could wave off with half-truths and firm orders. She wasn't like Silco, who thrived on careful words and calculated moves.

No.

She knew. She saw through him like he was made of glass. And in the very next second, her hand was around his throat.

Marcus barely had time to react before his back slammed against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, but it was her grip that stole the rest. Iron fingers pressing into his windpipe, tight enough to warn, not yet enough to crush—but that could change in a heartbeat. He gasped, hands instinctively flying up to grab at her wrist, but it was like trying to move stone.

Her voice was lower now, almost a whisper, but it was sharp.

"Let's try that again." The grip tightened. "Have you seen her?"

Marcus's lungs screamed for air. Every muscle in his body fought the pressure at his throat, twisting, clawing, begging—but it was like trying to fight the ocean with bare hands. Her grip didn't shake, didn't falter, didn't waver. He had seen violence. He had inflicted it. But this... this wasn't rage. This wasn't personal.

She looked at him with a face carved from stone—expressionless, empty, unmoved. As though choking the life out of him wasn't even a matter worth emotional investment. And somehow, that terrified him more than anything else.

His vision began to dim at the edges, narrowing to the mask in front of him and the weight of her stare, cold and unblinking. Spots danced in his vision. His heart thundered in his ears. His legs kicked once—twice—before going numb beneath him. And then, just before he slipped under completely, his mind dragged him back.

The river.

The suffocating weight of her hands, the sand beneath him, the sound of the river loud in his ears, the chill of the night, the exact same pressure on his throat, the world dimming. The panic. The chaos. The death.

Even now, with everything different, everything changed—his final thought was still the same. The same thought before death.

Ren.

That was what broke him.

His pride, his fear, his carefully-constructed mask—all of it crumbled beneath the pressure of survival and the memory of those tiny hands clinging to his uniform, his daughter's soft laugh, the way she tilted her head when he handed her a drawing of him as if he were a hero.

He couldn't let it end here.

He wouldn't.

"Yes..." The word cracked from his throat, barely more than a gasp, torn from him like a confession dragged from the soul. "I've seen her."

The hand didn't loosen, not immediately. But her eyes narrowed—there it was. The faintest flicker of something other than cold control.

"Where?"

Marcus coughed, voice raw and strained. "Stillwater. She's in Stillwater."

For the first time since entering his home, she actually looked surprised. "Stillwater?" she echoed. Her voice wasn't loud, but it hit like a slap. "How long?"

"Three years."

The silence that followed was heavy. The kind of silence that carried the weight of too many things left unsaid. And then her voice came again, sharp with disbelief, and this time, there was something real beneath it—something jagged and furious and breaking.

"Three years... she was a child..."

And just like that, the grip on his throat tightened. Marcus let out a strangled, broken sound as the air vanished again. His fingers scrambled against her wrist, his nails digging in, desperate, trying to hurt her, to do something— But it was like trying to claw at iron. She didn't even flinch.

"You imprisoned a child?" she hissed. "In Stillwater? You locked a child in that hellhole?!"

Marcus choked. "Please..."

"Was it you?" she asked, lower now, slower—almost calm. But the calm that came before an executioner pulled the lever. "Did you do it?"

And Marcus—body pinned, lungs collapsing, guilt festering under his ribs like rot—

The second Marcus failed to answer, she slammed him against the wall again—this time without restraint, without precision, without any of the surgical control she'd shown before. This was raw brutality, and it tore through him like glass.

His skull collided with the wall hard enough to crack. He felt it—heard it. A dull, sickening thud that sent lightning bolts of pain shooting through his entire body. The edges of his vision blew wide open, white-hot with agony. The room tilted, gravity distorting. For a split second, he was certain he'd lose consciousness. Maybe that would've been mercy.

But she didn't let him slip away.

Her voice came through the fog, low and razor-sharp, cutting through the ringing in his ears like a blade across flesh.

"You better open your damn mouth." she growled. "Or your daughter going to wake up and find her father's corpse on the floor."

That did it.

That threat cut deeper than the pain in his skull, deeper than the fire burning in his chest from a lack of air. His instincts screamed. Not for himself—but for Ren. Always for Ren.

His body trembled as he nodded, weak, pathetic. A single, silent gesture that cost him the last shred of strength he had left. And for some reason, that only made her angrier. Her voice dipped lower, laced with a rage so tightly contained it felt like the walls themselves might crack under the pressure.

"I should kill you, but unlike you, I'm not going to traumatize a child."

Then she released him.

Marcus dropped like dead weight, collapsing into a heap on the floor with the gracelessness of a broken marionette. His limbs refused to work, his breath came in short, shallow gasps, and his lungs burned like fire was pouring in instead of air.

He didn't look up. He couldn't.

Shame clung to him like oil. The humiliation of it all—being dragged, choked, crushed—it hurt almost as much as his body did. His hands trembled as he coughed, blood painting the back of his throat with metallic heat.

Every breath was agony. Every second felt like he was dying just a little more. And all he could think was that if she changed her mind—if she decided Ren wasn't reason enough to spare him—he wouldn't even have the strength left to beg.

"You'll take me to Stillwater." her tone was flat—not a request. "And you'd better pray that Violet is in good condition. Because if she's not... not even god will be able to save you, Marcus."

It was the way she said his name—like a final verdict. Like his fate had already been sealed. Marcus didn't speak at first. His jaw tightened, and he let his eyes drift up to meet hers through the slits of that cold, expressionless mask. And that's when he noticed it.

Something flickered behind the lenses.

For a second, he thought it was just the low light playing tricks on him. The flicker of a lamp. A reflection. But then—no. It was there.

Her irises were violet.

Not just purple—glowing.

A deep, unnatural hue that shimmered faintly with an all-too-familiar radiance. He had seen that glow before. That distinct, haunting gleam that Shimmer gave off as it burned through veins, changing people from the inside out.

Marcus stiffened. A slow, creeping dread slithered down his spine like ice. That wasn't her natural eye color. He knew it. He'd looked this woman in the eyes once, long ago—back when things were simpler, before she'd vanished into the undercity fog and reemerged as a ghost. And they hadn't been like this.

So what the hell had Silco done to her?

Was it him? Had he experimented on her the same way he did to those wretches in Zaun? Had she volunteered? Been forced? Was this why she wasn't the same? Why there was something off about the way she moved, the way she looked at him now, like she wasn't even fully human anymore?

Marcus felt something he hadn't felt in years claw up his chest. Not fear. Not quite. Something worse. Uncertainty.

He swallowed thickly, but kept his composure as best he could.

"I have to send a letter first." his voice was even but tight. "Stillwater transport only runs on official pre-clearance. I can't just show up at the gates with you in tow."

It was a lie.

Of course it was.

There was no protocol. No official pre-clearance for Stillwater transports, not anymore. Marcus had long since been granted unrestricted access. One of the many perks that becoming a sheriff afforded him. But she didn't need to know that. The lie had to be enough.

It was his only card now. His only window to breathe, to think, to figure out what the hell to do with the nightmare standing in his living room, threatening to unravel everything he had clawed to keep intact.

All he needed to do was get a message to Silco. That was it. Just a single letter, a single warning. Silco would know what to do. He always did. He had eyes in every corner of Zaun, influence that reached places Marcus didn't even want to know about.

Maybe he'd send one of his monsters. Maybe he'd send that maniac with the claw. Hell, maybe he'd send that brute with that damn cybernetic arm. At this point, Marcus didn't care who. He just wanted Silco to do what he always did—step in and clean up the mess.

"Send the damn letter, but make it quick."

Marcus nodded once, tight and mechanical. Then he rose from the floor. He needed to get to his office. To his desk. To the encrypted channels. One message—that was all. Just one message to his handler. Just one note to say: She's here. Do something. Anything.

He just wanted her gone. Out of his house. Out of his life. Away from his daughter. Because whatever shimmer-stained thing stood behind him now—it wasn't just a woman with unfinished business.

It was something far, far worse.

Part 24

AUTHOR'S NOTES: If you're expecting a reunion, well—it’s not happening just yet. But did you all notice how she’s picked up Silco’s mannerisms? Striking where it hurts the most, just to be more effective. As you’ve probably noticed, the whole scene with Marcus was based on Silco’s own scene when he invaded his house. Poor Marcus, he really suffers in my hands. The next chapters are already planned out, so now it’s just a matter of getting through the hard part—writing them. But don’t worry, I won’t abandon this story.

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[defmxl]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 22/?)

Wolves always circle their prey — with patience, with hunger. You have yours, and Silco has his. The difference is, he knows exactly what his will do. You, on the other hand… still don't know if yours will follow you or tear you apart.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 8,7K

Warnings: blood and violence, graphic violence, deaths, description of deaths, reader being the killer machine that she is, attempted murder, Kindred being referenced, use of drugs as medicine (shimmer), Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence, proceed at your own risk.

Part 21

You allowed yourself to be carried through the long corridor of the mines, your body limp in their grasp, your breathing steady—controlled. One of the men clapped his hands together in that slow, mocking way, sending small bursts of pale light flickering to life around you. The bioluminescent things that nested in the cave walls reacted instantly, their glow pulsing in time with the noise, casting strange, shifting shadows along the tunnel.

Them think the sedative had done its job, that you were nothing more than dead weight in their arms. The truth? It had only knocked you out for about five minutes—hardly enough to be useful. 

You were getting resistant to sedatives. Interesting.

You had known something was wrong the moment you fled to the mines. Silco's men were searching for you. You could feel it in the way the air itself seemed to tighten, in the way every sound felt sharper, more pronounced. They weren't just searching. They were hunting and you felt like you did that night when you escaped from the Institute.

Silco had seen you.

The bastard saw you.

The bastard was alive

Even now, that realization still sent a sharp jolt of something down your spine. Shock. Frustration. You could still feel the weight of his eyes against yours, the realization of the two of you existing in that same place after that night when everything was destroyed. The weight of your feelings distracted you.

And that distraction cost you dearly. You had been so focused on escaping Silco's presence and gaze that you made the mistake of not checking if you were being followed. And you were sure—so sure—that you had shaken them off. Hours passed, and you had allowed yourself the illusion of safety.

Until you heard the footsteps.

They had come for you. You knew it the moment the first echo reached your ears. You felt them drawing closer, their movements careful, practiced. They thought they were being quiet. Thought they had the element of surprise.

You let them think you had that advantage.

You remained still, letting your body sink into the illusion of unconsciousness while they invaded the hideout. You didn't even move when one of them stuck a needle in your skin and your body went limp for those few minutes. Long enough for someone to pick you up and carry you out, probably feeling like the coolest person in the world for having managed to knock you down.

And the idiots didn't realize that you were conscious the entire time.

You could have struck then. Could have ended them all in that moment they invaded the hideout. But you didn't.

Not in this place. This place was a sanctuary. One of the last you had left. You would not stain it with their blood. But that didn't mean they would leave it alive... no, you would paint the walls of the mines with their blood to send a message. A message to whoever had the stupid idea of ​​trying to get close to you again.

A message to Silco

You counted the seconds in your mind, each beat steady, measured. By your estimation, you were only minutes away from the entrance of the mines. That was enough. More than enough. They thought they had control, thought they were escorting some helpless, unconscious captive to whatever fate Silco had planned. It was almost insulting. Almost. But you would make them pay for that mistake soon enough.

You waited for it. The flickering pattern of light and shadow that pulsed through the tunnel as the bioluminescent things reacted to the noise around them. They didn't glow constantly. No, they needed sound—impact—to ignite, and when silence fell, so did the darkness. You listened to the rhythm of it, the cadence of claps, footsteps, any noise. Calculating. Watching. Then, you felt it—the brief moment when the tunnel was consumed by blackness, the heartbeat between one sound and the next. That was all you needed.

You struck.

Your body twisted sharply, shifting all your weight, and then—impact. Your elbow drove into the soft flesh of the man carrying you, a precise force to knock the air out of him. A sharp exhale, the satisfying crunch of bone, and suddenly, his grip slackened. You felt yourself drop, your body colliding with the ground in a hard, jarring impact that felt a violent jolt up your spine. The pain barely registered, drowned out by the rush of adrenaline flooding your system. The moment you hit the ground, the things in the walls responded—the cavern flashed with an eerie, pulsing white, illuminating everything for a single, fleeting second.

And that was enough.

Ten.

You saw them. Every single one. Their faces, their positions, their weapons. But more importantly—you saw the shift in their eyes. The flicker of realization. Their captivity was not a captive.

They moved, but so did you. The second the light began to fade, you rolled, letting your body sink into the consuming blackness once more. One of them shouted—too late. His voice set off another flicker of light, but by then, you had already moved behind the nearest one. Your hands were still bare, but that didn't matter. You reached up, wrapping one arm around his throat, the other grasping the side of his head. A violent, practiced motion. A sharp twist. The crack of his neck breaking was masked by another yell—more light, more confusion. His body dropped.

Another one turned toward the sound, gun cocking. You lunged before he could fire, grabbing the barrel, twisting it sharply to the side. A single shot rang out, reverberating against the stone walls, sending the entire tunnel into a frenzy of glowing white. Your knee drove into his stomach, making him buckle. His grip failed. The gun was yours now and you didn't hesitate. A single shot to the head. The glow pulsed again, flashing violently with the noise.

Eight.

They were shouting now. Trying to get their bearings. Trying to pin you down in the shifting light. But they were disoriented, reacting instead of thinking. You were already moving, weaving through them in the blackness, using the momentary bursts of light to track their positions. A blade glittered as one swung at you. You ducked, feeling the rush of air above your head, and retaliated—fingers finding the hilt of his knife, yanking it from his grip. A shot directly to his chin. The warmth of blood sprayed across your skin, hot and thick. Another gasp. Another flash.

Seven.

Someone grabbed you by the neck trying to suffocate you. A mistake. You just moved your hand, driving your newly stolen knife deep between their ribs. A choked gasp. You twisted the blade, wrenching it free in a violent, wet sound. His body collapsed.

Six.

Curiously, you were feeling... good about killing them. This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was released. Every frustration, every failure, every fucking moment that had led you to this boiled over, spilling out in every violent movement. Every strike. Every kill.

The moment the next man barked an order, the cavern erupted in a symphony of noise—stomping boots, clapping hands, the deliberate clatter of weapons against stone. It was a crude method, but it worked. The bioluminescent things pulsed with frantic, erratic bursts of light. They weren't going to let the darkness hide you anymore.

Clever.

You wiped the blood from your nose, chest rising and falling with deep, eradicates breaths. You couldn't afford to spend your 10 seconds on this shitty fight. If you took too long to kill them, you'd be dead before the last heartbeat passed.

Fine. You'd change tactics.

Your grip tightened around the knife, fingers slick with warm blood. They wanted a fight in the light? You'd give them one. This time you felt a burning behind your eyes instead of the traditional tingling. But you really didn't care.

One second, you were standing still. The next, you were there—a blur of motion, closing the distance between you and the nearest man before his brain could register it. You were faster.

His pupils barely had time to dilate before his hand snapped out, seizing the back of his skull. There was no hesitation, no theatrics—just raw, unfiltered violence. You slammed his head into a jagged outcropping of stone, the impact sending a wet, sickening crunch through the tunnel. His body went slack instantly, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

Five.

You had already shifted when the gunshot sounds started, already moved, and the world felt different—you felt different. It wasn't just adrenaline, not just the traditional amplified vision of instinct. It was more. A deeper, more volatile energy surging through your veins, making your limbs feel lighter, more aware of everything. Shimmer. It seems like it was having an effect too.

Another step. Another blur of motion. You twist your body mid-run, narrowly avoiding the crack of gunfire of them fired in your direction. The next barely had time to process that the shots hadn't hit you before you were on him, the knife in your grip carving a deep, precise arc across his throat. More blood sprayed hot and thick, painting the cavern floor in violent crimson. He stumbled back, hands clutching at the gaping wound, making a horrible, wet gurgling sound as he collapsed.

Four.

Two tried to run.

Cowards

You just used the gun close to you to shoot them. A direct shot to each head was enough.

Two.

You turned—ready, primed, already calculating the next move, already shifting your weight toward the final two—

Bang.

A sharp, deafening crack split the air. And then—nothing.

For a moment, the world stopped. There was no pain, not at first. Just the sound of the shot ringing in your skull, echoing over and over like a cruel joke your mind couldn't quite process. Your body didn't move the way it was supposed to. It didn't react, didn't fight, didn't even flinch. Your limbs locked up, a violent, unnatural stillness seizing your muscles, and then—gravity.

Your knees hit the ground first, the impact reverberating up through your bones, your body had simply decided to shut down. But you didn't hit the ground completely. Not yet. You remained on your knees, swaying, head dipping forward slightly, arms hanging uselessly at your sides.

Your vision was blurred.

Then, it sharpened.

Then, it blurred again.

Something warm was dripping down your forehead, trailing past your temple, down your cheek, staining your skin. More warmth gathered at your lips, the taste of iron flooding your mouth, thick and suffocating. You swallowed instinctively, only to feel it seep from the corners of your lips, slipping down your chin. You had been shot.

In the head.

Something was wrong. More wrong than just the bullet stuck in your skull.

The burning that had thrummed beneath your eyes moments ago—the unnatural energy that had surged through your limbs, making you faster, sharper—was gone. Instinct had abandoned you in an instant, leaving behind nothing but cold emptiness. Your body felt... disconnected, foreign, as though every muscle, every nerve had been forcibly switched off. And yet, you were still here.

Trapped in this limbo.

Dying—but not allowed to die.

Your lungs burned. Your pulse, once so violently alive, now beat unevenly, faltering, as though unsure whether to continue at all. Something deeper, something fundamental inside of you was fracturing, breaking apart at the seams. The shimmer wouldn't let you die, but it wasn't saving you. It was killing you in a different way—slowly, painfully, twisting something inside you that wasn't meant to be twisted.

You heard them. The last two. Their voices were distant, muffled, like sound trying to reach you from beneath deep water.

"Is she—?"

"No fucking way... she should be dead. I put a goddamn bullet through her skull! Look at her, she's still sitting up."

The pause. You could hear the shuffle of boots against the cavern floor, cautious steps drawing closer.

"Then why isn't she moving?"

A beat of silence.

"I don't know."

Neither did you.

Time no longer moved the way it should.

It stretched and contracted, folding in on itself, warping reality into something distant, untouchable. The agony of being caught between two opposing forces—one trying to kill you, the other refusing to let you die—became an eternity. Every second felt stretched into hours, dragging your consciousness through the slow, torturous process of undoing. Your body wasn't yours anymore. Your mind wasn't yours anymore. You were trapped in this hell, trapped in the static between life and death, and something deep within you screamed against it.

You could feel yourself unraveling.

And then—something snapped.

Your body moved.

It wasn't a decision. There was no thought behind it, no conscious command. Something else had taken control, something more primal than instinct, something that didn't care about pain or wounds or the fact that your body was barely functioning. You felt your blood boil in your veins and a single feeling invade your mind.

Wrath

Wrath banished any state of death you were placed in. You lunged forward, hands grasping for the first thing they could reach. The throat.

Your fingers tightened around it instantly, muscles locking with a strength that wasn't entirely yours. A strangled gasp, hands clawing at yours, panic flooding wide, deceiving eyes.

Your hands twisted—brutally, mercilessly—snapping the man's neck with a sickening, sharp crack. His body went limp, collapsing beneath you. You were already on your way to the next one—no hesitation, no pause—launching toward the last one. He tried to react, tried to raise his weapon, but you were faster. The shimmer still clung to your muscles, still burned through your veins in erratic, uncontrollable bursts. 

You tackled him, sending both of you crashing to the ground. He struggled, but his hands were already around his face, pressing, digging his thumbs into his eyes. His screams were a raw, wet sound, cut short as your grip shifted, as you ended him with the same brutal efficiency as the last.

Your body shut down again.

Whatever force had been propelling you forward flickered out like a candle in the wind, leaving behind only the wreckage of what it had forced you to do. Your limbs gave out all at once, and you collapsed, falling against the still-warm body beneath you. Blood soaked into your clothes, your breath ragged, uneven. The cavern spun violently, tilting in and out of focus, but you barely noticed. Your body wasn't listening anymore. It had spent itself, drained every last ounce of energy into the kill, and now—now it refused to keep going.

You weren't sure how long it took. Minutes. Hours. It could have been forever. When you opened your eyes again, the vision came and went. You didn't know what was happening to your body, but you were sure you needed help. The taste of iron thickened on your tongue, turning sour. Your stomach twisted violently, your body finally, finally reacting the way it should.

You convulsed.

Blood spilled from your lips in a sudden, brutal wave, splattering against the cracked ground beneath you. It felt endless, pouring from your mouth in heaving, choking bursts, as if your body was trying to purge the sheer wrongness festering inside of it.

It seemed like your body wasn't giving up on living even when your mind was already crying out to die. You were exhausted and didn't even know if you had exceeded the ten second limit at that moment. Were you really alive?

Somehow, somehow, you started moving again.

Crawling.

Each movement was sluggish, painful. Every breath you took rattled in your chest, thick with the wet, metallic taste of your own blood. The cavern stretched on endlessly, stone digging into your skin as you dragged yourself forward, your body nothing more than raw, torn muscle and sheer, stubborn will.

And then—air.

Cold. Real.

You barely noticed when you crossed the threshold, barely recognized the moment you left the mines behind. But you felt it. The sharp, acrid sting of Zaun's air burned its way down your throat, scraping against raw lungs.

Then—you collapsed. Feeling more blood drip from your wounds and especially from your nose and the hole in your head... the recoil was now taking its toll, belatedly, but still punishing. 

You registered two things while you were passing out: a female voice letting out a scream followed by saying your name and the other thing was the growl of a wolf above you. A wolf about to sink its fangs into your neck.

[...]

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco exhaled slowly, his patience already stretched thin. He had no interest in drawn-out explanations or tangents on theoretical applications—Singed had a tendency to indulge in both if left unchecked. So, he leaned forward, setting his whiskey glass down with a clink against the desk, his mismatched gaze cutting through the dim light as he fixed the scientist with a sharp stare.

"Let's get straight to the point." Silco said, voice low and edged with authority. "What kind of mutation did her body undergo?"

Singed, unbothered as ever, made no immediate move to respond. Instead, he reached into the worn leather satchel resting by his side and retrieved a stack of documents. The motion was methodical, almost languid, as if the question itself held little weight in comparison to the greater puzzle he was piecing together. He placed the papers onto the desk and slid them toward Silco without ceremony.

Silco picked them up, flipping through the first few pages — the old man had been smart to keep copies of his research. His eyes scanned the dense, clinical writing—medical reports, blood analysis, handwritten observations in Singed's neat yet erratic script. He took in each detail with sharp precision, absorbing the data even as he listened to the chemist begin his explanation.

"I am still studying the full extent of the mutation." Singed admitted, his voice calm, devoid of hesitation. "However, the most significant change is her resistance to death."

Silco's fingers stilled against the edge of a page. His gaze lifted just enough to signal his full attention, though he said nothing, allowing Singed to continue.

"I conducted several tests on small animal subjects using a sample of her blood. Not the same sample I used in the Chemtanks, mind you. That was an attempt to synthesize her ability, not the mutation itself. These tests were different. I wanted to observe the raw, unaltered effect."

Silco remained silent, he didn't particularly care about the intricacies of the process—what mattered was the result. And judging by the methodical way Singed was explaining it, he already knew the answer would be... unique.

"Every variable that should have killed the subject... did not." Singed continued, an almost clinical curiosity lacing his words. "Poison. Oxygen deprivation. Hemorrhagic shock. Organ failure. The body refused to die. However—" he paused, tapping a long finger against the desk, "The ability itself became the cause of death. The mutation, it seems, does not grant true immortality. Instead, it sustains the host... until the body collapses from the inside out. In theory, the only thing capable of killing her... is herself."

Silco let the weight of the revelation settle in his mind, exhaling slowly as his fingers tapped idly against the desk. His gauze flickered toward the ashtray on his desk. His voice, when he finally broke the silence, was low, almost contemplative.

"So, she can still die."

Singed, as always, remained unfazed. He adjusted his posture slightly, folding his hands in front of him as if this were nothing more than a routine discussion of scientific theory. 

"She will likely come to that realization sooner or later." Singed remarked, his voice detached, clinical. "And when she does, she may choose to use it to her advantage."

Silco's head snapped up, his heterochromatic eyes moving to stare at him. For a brief moment, his expression was unreadable—calm, controlled, carefully composed. But there was something in the way his fingers curled against the desk, in the sharp tension that flickered beneath his skin, that suggested otherwise.

Then, without warning, he shot Singed a glare so sharp, so utterly venomous, that for the first time in this entire exchange, the chemist actually paused.

Silco wanted to throw him out the damn window.

The mere suggestion—that she might choose to end her own life—unsettled him in a way he hadn't anticipated. It was an intrusive, insidious thought, slithering its way into his mind like a toxin, poisoning every other rational consideration. A self-inflicted death was different from assassination, different from an enemy's blade or a bullet meant to silence her. It was deliberate. It was final. And it was something he could not—would not—allow himself to contemplate.

His jaw tightened. He forced the bitter thought from his mind before it could root itself any deeper. His emotions, volatile as they were in that moment, had no place here. He had spent years mastering control, wielding it like a weapon, and he would not let something so personal strip that from him now. So instead, he exhaled slowly, his expression smoothing out into something more composed. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the certainty of an unshakable truth.

"She wouldn't do such a thing."

Singed did not argue. He didn't challenge the statement, didn't raise an eyebrow in skepticism or push the topic further. He simply inclined his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment that neither agreed nor disagreed.

Smart man.

Silco let the silence stretch between them for a moment longer, then shifted the conversation. "You'll establish a temporary laboratory nearby. Effective immediately. You will begin the work I instructed."

For a brief moment, Silco saw it—the slight shift in Singed's expression, the way his lips parted just slightly, the subtle inhalation that preceded what was sure to be an argument. The chemist was never one to blindly follow orders, not without first dissecting them through the lens of his own logic. But then, just as quickly as the protest had begun to form, it died.

Singed exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching minutely at his side before he inclined his head in silent acquiescence. He wouldn't argue. Not this time.

With that obstacle cleared, Silco allowed his focus to shift to the next step. He reached for his whiskey glass once more, but this time, he didn't drink. Instead, he rolled it between his fingers, letting the amber liquid catch the dim light as he spoke.

"I may be bringing in another mind to assist you in this research." Singed's gaze flickered toward him, a silent question forming even before the man voiced it. Silco continued, his tone measured, deliberate. "A young scientist from Piltover. Someone I believe can be... persuaded, given the right incentive."

That earned more of Singed's attention. The chemist straightened slightly, the light catching the faint gleam of his eyes as he regarded Silco with quiet intrigue.

"Who?"

Silco allowed himself the barest hint of a smirk, though there was no amusement in it. He finally brought the whiskey to his lips, taking a slow sip before answering.

"His name is Viktor."

The reaction was immediate. Not one of shock, but of recognition. Singed's brows lifted slightly, a rare expression of genuine interest flickering across his usually impassive face.

"Viktor?" he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue with familiarity. There was a pause, as if he were considering something, reaching back through old memories before he finally spoke again. "He was my assistant... when he was younger."

Silco's fingers stilled against the glass. That was unexpected.

"What happend?"

Singed exhaled, his voice carrying the weight of an old recollection. "We parted ways due to... differences in ideology. He was brilliant, yes, but idealistic. He clung to the notion of progress serving the greater good." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze distant. "Still, despite his morals, he remains, above all else, a scientist. And a scientist in need of a solution to his own affliction is a man who will consider avenues he once rejected."

Silco hummed, satisfied. That had been his exact assessment. Viktor's brilliance was wasted in Piltover, suffocated by their bureaucracy, their refusal to take necessary risks. But desperation had a way of reshaping a man's convictions. If Viktor truly sought to cure himself, then the promise of a breakthrough—one that could only be found here, under Silco's guidance—would be all the leverage he needed.

"Then it seems I was right to consider him." Silco mused, leaning back in his chair. His gaze met Singed's once more, the unspoken command hanging heavy in the air. "Send a letter, request a meeting between you, present the proposal and be sure he will accept."

"As you wish."

The conversation was abruptly, violently, interrupted.

The office doors slammed open with such force that they nearly rebounded off the walls, the sharp bang cutting through the heavy air like a gunshot. Silco barely had the chance to register his irritation before he saw her—Sevika, standing in the doorway, breathless, her chest rising and falling as if she had run the entire way here. That alone was enough to make his blood sharpen with anticipation. Sevika did not run. Not unless it mattered.

"We found her whereabouts." she announced, her voice still slightly winded, but firm.

Silco was out of his chair before the sentence had even fully registered. His movements were immediate, instinctual—a predator responding to the scent of blood in the water. The reports, the whiskey, the previous conversation—all of it ceased to exist in an instant.

"Meeting's over." 

He declared, his voice cutting through the lingering tension as he strode toward the door. Behind him, he could hear Singed shifting slightly, but Silco didn't spare him a second glance. There was no room for hesitation now. He reached for his coat, yanking it from the nearby rack with a swift motion as he pulled it over his shoulders.

"Is she there?" His question came sharp, precise, laced with something dangerously close to urgency.

Sevika's lips pressed into a thin line, and for the briefest of moments, Silco felt an ugly coil of impatience tighten in his chest. "No, but you need to see what she left behind."

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Two days later

The air smelled of something thick, suffocating—overly sweet flowers, an overpowering concoction of perfumes so cloying it made your stomach turn. Your eyes snapped open, a sudden jolt of awareness crashing down on you. For a second, you couldn't tell where you were. The hazy remnants of your past bled into the present, dragging with them the ghost of a memory you had long since tried to bury.

That scent. It reminded you why you hated it. It reminded you of the first time you met Silco—of the way your eyes had locked, of how the world had felt different after that moment.

Ah, if only you had known.

You turned your head and found yourself staring at an unfamiliar figure crouched on the floor.

A man.

Which curiously reminded you a lot of Vander

He was gathering the broken shards of what had once been a ceramic flower vase, his large hands moving with surprising care as he picked up each jagged piece. From the way the fragments lay scattered across the wooden planks, you could tell he must have knocked it over when entering the room. Not surprising. The private quarters of the brothel were never particularly spacious, and for a man of his stature, they must have felt even smaller.

He was massive. Broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of presence that demanded attention without needing to speak. His skin was a warm bronze, weathered by time and experience. Dark shadows rested beneath his golden-brown eyes, as if sleep had long abandoned him. His hair, dark brown with strands of silver creeping through, framed his face in thick sideburns that merged into a small, neatly trimmed goatee.

A single braid hung from the front of his hairline, tied off at the end with a tiny blue bead. But what truly caught you off guard was the way he looked at you.

When he finished collecting the shards, he straightened and lifting his head. His eyes found yours, locking onto them with a weight you couldn't quite place. Silence stretched between you, thick and unreadable.

And then, without a word, he turned and stepped out of the room.

You barely had time to process what had just happened before he returned. But this time, he wasn't alone. Trailing just behind him, dwarfed by his sheer size, was someone much, much smaller.

Babette.

The moment Babette's wide, luminous eyes met yours, something inside you twisted. The way her ears twitched, the way her small hands clenched at the fabric of her dress—it was as if she didn't quite believe you were real. And then, with a sharp intake of breath, she practically launched herself at you.

"You're awake!" Her voice wavered between relief and reprimand, her tiny hands grabbing at your arms, your shoulders, as if trying to confirm you were solid flesh and bone and not some cruel illusion. "Gods above, I thought you were dead! I feared you were dead!"

Her small frame trembled slightly, but she quickly masked it, lips pressing together in a tight line. Babette was never one for openly showing vulnerability, but this was different. This wasn't just business or camaraderie. You blinked, still sluggish from waking up, trying to string your thoughts together through the thick fog in your mind.

"How long?" Your voice came out rough, throat dry, like you hadn't spoken in days. "How long have I been out?"

Babette exhaled sharply, as if releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed beside you, her small weight barely shifting the mattress.

"A few days. Two, maybe three. I didn't count... I was too busy wondering if you'd even wake up at all."

Her words settled over you like a heavy blanket, thick with unspoken fears. The implication was clear—she had thought she might lose you.

Your fingers twitched against the sheets as you tried to recall what had led you here. The last thing you remembered was the mines, the cold damp air clinging to your skin, the weight of exhaustion dragging at your limbs. And then—nothing.

Your gaze flickered to Babette, still sitting beside you, her small hands gripping the edge of the mattress. "How did I get here?"

At that, she let out a huff, as if the answer should have been obvious. "That was me." she said, lifting her chin slightly, the usual pride creeping back into her voice. "Pure coincidence, or maybe fate, who knows? I was leaving a client's house when I saw you lying there, half-dead." she snorted a laugh. "You really know how to make an entrance, don't you?"

Her attempt at humor didn't fully mask the concern behind her words.

"You carried me all the way here?"

Babette let out a short, incredulous laugh. "As if. You're twice my size. I wasn't about to break my back dragging your sorry ass across the Lanes." She jerking a thumb toward the man standing in the corner of the room. "Loris."

The man—Loris, apparently—stood in quiet patience, arms crossed over his broad chest. Now that you could look at him properly, he was even bigger than you had first realized. The kind of man who could lift a grown person without breaking a sweat.

Babette sighed, shaking her head. "I ran back to the brothel and got him to do the heavy lifting. No way I could've done it alone."

You studied Loris for a moment, your thoughts still sluggish, before shifting your attention back to Babette. "And him? Since when do you have a bodyguard?"

Her expression soured instantly, ears flattening slightly. "Since Silco's men started getting even worse to deal with." She shot a glance at Loris, then back at you. "Figured I could use some muscle around the place. Turns out, hiring a walking mountain makes people think twice before getting handsy."

The wry humor in her voice was a thin veil over something else—frustration, exhaustion. You exhaled, your mind still trying to process everything. Babette had saved you. Again. And despite everything, despite the pain in your muscles and the dull ache in your skull, a small part of you was grateful that she was been the one to found you.

Babette's ears twitched as she studied your face, gauging your reaction before she spoke again, a sure sign that whatever she was about to say wasn't going to make you feel any better.

"The news is everywhere, Silco's looking for you. Hard. He's even offering money for information, good money." she continued. "Word's spread through every corner of Zaun by now. Every back alley, every dive bar, every desperate lowlife looking to make a quick stack of coin knows your name."

"Has anyone come here looking?"

Babette let out a sharp exhale, her nose wrinkling as if the very thought disgusted her. "Of course." she admitted, eyes narrowing slightly. "Men sniffing around, asking questions. But don't worry, I made sure they never saw you. No one suspects you're here. As far as the rest of Zaun is concerned, you might as well have vanished into thin air."

You felt a strange mix of relief and dread settle over you. Safe, for now. But for how long?

Determined, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, bracing your hands against the mattress to push yourself upright. The moment you tried to stand, however, the world lurched violently. Your vision blurred at the edges, and a wave of dizziness crashed over you like a tidal wave. Before you could collapse back down, Babette was there, small hands gripping your arm with surprising strength.

"Alright, no." she snapped, her voice cutting through your stubbornness like a blade. "You're not doing this right now. Loris!"

At the sound of his name, the massive man straightened from where he had been leaning against the doorframe, his golden-brown eyes flickering toward Babette in silent acknowledgment.

"Go get the medicine." she ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument. Without hesitation, Loris turned on his heel and disappeared through the doorway. Babette clicked her tongue in frustration as she helped guide you back against the headboard, ensuring you were seated properly before stepping back with her arms crossed. "You need rest, not whatever reckless bullshit you were about to pull."

Your fingers curled into the sheets, frustration simmering beneath your skin. "It's too dangerous to stay here." you murmured, shaking your head slightly. "If Silco finds out, if he so much as suspects, he'll burn this place to the ground. I can't let that happen."

A heavy silence hung between you. Then, Babette sighed. A deep, weary exhale that made her entire frame seem smaller for just a moment.

"You really do remind me of Vander, you know that?" Your gaze flickered to her, startled by the shift in tone. "Always putting other people ahead of yourself, always willing to throw yourself into the fire just so no one else gets burned."

Her words landed heavier than you expected.

You swallowed hard, pressing your back against the pillows. Babette had a way of seeing right through you, peeling back the layers even when you didn't want her to. And the worst part? She wasn't wrong. Babette exhaled sharply, her ears flattening for just a second before she turned away, rubbing at her temples as if warding off a headache.

"This is my fault." she muttered, more to herself than to you.

You frowned. "What?"

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "All of this." she gesturing vaguely, as if encompassing the entire mess you had found yourself in. "If I hadn't let you take that client that night, you never would have met Silco. You never would have gotten tangled up in his business, and none of this would be happening."

Her voice was tight, filled with something raw—guilt, frustration, regret.

You stared at her, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "Babette, I—"

"But you shouldn't have even been here to begin with." she cut in, her sharp golden eyes locking onto yours. "You never should have gotten into this life at all. You know that, right?"

A strange unease settled in your chest. There was something in her tone, something unspoken lingering between the words.

"What are you talking about?"

Babette hesitated. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, and for the first time in a long while, she looked uncertain. Then, with a deep breath, she spoke. "Vander asked me to take care of you."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your mind stalled for a moment, grasping at the meaning behind them. "What?"

Babette's ears drooped slightly. 

"A few days before he died, he came to me. Asked for a favor. He said there was a girl arriving from out of town. Someone important. He told me that if anything happened to him, I should take her in. Give her a job, or just..." She trailed off for a second before looking at you again, something almost apologetic in her expression. "Keep her close."

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because you understood. Your fingers dug into the sheets beneath you as the realization settled in your bones.

"Me." Babette nodded. You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "Why... why didn't you ever tell me?"

She shrugged, but it wasn't casual—it was the kind of shrug that carried weight, as if she had spent years deciding whether or not to say this. "Did it matter? I did what he asked. I kept you here. Gave you a place. A job. Maybe not the one he would've wanted for you, but at least you weren't..."

"Alone."

The word left your lips before you even realized you were saying it. A whisper, barely audible, yet it carried the weight of something far greater than just a single syllable.

Babette didn't confirm it. She didn't have to.

You turned your head slightly, staring at the far wall. A strange numbness settled over you, as if your body wasn't sure whether to feel anger, sadness, or something else entirely. Vander had planned for this. For you. He had tried to protect you—even from beyond the grave.

You remembered the first time you met Babette.

It had been late—though in the Undercity, time always felt like an afterthought, like something only people topside had the luxury to care about. The city was dim, cloaked in the sickly glow of flickering streetlamps and neon signs, but you had barely registered any of it. You had been sitting on cold stone, on what would eventually become the statue of Vander, though at the time, it was nothing more than an incomplete memorial, still in the early stages of construction.

You had been lost in that limbo between grief and nothingness—not feeling pain, not yet, but something worse. A hollow emptiness that stretched too wide, too deep, like a chasm carved into your chest where something important had once been. 

You hadn't cried when you built those three graves. Your hands had been stained with dirt, with dust, but not with grief. Not yet.

And then—Babette.

She had shown up out of nowhere, as small and unassuming as a shadow, settling onto the stone beside you as if she had always meant to be there. She hadn't said anything at first. Just pulled a cigarette from her coat, lit it, took a slow drag, and then— She had offered it to you.

You had taken it without thinking, bringing it to your lips, inhaling the smoke deep into your lungs. You hadn't spoken. Neither had she. The two of you had simply sat there, sharing the cigarette, passing it back and forth in silence, until it burned down to nothing but ash.

And then, finally, she had spoken.

"The brothel's hiring."

"I'm not interested."

She had shrugged, as if she expected the answer. But then she had said something else. "Think it over." she had murmured, tilting her head slightly, her golden eyes studying you in a way that felt uncomfortably knowing. "I've seen that look before."

"What look?"

"The kind people get when they stop wanting to live."

The words had settled over you like a weight, pressing into your ribs, into your lungs. A truth you hadn't wanted to name. And then she had said something else. Something you would never forget.

"Everyone who goes looking for death... lives."

She hadn't waited for you to respond. She had simply stood, dusted herself off, and walked away, leaving you alone with her words. And the next day you had found yourself standing in front of the brothel's door.

You had hesitated, hand hovering over the handle, debating whether this was a mistake, whether you were truly so lost that you would walk into a place like this, let yourself be swallowed by something so different from the life you had known. Before you could knock, the door had swung open. Babette had stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Like she had known you would come.

Your thoughts scattered like dust in the wind the moment the door creaked open again.

Loris stepped inside, his hulking frame making the room feel smaller, more cramped. He moved with a quiet efficiency that didn't match his size, carrying a tray with a small glass vial, a pitcher of water, and an empty cup balanced carefully on top. His expression remained unreadable as he crossed the room and set the tray down on the bedside table.

Before you could ask, Babette was already moving. She hopped down from the bed, quick and nimble, snatching up the small vial with one hand and turning toward you with the other.

"Drink this." she instructed, offering it to you without hesitation.

Your fingers wrapped around the cool glass instinctively, but the moment your eyes flickered down to the liquid inside, your breath hitched. The vial trembled slightly in your grip. A rich, luminous purple.

Shimmer.

Your stomach twisted.

"Shimmer." you murmured, the word slipping from your lips before you could stop it—half passive, half bitter.

Babette's ears twitched slightly, but she didn't waver. "It's medicine."

Your grip on the vial tightened. "It's shimmer."

"I know what it is." she snapped. "And I know what you're thinking. But before you get all high and mighty about it, listen to me." She crossed her arms, her stance shifting, as if preparing for an argument she had already won. "I know a healer and yes, she uses shimmer in some of her mixtures. But that—" she nodded toward the vial in your hand, "Is what kept you alive these past few days."

"You drugged me!"

"I saved you!" Babette's jaw tensed, but she didn't back down. "And I'm not sorry." Her golden eyes locked onto yours, fierce, determined. "You can be pissed at me all you want. You can sit there and sulk and glare at that little bottle like it's the reason your life's gone to shit. But I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Because it kept you stable. It kept you breathing."

A silence settled between you, thick and heavy.

You didn't want to drink it. Every part of you resisted the idea, but deep down, you knew Babette was right. You had been teetering too close to the edge, barely clinging to the thread of consciousness for days. Whatever was in this little vial—shimmer-infused or not—had kept you breathing when you might have otherwise slipped away and you can't afford the luxury of death, not when you had to fulfill your promise once and for all.

So you swallowed your pride and the "medicine".

The moment the thick, acrid liquid coated your tongue, your body rejected it. A sharp, bitter sting that spread like fire, curling down your throat, clawing at your stomach. It was vile—worse than you imagined. Your gut twisted, nausea rolling through you in waves, threatening to bring it back up before it could even settle.

You forced yourself to keep it down.

You barely noticed that your eyes had shut tight, your jaw locked as you willed your body to stiffen the discomfort. But when you opened your eyes and heard Babette's voice, startled and disbelieving, you realized something was wrong.

"Your eyes..."

Your stomach sank. Your breath caught as you turned your head, gaze flickering toward the full-length mirror propped up against the far wall. The reflection staring back at you was your own—except it wasn't.

For the briefest moment, your irises shimmered with an eerie, unnatural glow. The deep, vivid purple.The same luminescence you had seen the day you destroyed Singed's lab, that color so similar to the necklace that rested around your neck. The color that made clear the sins Silco had committed. But just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. A flicker. Nothing more.

You exhaled slowly, turning away from the mirror as if it meant nothing. As if you hadn't just seen a glimpse of something terrifying staring back at you. Babette was still watching you, ears twitching slightly, her expression tight with unspoken questions.

"Don't ask questions, Babette." She hesitated but nodded, clearly unconvinced. You pushed yourself up, steadier this time, the medicine already dulling the lingering pain in your limbs. It was still there, but... lighter. Manageable. "I need to go. There's something important I have to take care of."

"You just woke up from almost dying, and now you want to go running off to gods-know-where? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

You offered her a wry, tired smile. "I'll be careful."

She snorted. "That's reassuring."

"Okay okay... Do you have a mask I can borrow?"

Babette raised a brow. "A mask?" You nodded. She watched you for a moment before crossing her arms. "I don't suppose you're gonna tell me where you're planning on going?"

"No."

With another dramatic sigh, Babette waved a hand toward the wardrobe near the vanity.

"Third drawer, take your pick." Babette muttered. "Just... just try not to get yourself killed, kid."

You gave her a small, knowing smile. "I would love for this to be possible."

[...]

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco exhaled slowly, the burn of whiskey still lingering at the back of his throat. He rolled the empty glass between his fingers before pressing its cool rim against his forehead for a fleeting moment, as if the sensation could somehow ground him. It didn't. The headache throbbing behind his left eye remained, a dull and persistent reminder of the string of disasters unraveling before him.

The Last Drop was closed until further notice. He couldn't afford the distraction, couldn't stomach the chaos of noise and bodies while his patience was already wearing dangerously thin. There were too many problems demanding his attention, all of them colliding at once, and for the first time in a long while, Silco found himself struggling to maintain control of them all.

Jinx was out of control—again.

Three days ago, he had managed to subdue her, had coaxed her out of whatever downward spiral she had thrown herself into. But now, that fragile sense of calm had shattered into something far more volatile. She was lashing out, her frustration manifesting in explosions, destruction, senseless havoc that threatened to unravel the very foundation he had built.

And Silco—Silco simply didn't have the patience for it. Not now. Not when there were more pressing matters at hand. He had tried. Tried to contain her storm, to redirect it, to soften the inevitable blow of her self-inflicted torment. But the truth was, Jinx wasn't the only one hurting. She was wounded, yes—but so was he.

And unlike that child, he still had an empire to run.

So, for now, he would ignore her. Let her tantrum burn itself out like a flame deprived of oxygen. Let the weight of her own destruction settle on her shoulders for once. Because if he turned his attention to her now, in the state he was in, Silco wasn't sure whether he'd have the strength to be gentle.

Then there was the matter of Singed and his laboratory.

For the time being, the old man had been relocated to one of the warehouses near The Last Drop—a necessary precaution, both for logistical reasons and security. If she decided to finish what she had started, he needed Singed close enough to protect him, but not so close that his already fragile patience would be tested further. The scientist was undoubtedly brilliant, indispensable even, but his presence had a way of gnawing at Silco's nerves. A man like that—detached, methodical, unshaken by the chaos around him—was difficult to control in ways that even Jinx wasn't.

But that wasn't even the worst of it.

The Chem-Barons had caught wind of the situation—of course they had. Like vultures circling a wounded beast, they wasted no time in seizing the opportunity to test his grip on Zaun. They had called for an emergency meeting that very afternoon, no doubt eager to pick apart his perceived weakness, to probe for openings they could exploit.

Silco had not attended.

Not because he was avoiding them, not because he feared their scrutiny—no, he had simply been occupied elsewhere. The mines demanded his attention, and unlike those bloated opportunists, he still understood the value of getting his hands dirty when the situation called for it.

Let them scheme. Let them whisper behind his back, let them speculate about where his priorities lay. It would only make it that much more satisfying when he reminded them who held the leash.

Silco placed his glass against the counter and got up from the bar.

Two damn days ago, when Sevika had informed him of the massacre in the mine entrance, Silco had been certain of two things: First, she had been hiding there. Second, he hadn't been the first to figure it out. Because the ten men lying dead in the dirt weren't his. They belonged to Finn.

That arrogant little rat had been stupid enough to send his own people instead of hiring mercenaries, leaving behind a trail that might as well have been a signature scrawled in blood. A reckless move. Sloppy. And yet, as much as Silco wanted to confront him—no, as much as he wanted to strangle the bastard with his own hands—he couldn't. Not yet.

It wasn't the right time.

Not when he didn't know why. Why had Finn sent his men after her? What did he want with her? How did he even find out where she was?

That was the question gnawing at him, twisting in the back of his mind like a rusted knife. The obvious answer—the one that made Silco's fingers twitch with the urge to reach for his blade—was that Finn had simply seen an opportunity. He had always been ambitious, always pushing at the edges of his authority, testing limits he had no business testing. But this wasn't just a power play. Finn wasn't foolish enough to challenge him this directly.

Which meant there was something else at play.

Something Silco didn't know and that was unacceptable.

When Silco stepped into his office, the emptiness that greeted him was almost suffocating. It wasn't just silence—it was a void. A hollow, lifeless thing that stretched across the room like an open grave. No joy, no warmth, no color. The air itself felt stagnant, as if the very walls were mourning something long lost.

He had forgotten how gray his life had been before her.

Once upon a time, solitude had been his most faithful companion, a quiet, familiar presence that never betrayed him. But now, it had curdled into something far crueler. Loneliness.

His fingers twitched with the urge to loosen his collar, as though the weight pressing on his chest could be relieved by such a simple action. He exhaled, slow and steady, willing himself not to linger in this moment of weakness. There was no use dwelling on the things he could not change. Not when exhaustion clung to him like a parasite, dragging his limbs into leaden stillness.

Better to surrender to sleep. To the sweet, forced oblivion offered by Singed's pills.

He turned toward his quarters, already anticipating the bitter taste of medication on his tongue— Then he heard it. A sound so small, so subtle, that he might have dismissed it had he not been wired to notice the slightest shift in his surroundings. The groan of metal. A chair creaking under shifting weight.

His chair.

His eyes snapped toward his desk, breath stilling in his throat as he finally saw them.

A figure sat there, relaxed in the space that belonged to him, masked yet unmistakably familiar. He didn't need to see her face to recognize them. He knew the shape of those lips, the way they pressed into a thin, unreadable line. He knew those eyes, even from the shadows of the mask—haunting him in equal measure to the way he longed to see them again.

The room, once unbearably empty, was now far too full.

"You look pathetic right now." her voice cut through the stillness, sharp and dripping with sarcasm. "Almost makes me pity you."

Almost.

Silco remained where he was, rooted to the floor, the exhaustion in his body momentarily forgotten. The voice was different—colder, crueler than he remembered. A blade honed sharper than before. She tilted their head, studying him as if he were something fragile. A thing to be scrutinized, dissected.

"We have a lot to discuss, Silco." The leather of the chair groaned again as she leaned back, utterly at ease in his domain. "Sit."

Part 23

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The fight scene in the cave is entirely based on a blend of episodes 4 and 5 from the second season (in this case, the reader is Vander in his Warwick/wolf form). We still have quite a few long chapters ahead, so if you're still here reading—thank you so much! A little treat for you all: a story about two sisters. You need both sisters, right…?

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nutted

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 21/?)

The past has a cruel habit of clawing its way back — even when it's buried six feet under. No grave is deep enough to silence what was left unresolved

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 8,5K

Warnings: panic and anxiety attacks, betrayal and all the feelings that come with it, alternate reality being referenced, Vander and Silco's past, murder referenced, PTSD, hallucinations, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 20

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

I've looked everywhere, but it's clear you don't want to be found. God I'm shit at this. I'm sorry. When she died... I lost my head. I told myself what I did to you was for the greater good, that you deserved it, but the dirt was on both our hands. Anyways, you know where to find me.

Blisters and bedrock.

V.

There were few things in life capable of truly unsettling Silco—few things that could rattle him enough to strip away his calculated composure, to leave him grasping for solid ground. Even fewer that could drag him into a state of melancholy, of raw uncertainty. But this—this—a single crumpled piece of old, stained paper, had somehow managed to do both.

Silco read the note again. A second time. A third. A fourth.

As if the meaning of the words might change if he stared hard enough. As if, through sheer force of will, he could bend reality to make them say something else—anything else. But they remained the same, etched in ink that felt heavier than any weight he had ever carried.

His fingers tightened around the edges of the note, the worn paper crinkling under the force of his grip. Outwardly, he remained unreadable—a picture of cold, practiced stillness. But inside? Inside, there was nothing but chaos, a silent, gnawing storm that had no beginning and no end.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

When he ordered the sweep of her home, he had expected to find something—a clue, a trace, the faintest whisper of where she had gone. He had thought he would piece together the fragments, follow the thread, fix this. That was why he had come himself when he had no business being here.

His injuries had not yet healed. The wound on his back was still raw, making every breath a quiet battle, every movement an exercise in endurance. He was pushing himself harder than he should, his body reminding him with every strained inhale that he was in no condition to be out here, let alone leading this search personally.

But he had to be here.

He had already been gone for more than a week, and that was time he could not afford to lose—not in Zaun. Not now. If he remained absent any longer, people would start to wonder, to notice. His men would begin to whisper. The other barons would start weighing their options, watching for signs of weakness, calculating the right moment to sink their knives into his back.

No. He couldn't allow that.

He was already bleeding. Already reeling and he refused to give them another reason to think he was anything but in control. Which he was, and for that he had Sevika to thank.

She had done her job well.

Sevika had kept everything under control in his absence—both during the days he had been unconscious and the four that followed, where he remained bedridden, regaining his strength. At the very least, the truth of his injury had been contained. Only three people knew the extent of it: himself, Sevika, and Singed—though the damned scientist had managed to cure himself far too quickly for Silco's liking.

Still, despite everything, despite the pain lingering in his bones and the other distraction clawing at the edges of his mind—her absence, the unanswered questions—there was now something else to contend withSomething he had thought long buried.

Vander.

Even dead, the bastard found ways to haunt him.

The emotions stirred in his chest were not simple. If they had been, he would have torn the letter apart the moment he realized who had written it. But instead, here it sat in his hands, edges yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible. First, there was rage. That was the easiest to acknowledge. The fury that had burned in him for years had never truly extinguished, not even after he stabbed Vander. The betrayal, the injustice—what Vander had done to him could never be forgiven. Would never be forgiven.

And yet.

There was something else. Something far more unwelcome.

Surprise, perhaps. That Vander had even considered an apology, that he had felt the need to put it to paper after all those years. By the state of the letter, it had been written long ago—buried, forgotten, sealed away like some festering wound. And yet, even until the very end, until the day Silco killed him, Vander had still carried that regret.

It hurt more than it should have.

After all these years, after everything—Vander had finally apologized.

A hollow, belated thing. Words spoken too late, when the blood had already dried and the dust had long since settled. A sorry excuse for repentance that meant nothing now. And yet, it lingered, gnawed at him in ways Silco had thought himself immune to.

There had been a time when he wanted to hear it. A time when he told himself that, if Vander would just admit what he had done, just acknowledge the betrayal, then maybe—maybe—some part of him could find peace. But eventually, that desire had been buried beneath something sharper, something colder. Vengeance had been easier to cling to. There was no space for forgiveness in war.

Now, standing in the wreckage of what they had been, Silco felt rage.

Rage that it had taken Vander this long to feel any semblance of remorse. Rage at the audacity of it—that he would expect anything from Silco in return. And rage for yourself, rage for that feeling buried so deep it was barely worth recognizing, something quieter. Something bitter.

The ache of what had been lost.

Because once, once—they had been brothers.

Not by blood, but by something stronger. They had fought side by side, built something together, dreamed of a future together. Vander had been his partner, his family. There had been a time when Silco had trusted him more than anyone. But that time was gone and he did not regret killing him.

He couldn't.

Regret was a luxury he refused to afford himself. Too much had happened. Too many choices had led them here, down paths that had twisted and splintered until there was no way back. No way to undo what had been done. Silco had made the necessary choices to build a nation. To free their people. Vander had made the choices to stop him. In the end, one of them had to die for the other to win. Silco had won.

That was all that mattered.

But reading Vander's words, Silco couldn't stop himself from wondering. The thought crept in, unwanted and insidious, slithering past the walls he had built around that part of his mind.

Could it have been different?

In another reality—one where he had found this letter in time—would he have forgiven him? Could they have salvaged something from the wreckage of their brotherhood? He thought of the blood in the water, the searing betrayal, the years spent rebuilding himself from the ashes of what they had once been. Could they have found a way forward, past the chasm of their irreconcilable ideals?

Silco would never know.

And it was better not to dwell.

That was not the reality he had been given. It never would be. The past had already set its course, and in the end, it had buried Vander beneath the weight of his own choices. His choices. Silco had simply done what was necessary.

Silco stilled. For a moment, everything—the weight of the note in his hand, the dull, persistent ache in his body—faded beneath the weight of realization. She had a connection to Vander.

Not just a passing acquaintance, not just the knowledge any Zaunite might have of a once-revered name. No—close enough to keep something of his. A letter, written in Vander's own hand, tucked away among her personal belongings. A quiet, hidden fragment of the past. A past she had never spoken of.

Silco's grip on the note tightened.

Sevika had mentioned a few minutes ago a loose floorboard in the washroom, a small cache of old newspaper clippings and scattered pages tucked beneath it. He had dismissed it—unimportant, irrelevant. But now? Now, he would personally go through every single one of those papers.

The signs had been there all along.

The way she had slipped out of The Last Drop with such ease, as if she knew its layout. The way she had so vehemently defended Vander's actions that night on his balcony, her words laced with something raw, something personal. The way she had known Powder. And worst of all, the reference—the goddamn reference—to the friend who had helped her in the past.

Of course, it had been Vander. Of course. Who else could it have been?

A sharp breath burned its way through Silco's lungs, but it did nothing to steady the slow, crawling sensation beneath his skin. Something unpleasant. Something dangerously close to betrayal.

He had no right to feel it. He knew that. Not when he had betrayed her trust just the same. Not when he earned her trust, twist it, manipulate it, mold it into something that served his needs. But still— still, it felt like betrayal. And that, more than anything, infuriated him. Both of them had lied. But even Silco would admit—between the two of them, his lie had been the worse of the two. Because whatever she had done, whatever falsehood she had chosen to cling to, it had not broken him.

But his had broken her.

And that—that—was something he hadn't accounted for.

Even now, he could feel it. The weight of her gaze, scorching through him, lodging deep beneath his skin. That look—filled with hurt, with fury—had burrowed into his flesh, carving itself into the marrow of his bones. It refused to leave him. It haunted him. It felt so real that, for a moment, he almost believed she was watching him even now.

Silco exhaled sharply, shaking the thought from his mind, forcing himself to refocus. But the feeling didn't fade. His body went rigid. Slowly, he lifted his head, his gaze shifting, drawn instinctively to a darkened alley across the way. There was nothing there—only shadows stretching long in the absence of light. And yet, the feeling remained.

The sensation of being watched.

Something cold slithered down his spine, though he didn't let it show. Instead, he took a step forward. And that was when he saw it. A flicker of movement, barely noticeable—someone shifting, pulling away. For every step he took forward, the shadow withdrew further into the dark. Then, just for a second—a single, fleeting second—she moved through a thin beam of light, enough for him to see. Enough to know.

She.

Silco had barely caught a glimpse of her—just a flicker of movement, the briefest flash of familiarity—but it was enough. It had been so fast. A mere second, no more than that. And yet, he could have recognized her in a crowd of thousands.

His little dove.

She looked afraid. No—shaken. As if she had seen a ghost. As if he were the specter haunting her. Silco had seen many things in her eyes before—anger, defiance, even that quiet, unspoken sorrow she tried so hard to bury—but never this. Never this raw, wide-eyed shock that pinned her in place, staring at him as though reality had shattered around her.

Before his mind could catch up, his body moved. No strategy. No calculated hesitation. Just instinct.

It was a mistake—one he might have anticipated if he had given himself even a second to think. A moment to consider that this could be a trap, a carefully laid snare meant to draw him in and finish what she had started in that damned laboratory. But rationality meant nothing now. Not when it came to her. He had already accepted the truth long ago: he was a fool where she was concerned.

Sevika's voice barely registered behind him, calling his name—sharp, urgent. Then a curse, low and irritated, before she moved to follow. But by the time he turned the corner, by the time his breath was steady enough to shape her name, she was gone.

Vanished.

All that remained was the body of one of his own men, slumped against the alley floor. And Silco, standing there, realizing she had truly been there. That this hadn't been another ghost conjured by sleepless nights and an exhausted mind. 

She was here.

And then—just as suddenly—she wasn't.

Sevika appeared at Silco's side within seconds, crouching down without hesitation to check the body sprawled at their feet. Her fingers pressed against the man's throat, searching for a pulse.

"Still breathing."

Silco barely acknowledged the words. His gaze was already sweeping the length of the street, searching for someone that he knew was no longer there. A pointless effort, but still, his eyes lingered as if willing her form to materialize from the shadows she had so effortlessly melted into.

"She was here." he said at last, his voice steady. He didn't need to elaborate. Sevika understood. Then, sharper—commanding. "Search the area. She can't have gone far."

Sevika didn't hesitate. She whistled sharply, signaling to the nearest guards, gesturing for them to spread out. Within moments, boots pounded against the damp cobblestones, figures disappearing into the labyrinth of Zaun's streets in pursuit of a ghost.

Because that's what she was.

Silco knew it even as he gave the order. It was a wasted effort, a futile chase. If she didn't want to be found, they wouldn't find her. She had been trained for this. He'd known it from the beginning and had noticed it over their time together. The way she moved, the way she sometimes seemed hyperaware of herself and her surroundings. That damned Institute had shaped her into something sharp-edged and elusive, and if that alone hadn't made her impossible to track, then years under Vander's protection certainly had.

Years. Years he had hunted for her, pried at every whisper, followed the faintest hints of a ghost's existence, only to come up empty-handed every time. It was infuriating, impossible—a shadow among shadows, that hadn't changed now.

Looking for her was like trying to hold onto smoke. And there he was again, in the same situation.

[...]

It could have been hours. Was hours.

As he expected, they found nothing of her.

Sevika sat across from him, equally silent, equally grim, the two of them sifting through every scrap of paper they had pulled from her apartment. The room had grown dim with the encroaching morning, the weak light filtering through his office windows casting pale streaks across the table. The last note landed with an unceremonious thud, tossed aside in frustration, joining the scattered remnants of what should have been answers but were, instead, nothing more than ghosts of what she had left behind.

And yet, the longer he read, the more a different kind of knowledge settled deep into his bones, threading through the cracks like poison. A realization that didn't lead to understanding but to something far worse—something hollowing.

Among the torn-out newspaper clippings detailing the massacre, among the fragmented notes, the scribbled thoughts addressed to no one but herself, there were other things. Things about Vander.

Too many things.

Orders. Instructions Vander had given her. Some were tactical—telling her to keep watch over those wretched brats of his when he'd caught wind of one of their reckless little heists. Others were mundane. Insultingly domestic: Do you need new blankets? Have you eaten today? Tell me if you're still feeling unwell.

And worse—questions that felt far too personal, far too familiar, written in that same blunt scrawl: When's your birthday? Do you even celebrate?

She had kept these. Every single one of them. Not out of necessity, not out of some calculated purpose, but because she wanted to. Because they had meant something to her. And that—that bothered him. Silco sat back, exhaling slowly through his nose, forcing down the sharp coil of something ugly twisting inside him.

He had never asked her any of these things.

Not once.

It wasn't something he thought about. It wasn't something that mattered. But Vander—Vander had wondered. Had written it down, as if it was worth remembering, as if it had been something significant enough to carve into the back of his mind. The thought left a bitter taste in Silco's mouth.

He had spent years condemning Vander for his weakness, for his inability to commit to the cause, for the softness that had ultimately cost him everything. He had spoken of it with disdain, convinced that sentiment had no place in war, that attachment only bred hesitation.

And yet—yet—here he was. Sitting at his desk, drowning in old ink and wasted words, searching desperately for something, anything, that might bring her back. 

Perhaps Vander would have laughed at him for it. Perhaps, had he been alive to see it, he would have found some quiet, obnoxious vindication in knowing that Silco was no less vulnerable to such things than he had been.

Among the sea of papers scattered across his desk, one stood out. It was worn, the ink slightly smudged in places, the edges curled as if it had been read and handled more times than the others. But it wasn't its state of wear that caught Silco's attention—it was the words.

A directive. Another order from Vander, this one instructing her to escort Violet while she retrieved a shipment for the bar at the docks. Simple. Routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But it was the words beneath the directive that made Silco's grip tighten ever so slightly. A note—short but pointed, a final line scrawled in a hand that was careful, yet firm.

A demand.

"This needs to stop. We're not doing this anymore. No more notes. No more messages left in the dark. You don't have to speak to anyone if you don't want to but you're going to talk to me. At least once. Face to face. You can be the ghost you love to be for anyone else, but not for me."

It seemed she had always been this way. Lingering in the spaces between people, leaving traces of herself but never fully stepping into the light. She had kept even Vander at arm's length, existing just outside of reach, close enough to serve a purpose but never close enough to be held.

And it seemed like they both wanted to hold her, different times, but still.

"Well." Sevika muttered from across the room, breaking the silence as she poured herself a glass of whiskey. She leaned back into the worn leather of the sofa, exhaling as the tension left her shoulders. "That explains a lot."

He didn't look at her. He was still staring at the ink, his gaze dark and unreadable.

"Vander and her..." Sevika swirled the whiskey lazily in her glass, the amber liquid catching the dim light as she took a slow sip. "Pretty damn close, huh? Lovers, maybe?"

The question landed heavier than it should have.

Silco didn't so much as pause in his reading, eyes scanning over the paper in his hands, using the motion as an excuse not to look at her. His fingers gripped the parchment just a fraction tighter, an imperceptible tell—one he hoped Sevika didn't catch.

Just the thought —the damned thought— of her and Vander together in the way that Silco and she were, made him feel sick to his stomach. It wasn't a pleasant sight to contemplate, let alone think about.

"He's not her type."

He expected Sevika to move on—she was perceptive enough to know when to let something lie. But that didn't stop the way she tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. And then—there it was. That sharp, dry scoff, followed by the slow raise of her brow. A look so blatantly judgmental that, for a moment, Silco nearly set the papers down just to glare at her properly. He didn't. And thankfully, she didn't press.

"Anyway..." she drawled, stretching the word out as if they hadn't just brushed against something precarious. "I questioned Singed."

Silco exhaled slowly through his nose, folding the document back into the pile. "And?"

"He says he was 'compelled' to write that letter." Sevika said, rolling her wrist in an idle gesture. "Claims he was going to speak to you in person. That he wouldn't have sent a letter at all if it were up to him."

"Compelled..." Silco echoed the word.

Sevika nodded. "Described it like... a voice in his head. An order he couldn't ignore. So he wrote it." She took a sip of the drink. "Do we trust him?"

"Yes."

The answer left Silco's lips without hesitation. A single breath, a single second of silence as he pulled a memory from the depths of his mind—one that now carried far more weight than he had given it before.

"She told me something after the ball." he continued, voice even, measured as he leaned over to grab his cigarette from the ashtray, quickly lighting it. "That, at some point, she had been... taken. Not physically, no one had touched her. But her mind had been seized, lulled into something unnatural. A trance, she called it. Unlike anything she had ever felt before. And now, this?"

Sevika frowned, fingers tightening around her glass. "The same people."

Silco leaned back in his chair, exhaling a slow stream of smoke from his lips. The room smelled of it—rich, acrid, clinging to the air, curling in slow, deliberate tendrils that dissipated into the dim glow of the lights. Sevika's next words were spoken with the rare weight of genuine concern.

"Why Singed?"

It was a good question. A logical one. And yet, the answer had already formed in his mind before she even finished asking it.

"They were watching us, that much is obvious. How, I still don't know. Perhaps it was luck. Or perhaps it was an exceptionally calculated move. Either way, they knew precisely where to strike."

He let the silence settle between them before adding, 

"You were the one who told me she hated being near him." His gaze cut to Sevika, calm yet pointed. "Every time you brought her there, she recoiled. The disgust was visible. Singed never hurt her, and yet, she loathed him."

Sevika didn't deny it.

"That made it easy, didn't it?" Silco mused, voice lowering. "If you wanted to bend someone to their breaking point, you start with the weakest fracture. She despised Singed. He was the obvious target. Something to strip her control, to make her question herself. Make her question me."

Another drag of his cigar. Another slow exhale, the embers glowing, casting faint red light against his fingers before dulling to ash.

"It would be foolish, to think this wasn't deliberate. To think this wasn't designed to pull her out of my grasp, psychologically, if not physically. If she broke, she would be easier to reach. And without me in the way..." He trailed off, letting the conclusion settle.

Sevika released a frustrated breath, tossing her head back against the couch, clearly hating every second of this conversation.

"Great and here I thought this was already a mess." Her fingers clenched around the glass, jaw tightening. "Can't get much worse than this, can it?"

Silco smiled, but there was nothing amused about it.

"Sevika... It always gets worse."

He watched as Sevika stared into her now-empty glass, her brow furrowed in thought. The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of burning tobacco and the faint clink of ice melting against the sides of her drink. Finally, she let out a sharp exhale through her nose, shaking her head.

"I don't get it." She spoke with frustration, her voice edged with suspicion. "I see the threat she poses. I've seen it firsthand. But this—" 

She gestured vaguely to the air, as if referring to the unseen forces at play. 

"This is Noxus we're talking about. You really expect me to believe they don't already have something just like her? A super soldier? A walking weapon? You think a nation built on war doesn't have a dozen others waiting in the wings?"

She poured herself another drink before looking back at him, eyes sharp, searching for an explanation. Silco took a slow drag from his cigar, giving himself a moment to consider her words. He exhaled through his nose, watching the smoke curl into the air, before finally speaking.

"Perhaps they do. Perhaps there are others with her level of... devastation. Others who can tear through bodies like paper, who move faster than the eye can track, who slaughter without thought or hesitation." He tapped ash from his cigar, his fingers steady, methodical. "But that may not be what they're after."

Sevika frowned, shifting in her seat. "Then what?"

"Something far simpler... maybe, her recovery."

Sevika's expression barely flickered, but Silco caught the way her fingers tensed around the glass, the way she suddenly became very still, absorbing the weight of his words.

"She doesn't stop." his voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Not when she's injured. She already took a shot in the chest and continued as if it were nothing. It's not just raw power, Sevika. It's endurance. It's sustainability. A soldier like that is invaluable. Not one that can kill, but one that cannot be killed."

She said nothing for a long moment, simply raising her glass to her lips and downing the rest in one go. Then, without so much as a pause, she reached for the bottle and refilled it. Silco smirked. 

"Now you see it."

Sevika exhaled sharply through her nose, rubbing a hand down her face. "Yeah, I see it." She threw back the second glass just as fast as the first, letting the alcohol burn its way down. "But that's not all, is it?" she muttered, wiping at her mouth.

Silco's lips curled slightly at the corners. She was always quick. "No." he said smoothly. "That's not all."

She rolled her eyes, already reaching for another drink. "Of course it's not."

"Consider this, Singed injected shimmer into her. That much we know. That altered her body, warped it in ways we don't fully understand, but it kept her alive when she shouldn't have."

Sevika nodded, unimpressed. "And?"

"And..." Silco let the pause stretch just long enough for effect. "What if the shimmer did something more than just keep her alive?"

That got her attention. Her fingers tightened around her glass, and she looked at him sharply. Silco exhaled another slow breath of smoke before speaking again. "What if this change in her body had made her resistant even to death? A kind of immortality."

Sevika choked.

Literally.

The moment the words left his lips, she took an unfortunate sip of her drink, and instead of swallowing it, she promptly coughed it back up, sputtering as liquid went down the wrong pipe.

"The fuck did you just say?" she demanded, thudding a fist against her chest, trying to dislodge whatever had caught in her throat—be it disbelief, or that liquor she drank.

Silco didn't flinch. He didn't do flinching. He simply arched a brow, calm in the storm of her disbelief. "You heard me."

Sevika barked out a half-cough, half-laugh, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes were wild with a mixture of incredulity and barely-contained anger. "Immortal?" she echoed, like the word itself was offensive. "You're telling me she just... what? Can't die now?"

He tilted his head slightly, considering her. "Not in the traditional sense." he said coolly, tapping ash from his cigar into the ashtray. "Or at least, that's the implication from Singed's letter. His wording was... poetic, in that unsettling way of his."

Sevika scoffed, dragging a hand down her face. "That's fucking insane." she muttered under her breath. Her artificial arm clicked faintly as she poured herself another drink, fingers trembling just enough for Silco to notice.

"You don't actually believe that." she said, not as a question, but as a challenge. "Tell me you're not swallowing that lunatic's story whole."

Silco let out a low, humorless chuckle, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked beneath him. "I believe that I've seen her survive things no one else could have."

She groaned, throwing her head back against the couch, her frustration bleeding into every motion. "Great. Fantastic. She's a goddamn cockroach now."

He smiled at that, a quiet, amused curl of the lips. "I wouldn't phrase it quite like that."

"Of course you wouldn't." she snapped. "Because you're fucking biased."

He didn't argue. No denial passed his lips. Sevika wasn't wrong, and they both knew it.

She leaned forward, her voice low, urgent. "So what then? We get her back and just hope she never turns against us?"

Silco's expression darkened, his fingers tightening just slightly around the cigar. He didn't answer immediately, and in the silence, the weight of his thoughts filled the room like smoke—thick, suffocating, and inescapable.

"She won't." he murmured finally, barely more than a whisper, but the certainty in his voice was ironclad.

Sevika watched him, studied him. The way his jaw clenched just a little. The flicker of something in his eyes—not fear, not doubt, but... protectiveness. Dangerous, blinding protectiveness.

She scoffed again and downed her drink in one go. "Fuck me." she muttered, slamming the glass down. "This just keeps getting better and better."

Silco took a slow drag from his cigar, letting the smoke coil around his fingers before exhaling it in a long, measured breath. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a certain weight behind his next words—one that made Sevika straighten slightly, her fingers twitching against the rim of her glass as she filled up again.

"This does not leave this room."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a command. It was a fact. A line drawn in the sand. A warning laced with quiet authority. Sevika didn't hesitate.

"Obviously." she taking another sip from her glass. She didn't even look offended by the implication—she understood the gravity of what they had just discussed. "You think I'd go running my mouth about something like this? Come on, Silco, give me some credit."

He held her gaze for a long moment, his visible eye sharp, unyielding. "It bears saying."

Sevika huffed, shaking her head. "Yeah, yeah. Consider it locked up. I'm not stupid, I know what kind of chaos this would cause if the wrong people heard about it."

"Good."

Another brief pause. His thoughts were already shifting. Turning toward the one man who might have the answers he needed. Singed. The only person who truly understood what had happened to her.

He let the last embers of his cigar burn down before extinguishing it with a slow press against the ashtray. "I need to speak with Singed." he murmured. "Directly. No more speculation. If anyone knows the full extent of what she's become, it's him."

Sevika hummed, rolling the glass between her fingers. "You want me to bring him here?"

Silco nodded, already deciding. "Yes. This afternoon. The lab is gone, until we rebuild, this will have to do."

She grunted, shifting in her seat. "Tch. That fire did more than just damage the place, you know. It wiped it clean. It's gonna take months before it's up and running again."

"I'm well aware."

Sevika scoffed, tilting her head back against the couch. "As if trying to kill you and gut Singed wasn't enough, she just had to burn the place to the ground too."

He let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no real amusement in it. "No half-measures"

"Yeah, no shit." She shook her head before pushing herself up from the couch, stretching her arm with a lazy roll of her shoulders. The bottle of whiskey that was once full was now almost empty. "Fine. I'll bring him here in a few hours."

Silco simply inclined his head. She lingered for a moment longer, then—perhaps sensing that his mind was already elsewhere—turned and left, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. Silco remained still, staring at the swirling tendrils of smoke rising from the ashtray, his thoughts shifting between the past and the uncertain future ahead.

No half-measures indeed.

He let his body sink further into the chair, exhaling as he tilted his head back against the worn leather. His good eye drifted shut, allowing the weight of exhaustion to settle over him like a suffocating fog.

It was an exhaustion that went far beyond the the stiffness in his limbs or the tight pull of the half-healed wound beneath his shirt. No, this was something deeper. He could endure physical pain—he had lived with it for years. But this... the sheer, relentless pressure pressing down on him was something else entirely.

A war was brewing, though its battle lines had yet to be drawn. Enemies moved in shadows, waiting, circling, gauging the right moment to strike. His empire stood, but for how long? And her—her absence left an open wound, festering, threatening to unravel everything he had worked to build. He had spent years mastering control, perfecting his grip on the world around him, and yet, for the first time in a long time, Silco felt something dangerously close to slipping.

For just a fleeting moment, he allowed himself the quiet.

A breath. A second. A rare indulgence in a city that never slept, never stopped bleeding. Silco allowed himself that stillness, just one moment of silence in the chaos, head bowed, eyes closed, a sigh coiled tight in his throat. The silence wasn't peace—it never was—but it was something.

Then, predictably, it shattered.

The door burst open with a force that rattled the hinges. Wood cracked against stone, reverberating through the walls. He didn't need to look. He knew who it was. Only one person ever entered like that. Without knocking. Without hesitation. Without fear.

Jinx.

Her footsteps were sharp, fast, punching into the floor like accusations. He heard the clipped rhythm of her boots before he saw her, felt the fury in every step. She came at him like a storm—quick, loud, and inevitable.

He opened his eye just enough to track her path, but he didn't lift his head. Not yet. Her face was twisted—not in the usual chaotic grin or gleeful twitch of mania, but in something darker. Her mouth was set in a hard line, and those wide, wild eyes he'd come to know so well were now hollowed with betrayal.

She didn't waste time. Didn't greet him. Didn't even slow down.

"She ran away again!" she spat, voice cracking like a whip across the room. It was raw—furious and trembling all at once. "And why, huh?! What did you do?!"

Silco didn't have time to straighten fully before she was in front of him, practically vibrating with rage. She stopped short of slamming her fists on his desk, but the energy was there—electric, dangerous.

"This is your fault, isn't it?" she snapped. "What did you say to her?!"

His jaw tensed. The headache behind his eyes throbbed with renewed venom.

"Jinx—"

"No!" she cut him off before the syllable had fully left his mouth. "Don't 'Jinx' me!"

Her voice wavered, cracking under the strain of something that went deeper than rage. She took a step back, then forward again, unable to stay still, hands clenched so tight her knuckles went white. "She was here! She was fine! And now she's gone! Just like before!"

She was trembling. Not violently, not obviously—but Silco saw it. The slight twitch of her fingers, the way her shoulders locked too tight for a child her age. Thirteen. Gods, she was still just thirteen. And yet she glared at him now as though she could set him ablaze with the sheer force of her will.

Jinx stood in the center of the room like a live wire. Her eyes—those too-bright, too-clear eyes—were wide, feverish, swimming in something between fury and heartbreak. The kind of look a child wore when their entire world had tilted sideways. Again.

"You made her leave."

Her voice cracked like flint on stone. It wasn't just an accusation—it was a verdict. One passed down by someone who had been hurt too many times to believe in coincidence.

Silco remained seated, calm, even as his own jaw tensed. He tapped his fingers slowly against the armrest of his chair, the old wood creaking beneath his knuckles. He didn't speak right away. Speaking too quickly with Jinx—especially like this—was like tossing lit matches into a powder keg.

Finally, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. "I did not make her leave. She made that choice herself."

The muscles in her face twitched, contorted. Her scowl deepened, and her nose scrunched like it always did when she was trying not to cry but refused to look weak.

"But why?" Her voice was quieter now, edged with something raw, something cracking. The shift was small but devastating. She wasn't yelling anymore. She was asking. Pleading. "She said she wouldn't go. She promised."

Silco stood slowly. Not quickly—not threatening. Measured, careful. Jinx's breathing was shallow now, uneven, her chest rising too fast. He knew that rhythm. She was spiraling. Not the explosive kind—yet—but the kind that came from deeper wounds. This wasn't the scream-and-shoot kind of rage. This was the silent breaking underneath.

And all of it was directed at him.

He wanted to reach for her. Gods help him, he almost did. But she would recoil. He could see it in her posture. She wasn't ready to be comforted. She needed a reason. A shape to her grief. Something—someone—to put it on.

So she'd picked him.

"I didn't push her away, Jinx." His voice was low, calm, but beneath it was steel. "She misunderstood a situation and assumed the worst. Then she decided to run away based on that misperception."

She blinked. Just once. And in that instant, her anger twisted into something worse.

"Liar."

The word wasn't shouted. It was whispered. Flat. Lifeless. That single syllable carved into the space between them like a blade. She was trembling harder now, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears, though she'd never let them fall in front of him. After Vander's death, Jinx never cried in front of him.

"You always do this." she hissed, her voice rising again, breath hitching. "You act like you're in control, like you know everything. But you don't. You just... you just make decisions, and people leave. They always leave!"

She turned her back to him, pacing now, frantic, one hand threading through her tangled hair, yanking at the strands as if trying to ground herself. Silco watched, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Silco approached slowly, his boots silent as he moved closer to where she stayed. He could see her shoulders tremble—not with fear, but with rage barely held together by the fraying edges of heartbreak.

"Jinx." he said softly, his voice lowered as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile thing before him. He crouched down to her level, lowering himself in a rare gesture of patience, of something like care. One hand reached out, palm open, steady. "Look at me."

She didn't. Not at first. She flinched the moment his hand neared her, recoiling like he was poison. It was a tiny movement—but it hit him like a bullet. She didn't scream. She didn't sob. She just stared ahead, eyes wide and glassy, and the sound of her shallow, erratic breathing filled the silence between them. Silco froze, hand still half-outstretched.

He could've handled anger. Rage was familiar—he knew how to shape it, how to weaponize it. But this? The crack in her voice, the tremor in her lip—this was betrayal. This was pain. And somehow, that stung more than he expected.

She finally looked at him, and her voice was sharp enough to cut.

"If she ran." she hissed, blinking hard but failing to stop the tears from breaking through, "If she left us, it's because you did something." Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into the sides of her legs. "You hurt her!"

Silco's jaw clenched. The accusation wasn't new—he had prepared for it. Expected it, even. But the way it came from her, with so much certainty, so much pain—it landed like a knife under the ribs. He kept his face composed, neutral. Emotionless. That mask he wore so well.

"I did nothing of the sort." he said calmly. Too calmly. A lie, of course. But one that needed to be said. She couldn't handle the truth—not now. Not in this state. Not when she was hanging by a thread, her faith in everything unraveling.

But Jinx didn't buy it.

"Bullshit!" she snapped, the word splintering in the air between them. Her voice cracked halfway through it, shrill and desperate, like the scream of a wounded animal. Her eyes blazing, her hands twitching at her sides. Her entire body was trembling now, not from cold, but from fury laced with confusion. She wanted to understand, but couldn't. And that tore her apart.

Silco exhaled through his nose, trying to keep his composure from slipping. His fingers went to his temple, rubbing briefly before he let his hand fall back to his knee.

"You need to understand—" he began, but she cut him off before he could finish.

"No! You don't get it!" Silco stilled. "She's broken, just like us!" Jinx shouted, her words tumbling over themselves, too fast, too forceful, like she couldn't contain them. "We were supposed to fix each other! Not fight... not leave!"

Her voice cracked on that last word, a sharp, splintering sound that made something tighten in Silco's chest. She shoved her fists hard against her temples, eyes squeezed shut, breath hitching in her throat like she was trying to dam up a flood that was already surging through.

He had seen this before. He knew the signs. The tremble in her limbs. The uneven cadence of her breathing. The way her mind began folding in on itself like a collapsing star.

"Kid." His voice was firmer now, steadier, a command more than a plea. "Listen to me."

But she didn't.

She just shook her head, faster and faster, like she could dislodge the thoughts clawing at her mind if she tried hard enough. Her arms crossed over her head now, fists pulling at her hair. "She was supposed to stay." she whispered, her voice almost childlike, broken in its simplicity. "She promised."

Silco said nothing at first. He watched—trapped in that awful stillness of knowing he couldn't stop what was already unraveling. She was coming apart, and all he could do was try to catch the pieces before they shattered completely.

She was curled in on herself now, the way an animal does when it knows the blow is coming and it has nowhere to run. Her shoulders shook violently, and her breathing turned to shallow, rapid gasps—panic beginning to take hold.

"No... no, no, no... shut up... shut up!" she cried, her voice rising with every word. "Shut UP!"

Silco stiffened. The realization struck him a second too late—by the time the sound echoed, sharp and jarring, and he saw the red bloom against her skin, it was already happening. Jinx had always been volatile—yes—but this? This wasn't one of her usual outbursts. This was deeper, darker, a panic that twisted her expression until it was barely her own. She wasn't angry at him. She was at war with herself.

She hit herself again.

A wild, open-handed slap against the side of her head—sharp, quick, almost mechanical in its desperation.

"Stop, stop, stop talking!" she cried, not to him, but to the voices she heard, the ones that lived inside her skull and scraped at her sanity. Each word was a plea masked as rage, her breathing too fast, too shallow. The kind of breathing that made your lungs burn but never fill.

Silco moved on instinct. Thought was irrelevant—useless in the face of this storm. He lunged forward and seized her wrists, firm but controlled. Her arms were small, bones like matchsticks beneath his fingers, but she fought like an animal cornered, eyes wide, pupils dilated, muscles coiled with sheer, panicked energy.

"Jinx." He said her name low, steady—but it didn't reach her. She writhed, kicking, twisting, her face contorted with fear, fury, something feral. Not at him, not really—at the chaos inside her.

"Let me go! Let me go!" she wailed, thrashing harder now, her body jerking in his grip. Her chest rose and fell with violent urgency, tears finally spilling over her cheeks, but even then, she didn't seem to notice them. She was somewhere else entirely.

And Silco, for all his calculated control, all his political power, all the blood that had stained his hands in Zaun's name—had no idea what to do.

This wasn't a battlefield he understood. This wasn't a negotiation or a coup or a threat he could snuff out. This was a child—his child—splintering before his eyes, drowning in a tide he couldn't see. Couldn't fight.

"Jinx!" he snapped, voice sharper now, slicing through the air like a blade. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. And for once, he was grateful it worked.

She flinched. It was small—a twitch in her shoulders, a flutter of her lashes—but it was enough. She heard him.

Good.

She was still in there.

"You need to stop this." 

His voice was low and hard, his hands still wrapped around her thin arms. She was trembling beneath his grip, her skin clammy with sweat, breathing erratic and shallow. He gave her a small shake—not enough to hurt, never to hurt—just enough to pull her, to jolt her loose from the grip of whatever hell her mind had dragged her into. 

"Look at me."

But she didn't. Her head jerked to the side, her eyes refusing to meet his. She was teetering on the edge, lost in the between—between herself and whatever storm was howling inside her head.

Silco clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring. He could feel it rising in him—that sickening twist of helplessness. He hated it. Hated not knowing how to fix this, how to fix her. This was not something that could be threatened into submission or silenced with a knife. This was something fragile, something wild and broken and innocent, all at once. And it was far more terrifying than anything Piltover had ever thrown at him.

He tightened his grip just slightly. Enough to still her. Enough to make sure she didn't spiral again.

"Jinx."

The name was heavier this time. Not barked. Not shouted. Just spoken with something close to urgency.

She twitched again—another gasp escaping her lips—and finally, her eyes drifted toward him. Unfocused. Distant. But on him. Her brows pinched, as if just beginning to recognize him. Like a child waking from a nightmare and struggling to believe it's really over.

"There's no one else here." he continued, his voice now lower, grounded, deliberate. "It's just you and me."

Her breathing hitched. She wasn't fighting anymore—not really. Her body was still coiled like a spring, but she wasn't thrashing. She was listening, or trying to. He could work with that.

"Focus."

He loosened his grip. Just slightly. Just enough to allow her to breathe, to remind her she had control—but not enough to let her slip away again. He'd learned that lesson once before. She needed to feel held. Needed something stronger than the fear clawing at her mind.

"You're safe." He said it like a fact. Like it was unshakable truth. "No one's talking to you. No one's here." His voice dropped again, quieter now, steady and low, the way you'd speak to something wild that might bolt at the wrong movement. "Do you hear me?"

Jinx squeezed her eyes shut, so tightly it looked painful, as if she could force the voices out by sheer will alone. He thought she might spiral again, might jerk away from him and disappear into whatever inferno her mind had pulled her into.

But she didn't.

Not this time.

Her chest rose in another shuddering breath—quieter now, slower. Not calm, not yet, but no longer desperate. The trembling in her limbs eased, just enough for him to feel it under his hands. Her fingers twitched faintly, uncertain. And then her eyes opened.

Only slightly.

Glass-like. Haunted. But focused—on him.

Silco exhaled. Not with relief. That would have been too vulnerable, too soft. But it came out anyway, low and measured, like steam released from a cracked pipe.

"That's it." he murmured, voice just above a whisper, low and grounding. The closest he ever got to tenderness. "Come back."

She blinked slowly, her lashes still sticky with unshed tears. And then, like someone had thrown a switch, the fight just—left her. The tension drained out of her bones like blood leaving a wound. Her shoulders sagged. A breath escaped her lips, raw and ragged and too big for her chest. Her weight shifted forward slightly—not a fall, but close. It was like watching a structure collapse after a storm, quiet but irreversible.

Silco didn't let go. Not yet. He held her wrists a moment longer, eyes narrowing, watching for the signs. Any flicker of relapse, any twitch that might betray another wave. But there was nothing.

Only a girl standing still.

Shaking. Small. Wrecked.

The moment Jinx launched herself at him, Silco barely had time to brace himself. Her small body collided with his, and he stumbled backward, losing his balance as they both tumbled to the floor. The impact jarred him, and a sharp sting flared up from the wound on his back, but he pushed the pain aside, focusing instead on the girl in his arms.

She clung to him with a desperation that made his heart twist. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his coat so tightly that he could hardly breathe, and for a moment, he feared he might break under the intensity of her hold. Her small frame shook against him, and he could feel the remnants of her panic still coursing through her, though the storm within her seemed to have calmed, at least for now.

Silco quickly adjusted their position, shifting Jinx's weight so that she wouldn't be uncomfortable. He pulled her close, letting her nestle into him, the warmth of her body contrasting sharply with the coolness of the floor beneath them. He was acutely aware of her breath against his chest, each inhalation a reminder of how fragile she felt in this moment.

"It's alright." he murmured softly, brushing a hand gently through her hair. The action felt foreign to him, a tender gesture he rarely extended to anyone, but it seemed necessary now. She needed comfort, and he would give it to her, if only to reassure himself that she was still here, still with him. "You're alright."

She didn't answer. Didn't move. Just held on. And Silco— Silco let her.

Time passed in slow, heavy seconds, the only sound between them the erratic rise and fall of her breath. Eventually, her shaking dulled. Not entirely. Not completely. But enough. Enough for Silco to tilt his head slightly, resting his cheek against her hair. He closed his eyes.

"I'll bring her back to us." he murmured, voice low, firm, absolute. No matter what it took. No matter what it cost. "I promise."

With Jinx still in his arms, her body trembling in the aftermath of her breakdown, Silco felt a weight settle deep in his chest—something heavier than exhaustion, something colder than anger. The room around him was quiet now, save for the uneven rhythm of her breath, but his mind...

His mind wasn't quiet at all.

His grip on her was firm, steady, an anchor in a sea of chaos neither of them knew how to navigate. But even as he held her, even as he focused on keeping her grounded, something surfaced from the depths of his thoughts—something that had been buried, discarded, left to rot in the forgotten corners of his memory.

"You know where to find me."

The words had meant nothing at first. A final sentence scrawled at the bottom of that damned Vander's note, a throwaway phrase that should have been insignificant. But it wasn't.

It wasn't.

Because there was only one place Vander could have been referring to and the realization made Silco's breath catch. He had forgotten. Truly forgotten. For all these years, the place had meant so little to him that it had ceased to exist in his mind, reduced to nothing more than a phantom of the past. The mines.

"I know where your mother is hiding, Jinx."

Part 22

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Okay, I need to apologize especially to all the readers who usually comment on every chapter and I reply. I was really overwhelmed these past two weeks and was focusing on writing, so I kind of forgot to reply. I'm really sorry. Well, I always wondered how Silco would react upon seeing this letter, after everything had happened, and this is my vision of it.

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[defmxl]

Why is he so cute???

[defmxl]

Chillin together

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Oi's animation gave me cuteness aggression so bad I had to do something about it

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#jayvik #viktor #jaycetalis #arcane   

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Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 20/?)

Everything Silco touches falls to ruin — a trail of ashes, broken oaths, and shattered lives. Unfortunately for you, he touched you too. And now, you can feel the cracks spreading beneath your skin

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 12,4K

Warnings: panic and anxiety attacks, betrayal and all the feelings that come with it, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, blood and violence, self-deprecating thoughts, allusion to human experiments, PTSD, hallucinations, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 19

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

The cracked ceiling was the first thing Silco saw when he opened his eyes—thin fractures etched across aging plaster, like veins in a withered leaf. The light filtering through the window was muted, heavy with dust, casting long, blurred shadows on the walls. He didn't move at first. Didn't dare. His body warned him before his mind could catch up—a deep, searing ache buried beneath his spine, blooming outward like fire with the slightest twitch. When he finally dared to breathe deeply, the pain sharpened, curling through his back and ribs until it forced a hiss from between clenched teeth.

Bandages. He could feel them tight around his torso, the rough fabric pressing against broken skin, soaked faintly with antiseptic and blood. Someone had wrapped him up, kept him breathing—barely. The care was utilitarian, without tenderness, just enough to stop the bleeding and keep his bones from shifting. Nothing more. He wouldn't have expected more.

Slowly, his surroundings came into focus. The air was stale, thick with the scent of old wood, smoke, and the ever-present undertone of oil and metal that clung to the underbelly of Zaun. Familiar. His room. Everything was as it had always been—unforgiving and dim, with walls lined in shadow and silence. Time had passed, that was for sure.

But his mind... his mind refused to follow. His thoughts were a mess of jagged memories and half-formed images, stitched together by emotion more than reason. It was like trying to remember a dream after waking, the details slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he grasped. He could recall flashes—the argument, the kiss, the stabbing, the metallic tang of blood in the air and flooding his mouth.

And always, inevitably, everything led back to her.

Her face had been impassive. Cold. As still as stone in the seconds before the blade sank into his flesh. Her hands didn't tremble—didn't falter—not even for a heartbeat. He remembered the feeling far too clearly, as though his body still held the memory in its marrow. The dagger had pierced cleanly, with practiced precision, the kind of strike meant not just to wound, but to break. There had been nothing accidental in the way she drove it in—no flourish, no rage. Just purpose. Cold, calculated purpose.

But it wasn't the pain that lingered. It wasn't even the violent, choking gasp that tore through him as his lungs seized around the metal. No. What haunted him more than the searing agony, more than the way his body had collapsed under its own weight, was the expression she wore while doing it.

Or rather, the complete absence of one.

There had been no hesitation in her eyes. No flicker of uncertainty. Not a shadow of regret. Her features had been unreadable, locked into a mask of pure stillness—as if something deep within her had clicked into place, something mechanical and unfeeling, like a weapon finally pulled into alignment.

Silco had seen a thousand faces twisted by betrayal, rage, guilt. He had stared down enemies and allies alike in their final moments. But hers... hers had been different. It wasn't cruelty. It wasn't revenge. It was as if the decision to destroy him had already been made, long before the blade ever met his body.

And yet, despite it all... he was still breathing.

Still alive.

He didn't know if it had been mercy, or failure. Whether the blade had missed something vital by chance or by design. But he could still feel the echo of that moment every time his body shifted, every time his ribs pulled against the bandages and reminded him of how close he had come to death by her hand. Her hand. Not an assassin's. Not an enemy's. Hers.

He didn't know what was worse: that she had stabbed him... or that a part of him understood why.

Silco lay there, surrounded by the stale air of his own domain, the silence pressing in on him like a coffin lid. Every breath reminded him of how close she had come to ending it all. But the ache in his chest wasn't just physical. And he couldn't decide if the silence she left in her wake was louder than the scream that wanted to tear itself out of him.

Silco gritted his teeth as he pushed himself upright, every muscle in his body shrieking in protest. Agony tore through his ribs and spine like a jagged blade, each breath a raw, grinding reminder of how close he'd come to the edge. Pain was no stranger to him—it never had been—but this was different. It was personal. Deep. It clung to his bones, bled into his thoughts, and still, he refused to let it show.

The only sign of it was the brief tension in his jaw, the flicker of strain beneath his single visible eye as he braced himself against the headboard. He moved slowly, never allowing the agony to control him. That was the difference between weakness and survival. Between him and everyone else.

He had barely settled, his breathing ragged but controlled, when the door creaked open.

Sevika.

She entered with the heavy steps of someone who belonged, the door swinging shut behind her with a finality that echoed in the dim room. She carried a tray in one hand—steady, purposeful—her movements devoid of ceremony. She had done this before. Many times, it seemed.

His gaze flicked downward, scanning the contents of the tray like a commander evaluating his arsenal. Several pre-filled syringes glinted under the low light, labeled in her unmistakably scrawl. Painkillers. Anti-inflammatories. Stabilizers. And, of course, Shimmer.

He didn't speak. Neither did she.

The silence between them stretched, taut and heavy, thicker than the smoke that clung to the room's stale air. There was no casual greeting, no question of how he felt—because they both knew the answer, and Sevika had never been one for empty pleasantries. Instead, she stood there, watching him. Waiting. Her expression was unreadable, but not indifferent. Her eyes held a weight to them—something between scrutiny and expectation.

His face remained unreadable, calm on the surface, but beneath that stillness, a thousand thoughts turned like gears. He didn't need to ask what she was thinking. She was measuring him, as she always did, and perhaps wondering how much longer he could hold it together. How much more he could take before even he crumbled.

But he wouldn't give her that satisfaction.

She shifted slightly, adjusting her grip on the tray, and he caught the smallest trace of tension in her shoulders—frustration, perhaps. Or something closer to concern, though she'd never admit it. He had bled for Zaun more times than he could count, made sacrifices most wouldn't dare contemplate. And now, confined to this bed, barely able to breathe without pain lancing through his body, the one thing he couldn't ignore... was her.

Not Sevika.

Her.

The other one. The one who wasn't here. The one who should have been.

The image of her surfaced unbidden again, but not the image of that night but of many others. Where they were still something—those beautiful eyes, bright and defiant, like everything about her. He hated how his thoughts drifted to her now, how the memory of her voice haunted the quiet moments like a lingering echo.

There was a time when he could compartmentalize, when he could bury things that made him vulnerable beneath layers of strategy and resolve. But she had made that harder. Much harder.

Sevika finally broke the standoff, letting out a low breath that sounded more like resignation than anything else. Without a word, she crossed the room and set the tray on the table beside the bed with a muted clink. Her movements were efficient, impersonal—but Silco saw the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled slightly before she reached for a syringe.

Still, he said nothing. The silence remained, but now it buzzed with something heavier. Unspoken things. Lingering truths. And the ever-present reminder that while he might be alive, not all wounds could be stitched shut.

And not all pain could be numbed.

Silco watched as she reached for the first syringe, her fingers moving with the kind of practiced precision that only came from years of necessity, not choice. Sevika's hand were steady, impersonal, her grip on his arm firm but not cruel. There was no comfort in her touch, no tenderness—only the cool efficiency of someone doing a job that needed to be done. He didn't flinch when the needle pierced his skin. The sting was brief, the burn of the liquid slow and steady as it crept into his bloodstream. But pain was of no concern to him now. It barely registered, drowned out by the cacophony in his head.

"How long?" his voice was a rasp of gravel and ash. It hurt to speak—his throat dry, strained, as if it hadn't formed words in days.

Sevika didn't meet his gaze. She was already disposing of the first syringe, reaching for the next. "Almost a week."

A week.

The words hit harder than any of the wounds stitched beneath the bandages. A week since the lab. Since the fight. Since the chaos.

"You lost a lot of blood." Sevika went on, her voice clipped and clinical. "Not to mention internal bleeding. Frankly? It's a damn miracle you're still alive."

A miracle. Or, as she'd put it—luck.

Silco scoffed, though the sound barely left his chest. Luck had never been a currency he dealt in. He'd built his empire with blood and intent, carved it out of the filth of Zaun with ruthless precision. There was no room for superstition in strategy, no reliance on chance. Control—that was his creed. Control over every variable, every move, every outcome.

But this... this had been something else. Something beyond his control. His own life slipping from his fingers, and worse—his absence. Seven days of silence. Seven days removed from his throne, from the eyes and ears of the Undercity. Seven days without knowing if she was safe.

She.

He couldn't stop the thought of her.

The second syringe slid into his skin with the same mechanical rhythm as the first. He watched Sevika depress the plunger, her jaw tight, her brows drawn in that ever-present scowl. She said nothing, but he could feel the shift in her—some tension under the surface, coiled like a wire stretched too thin. She discarded the syringe without ceremony and reached for the third.

The shimmer one.

"Doesn't make sense." she muttered, voice lower now. Not meant for him, but he caught it all the same.

"What doesn't?"

"The way she did it. She would normally do a clean kill." Sevika kept talking, her voice low and steady as she pulled the cap off the next needle. "Back of the neck, that's where she should've aimed. Quick. Precise. Over before you even know it's happened. But this?" She scoffed, a bitter huff through her nose as she glanced at the wound that snaked along his side. "It was like she wanted—"

"She wanted me to suffer." Silco interrupted, his voice quiet, flat, but carrying the weight of finality. It wasn't a guess. It was a truth he could feel in his marrow.

Sevika paused at that. Just half a second. Then she gave a slow, grim nod, like someone acknowledging a death sentence already carried out.

Yeah. That's exactly what it looked like.

The needle in her hand gleamed under the low light, and before he could brace for it, she plunged it into the muscle. The moment the liquid entered his bloodstream, he knew what was coming.. It didn't slide in cold and numb like the others. No. This one burned.

Not the kind of burn that could be dismissed with gritted teeth and shallow breathing. This was deeper. Cruder. A wildfire tearing through his veins with reckless abandon. It moved fast—spreading from the injection site like molten steel, wrapping itself around bone and tendon, dragging itself through his body with a ferocity that felt personal. It didn't just hurt—it claimed him.

Silco gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, fingers curling into the thin blanket beneath him, knuckles white. His vision blurred at the edges as heat coiled around his spine, twisting up through his chest, threading between every beat of his heart. Every breath he took came with fire, searing his lungs, scorching his throat. It wasn't just pain—it was rage. Memory. Regret. Every piece of her that he had buried came roaring back with it.

It took everything in him to tilt his head back, pressing against the wooden headboard in an attempt to anchor himself—to force control back into his own body. His breath came slow and measured, a deliberate effort to mask the wreckage coursing beneath his skin.

Across from him, Sevika had already discarded the empty syringe, her attention purposefully elsewhere — not out of hesitation, but out of respect. She knew better than to watch him like this, to witness him in a state of vulnerability he had no intention of sharing. It was a silent understanding. One she had long since learned to obey.

Silco exhaled sharply through his nose, regaining himself inch by inch before speaking. His voice was strained, but steady.

"Singed?"

"Alive. Better off than you, at least."

Silco hummed, eyes narrowing in thought. So, the old man had survived as well. That was... an advantage.

Sevika was already moving again, this time with fresh bandages in her hands. Silco exhaled through his nose, understanding her intent without the need for words. She was going to replace the old dressing around his torso. A necessary task, but not an easy one.

Shifting was agony.

The kind that gripped every tendon and muscle with relentless cruelty, wrapping around his ribs and spine like iron chains set alight. Moving into that position had been torture enough, but adjusting from it—pulling his weight even slightly in a different direction—was a punishment all its own. His breath caught in his throat, sharp and shallow, as a fresh wave of pain radiated from deep within his back.

Sevika had come without announcement, without fanfare, as she always did. She didn't speak, didn't fill the space with questions or empty comforts. She simply acted—reaching out with a steadying hand to brace his arm, her grip strong enough to anchor him, but not unkind.

Silco stiffened the moment her fingers touched him. Reflex, not distrust. It was rare—almost unheard of—for anyone to touch him like that. Not in comfort, not in concern. He was a man who had built his walls tall and sharp, who did not lean, who did not falter. And yet, here he was, ribs wrapped in bloodied gauze, too weak to stand without support, flinching under the weight of something as simple as human contact.

But this wasn't kindness. He told himself that.

This was necessity. A means to an end. Nothing more. Sevika didn't challenge the lie. She didn't look at him with pity, didn't offer any of those sickly-sweet reassurances that others might have. No nod of acknowledgment, no patronizing glance. Just silence.

Not the kind of silence that felt awkward or heavy.

Just... silence.

The kind shared between two people who knew there was nothing that needed to be said.

Silco let his thoughts drift back to that night. The memory unfolded not with clarity, but with the aching slowness of a blade being drawn from a wound. It wasn't just recollection. It was torment. And yet, he welcomed it. He let himself feel it, because pretending otherwise would be a coward's path. And Silco had never allowed himself the luxury of denial.

In the dim silence, he acknowledged the feeling that had taken up permanent residence in his chest—a tight, suffocating thorn lodged deep behind his ribs. Pain, yes. But not the kind he understood. Not the physical torment he'd endured countless times before.

Pain was familiar. Pain had always been a loyal companion, one he knew how to manage, how to wield. But this—this hollow, spreading ache that crept through every breath, every heartbeat—this was something different. Something crueler.

It wasn't the sting of betrayal or the burn of failure. It was grief. Regret. Love.

And that realization struck harder than any wound ever had.

She had loved him.

And he, blind and prideful, had not seen it until it was too late. Until her hands were stained with his blood, and her eyes were wide with something between rage and devastation. Until the distance between them became a chasm that no amount of power or persuasion could bridge.

Love.

Even now, the word tasted bitter. It turned in his mouth like rusted iron, sharp and foul. Silco had always seen love as weakness—a weapon too easily turned against its wielder. He had watched it destroy others, watched it unravel even the strongest of men. He had built his empire on the foundation that emotion could be controlled, that affection was a liability. And it had destroyed him more efficiently than any enemy ever could.

Love had made him blind. It had made him trust when he should have questioned. It had dulled the blade of his instinct and buried him beneath the illusion that he was still in control.

He had been a fool. A blind, arrogant fool who had let something so rare, so impossibly his, slip through his fingers.

He had held her. Had felt the warmth of her devotion in the way she whispered his name, the way she surrendered to him, body and soul. She was his, in the way that he was hers. And yet—yet she had torn herself from him, ripped away by the consequences of his own decisions, by something he had failed to see in time to correct or twist to his favor.

Where had he lost her?

He had been so certain. Certain that she would understand, that she would see the necessity in it all. But something had changed. There had been a shift, subtle at first—an unease in the set of her shoulders, a tension in her fingers when he reached for her. He had seen it, had felt it, and yet had dismissed it as momentary hesitation, something that could be remedied, soothed away with words, with touch.

How had he not realized that he was already losing her?

That the moment he had let his guard down, the moment he had trusted that she would stay—she had made her choice. And she had chosen to kill him even though she loved him.

She loved him.

Or she had.

And in the end, it had not been enough.

"The wound is healing well." Sevika informs him, voice blunt, matter-of-fact. Ending the silence and interrupting Silco's thoughts "Should leave a scar, though."

Silco exhales a slow, humorless breath through his nose. "Hardly my first." he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that might have been amusement if not for the bitterness beneath it. "And it won't be the last."

Sevika makes a sound of agreement—an unimpressed huff—before she sets to work, removing the old bandages with practiced efficiency. The gauze peels away, sticking in places, pulling against raw flesh, and Silco hisses at the sting but makes no move to stop her. He appreciates her lack of delicacy, the way she does not attempt to handle him gently. Sevika did not handle him as though he were fragile, as though he might break beneath her hands. Good. He didn't want her to.

He does not want gentleness. He wanted it to hurt. Pain is grounding. It reminds him that he is still here. That he did not die on that cold, blood-slicked floor.

But it is not only that, and he knows it.

The physical pain is a distraction. A welcomed one. It dulls the deeper ache clawing at his insides, the festering wound that no amount of bandages can mend. Sevika secures the fresh dressing with firm, almost punishing tightness. It pulls at the wound, making his muscles tense, but he doesn't complain. She finishes her work, discarding the bloodied wrappings with little care.

For a moment, there is only the distant hum of Zaun beyond the walls. The weight of an unspoken question lingers between them, and Silco is the one to break it.

"And her?"

The words slipped from Silco's mouth like a blade unsheathed—quiet, but laced with enough steel to draw blood. Sevika hesitated. Not visibly, not in a way most would catch, but he saw it—the slight flick of her eyes, the brief tension in her jaw. A second too long.

His gaze sharpened immediately, cutting across the room to pin her in place. There was no need for repetition. He had asked, and he would have his answer.

"She's nowhere to be found."

Sevika replied, voice measured, composed. But he knew her too well. Beneath the surface, behind the casual posture and the calculated calm, there was something else. Something guarded. She was walking carefully now, choosing her words like someone navigating a minefield.

"Vanished." she added after a beat, her eyes not quite meeting his. "Like before."

Silco's fingers curled into the sheets at his sides, the coarse fabric biting into his palms. But his expression remained stilll. Inside, however, the word echoed with cruel finality.

Gone.

It rang through him, heavier than it should have. Not just absent. Gone. As if she had never existed. As if everything he remembered—her voice, her presence, the spark in her when she challenged him, when she trusted him—was slipping into myth.

Sevika exhaled, rubbing a hand down her face. Frustration lingered in her movements, edged with exhaustion.

"I sent men to every exit out of Zaun." she continued. "Every crossing, every back alley, every goddamn sewer grate we know. Nothing. It's like she disappeared into the concrete."

Silco didn't answer right away. He stared ahead, unblinking, his mind churning beneath the surface. He breathed in slowly through his nose, voice quiet when it came.

"We need to find her before they do."

Sevika was already halfway to the door, but she paused, back straightening at the weight in his tone. She turned, frowning.

"They?"

Silco leaned his head back against the cool headboard, letting the chill of the wood ground him. The pain flared slightly with the motion, but he welcomed it. It kept his thoughts sharp, and he needed that clarity now more than ever.

"The people from the Institute. More specifically... her former master."

Sevika stilled. No reply, no immediate protest—just a narrowing of the eyes and the visible tension in her shoulders. He let the silence stretch, considering his next words with care. Then, after a beat, he spoke again.

"And a mysterious organization from Noxus."

That gets the reaction he expected. Sevika's head snaps toward him, her face twisting in sheer disbelief. "Noxus?" Her voice is edged with frustration now, the sharp disbelief. She runs a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply before muttering, "This is getting out of control, Silco."

Silco doesn't respond—not to that. He doesn't acknowledge the implied criticism, doesn't validate her concern. Instead, his expression hardens, and the leader in him takes the reins once more.

"We don't have time for doubts, Sevika." His tone is sharp, commanding. "I need you to interrogate Singed."

Sevika's brow furrows again. "About what?"

"The letter. The one that was sent to my office that day, the damn catalyst for all of this." Silco states plainly, his eyes darkening with the memory. "Find out what intentions he had behind sending it at that precise moment."

Sevika doesn't look thrilled at the idea, but she doesn't argue either. With a slow exhale, she runs a hand down her face before nodding. But that's all.

Sevika is quiet again.

Silco notices it immediately. The way she stands there, shoulders tense, as if caught in the midst of an internal war. He can see the deliberation in her eyes—the hesitation. Sevika is not a woman prone to uncertainty, which means whatever she's about to say is something she's weighed carefully, something she has debated with herself over and over before deciding that, yes, it needs to be said.

Silco narrowed his good eye, studying the way her fingers tapped against her bicep, the telltale twitch of her mouth when she was holding back. He didn't like it.

"Say it."

Sevika exhaled slowly, as if finally resigning herself to whatever was weighing on her, then met his gaze with an unreadable expression. "You're worried about her."

The words landed like a knife against stone. Silco's lips pressed into a thin line. His body ached, his mind swirled with half-formed thoughts, but that—that—he could answer without hesitation.

"Of course, I'm worried! If she's in the wrong hands, if anyone else gets to her before we do, it would be catastrophic. For all of us."

Sevika didn't move, didn't react the way he expected. She simply stared at him, eyes unreadable, as if waiting for something. And then, with the same unwavering certainty as before, she repeated. 

"No. You're worried about her. Not what could happen because of her. Not the risks. Not the consequences. Her."

The air between them was taut, a thin wire stretched between understanding and defiance. Silco's jaw clenched, irritation flaring hot beneath his skin. He should have expected this. Sevika was many things, but a fool was not one of them.

"This is not the time for pointless sentiment."

"And yet.. Here we are."

Silco's grip on the blanket tightened. He could feel the weight of her gaze, the way she was dissecting him, seeing through him in a way few ever dared. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Sevika exhaled sharply, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a resigned grumble, before reaching into her coat pocket. A second later, she pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, tapping it against her palm before offering it to him.

Silco glanced at it, then at her.

It had been years since he'd held a cigarette between his fingers. Not since he had taken Zaun for himself.

The shift had been subtle at first—something as simple as switching from cheap, hand-rolled cigarettes to rich, imported cigars. It wasn't just about preference; it was symbolism. A cigarette was the habit of a man scraping by, filling his lungs with something fleeting and bitter. A cigar, on the other hand, was indulgence, permanence. It was power wrapped in tobacco leaves, the slow burn of a king rather than the hurried vice of a soldier.

And yet, as he plucked the cigarette from the offered pack with fingers that still bore the faint tremor of recovery, a strange sense of familiarity settled over him.

Sevika pulled out a lighter. It was old—he could tell by the way it sat in her palm, heavy with years and use. The once-polished metal had dulled to a gunmetal gray, its edges worn smooth from habit. She flicked it open with that familiar, metallic click, the flame leaping to life between them.

"Do you remember how we met?" she asked as she leaned in, lighting the tip of his cigarette.

Silco's eye narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but in contemplation. He couldn't understand the reason for that sudden question but still, it wasn't a difficult memory to summon. Their first meeting had been anything but forgettable.

"You thought I was a woman."

Sevika let out a sound—half a snort, half a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated in her chest, a grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. "You looked like one back then."

He exhaled slowly, smoke curling past his lips, mingling with the air between them. The memory surfaced sharper now.

The Last Drop, long before it belonged to him. The air thick with smoke, the scent of spilled ale clinging to the wooden floors. It had been a typical night—Vander behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly juggling orders, Felicia at his side, sharp-tongued as ever, tossing comments over her shoulder as she scribbled on a notepad and drank. And then—her, Sevika.

A woman—a massive woman, been broad-shouldered like a brawler, built like she could snap a man's spine over her knee without breaking a sweat. Silco had been mid-sentence, discussing something inconsequential—something about supply routes or shipments, he couldn't recall—when suddenly, a heavy arm draped around his shoulders, nearly yanking him off balance.

"Well, aren't you just a pretty little thing?" she had purred, her breath laced with the scent of whiskey and smoke. "Didn't think I'd be meeting a princess here tonight."

Silence.

Silco blinked, momentarily stunned, before opening his mouth to correct her. And oh—oh, the moment she heard him speak.

The shift in her expression had been nothing short of theatrical. First, confusion. Then, horror. Then, an agonizing, cringing sort of understanding that had twisted her features as if she wished she could rewind time and take it all back. The second she registered her mistake, her arm recoiled as if burned, her brows furrowing in what could only be described as mild disappointment.

"You're a—"

"Yes" he had interjected, voice flat.

Felicia had snorted so hard she nearly choked on her drink. Vander, across the bar, had turned just in time to see it happen, brows raising before his entire face split into a slow, knowing grin, for he then howled with laughter.

"Ah, shit!" Sevika had muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. "I—uh. My mistake."

Her discomfort would have been a satisfying revenge if not for the absolute delight Vander and Felicia had taken in the entire ordeal. It had been weeks—months—before either of them let it go. "How's my favorite princess today?" Vander would say every time Silco entered the bar. "Silco, dear, have you ever considered letting your hair down? Maybe a nice updo? I think it'd really suit you." Felicia had teased more than once, voice dripping with false sincerity.

"Things were simpler before." Sevika muttered, taking a slow drag from her cigarette. The ember flared, casting a dim glow across her face as she exhaled the smoke in a long, steady stream.

Silco let out a quiet breath, nodding slightly. "They were."

Before Zaun, before power, before the weight of responsibility crushed down on them with every step. Before alliances were made and broken, before Shimmer, before her.

"We lost a lot over the years." Sevika continued. Her gaze flickered down for the briefest of moments—to the place where flesh met metal. Silco watched her, the way her fingers briefly tensed around the cigarette before she brought it back to her lips.

Yes. Loss was something they both understood too well.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, without warning, Sevika shifted her stance, rolling her shoulders before finally saying what she had been holding back.

"I heard you."

Silco arched a brow. "You'll have to be more specific than that."

Sevika gave him a dry look before clarifying. "That night. You and her. I heard the whole damn thing."

For a moment, neither of them moved. The words settled between them like a blade placed carefully on the table, waiting to be picked up. Sevika wasn't the type to beat around the bush. If she was bringing this up now, it wasn't for curiosity's sake.

"And?"

Sevika took another slow drag before exhaling. "And that's why I know this isn't just about damage control. You want her back, personally."

A statement. Not a question. Silco didn't flinch. Didn't scowl. Didn't snap at her for daring to press into something that wasn't her concern. Because Sevika had never been wrong about things like this.

He could lie, of course. He could dismiss it as irrelevant, as unnecessary. He could say what does it matter? That this was about control, about keeping Zaun from collapsing under the weight of one single, dangerous person slipping through his fingers. But he had never wasted breath lying to Sevika. So instead, he simply exhaled through his nose and said, evenly, 

"Yes. I want."

He wanted her back.

For Zaun. For himself.

Sevika didn't speak right away. She let the admission settle, watching Silco as if measuring the weight of his words, the depth of their truth. Then, after a long moment, she sighed, running a hand over her face before exhaling another stream of smoke.

"You know." she muttered, voice low, "Years ago, when Vander was still in the picture, I saw something in both of you."

Silco arched a brow, waiting.

"Zaun needed you both. In different ways, maybe, but it needed you." She flicked the ash from her cigarette, her tone steady, unwavering. "My loyalty has always been to Zaun. To the cause. Not to either of you."

Silco took a slow drag of his own cigarette, inhaling deep before releasing the smoke through his nose, his expression entirely unbothered.

"That's exactly why you're my right hand. Because I never have to question where your loyalty lies."

Sevika didn't react much to the words, simply watching him for a beat longer before she hesitated. That small pause—so brief it could have been missed by anyone who didn't know her—spoke volumes.

Then, finally, she asked, "If you bring her back... will she change the tides for Zaun?" Her tone was measured, but her eyes were sharp, searching his face for any trace of hesitation. "Even with your personal reasons, you haven't forgotten what actually matters. Have you?"

Silco met her gaze without so much as a flicker of doubt. "You and I both know that, right now, she is the most dangerous asset in both Zaun and Piltover. Whoever has her holds an advantage that could shift the entire playing field."

Sevika didn't speak right away. Instead, she took another slow pull of her cigarette, considering. Then, after another moment of thick, heavy silence, she finally nodded. 

"Alright." she muttered, exhaling a breath of smoke. "I'll help you get her back."

Silco watched as Sevika crushed the cigarette against the edge of the tray, the embers snuffed out with a sharp hiss. She didn't look at him as she picked up the tray, her steps deliberate as she moved toward the door. There was no hesitation in her movements, no second-guessing—she had already made her choice.

His gaze followed her, though something in the back of his mind itched. The room was quiet except for the soft creak of the floorboards beneath her boots. She reached for the handle, pulling the door open, and for a moment, it seemed like she would leave without another word. But just as she stepped through the threshold, still facing away from him, she paused. Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the tray before she spoke.

"In Zaun, we protect our own."

The words were spoken evenly, almost as if they were nothing more than a passing remark. But Silco knew better. He knew exactly where that damn belief came from.

A relic of another time, another leader. The kind of sentiment Vander had built his entire foundation on—a philosophy that refused to die, even with the man himself rotting in the dirt. Even now, Vander's influence lingered like a ghost in the streets of Zaun, in the people, in the way they spoke, in the ideals they clung to like a lifeline.

Silco exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his lips as he leaned back against the headboard. He didn't respond, didn't call her back, didn't let a single flicker of irritation show on his face. Sevika didn't wait for an answer. She stepped out, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click, leaving Silco alone in the dimly lit room.

"We protect our own."

For all Vander's foolishness, for all his weakness—it was an ideal that Silco understood the appeal of. It was something he believed in despite everything. He never gave up on his people and he wouldn't give up on her.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

You watched as Vander shoved the woman's body into the river.

The dull splash of flesh hitting water, the ripples spreading outward, the few stray droplets landing against the worn stone of the bridge. With the way the current was moving tonight, it wouldn't be long before she drifted closer to Piltover's docks. By morning, the enforcers would find what they had been so desperately searching for—a body to blame for the crimes you committed, a corpse to shoulder your sins.

Your fingers reached for your throat instinctively, brushing against bare skin where cold metal had once rested. The absence of it felt... strange. Unnatural. You had grown so accustomed to the press of steel against your flesh, the weight digging into your collarbone, a constant, inescapable presence.

It hadn't been easy to remove.

Vander and his friend, Benzo, had spent hours debating how to cut through it without slicing your throat open in the process. You hadn't understood why they were so concerned—what did it matter if the blade slipped? You had told them as much, voice flat, indifferent. The scientists had done worse to you anyway.

But the moment the words left your mouth, both men had given you a look—one you couldn't quite place. A strange, heavy pity that settled in their eyes before they turned back to their work.

In the end, the collar had come off. And all it had cost you was a single cut—a thin, shallow thing, insignificant compared to the marks already left behind on your skin. A wound that would fade, just like the rest of your scars.

You turned your head toward Vander, watching as he wiped his hands clean.

This man was strange.

You couldn't understand why he had pulled you from the river a month ago, why he had brought you into his bar and tended to your wounds, why he had asked—pleaded—for you not to give up on living. You couldn't comprehend why he had kept you close all this time, why he had gone through with this entire plan to fake your death, why he had taken on the burden of helping you when, clearly, he didn't have to.

None of it made sense.

And yet, here he was.

You were certain he knew what you were. Word traveled fast in the Lanes—the enforcers were searching for an assassin, and yet, despite knowing that, Vander had willingly chosen to help you.

You didn't deserve his kindness. A man with a heart like his shouldn't have been stained by someone like you. Just being near him felt like a corruption of something good, like you were leaving something ugly in your wake.

"Thank you for your help." The words left your lips, finality in your tone. You were already preparing for the inevitable farewell—there was no reason for you to stay any longer. "I suppose this is the right time for us to part ways."

But Vander didn't seem particularly eager to let that happen.

"Do you have somewhere safe to go?" His voice was calm, measured. And in that moment, you knew—he wasn't asking just to ask.

The question made you think. You had your father's old shack—the one you used to call home. You could take it for yourself after you killed him, but there was always the risk that he wasn't there anymore. It had been ten years, after all. You'd have to find him first. There were other options. You could steal. Maybe kill—you were good at that.

Or you could simply die...

"Yes." 

The word left your lips quickly, cutting off the thought before it could fully form. But hesitation lingered in your voice, and Vander heard it. You knew he did. Your answer wasn't convincing enough.

"I got a proposition for you." 

His voice was low, rough with that same grounded certainty he always carried. The kind that made it sound like he had already made up his mind before you even had the chance to argue.

"I've got some kids to look after. And sometimes, hell, more times than I'd like, I can't be there to keep an eye on 'em." He shifted his weight slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know how things are down here. Zaun ain't kind to people who can't hold their own."

"No." The refusal was immediate, slipping past your lips before you could even think about it. "I'm not a babysitter."

You had seen them from a distance.

They were small, fragile. The blue-haired one clung to her sister's side like a shadow, big eyes bright with mischief, her little hands always fidgeting with some half-built contraption. The pink-haired one carried herself with a confidence far too large for her small frame, always watching, always assessing.

They were innocent and you... you were dangerous.

The thought of getting too close to them made something ugly coil in your stomach. What if something went wrong? What if you lost control? What if one day, in the haze of a moment too raw, too violent, you hurt one of them?

You couldn't risk it.

"I'm the last person you want near those kids, Vander." Your voice was low, tight but Vander didn't look convinced.

"Good thing I ain't lookin' for a babysitter, then." Vander didn't waver. If anything, his expression softened, but not with pity—no, it was something else. Understanding. "I need someone to watch 'em. Step in when things go south. A protector."

You kept your arms crossed tightly over your chest, posture rigid, gaze locked onto Vander with barely concealed skepticism.

"I'm not a protector." you muttered, your voice sharper than you intended. "That's not what I do. It wouldn't be safe for the—"

"—for the kids to be around an assassin?" Vander cut in smoothly, his tone neither mocking nor surprised, just... matter-of-fact.

Your throat tightened, and for a moment, you couldn't find the words to respond. Vander exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he studied you. His expression was unreadable, but there was no judgment there. Just a quiet understanding.

"You think you're the only one in Zaun with blood on your hands? That you're the only one carryin' ghosts?" His voice was steady, rough around the edges, but there was something in his tone—something lived-in, something weary. "That don't make you special, little one. Just makes you one of us."

He leaned back against the crate beside him, crossing his arms.

"I ain't some saint, and I sure as hell ain't the kind of man you got in your head right now. You think I've never done things I regret? That I've never made choices that cost people their lives?" His jaw tensed slightly before he exhaled. "Difference is, I made a choice to be better. To make sure those kids don't go the same way I went."

You frowned, your fingers twitching slightly at your sides.

"I ain't askin' you to be something you're not. I don't need you playin' house with them. Just keep an eye out. From the shadows, if that's what makes you feel better. Step in when you need to. That's all."

Your instincts told you to walk away, to leave before you got tangled up in something you couldn't undo. But a smaller voice—one you had long since buried—whispered something else.

"What's the payment?"

Vander let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. "Food. A roof over your head." He glanced at you, a hint of something softer in his expression. "Maybe even a friend, if you let yourself have one."

The last part caught you off guard. A friend? You weren't sure you even remembered what that was supposed to feel like. In fact you have never had one in the last ten years.

Vander raised his arm toward you, palm open, that same look on his face—the kind that told you he already knew he'd won. Not smug, not gloating, just... assured. Unshakable. It was a little intimidating, in your opinion. Not the kind that made you brace for a fight, but the kind that made you brace for an argument you weren't going to win.

"So... do we have a deal?"

You stared at his outstretched hand for a moment, considering. It would be easy to walk away. Safer. But there was something about the offer—about the way he made it—that made you hesitate. Slowly, you reached out. Your fingers met his, and then you grasped his hand in a firm shake. His grip was strong, steady, but warm. You expected roughness—expected the calluses of a fighter, of a man who had spent his life in the streets—but there was a certain gentleness beneath it.

It was the first time in a long time you'd touched someone without the intent to kill. And you liked the way it felt. You glanced up at him, only to find him already watching you, that same half-arrogant, half-gentle expression lingering on his face. Like he knew something you didn't.

Then—

You blinked.

And everything shifted.

The docks of Zaun vanished behind him, melting away like mist in the morning sun. In their place, old, dust-covered wooden beams stretched from floor to ceiling, coated in cobwebs and grime, as if time itself had forgotten this hidden refuge. Strange patches of luminescent mold or foam clung to parts of the walls, pulsing faintly in reaction to sound. 

The dim glow of an old lantern, flickering where it hung from the ceiling, served as the only source of light in the small, cramped space. And then, there was the silence—deafening, absolute. The abandoned mines of Zaun had long since been forgotten, but here, in their depths, the quiet felt almost alive.

But Vander was still there.

He was on the ground with you, mirroring your position, watching you with that same expression. Like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

"You will always be a good man to me."

Vander didn't answer. Just smiled, that quiet, knowing kind of smile as he pushed himself up from the ground. His broad frame rose before you, casting a familiar shadow, and then he looked down at you.

Ah.

You didn't even need to glance at your chest to know the wound had disappeared. It was routine by now—your daily ritual. Try to die. Feel death creeping in. Then let delirium take hold, let your mind unravel into fragments of memory. And just as your body finally started slipping into that cold, merciful abyss—

The damn Shimmer would wrench you back.

It would drag you from the void and force you to wake, lungs burning, skin knitting back together, nerves igniting in agony all over again. You felt fresh blood trickle from your nose, warm against your lips, but you made no move to wipe it away. The floor was already stained with your blood—old, dried smears overlapping with newer, wetter streaks. It was all the same now.

So, fuck it.

You'd already ruined this place.

Self-destruction was a pit, a limbo with no end. Quicksand that swallowed you whole, dragging you deeper the harder you struggled. You knew that and yet, here you were.

Sinking.

You sat up, arms wrapping around your knees as your gaze drifted to the far corner of the room. Two jackets hung there, untouched, their fabric stiff with age. You had never dared to lay a hand on them. Not once. You were afraid—afraid you might ruin the only physical remnant of Vander you had left.

Everything else, every memory of him, was locked away in that small apartment you had abandoned. You hadn't stepped outside the mines since you fled. You hadn't dared. This place—this dark, suffocating hole in the earth—was your refuge. Your sanctuary. The one place where the world couldn't reach you.

"You must be disappointed." your voice was barely above a whisper. Your eyes flickered toward where he stood—or at least, where you thought he stood.

He wasn't real.

But there he was, just as he had been for days now. Watching. Silent. His presence had started as nothing more than fleeting glimpses in the periphery of your vision, shadows that disappeared the moment you turned to face them. But now? Now he stayed. Always there, always watching. And you let him. Maybe, in some twisted way, the illusion of him made the solitude easier to bear.

Your fingers curled into fists, nails digging into your palms, desperate to ground yourself in something real. But what was real anymore? The walls that felt like they were closing in? The stale air that sat heavy in your lungs? The ache in your chest that never seemed to dull? Or was it just this—this endless cycle of regret and ghosts and silence?

"I left Powder when she needed me most." you confessed, the words slipping past your lips like a prayer to something that would never answer. Your throat burned with exhaustion, your body sagged under the weight of everything left unsaid. "I still haven't found Violet."

You sucked in a breath, but it didn't feel like enough. It never was.

"And I fell in love with the man who killed you."

The words hurt. They should hurt. They carried the weight of something unspeakable, something rotten and unforgivable that festered beneath your skin. The admission left a bitter, acid-like taste in your mouth, twisting your stomach into something unbearable. "What kind of person does that make me?"

You hesitated, searching his face for something—judgment, anger, hate. You wanted him to hate you. You deserved it. But Vander's expression didn't shift in the way you needed it to. His brow furrowed, not with rage, not with scorn, but with something softer.

Pity.

A look you had seen before. One that made something deep inside of you snap.

Your throat clenched. The burn behind your eyes intensified, but no tears came. Maybe they had dried up long ago. Maybe there was nothing left to give. Just this. Just emptiness. Ache. A wound that refused to close no matter how much you tried to stitch it back together with purpose and resolve.

"At least I avenged you." The words felt like a lie, hollow and weightless as they left your lips. You wished they meant something. You wished saying them aloud would force you to believe them. "I killed Silco."

You waited. Waited for something—relief, satisfaction, even the smallest flicker of triumph. But all you felt was nothing.

"I killed the man I loved... the man who took away my choice to die." A dry, broken laugh tore from your throat, barely recognizable as your own. The sound was brittle, fragile, cracking under the weight of your own unraveling. "And now I'm talking to myself... Seeing ghosts... Alone."

Your voice faltered, fading into the oppressive quiet that surrounded you. And still, Vander didn't answer. Of course, he didn't. He wasn't real.

You ran a trembling hand down your face, pressing your fingers hard against your skin as if you could force the exhaustion from your bones. Every inch of you ached—your chest, your throat, the space behind your eyes, that place deep inside you where something vital had been ripped out and left to fester.

You wanted to slam your head against the wooden floor.

You had done it before.

But your body—the wretched, cursed thing—had refused to break. The same way it always did. The same way it had ever since they got their hands on you, since the hell they carved into your flesh and called progress. Since Silco, since Singed, even without meaning to, they had succeeded where the Institute had failed. They had done what Piltover's finest minds spent years trying to perfect, they had conquered death. Or at least, forged some crude, unfinished mockery of immortality.

You wished they hadn't.

"I'm alone again..."

The realization struck too late. The moment the words formed, the moment they solidified into something real, you were already spiraling.

Your breath hitched—stuttered, caught in your throat like barbed wire. Your chest constricted, as if unseen hands had wrapped around your ribs, pressing, squeezing, crushing. The walls around you warped, stretching outward, then closing in too fast, too tight. The air thinned, suffocating, clawing at your lungs with invisible fingers. It wasn't real, it wasn't real, but your body refused to believe that. Your body only knew the terror seeping into your bones, the sharp, suffocating knowledge that you were alone.

Alone.

Your hands clenched into fists, nails biting into your palms as if pain could anchor you, as if it could keep you here. But your fingers trembled, uncontrollable, useless. A sickening numbness crawled up your limbs, a distant tingling that sent your mind reeling. The pounding in your ears drowned out the room around you, your own heartbeat hammering in an erratic, frantic rhythm. The edges of your vision blurred, the world tilting, spinning, distorting into something unrecognizable.

Too tight. Too loud. Too much.

Your hands shot up to your throat, clawing at the skin there, desperate to breathe. Your body screamed for air, but your lungs wouldn't obey. They clenched instead, seizing in panic, your ribs locking tight like iron bars around your heart. You gasped, choking on nothing, your breath shallow, sharp—each inhale too quick, too weak. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

"Stop it. Stop. Just... breathe."

You tried. God, you tried. You willed yourself to take a deep breath, but it caught in your throat like bile, burning. The panic clawed up your spine, digging rusted nails into your ribs, tearing at the edges of your sanity. And suddenly—

You weren't here anymore.

The walls bled away. The room dissolved. And you were back there. Chained. Restrained. Cold metal biting into your skin.

The sterile, suffocating scent of chemicals flooded your nose. A harsh, artificial light burned above you, buzzing like a swarm of insects inside your skull. Shadows moved just beyond its glare—faceless, merciless. The sharp click of surgical instruments, the unmistakable hum of machinery coming to life.

Your body stiffened. Instinctively, you tried to move, to fight, but the restraints didn't budge. Wires burned under your skin, needles punctured deep, metal and flesh entwined in a sick, inescapable symphony of pain. Your breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as the memories consumed you whole.

"No. No, not again."

Your vision swam. The walls weren't just closing in—they were swallowing you. You weren't in the mines anymore. You weren't safe. You were back in that lab.

"No... please... stop!"

The words barely scraped past your lips, fragile, broken. A whisper lost in the suffocating weight of memory. Your hands clamped over your ears, pressing hard, as if that could stop it. As if that could keep it out. But it was inside you, woven into your bones, carved into the deepest corners of your mind. The echoes of the past ricocheted through your skull—voices barking orders, the sterile clang of metal instruments, the white-hot agony of needles pressing deep—No, no, stop, please stop—

Your breath hitched, caught, stuttering into a shallow gasp. Your pulse hammered against your ribs, frantic, erratic. The room spun in on itself, collapsing inward, suffocating. The walls weren't real anymore. The floor wasn't real. The only thing that existed was the panic clawing its way up your throat, the cold sweat sliding down your spine, the terror sinking its teeth into your chest and not letting go.

Alone. Alone. Alone. Always alone

You couldn't breathe.

"Breathe, little one. Just breathe."

The voice cut through the chaos like a blade through fog. Deep. Steady. Familiar.

Your body jerked at the sound—muscles twitching like a puppet with severed strings—but your mind was still trapped, spiraling, drowning. The words barely registered. They felt distant, muffled, like they were reaching you from across an impossible chasm. You couldn't react. Couldn't think. The world still felt too small, too heavy, pressing in from all sides. Your lungs burned, your throat clenched, your mind was—

"Hey. Look at me."

A new sensation. Pressure. Hands.

Warm. Solid. Real.

They gripped yours, firm but careful, grounding. A tether. You barely registered that your eyes had been shut, squeezed so tightly that dark spots burst behind your lids. But now they fluttered open—wild, unfocused, darting in frantic confusion until—

A face.

Strong features softened by concern. A presence so unmistakable, so deeply ingrained in your past that for a second—just a second—everything around you flickered. The cold, sterile walls of the lab, the distant hum of machinery, the phantom pain in your limbs—it all wavered. Dissolved.

Vander.

Your throat clenched. A fresh wave of tremors rattled through your fingers, but his hands squeezed yours in reassurance. Your breathing was still ragged, still uneven, but you were here now. And you weren't alone.

He was crouched in front of you, his massive frame lowered to meet your level, broad hands gripping yours—not harshly, not forcefully, just holding. Grounding. His thumbs brushed slow, deliberate circles over your knuckles, the same way he used to when these attacks came creeping in, silent and suffocating. He had always been the one to pull you back, to anchor you when your own mind threatened to consume you.

"There you are."

His voice was softer now, but it still carried weight—enough to press against the rising tide of panic, to hold you in place, to stop you from slipping further into the void swallowing you whole. His presence commanded attention, as it always had, and against all logic, all reason, your body listened.

"Breathe with me."

Your whole body shuddered. The tension coiled in your chest, your ribs still locked tight, your breath still shallow and erratic, but something inside you hesitated. Hesitated.

You knew. God, you knew this wasn't real. That he wasn't real. That Vander was nothing more than a flickering ghost conjured up by your unraveling mind, a desperate hallucination clawing its way into reality. But for just a second—just one fleeting, fragile second—you wanted to believe.

"Just follow my lead, alright? In..."

He inhaled, slow and deep, his broad chest rising, steady, controlled, deliberate. You tried—tried to follow, tried to drag air into your lungs the way he did, but it stuttered on the way in, jagged and broken. Your throat clenched, your body resisting, refusing, but—

"And out."

He exhaled, long and even, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it wasn't the impossible task it felt like inside your own chest.

Your breath came out in a trembling, uneven gasp, but Vander didn't waver.

"Again."

Another inhale. Another exhale. The air still shuddered past your lips, still came out too fast, too weak, but—this time—this time, it wasn't as shallow.

"That's it. One more."

You focused on him. Not the walls closing in, not the ghost of metal restraints biting into your skin, not the memories gnawing at the edges of your sanity. Just him. The way his tired, knowing eyes never left yours. The way his grip remained firm, steady, but never cruel. The way his voice filled the space around you, thick like smoke, solid like the ground beneath your feet.

"You're not there anymore. You hear me?"

The warmth of his hands, the depth of his voice, the sheer weight of his presence pressed against the panic, pushed against it, forced it back inch by inch.

"You're not there. You're safe."

A sob wrenched its way up your throat—ugly, raw, painful. The kind that scraped like broken glass on its way out. But when you breathed this time—actually breathed—it was deeper. Fuller. The weight on your chest didn't vanish, but it shifted, loosened just enough to let air in.

Your grip on his hands tightened, desperate, clinging to the illusion because the alternative—facing the empty room, facing the fact that he was gone, had been gone for so long—was too much.

The walls weren't closing in anymore. The room was still, no longer shifting, no longer wrong. Your pulse, though erratic, no longer slammed violently against your ribs like a frantic bird trying to escape its cage. The crushing weight in your chest had begun to loosen, unraveling inch by inch, like fingers finally releasing their bruising grip on your lungs.

Vander watched you, his expression unreadable, but there was something there—something knowing. As if he saw the exact moment you started to come back to yourself.

"I'm here, little one."

Oh.

That hurt.

"No." Your voice came out rough, hoarse from the force of your own panic. From holding your breath. From fighting. "You're not."

He exhaled slowly through his nose, watching you with that look—half-knowing, half-sorrowful. The kind of look he used to give when you had had another one of your nightmares but tried to pretend you were fine. When you gritted your teeth and swallowed the pain, hoping no one would notice.

"Maybe not the way you want me to be." he admitted, voice weighted with something unreadable. "But I will always be here, as long as you seek me."

Your breath hitched. Your throat closed again, but this time it wasn't from fear. It was something else. Something heavier. Your hands, still trembling beneath his, twitched like you wanted to pull away—but he didn't let go. Not yet.

"I don't want to do this anymore."

The confession slipped out before you could stop it. Before you could shove it back into the dark where it belonged. It sounded so small, so desperate. Like a child whispering into the void, hoping someone—anyone—would answer.

"I don't want to be here."

Vander's grip tightened—not harsh, not forceful, but firm. Grounding.

"I know." His voice was low, steady as a heartbeat. "But you don't really want to go, do you?"

You clenched your jaw. A sharp, aching pressure built behind your ribs, spreading to your throat, your eyes. You didn't want to answer. Because you knew the truth.

You didn't want to be here. But you didn't want to go either. You just didn't know how to exist in the in-between.

Vander sighed, a sound so familiar, so real that for a second, you could almost believe he was. He reached forward, resting his palm gently against the crown of your head, fingers threading into your hair with the same rough, careful warmth you remembered from so long ago.

"Breathe, little one." His voice softened, barely above a whisper. "Just breathe."

You swallowed hard, closing your eyes for just a second—but there was no relief in the darkness. No comfort. No escape. Just the weight of his words pressing against you, heavy and unrelenting, like a truth you didn't want to face.

"You need to pull yourself out of this hole you crawled into."

His voice was steady, warm, but the certainty in it cut through you like a blade. There was no pity in it. No empty reassurances. Just the raw, unshaken belief that you could—that you had to.

"You've been through hell. More than most could bear. I know it hurts. I know you're tired. But you can't lose yourself now."

The words settled deep in your chest, like embers catching in the hollow spaces between your ribs. You wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn't that easy, that it was never that easy. But you didn't. You remained silent.

You blinked up at him, searching, wanting to hold onto this—onto him—for just a little longer. But the warmth—the illusion of his hands wrapped around yours—began to fade.

Your fingers twitched against empty air.

The rough callouses, the weight of his palm, the steady, grounding presence of him—it all wavered, slipping through your grasp like mist in the morning light. You tried to cling to it, to keep him here, but his figure was already losing definition, the edges of him turning soft and translucent.

The last thing to go was his eyes.

Watching. Waiting.

And then—

Gone.

The room was empty again.

A quiet stillness settled over you, wrapping around your skin, pressing against the edges of your awareness. But it wasn't the same suffocating isolation as before. The panic had loosened its grip, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

You were alone.

But you could still feel the ghost of his presence, lingering in the space between breaths. In the memory of his voice. In the quiet, unwavering certainty that he had always tried to give you. And this time, this time, you let yourself believe it.

Even if only for a moment.

You stayed there, sitting on the cold floor, grounding yourself in silence. The aftershocks of your panic still echoed through your limbs—subtle tremors, the lingering tightness in your chest, the dull ache left behind by your own body waging war against itself. But you focused on the things that tethered you to now. The feeling of your own breath, shaky but present. The way your pulse thrummed against your skin, no longer erratic, but fragile. Real.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time had blurred, stretched thin between past and present, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that you were still here.

Eventually, you lifted your gaze.

The room felt different now—emptier, quieter, like the storm had finally settled but left the wreckage behind. Your eyes drifted to the far corner, where forgotten remnants of a past life remained untouched.

The jackets.

A lump formed in your throat, but you swallowed it down, forcing yourself to move. Every part of you resisted. Your limbs were stiff, weak from exhaustion, but you refused to stay crumpled on the floor like something broken, like something left behind.

So you pushed through it.

Sluggishly, you planted your palms against the ground and dragged yourself upright. Your legs wobbled under your weight, protesting with every motion, but they held. One step. Then another. The air in the room felt heavier the closer you got, each step dragging invisible chains behind you, but you didn't stop.

By the time you reached them, the dust-coated fabric seemed almost untouched by time, despite the years that had settled into the worn material. Your fingers hovered over them, hesitating for a fraction of a second before reaching out.

The first touch sent a shiver through you.

Vander's jacket was rough beneath your fingertips, the leather stiff, cracked in places, but still solid—still him. Your hand trailed down the sleeve, ghosting over familiar stitching, familiar creases from where he used to roll up the cuffs. The scent was long gone, but in your mind, it lingered—faint traces of smoke, ale, the distinct warmth that had once wrapped around you like a shield.

Then, your eyes fell to the other jacket, partially hidden beneath Vander's.

Silco's.

The difference in size was almost comical—Vander's heavy, broad-shouldered coat nearly swallowing the of Silco's—but seeing them together like this... For the first time in what felt like forever, you let out a small, breath of a laugh.

It barely lasted a second.

But it was real.

With careful hands, you took them both down. They felt like ghosts in your grip, lingering echoes of the men who had once filled them, who had once filled you with a sense of belonging.

A part of you—one you barely wanted to acknowledge—ached to bury your face in Silco's, to press the fabric to your skin and pretend, even for just a moment, that he was still here. That you could find comfort in the lingering traces of him, in the faded scent that still clung to the collar. That you weren't standing alone in the dim, dust-filled room, wearing grief like a second skin. But you didn't let yourself.

Instead, with deliberate care, you placed it back exactly where it had been. Untouched. Preserved.

Vander's, though—

The moment you pulled it over your shoulders, the weight of it settled against you like an embrace. Too big, drowning you in fabric. The sleeves swallowed your hands, the hem nearly brushing your knees. It smelled of dust, of time, of a life that had slipped through your fingers before you ever had the chance to hold onto it properly.

You didn't care.

You just needed something.

Something to hold on to. Something to remind you that you were still here. That despite everything, despite the blood, the ghosts, the ache in your bones that never really faded—you were still standing.

Your fingers curled around the fabric, gripping it like a lifeline. The world still felt too quiet, too hollow, like the silence after a storm when everything is ruined, when there's nothing left but wreckage.

But you were breathing.

And that had to be enough.

For a long moment, you stood there, still and unwilling, caught between the crushing urge to stay and the distant pull of something else—something quieter. Vander's words still echoed at the edges of your mind, rough and steady, as unwavering as the hands that had once guided you.

"It's time to get out of that hole."

[...]

You were suffocating an man.

A hand clamped tight over his mouth, fingers digging into his skin, silencing any attempt at a scream. His body thrashed against yours, fighting against the inevitable, and you grit your teeth at his refusal to surrender. He didn't understand—you weren't going to kill him. That would be reckless. Stupid. Killing one of Silco's men now, right in the middle of their patrol, would only send the rest into a frenzy. You couldn't afford that.

Not when you were so close.

For the past three days, you had been returning to your old apartment, taking back what was yours piece by piece, dragging your past into the safety of the mines. It was a delicate process—moving in shadows, making sure no one followed you. But tonight, on the fourth night, the risk caught up to you.

Silco's men were here.

You had managed to evade them at first, pressing yourself into the shadows, breathing slow and measured as their boots echoed against the wet pavement. But then—one of them had wandered too close. Too fucking close. And now here you were, with his weight pressing against yours, his fingers clawing at your wrist, his desperate gasps muffled beneath your palm.

His struggling slowed. His body sagged. The fight bled out of him, leaving only dead weight in your grasp. You held on for a moment longer, ensuring he was truly out, before letting him slump to the ground in a heap. His chest still rose and fell in shallow breaths. Good. That was enough. You crouched over him, stripping him of his weapons, tucking a stolen blade into your belt as you moved swiftly toward the edge of the building. Peering around the corner, you scanned the street, assessing their positions.

They were inside.

Of course they were.

Your stomach twisted as your gaze flickered to the dimly lit windows of your old apartment. They were searching for somenting. Most of what mattered had already been moved. Vander's things, the small keepsakes you couldn't bear to leave behind. But there were still pieces of you inside. Things you'd left for tonight.

And now, you were too fucking late.

You pulled Vander's jacket tighter around yourself, sinking into its worn fabric as if you could disappear into it, as if the heavy material could swallow you whole and meld you into the darkness. Your eyes remained locked on the window of your old apartment, watching the shadows shift inside. Then, the door opened, and she stepped out.

Sevika.

She moved with purpose, descending the stairs with a slow, measured stride, her mechanical arm catching the faint glimmer of the streetlights. Even from your hiding place, you could see the way the others turned toward her, waiting. She was already barking orders, her tone sharp, authoritative. It made sense, you supposed. With Silco gone, it was only natural she'd take over. The only thing that didn't make sense was the way no one—no one—was talking about him.

No whispers. No hushed rumors. No fucking acknowledgment that Zaun's Eye had been put in the dirt. The absence of it gnawed at you. Silco was dead. You had killed him. And yet... it was as if nothing had changed.

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, forcing yourself to push the thought aside. Ignore it. You couldn't afford to dwell on it. If you did, the hole in your chest would only widen, and you weren't sure you could afford to bleed any more than you already had.

Instead, you turned your focus to the plan. First, find Powder. She had lost everything—first Vander, and now Silco. You couldn't even begin to imagine the state she was in, but you knew she needed someone. She needed you. Second, find Violet. Wherever she was, whoever she had become—you would track her down. You would reunite the sisters, keep them safe, hold them together no matter what it took.

And maybe—once you had them both—you could leave. Leave Zaun behind. Leave everything behind. You weren't sure where you'd go. But that was a problem for another time. Right now, all that mattered was keeping yourself moving. Because if you stopped, if you let yourself think—

No. You weren't going to break. Not yet.

You were just about to turn away. Whatever was left in that apartment—whatever remnants of your past still lingered within those walls—it no longer belonged to you. If Silco's men had it now, then it was lost. And you weren't about to risk your life for sentiment.

But then, movement at the front door caught your eye. Another figure was stepping out. And the moment your brain registered what you were seeing, your body betrayed you. Your breath caught. Your vision swayed. Your knees nearly buckled, and the only thing keeping you upright was the cold, rough surface of the wall pressed against your back. Because descending those stairs, framed by the dim, flickering streetlights—was a ghost.

The coat was unmistakable. Heavy fabric draped over broad shoulders, the high collar turned up against the night air, giving him that same cold, looming presence you had long since committed to memory. A coat that had once brushed against your skin, the scent of smoke and metal clinging to its fibers. A coat that belonged to a man you had buried a knife into.

Silco.

Alive.

Your stomach twisted violently. No. No, this wasn't—this wasn't possible. You had felt the blade sink into flesh, had watched as blood spilled between your fingers. He had collapsed. He had gasped through gritted teeth, had struggled for breath. You had felt him start to die.

His gait was steady but not without struggle, a barely-there stiffness to his movements, as if something still ached beneath his skin. He adjusted his gloves, flexing his fingers with an absent-minded precision, the way he always did when he was lost in thought. The way he carried himself—imposing as ever, yet restrained, as if still adjusting to his own body—made your stomach churn. Every detail clawed at your senses, every movement proof of something that should have been impossible. Silco was right there, standing no more than a few meters away.

You stood frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe, your body betraying you in the worst way possible. The air felt thick, suffocating, the walls too close, the floor unsteady beneath your feet. Your pulse hammered wildly, erratic, violent, a frantic rhythm that made you nauseous. Was it panic? Relief? Anger? You couldn't tell. 

Perhaps it was all of them at once, twisting inside you like a poisonous knot, tightening, burning, making your throat close up as if you were choking on something vile. It hurt. Whatever this feeling was, it was consuming you, clawing at your insides like an open wound left to fester, and you couldn't stop it, couldn't control it, couldn't even put a name to it.

Silco was alive. He was there, whole and breathing. As if he hadn't died. As if you hadn't died with him. Because a part of you had. A part so deeply intertwined with him that when he had slipped away, it had taken you with it. The empty space in your chest had been him, the unbearable ache of loss, the silence that had devoured you from the inside out. And now, against every law of reality, against everything you knew to be true, he was standing there again. Breathing. Watching. Existing.

The world around him faded into insignificance. Your senses dulled to everything but him—the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his jaw, the weight of his presence, so familiar yet so utterly wrong. He was the force that had shaped you, broken you, rebuilt you into something unrecognizable. The love of your life was alive. And you didn't know how to survive that.

It took you too long to realize what he was holding in his hand, the reason he was standing there for all that time. A piece of paper you could see and you could almost recognize it, after all, the luminescent mold stains behind it were unmistakable.

Vander's letter.

Part 21

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Silco's memory was based on this X art: click here. The trigger for reader trauma is loneliness, if it wasn't clear. Just a heads up that updates may not be weekly anymore, since I don't have much free time to write. But whenever I have time, I'll try to write. Again, if you came for smut, you won't find it in the next chapters.

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Lazy attempt